Forbidden (one-shot)

“Nando!” I hissed at him angrily.

“Hmm?” he murmured, lips still exploring my neck.

I sighed. He wasn’t making this any easier.

I tried again, gentler this time, “We can’t do this, baby. Let go.’

Stubbornly, he pulled me closer. “No,” he muttered resolutely.

“Damn that Spanish blood, Fernando Torres! It’s what’s gotten me into this mess in the first place and it’s what’ll get me fired!” I burst out, exasperated.

He immediately halted his exploration of my neck and looked up into my eyes, hiss own burning with desire. “I’m a mess?” His voice was husky; it sent a shiver wracking through my body.

I looked deep into his eyes, blazing with the intensity of what he felt, and whispered, “No, Nand, you’re trouble. The very best kind.”

His smile lit his face up. It was a smile I adored, kind of shy and confident at the same time. It made his whole face light up and his eyes sparkle with happiness. It was that same smile that I had fallen for. That, and those deep, soul-shattering eyes. The world saw one of the best strikers they had ever lain eyes on but could no one see those sad, beautiful eyes, holding more depth and sadness than she had ever known?

I stared into them until he broke eye contact, leaning over me, trapping me against the wall with his lean, toned frame. Our lips met and all thoughts rushed out of my mind, leaving a numb pleasure behind. I twined both arms around his neck and stood on my tip-toes, pulling him closer. Both his hands locked under my hips and hoisted me up, allowing me to wrap my legs around his toned, sculpted torso.

He pulled my lips into his, sucking hungrily on my lower lip. His tongue slid into my mouth, massaging mine in a way I’d never felt before. One of his hands slipped up my shirt, fingers searing my skin wherever they skimmed. He moved his mouth over to my neck, my ear, my collarbone, moaning quietly at the back of his throat. This was torture; I knew he wanted to say something, he had never shown this level of intensity before.

His phone rang, the club anthem, You’ll Never Walk Alone, playing from somewhere in the depths of his jeans’ pockets. He groaned, unwilling to remove his hands from inside my shirt long enough to pull his phone out. Finally, he decide to answer and resume with his exploration of my neck later – I knew why, I had personalized this ringtone myself. “Mierda,” he muttered before finally sliding it open. I listened to his side of the conversation. “Coach? Si, she’s with me. Coaches’ meeting? I’ll tell her. Si. I’ll be there, boss.”

He turned to me and smiled. “Rafa,” he added explanatorily. “He wants to speak to you alone before your meeting. Probably about Pepe’s role against United tomorrow,” he added, noticing my anxious expression.

I smiled back at him uncertainly. After pulling my shirt back down and fixing my ponytail, I was ready to face the world again. He ran a hand through his own soft, blonde hair and then grabbed hold of my hand. We walked down to the Anfield conference room together. Replacing Xavi Valero hadn’t been easy, especially allowing Pepe (Reina) and Deigo (Cavellieri) time to trust a woman to coach them. But it had worked. Then why was something was giving me an uneasy feeling about this whole affair?

Rafael Benitez looked upset as we entered together, hand-in-hand. Shit, I thought. Fernando, once again sharing the same thought with me, whispered it in my ear in Spanish. “Mierda.”

I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. He smiled at me sheepishly, knowing why I had burst into this sudden fit of giggles. Our boss, however, was not amused.

“ENOUGH!” he roared. “I will not stand this nonsense in my club! I thought you two knew better than to engage in each other’s company this way!”

My heart sank. I knew something bad was going to happen. I looked down at my feet. I wasn’t a child anymore, I knew what he meant. Unfortunately, Fernando looked furious; Rafa wasn’t the only person in the room whose Spanish temper bubbled up at the slightest provocation. I saw his face redden, a sure sign that he would explode soon. Thankfully, we were interrupted by the sudden arrival of the rest of the team.

We were lying on my bed that night when he said it. Chinese take-out boxes littered the floor in front of the fireplace and we were just lying there in silence, looking at the fire glowing in the darkness, reveling in the silent comfort of knowing the other person was there for us.

A while had passed before either of us spoke. Finally, he decided to break the silence. “You know, Olalla wanted to go out for dinner tonight.”

“Why didn’t you go?” I asked, my heart already dreading the answer. I didn’t want him to have considered going, I wanted him to always want to be with me.

He was silent for a few minutes. “Guess I didn’t want to go,” he finally said. “I’d rather spend my night here.”

Silencing the hope fluttering inside me, I did what I knew I had to. “Go home, Nandito,” I whispered, turning to look him in the eyes. “It’s time to go back to your home. To your wife.”

I knew he didn’t want to. I didn’t want him to either. Turning back so that my back was pressed against his chest and he was facing the back of my head, I finally let the tears that had been threatening to escape for so long spill. Why couldn’t he be mine? Why did we have to sneak around like this? Surely nothing good could come from defying our boss’s direct orders and cheating on Olalla? I had met her once. She was a sweet girl, beautiful and pleasant. She didn’t deserve this.

I felt his grip on my waist slacken. A second later, I was on my back and he was leaning over me, cradling my head on his left arm. His right hand pulled my chin up to his mouth and he kissed me once, gently, before slowly kissing away the tears.
I felt him move towards my ear but nothing in the world could prepare me for what came next. “I love you,” he whispered.

I stopped breathing. Holding my breath, I pulled his face back towards mine and gazed into his eyes, searching for the truth that I knew lay in their warm, chocolaty brown depths. There was no mistaking his sincerity; he really did love me. But I knew now what I would do, we couldn’t do this. It would hurt too much. His wife. My job. The club. His career. My integrity. His public image. Our hearts.

“No,” I whispered.

He looked confused. It broke my heart and almost made me change my mind. Almost.
“We can’t do this, baby,” I still don’t know why I whispered but at that moment, it seemed perfect. Speaking out loud would have shattered the spell of the moment and once I had broken down, nothing would have stopped him from scooping me into his strong arms and loving all my troubles away. Nothing would have stopped me from going willingly. “We can’t,” I continued. “You’re married. And I’m a coach. It’s forbidden.”

I turned my face away. I knew what I would see there. Tears. Tears I was responsible for being there and even the thought of which ripped my heart into a million miniscule pieces. Doing the only thing I thought might work at the moment, I grabbed my boots and coat and left. And the cry of anguish I heard behind me as I closed the door was one I never got out of my head for as long as I lived. I knew I had to see him every day after that at work and that I could never have faced it. So I left him a long text explaining what I did. Then I handed Rafa my resignation and went back to pursue a photography career in Milan. But I never, ever forgot that one man, Fernando Torres.