I sit on the terrace, watching as Alejandro dribbles the ball and sends it flying it to the net, scores, and then makes a quick jog to recover it, only to start the process again. He scores here and hits a few misses there, but mostly he scores - I mean, he is a global football star.

Repetition is important to mastery.

When he scores, he looks up to me and flashes me a smile like a Labrador before leaping to get the ball back. He looks at me and laughs at himself when he misses, and I can't help but do the same. Who knew that men could be cute?

He has changed into shorts and a soccer vest - exposing his perfect legs to me. He looks like a mannequin with long, perfectly toned limbs; and I wonder what he would think if he knew I was scrutinising his everything the way I am. Would he be flattered or would he feel insulted? I mean, the thought that some man has undressed me while I've been minding my own business has always disgusted me, but I don't think I'd mind if it was Alejandro.

"How am I doing?" he yells after a few trials. I'd sat in the very middle of the terrace so I wouldn't disturb his training, but also because I wasn't sure if he'd want to see me.

I hold both my thumbs up in affirmation and he smiles. He says something under his breath that I don't hear, but it can't be positive, given the shadow of a scowl that crosses his lips.

"Come down here!"

I make my way to the front row seats, and, when I get there, I lean against the board. He leans towards me but very quickly blushes and looks away from me - causing me to do the same. The sound of his laughter, at once embarrassed and care-free, messes with my mind, throwing my thought process to the dogs.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks suddenly.

What is happening?

Alejandro is asking to kiss me - after I exploded in front of him and unfairly turned the tables on him. Why is he still talking to me? Why does he still look happy to be in front of me? Why isn't he calling me out on my bullshit? Why is it so hard for me to tell him I'm sorry?

I need to do better.

I slowly send my hand to his chin and gently lead him to my lips. His eyes light up and his breathing picks up speed. He quickly wets his lips before they land on mine, moistening them with the wetness of his.

Soft and wet.

He sends his hand to cup my cheek, but it quickly slides to my waist. His tongue glides over my lips. I grab his lip in my teeth gently and he groans, lifting me off my feet, never breaking the kiss, and transports me to his side of the fence. He tries to land me on my feet, but I bend my knees so he can't. He chuckles lightly and I wrap my legs around his waist.

His body is hard - firm - against mine. I don't remember the last time I've been excited by the touch of a man - even when I consciously decide to have sex with one, I'm typically unexcited by them; it's really just a matter of testing that I can still fuck.

But this feels different. This feels like what I've been missing. This feels like I'm a virgin, and all those other men don't matter. This feels like home. This feels like being wanted. This feels like love.

He breaks away but his eyes stay fixed on my lips, a wide grin on his face. I try to lean back into him, but he leans away from me.

"I wanted to ask you if you would like me to teach you how to play," he tells me.

I smile. "Really? I would love that."

His smile grows. "Yeah?"

I nod.

"Okay, then; get off me."

"Don't you like this?" I ask cheekily.

At this, a laughter escapes him. "Of course, I love this. But I also want to teach you how to play."

I unwrap my legs from him, and he delivers me to the ground. I don't like the sudden feeling of emptiness and coldness that settles into me when I am no longer on him. I should be stronger. I've been touched by men before. What's so different about this one?

Well, I like this one. And it looks like he likes me back. Where I usually can't wait to get away from men, I just want Alejandro to be next to me forever. Alejandro wants me to take an interest in what he likes. He wants to talk to me. He sees through me but doesn't push me too hard to get whatever he wants. He doesn't take advantage of the weakness in me that I've shown him.

At least, he hasn't.

He wants to talk to me. He doesn't invite me to his house just for sex. He takes me to his place of work - he wants me to be a part of his life. And I want to be a part of his life. And I want to talk to him. And I want him to be my friend.

"Okay, you should probably get changed," he tells me.

"I didn't bring a change of clothes."

He shrugs. "You can wear my tracksuit. It's not the best thing to wear, but it'll probably be better than what you're wearing right now - no offense."

Almost as though I don't know what I'm wearing, I look down on the tight, little black dress and stiletto I'm wearing, and I realise that he may be right.

I make my way to the end of the field where his bag is, and I pull the clothes out. Noticing that his focus is completely on me, I scream that he should turn around.

He chuckles. "There are locker rooms in here. If you didn't want me to see you, you'd use them."

I raise a finger at him.

"And you might also want to tie your hair back."

I make my way to the locker rooms - they aren't as bad as I thought they would be. The last time I was in a locker room was in high school: I went into the boys' locker room on our farewell party to fuck with my then-boyfriend; and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Everything smelled like come, and I didn't want to get naked and lie on the cold, hard bench. The guy didn't seem to mind it. When I told him of my reservations, he simply rolled his eyes and laid his t-shirt on the bench, and he quickly told me that we should quickly 'do this' or we'd get caught.

I still hate him to this day.

Things have changed now; I've grown. I'd like to think I'm smarter and more confident, more assertive, and (maybe) I love myself more and am kinder to myself. Sometimes, I think I'm on the right path, until I see myself rip myself to shreds in front of the mirror, or in the presence of others - typically people I've been told are 'important'.

Maybe I've got more growing to go through.

I make my way out of the locker rooms, down the maze of passages before seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. Imagining how it must be for the stars, I picture countless fans on the terraces, screaming their lungs out for me; the coach at the end, giving my teammates hand slaps, a proud smile on his face when his eyes land on me.

He's proud of me. I love that he is. I'm a star. Can my dad see me? Is he as proud of me as the coach is? Is the coach my dad? Am I alone? Am I too old to be doing this? Am I too old to want my dad to be proud of me? Am I too old to have such an outlandish dream?

Am I too old?

Alejandro's hand flies to the back of his neck as I make my way to the middle of the field - where he stands, playing with the ball between his feet. His tan skin gains the hue of a ripe tomato, and I know from the churning of my stomach that I don't look any better.

"Have you ever played?" he stammers.

I shake my head - I don't trust myself enough to speak.

"That's fine. Just-do a few runs up and down the field."

He sends me running the length of the field, incorporating some stretches in the mix - he says it's called 'dynamic stretching'. It's bullshit meant to torture people who don't exercise. I've never been sporty. Looking back, I'm kind of glad physical education wasn't compulsory back in my day because I would have flunked like shit. But then again, I still wish it had been: then this whole thing wouldn't be embarrassing. I notice Alejandro stifle a laughter every time he thinks I'm not looking, and I cheat every time I notice he's not looking.

"You did great," he tells me after my last lap. "I hope you didn't cheat when I wasn't looking because that will make your session pure hell."

I'm not sure that he's trying to scare me because he saw me cheat or if I'm really about to go through one of the worst hours of my life.

He smirks and throws me a ball. "I want you to go run up to that water bottle, around those two cones, then back here to score a goal, go back and repeat. Start on your left, then your right. I'm giving you ten minutes to score eight goals."

Seems easy enough. I square my shoulders and stare up at him. "Challenge. Accepted."

I break into a sprint while barely managing to keep the ball under my control. I find that I sometimes kick too hard and have to chase after it. When I reach the cones and try to work my way around them, I find that the ball flies to a different direction than the one I send it to. I struggle to keep up with it, and as I try to send it to the net, it flies to my right, the furthest from where I'd sent it.

He's rigged it somehow. I know it.

After my third round and first successful attempt to score, I realise I had underestimated how difficult this would be. I turn to him to complain about being given very little time, but he shuts me down before I can get a word out: "Time."

As I emphatically try to send the ball to the net, I step on it, which sends me headfirst into the grass. Alejandro's chuckle makes me feel embarrassment on an entirely new level. I wish I knew how to play before agreeing to this.

"Two minutes!"

I've only scored three goals. How is this fair? I know this is not how much time he gives himself! "Not fair!"

"What?"

"Ten minutes wasn't enough time to score eight goals."

"Even if I'd given you twenty, you wouldn't get five. We'd probably need an hour for that."

"How much time does it take you to get eight?"

"Six or less."

I mumble: "Yeah well, you're a pro, dummy."

He takes me through other exercises - a few we do together, during which he continuously distracts me and then tells me I'm not serious. He continuously blows me kisses or flashes me smiles, then he wins and tells me to get my mind in the game.

"Now, I want to see if you've learnt anything. You take this side; I'll take the other one. I want you to try and score three goals on my side while I also score three on yours."

"I'm tired, Alejandro," I pant.

"We could take a five-minute break."

"Let's make it twenty."

"Eight?"

"Fifteen?"

"Ten, final offer."

"Eleven?"

"Five?"

I groan. "Okay. Ten."

We rest on the grass and Alejandro offers me his water. Only then do I realise I am actually extremely parched, and I accept without much hesitation. A man to think for me when I'm too busy being a woman to do it myself. Who would've thought that men could be useful?

We sit there, saying nothing, doing nothing, but it still somehow manages to be one of the most comforting moments of my sardonic life. Again, being around Alejandro feels like home; it feels natural and safe and welcoming - something I probably haven't felt since I was nine. The thought is scary: for the longest time, I had been convinced that men could almost never be good - something I realised from my time around boys and male teachers in high school, and which has constantly been reinforced in my mind by men like Harry - and now I'm claiming one as my home, associating him with the one thing I've been in want of from an early age.

Am I setting myself up?

I wish I could have all the answers. I wish life wouldn't prove me wrong, once again, and not mock my tendency to trust people I have no business trusting. I wish I could be everything I need. I wish I didn't have to wish for the most basic needs.

"Time's up," Alejandro announces as he rises and holds a hand out to help me up, a wide, innocent-looking grin on his face.

How I wish I had all the answers to all the universe's questions.

Tossing caution to the wind, I take the hand. He helps me up, his strong hand wrapped around mine so that I feel safe, but not as though my hand is being crushed.

How does he do that?

He gives me the ball and promises to go easy on me, while I try to amp myself to at least score one goal. I take a light jog, careful not to kick the ball so hard that I lose control of it. I make my way around Alejandro, surprising myself by dodging his attempt at stealing the ball from under me. I charge ahead, fully aware that he is right on my heel. Realising that I may not be as lucky in a second, I send the ball flying for the goal posts, but it goes in the opposite direction and doesn't land in the net.

The next few times, I'm not lucky: Alejandro always manages to steal the ball and charges for my goalpost. I try to chase after him, but he's too fast; he's too smart; and he shoots perfectly into my net without error two times.

Realising I am losing this game, I decide to bring everything to a stop. The ball starts in my possession, and when I realise he's coming to steal it, I quickly tackle him to the ground, and we both fall to the ground. It seems like he let me tackle him with how easy his fall was. Why does that make me feel warm?

"That's a foul," he complains. "I get a penalty kick."

Making no attempt to move off of him, my eyes linger on his beautiful lips, but I quickly shift my focus and stare him dead in the eye. "Let's just call this a draw and go back to the penthouse."

He smirks. "Where is the fair in that?"

Now, I get off him and start walking away. "You still owe me a date, and it's getting late."

"No fair!" he complains again. He quickly makes his way towards me, scowling when he reaches me to show me how displeased he is with my challenge.

"The world isn't fair."

He stops me and stares me in the eye the way I'd done just a few seconds ago, except an amused smirk colours his face. "You really are the devil."

We start making our way to the car, and I notice Alejandro tense up the closer we get to the car: he's probably scared to tell me that he doesn't want me to drive. I don't blame him. I would be scared too. Putting him out of his misery, I announce: "You can drive."

I don't miss his immediate relaxation after that, although he tries to hide it with a shrug. "Cool."

I hop into the passenger seat and watch Alejandro drive, a silence settling in the air between us. I spend one of the longest five minutes of my life right next to someone I suddenly like a lot, and I feel myself lose the ability to breathe. I want to apologise, but I can't.

He stops the car at the spot I picked him up in and tells me to go and wait for him in his room. I fully understand the necessity - privacy. So, why do I feel like scum? I feel like he's shoving me inside his closet and hiding me. I know that's not really what's happening, but that's how it feels to my neanderthal-like brain. It's one of those things that just feel wrong for some reason - if he loves me, then he should post me on Instagram, introduce me to his friends; if he loves me, then he shouldn't mind being seen in public with me.

Clucking at my stupidity, I start to the receptionist - Alejandro has apparently called him to tell him I will be going up to the penthouse alone. I'm shown to the elevator, and up it whisks me, delivering me to the kept, expensive suite.

Does Alejandro have friends? I mean, I have seen him laughing with a few celebrities, but are those even his friends? Does he have people he talks to about his struggles? Does he have struggles? Should he?

Why does he settle for this life? Ten minutes to walk down the street, and ten more to get into your own home?

For some reason, it still shocks me that there is absolutely nothing personal in this entire space. This is someone who loves his mom to death. Why is there not a single photo of her, at least? Does he have anyone else other than her? Will he introduce me to her? Why do I care?

Maybe I should investigate?

I pull my phone out. 19:33. If it takes him the same amount of time to get in here as it does to get out, I should have more than five minutes. That's not a lot of time. Riding the wave, I take the stairs. Hopefully, they will lead me to some answers.

The walls are lined with photos and paintings: some of himself; some just expensive nonsense. I walk past these and land on a mini library. Deciding that I will explore it another time, I quickly rush to the first bedroom I come across, grateful that the door to every room is open, though still feeling the sting of slight disappointment - if there was something that needed to be hidden, then maybe it would be protected from the prying eyes of a crazy date.

As soon as I am inside the room, I completely forget my mission as my eyes feast on the beautiful lights that breathe new light to the city and its arms extended to the skies. The night is always beautiful - it has the ability to turn the dump I live in to a work by Michelangelo. However, Alejandro's large windows give me an unrestricted view of the paradise that is West Brompton, the long, flowy curtains serving as a dynamic frame, blowing gently with the wind.

I want to get married here.

Well, we'd have to get rid of that Aleix Vidal portrait on the wall, but I can see myself making love in this room.

"Edgar?" I jump at Alejandro's voice behind me. "I've been looking for you. What are you doing here?"

Fuck me.

"I-uh-I got a little lost," I stutter as I try to cook up a lie I can believe.

He cocks an eyebrow. "A little?"

"I was-I was looking for the bathroom."

"There's a bathroom downstairs. Come, I'll show it to you."

I follow him in awkward silence. The entire time, his lips are cast in a scowl. I have to apologise.

"I'm sorry. I just got lost."

Silence.

"Next time you want to use the bathroom," he says in a clipped tone once we reach said bathroom, "just come here."

I nod as he walks away, and I close the door. I pull my phone out. 19:48. I fucked up. I just hope he isn't too upset with me.

After spending the longest five minutes in a bathroom, I drag the door open and make my way to the kitchen. The living room flows into the dining room into the kitchen; so, there isn't much opportunity for me to get lost. Behind the massive granite-top counter, Alejandro lays a few pots and pans and goes into the pantry, emerging with a sack labelled 'flour'. He lays it on the white granite as well and grabs salt from the salt rack.

"I hadn't cooked yet. Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's okay," I mumble back.

I wonder if he'll want to talk about me being in his bedroom. I hope he doesn't. I don't even know why I'd went snooping in the first place. I don't know what I had hoped to achieve. Fair to say, I succeeded in fucking the mood up.

He continues with his up and down for a little over an hour before inviting me to the dining room, pulling the royal blue chair for me and helping me sit. The table is a shiny glass table, no single scratch on it. I can see my reflection on the glass top, and I frown when I see my tense disposition. Alejandro sets a few coasters before presenting me with a perfectly plated cacio e pepe and placing a bottle of white wine between our plates and glasses. He then sits in front of me and invites me to try his food.

After hesitating on whether or not I should tell him that I can't have wine, I decide to keep my little perk to myself and just ask for a juice, scared it would probably upset him even more if I came with any conditions on the proceedings of this date.

Cream.

He likes his pasta creamy. So do I. How many talents is one person allowed to have? I've given up on making my own pasta because it always comes out rubbery, but Alejandro has managed to make it taste better than the one I buy at the store. How is that even possible? Why does everything taste like a perfect blend of the entire earth?

Why is he so silent? He looks up at me in between bites. Should I thank him? Is he still upset with me? Should I apologise again? Will that make him even more upset?

"I owe you an apology," he ejects.

I look up at him. Why does he think he owes me an apology? He did nothing wrong. He isn't the one who was snooping around trying to find something that didn't belong to him. "You don't.

He smiles and sends his hand behind his neck. "I kind of do. I don't think it was okay for me to give you attitude just now-"

I interrupt: "Trust me, you don't have to apologise--"

"It's just-I find it hard to trust people. I always have to be careful and protective of me and my image, and-I guess I panicked when I saw you in my bedroom and I assumed the worst. I'm sorry. I should trust you more - and I will. Starting now."

I wonder if he's doing this on purpose to get me to confess to snooping? What if this is all a test? I'm not innocent at all in this. Should I tell him?

"It's okay."

My voice isn't very clear. I clear a cough from my throat and swallow it down along with the guilt.

"It's okay. I know you always have to be careful of who you trust, and I'm grateful that you trust me enough to invite me to your place."

He smiles. "Thanks." Silence. "Are you enjoying your meal?"

I smile back. "I am. It's very creamy."

His smile falters. "Is it too creamy?"

"No. It's perfect. I like it creamy."

His smile returns. "I used cashew parmesan."

Even though I had assumed that he had used vegan dairy, something about his admission makes my chest expand. It could be the innocent smile with which he said it, or it could be the thought that he cared enough to remember that I actually don't eat meat, but I feel myself fall deeper for this man with every passing second I spend with him.

Just give me a baby right now, already! - oh, and I'm sorry.