Entry Eight: February 19, 2008

This time I woke up first, and shifted as stealthily as I could in Xavi’s firm grip around my waist. He was still sleeping, and I was glad that neither of us had work (or practice, in his case) because we’d both slept in.

After some effort I managed to get free, and go to the bathroom. I was awake, so there was no use in trying to go back to sleep. So instead I rolled up the sleeves of the shirt he’d given me, and walked quietly into the kitchen. I felt like I had to repay him for his kindness, and quietly began preparing breakfast. Meanwhile I changed, and folded his clothes up neatly, placing them on top of the hamper.

In my own jeans and sweater (the same one I had been wearing when I met him), I felt less warm, but ignored the sensation and cooked.

I heard Xavi moving around as I was finishing, and he entered the kitchen with a furrowed brow.

I shot him a smile – it probably looked nervous – before returning my attention to the pan as I carefully folded the crepe over. I’d found his diet list, and managed to construct a breakfast based off it. I poured the last of the batter into the pan, spreading it out.

As I worked he’d come closer, wrapping his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Bon dia,” I greeted. He hummed in response, arms tightening. He thought I’d left, I realized.

We ate in relative silence, just enjoying the company of the other. Still I felt guilty for being so intrusive on his home. I knew he liked to go home to his family in Terrassa, but I was keeping him here. After we finished he insisted I go watch television while he did the dishes, and eventually he just booted me out into the living room.

I sat on the sofa, and grabbed the remote. After channel surfing, I found an old Barça game, and watched. I found myself trying to see what Xavi saw in the game – beyond the simple beauty and tactic. There was something deeper that called to him, which made him dedicate his entire entity to the game. After fifteen minutes Xavi joined me.

“Are you not enjoying the game?” Xavi asked as he watched himself make a pass on the screen.

“No, it’s not that. I’m just…I’m trying to understand the importance of the game to you. It’s easy to call it loyalty or interest or what not…but there’s something more there. I see it in your eyes when you talk about your team and the game. There’s a reason you’ve stayed at Barça when you could be earning twice as much in the Premier League. That’s what I want to understand,” I attempted to explain.

I glanced over at him to find him openly staring. “What?” I asked, wondering if I’d said something wrong. “No one ever tries to understand,” he said at last. “Well just knowing is passive. Understanding is deeper and far more meaningful in any relationship, romantic or not,” I shrugged.

His lips found mine, and I knew I was in more danger than ever.


~~

I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious as I held hands with Carles. We were walking down a busy street in Barcelona, and there were people looking.

It took effort not to yank my hand back. I was not ashamed of my boyfriend in any way, but of myself. There was no pleasing myself that morning. None of my clothes fit the occasion correctly, my hair wouldn’t behave, and I was fairly certain any and all imperfections would show through any makeup I’d apply. Still, I held onto his hand like it was a lifeline.

I wondered what the press, and more importantly the fans, would think of me. I was dating their captain, their beloved capità. He truly was beloved by all fans. He epitomized the philosophy of the club, and had been there since childhood.

Few knew dedication like Carles to their club (I could think of several others like Xavi and Sir Alex Ferguson for Manchester United). But to play for so long defending the colors and crest of one single club was almost unheard of. Everyone knew he was underpaid for his sportsmanship alone, not to mention his seniority and leadership.

Clearing my thoughts I realized cameras were beginning to appear – not just paparazzi, but fans and other people. Flashes would occasionally catch my eye, but I remembered Carles’ advice not to look.

So with resolve I would look forward, or at Carles, who would do the same.

Once we reached the restaurant we had reservations at, it was pretty established that we would be in the next day’s papers. Both nervous and pleased I ordered a glass of wine with my meal instead of my normal glass of water. I needed the boost. Carles squeezed my hand, “You’re doing wonderfully.” “I just keep expected to mess up, or be hated,” I admitted shyly. He shook his head, “Querida, how can they hate the woman I love?”

Love – we had both said it one several occasions, but almost as reassurance more than anything else. Taking a deep breath, I acted on my feelings for once.

“Carles, I love you,” I said softly yet confidently.

His shining eyes found mine. “I love you too,” he said as we gazed at each other in complete awe. We were two different people – Carles was ruled by passion in the same was I was driven by reason. Yet we loved each other, and were admitting it to each other as straightforward as imaginable.

Even as our waiter returned we could not look away. There was a magic in the air after our admissions of affection – of adoration.

And of course that would be the picture the papers chose – us holding hands, gazing at each other hopelessly. We both looked glossy eyed with dorky grins on our faces. Yes, that was how I was portrayed for the first time on front of the newspapers. It’s a wonder the fans accepted me at all.