"Lorena!" my mother shouts into my ear when I pick up the phone. Suspicious. But then, so was her text telling me if I didn't pick up her next call she'd have her husband—who she calls my step dad—buy her a ticket down here so she can 'speak to me in person'.

Carefully, I trudge through the rest of the sand until my feet rest on semi-solid ground near the road.

"Hello, Mother." I really hope she can hear my eyes rolling. Because I want her to know. But I don't want to say it.

"When were you going to tell me you were friends with Óscar Calderón?"

Of course that's what she wants to know. "I'm not friends with him, Mom. He's just here at the same time as me." Best not to tell her he's attending the wedding or she'll talk her way into attending with me.

"That's not what the internet is saying. This lady on that new app—what's it called? With the videos."

Yes, because that narrows it down.

"Well, no matter. She says Óscar is in Honduras for a big mysterious tour that's being guarded like the King of England or something but he was seen laying on top of a woman on a beach like they were about to kiss and that girl in the picture looked an awful lot like you, Lorena."

Shit. Shit. Shellfish on a stick.

"It wasn't me, Mom. I can assure you we haven't even come close to kissing." Not technically a lie, so it comes out believable. I got this.

"Don't try to fool with me, Lorena. I know you're lying to keep me from your life again, but hiding the fact that you're dating an international soccer star is one step too far."

Ah, there it is. "But it wouldn't be too far of me to hide him from you if he was a nobody, right?"

"So you are with someone?"

"No, Mom. I just don't want my boyfriends or suspected paramours to be judged solely based on the size of their wallet."

She huffs out a breath, letting my kept woman dig slide. "Honestly, Lorena, I thought we were past this by now."

Past what, Mother? Past trying to control my life? Past the point in which you suddenly want to have a relationship after ignoring me for fucking years? Past that?

"Are you past making me feel like a failure for my choice of career?"

"I've never made you feel like a failure."

I can practically see her clutching her pearls while some of her 'hired help' runs from the room in fear.

"I'm your mother, Lorena. I need to make sure you have the best life. I worked so hard to get everything for you and now that we have him, you throw it all back in my face like you aren't grateful for it or something."

"I can't have this conversation right now, Mom. I don't want his money."

"He has a name."

Yeah, I know he does, but so does everyone else. And you only seem to think people are worthy of a name if they have a fancy title in front of or behind it.

"Well?" she prompts when I don't answer.

But I'm not playing this game right now. I have an article to write and an event to plan and if I'm not quick they're going to leave me behind to find my own way back to the hotel.

"What did you want, Mother?"

A large group of high schoolers runs by carrying bags and snacks and throwing around a soccer ball. Probably headed down to the beach to play. Fortunately, their noise drowns out whatever my mother requests.

"Sorry, I didn't hear that," I say, flipping the phone to the other ear and regretting sharing my new number with her. But, again, if I'd been unreachable, she'd probably be walking off a plane right now so... lesser of two evils, right?

"I want to know the truth about you and Óscar Calderón."

"I've already told you the truth, Mom. I can't force you to believe me. There's literally nothing else to tell."

Well, at least to her. There's nothing more to tell her.

"I don't know what I did to deserve being shut out of my daughter's life."

You mean, besides leaving me behind as you chased after an increasingly wealthy stream of men until you landed on one you determined had 'enough'? Like that.

But I manage to keep my mouth shut, only noticing I'm pacing when I narrowly avoid walking into the path of a group of tourists pointing at the beach like it's a well-guarded secret.

"You didn't do anything, Mom," I say, ducking under the man's arm and crossing the narrow street to sit in the shade of what looks like a small grove of palm trees. "I'm just busy helping Bianca with her wedding plans."

"She's already been married twice. How many plans can there be?"

Don't say it.

Wringing my hands together doesn't help, and it comes up without my consent.

"You've been married four times, and I didn't see you letting me off the hook on wedding plans when you married your current husband."

Well...I said it.

A demonstrable pause greets me and goes on so long I almost believe the call's been disconnected.

"I won't stand you speaking about him like that," she finally replies.

"I guess I'd better go then," I snap. It's not like we've never had this conversation before. I don't know why I keep trying. What is it they say about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome?

"Fine. But if you really aren't with Óscar, at least think about accepting our help. I didn't do all of this so you would have to work for your money."

"I want to work for my money, mother. And I'm not now nor will I ever be dating Óscar Calderón."

"Ouch," a voice says from behind me.

If that is Óscar and he heard me, please let the earth open up and swallow me whole right now.

My mother babbles in my ear as I turn around in slow motion. Finally, my eyes meet Óscar's as he dodges a group of small children clinging to his leg like a sloth on a tree. I can't even contain my laughter and my mother must assume it's for her because she huffs and complains and hangs up on me.

Good riddance, I suppose.

It's clear Óscar's cry of pain had something to do with the clingy yet adorable fans still surrounding him under the tree-covered sand. The littlest boy surrounding Óscar is blabbering away in a Spanish so quick and garbled that I struggle to understand him from this far away, but it seems like he's telling Óscar about his daddy being good at soccer too and them having a paper jersey of his in their kitchen because they don't have money for a real one.

I feel that, kid. Really, I do.

Not that I want an 'Óscar Calderón' jersey or anything. Definitely okay without one. But there were players I admired before Husband Number Three came along and bought me more than I needed.

It was nice to finally have everything I ever wanted. But now every single memory is tainted like cigarettes stain a wall.

"Lo siento," Óscar mutters, prying the children from his leg. He utters something else, but his face is turned away so the sentiment flies out to the ocean.

One of their mothers calls the children off and asks Oscar for a photograph which he gladly provides.

And I'm not sitting on the ground anymore. Like a magnet draws a compass, his kind voice has pulled me through the group of tourists and into the middle of the road. I'm supposed to hate him. He's annoying and rich. But when his eyes catch mine, I can't move.

Like a deer caught in headlights, I can't do anything but stand and watch.

I want to run away; I want to sprint back to our group or just pretend I don't see him. But I have seen him and he's seen me. And he's fighting his way through the growing crowd of fans while looking at me like I'm the air he needs to breathe.

Something in the universe had pulled the earth out from under me, all stability lost.

My mother must have gotten inside my head. Or maybe it's just really hot outside. Because I am melting down. Every part of me is staring at him and my brain is refusing to tell my limbs what to do.

A bicycle rounds the corner, ringing its little bell to announce its presence. I can see it out of the corner of my eye heading straight for me and I'm incapable of doing anything except stare straight at Óscar. He's a safety hazard. I'm going to die here on this Honduran dirt road because my body has betrayed me and got all bothered by Óscar Calderón.

Traitor.

The world slows down and I close my eyes to brace for impact, praying I'll live to rehash this situation with Carla later. But the impact doesn't come from the side. It comes from behind me like a truck.

I'm hurled forward, limbs flying freely as the weight from behind me pushes me into the ground with a thud.

The landing is hard and dirt sticks to my sweaty face as the mysterious stranger rolls me onto my back. "Are you okay?"

I blink away the brightness above me. It can't be Óscar but it feels like it has to be. I mean, how did he get behind me? But also, who else would do that for me?

Turning my head elicits a sharp pain in my head, my hair trapped between my body and the arm of my rescuer. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping the world will stabilize.

How hard did I hit my head to think Óscar would want to save me?

"He's done it before," the voice above me answers what I thought was an unspoken question.

This time when I open my eyes, Marcia's face greets me. "Thanks, Marcia." I push up to sitting and focus on a nearby rock to try to stop the world from spinning.

It's still a little wiggly when Óscar reaches us, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and stabilizing me. "Lorena, when I said I wanted to win our bet, I didn't mean I wanted to do it like this. Are you alright?"

When I don't answer he turns to Marcia. "Do you think she has a concussion?"

"Do I look like a doctor to you?" she snaps. "How would I know if she has a concussion? I don't think we hit the ground hard enough for that but how do I know?"

"Save it," he presses. "I just—"

His breath is quick and uneven, as though he was the one who'd just about been hit by a bicyclist.

"I know," Marcia's voice is soft and low. "Let's get her somewhere safe."

"Do you think you can walk?" Óscar's voice is strong in my ear, though his arm shakes slightly against my knee.

"I think so. Maybe I should hold you for support."

Oh no. The brain to mouth filter isn't as functional after a near-death experience.

"Wasn't going to let you walk alone," he says, pulling me gently to standing. "Marcia, do you think you can handle this?"

She nods, though I have no idea what secret code they are talking in. She seems to immediately know what to do, jumping into action and collecting a couple guys that look familiar somehow before she darts off into the crowd. I can't see what they do because Óscar guides me back through the crowd toward the beach.

Fortunately, the fans don't seem to hound him for things when there's a potentially concussed woman on his arm, so it isn't so hard to get through the crowd, but it's pretty hard to walk through the sand while the world refuses to stay still.

"We have to stop meeting like this," I say when my vision stabilizes.

"We really do," he grits out, like I weigh a whole tonne and he's using all of his strength to hold me up.

"I think I'm fine," I say, trying to pull my arm away from his waist. "I can walk on my own."

"Like hell you can. We're getting you safely back to your friends before I let you go. You need to be with someone who hasn't hit their head."

"You let Marcia leave without checking on her head."

He pauses for a second. "Well, she wasn't alone. And I've already had to save your life once. I'd rather not make it a third time. Your friends will never forgive me if you fall down because I left you alone after a head injury."

"I didn't even hit it that hard." I might be pouting. But it's not working.

"That's something someone with a concussion would say."

"How do you know? Who taught you so much about concussions?"

"Seen a few more than I'd like," he says, urging me forward with a firm push of his hand.

Of course he has. Not nearly as many as hockey or American football, but there's enough. "Ever have one yourself?" I ask, because my slightly jostled brain still has no filter, apparently.

"Not me, no. A buddy's out for at least the season, though. It's..." he pauses, stops walking, and disappears into another world. "It's probably the end for him. And he's a year younger than me."

"Well, you don't need to worry about me. Fortunately, I'm not an athlete. So as long as I can walk in a mostly straight line, my life will carry on as it always has."

"There are other symptoms—"

"I don't think I have a concussion," I point out. "No headache, no loss of muscle control, no sensitivity to light, no nausea. I think there's something else."

"Confusion," he deadpans.

"Well, I'm always confused, so we can hardly blame the fall for that condition."

"There she is, ladies and gentleman," he laughs, resuming our slow pace toward the picnic set up on the beach.

"I'm going to be okay," I mutter. But my arm betrays me, gripping him tighter.

"Okay enough to beat me this afternoon?" He looks at me with an intensity I'm sure comes from years of playing on the field. That must be where the fire comes from. Competition.

The lump in my throat doesn't go away when I swallow. I definitely need to win and keep as far away from this player as I can. "You know it," I snap back, nudging him with my shoulder and knocking us both off balance.

"You are determined to kill me, aren't you?" He wrenches me a little closer to his side and continues our procession.

"Nah," I reply. "Just a clumsy mess." With a meddlesome invasive mother who'd try to get something out of you if she knew I was here right now.

And a test run article due for the magazine in way fewer hours than I'd like, given that I might have a current slight sensitivity to light sources. But I don't want to worry Óscar. Something about the way he's looking at me makes me wonder what it is he's hiding under that tough, controlled exterior.

I have a feeling that finding out would be dangerous.

And now I'm thinking of what's underneath. Send help.