Even Better
Something Better
July 5th, 2010, 0930
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ the other woman pressed.
‘Because, Nagore, oh, I don’t know, maybe I just basically – literally – screwed over the man who was going to propose to me?’ I shot back sarcastically.
‘Fine!’ She finally gave in, throwing her hands up in frustration. ‘But I’m telling you, Iker really does like you!’
‘I’m sure he does! Like I adore him. Like a brother, a completely platonic friend, a fellow sufferer through Pepe’s crazy pranks!’
A sigh was, apparently, the only answer my statement warranted.
‘But I’ll have you know,’ she informed me from the threshold, ‘the only way a guy and girl can be – and remain - completely platonic friends is if either the girl’s hideous, or the guy’s gay. And I think you’ll agree that neither of that’s true.’
And then, with a complacent smirk tossed my way, she was gone.
July 5th, 2010, 1615
‘Hello?’
Ev! ¿Hola, que pasa, querida?'
‘¿Nada, es su? How are Yolanda and the girls?’
’They’re great, thanks for asking. Listen, can you come down to the spa immediately? Someone’s made off with Yolanda’s bikini top while she was in the sauna, apparently.’
‘Sure, Pep, I’ll be right down.’
Hanging up the phone, I quickly rooted through my suitcase before I came to a fuchsia string bikini. Pulling it on over my massage oil-lathered body (I’d just come back up after a rather excellent session with a hotel masseur), I grabbed a robe for Yolanda and hurried downstairs.
Pepe met me at the door to the sauna.
‘Go right in,’ he cheerfully advised.
Giving the bald, grinning man a queer look, I went into the hot, steamy room, fluffy terry robe in hand.
However, the tall, brunette awaiting me was very different from the one I’d expected.
‘Iker?’
He looked up. ‘Oh, hey, Ev. Isn’t this a Men Only sauna?’
Reality slowly sank in: we’d been brutally played. Indication number one – the door was now firmly locked.
‘Fuck,’ I muttered. ‘I will kill those three.’
Iker grinned. ‘Come here.’
I walked over and took a seat next to him, resting my head against a broad shoulder.
‘Rough night?’ he questioned gently.
‘Kinda,’ I admitted, voice muffled against his sun-tanned skin. ‘Fernando and I broke up.’
He murmured, ‘I heard, I’m sorry, Ev,’ before wrapping an arm around my body and pulling me into hug.
I looked up to thank him for being such a great friend. His eyes caught me; mesmerized me; took my breath away. The dark, sensual orbs brimmed with compassion and within their fiery depths, dwelt a hunger to match the desire coursing through my own veins.
‘Iker…’ My voice came out in a ragged whisper.
‘May I?’ It was a venture for permission, not entirely a request.
‘Please.’ A groan.
And then we were gone, lost in the heat of the moment, not caring who saw or heard, as he struggled to untie the fastenings on my swimsuit between heated, fervent kisses and the lust-filled, sensual slide of skin over skin.
July 6th, 2010, 1000
Straightening my short, dark brown dress and faux leopard skin jacket, I strode into the locker room, amid wolf-whistles and cheers from a certain Spanish defense duo, both long-maned defender and bald ‘keeper winking at the glare I directed towards them.
Going up to their handsome skipper, I covered his eyes with both hands amd whispered, ‘Guess who.’
He feigned deep consideration, before answering with no regard to his teammates’ presence whatsoever, ‘Hmm…could it be the naughty little thing with black lace covering that very, very sexy mole on her left-‘
‘Yes, it’s her!’ I quickly interjected.
Iker chuckled and pulled me around for a kiss, much to the disgust of the statuesque striker rubbing his knee on a bench in the corner.
‘Alright, Fern?’ chirped an ever-cheerfull David Silva.
‘Just dandy,’ came the sullen reply.
July 7th, 2010, 1845
Spanish NT Locker Room
It was a semi-final many had dreamt would be the perfect cherry to top the moistest, most delectable cake this world cup had been; a repeat of the similarly contested UEFA Euro final two years ago. Germany vs. Spain. Die Mannschaft vs. La Furia Roja. An epic European bloodbath.
Back in the locker room, Sergi Ramos’ pre-match playlist pumped out from a set of portable speakers, pounding through the sparsely furnished room housing players in various stages of dress going through their personal preparatory rituals.
My gaze sought out a certain tall brunette, occupied as I knew he would be: standing shirtless before a mirror, arranging his dark locks in an impeccable coiffure, even though he knew he wouldn’t be starting tonight.
Leaving him, my eyes swept over the man they called san (saint): tall, dark, handsome, as clichéd as that sounds. The stunning Madridista had taken up a post on one of the central benches and was engaged in concurrently tying his shoelaces and cellularly conversing with his grandfather, Geraldo.
They were a decent pair: two very honest, respectable men. Too bad I intended to use them like Kleenex.
It was time. Both teams assembled in the tunnel, club teammates nodding tersely at one another from opposing sides of the narrow chamber. Captains stood at the heads of the respective rows, resolutely staring ahead. Meanwhile, out in the stadium, fans prepared for battle; it was show time.
Grinning at two such rabid fangirls, adorably attired in the competing teams’ flags as the cutest tubetops, I made my way into the dragon’s mouth that would soon be spewing out world-reknowned athletes onto an inferno staged on supremely manicured Astroturf. With a rakish wink towards the man I immediately encountered, fiddling with a pair of Adidas goalkeepers’ gloves, I strode towards one gorgeous striker, earning the scandalized stares of an entire international football team.
‘Good luck, babe, I whispered, pulling him in roughly for a kiss. A gasp was heard behind me, followed by a series of profane utterings. Ignoring that, I leaned towards my forward and murmured, ‘You’ll cream them.’
Another blonde compatriot of his strolled up to us, utterly nonchalantly, and tapped me on the shoulder.
'Nice way to screw with those Spanish shorties,’ he said, not bothering to lower his volume.
‘Next time, though, let’s have Philip join us. A regular foursome, y’know?’
I grinned back and blew a kiss at the aforementioned Mr. Lahm, replying, ‘Bastian, with you and Lukas here, it’s bound to be so much more than just regular, you know that.’
And with that, I swept out, not forgetting to throw in in strong, polished German, ‘In Ihrem Gesicht Weibchen.’*
* In your face, bitches!
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Enjoyeth, peoples! :)