Being back in Honduras is comforting and exhausting all at once. The burger from Corona Cabana drips deliciously down my fingers, sauce exploding out the back just like it always has. It is the most stable thing in my life. I'm aware that is pathetic.

I'm so very aware.

But try telling that to anyone else. I'm Óscar Calderón, the highest paid fútbol star the league has ever seen. The shining golden boy of Honduras. And believe me, I know I have more than I could ever repay, and I remember what it was like to not know where my next meal was coming from. But being ridiculously wealthy, as Marcia puts it, is not all that's important in life. And while I'm grateful for the opportunity to give back to my family and my country who so desperately need it, I sometimes wonder if I've given up more than I really know.

But what's done is done. And we are all handed our lot in life, so all we can do is make the best of what we're given. And for me, that is keeping in shape, staying out of trouble, and continuing to score goals well into my old age.

"¿En serio? A hamburger?" Marcia says when she arrives for our meeting. "I leave you alone for ONE sponsorship deal meeting and find you disrespecting your meal plan. No," she says before I can interrupt her, "not just disrespecting, outright offending. This is just. How many times do I have to tell you vegetables are not optional?"

I point at the small piece of lettuce poking out of the burger and, as I hoped, her eyes roll so far back in her head her eyes go white.

"You want to share the fries?" I ask, earning myself a scathing glare from my cousin. "If it will make you feel better, I will point out that I had Julio check out and approve all plans for eating out and activities to ensure I was neither breaking my contract nor doing anything that would reduce the longevity of my career. Your job is safe. No te preocupes."

"Fine. I'm appeased. Now, hand over the fries I was promised and let's get into it."

The burger gives me a reason not to respond to her long monologue about the potential sponsorship with Xabal, but maybe halfway through her explanation of legal negotiations and contract loopholes they were trying to shore up, I'd completely zoned out, eyes floating out over the turquoise waters as the sun's descending rays peek through the open air under the roof of the dock bar at Sunset Bay Resort & Spa.

A group of women in oversized hats and sunglasses bursts through the door, one of whom is dressed in an obnoxious tiara and a sash with "bachelorette" written on it. The blonde bounces over to the DJ, a man I recall from my trips in high school, and soon the opening notes to "Culpa al Corazón" play through the speakers. All the women sit down at the bar and order shots.

The amount of liquor they've ordered is more than enough for the three of them, but once the obnoxious song choice is over, they blend into the background at the bar.

With my burger now complete, all I want is to sink into the chair and relax, but all I get to do is listen to Marcia ask me question after question about my commitments, my priorities, and my willingness to agree to contract terms.

I answer her questions—a lot, it's complicated, and no way—and earn several nasty looks and three threats to call my mother. The last one comes after she asks me if I'm willing to do an underwear photoshoot.

"Marcia, you know I draw the line at shirtless. Bien sabes. Why are you suddenly pitching things you know I'm going to reject just so you can threaten to call my mother?"

She shifts in her seat and stares at her phone.

"Marcia, what aren't you telling me?"

"Look, we don't want to worry you because nothing's happened yet but... You know how old you are. One day you won't be making this kind of money and you won't be coveted by every team, inciting bidding wars over your salary. It's not far off, Óscar. And we need to consider what you're going to do when that happens. ¿Me explico?"

"Gracias. Way to make me feel old. I'm the picture of health. And I have more than enough money. I'll be okay."

"Seguro. I'm sure you will. It's just, with all the expenses and security and charities and everything, you'll be running a deficit without your income. And, as you've told me the charities are non-negotiable, and I've decided the security is non-negotiable, we're left with money from sponsors. You are a big deal, Óscar. You could really make money off of them."

"I already make money off of them," I counter, wishing I still had my juicy, messy burger to distract me from where I know this conversation is going.

I know because we've had it, or some variation of it, with increasing frequency since I hired Marcia as my personal assistant. She's good at what she does. It wasn't even nepotism. Okay, it wasn't completely nepotism. But the point is she's too good at what she does, and now she's on my case about extending my career and ensuring I set myself and my charities up for the future.

"I love you more than my own brothers," Marcia continues, though I missed everything she said before that. "But I need you to be serious about the future. Tu futuro. Most players your age have been retired for five years. Use what you have and set them all up for a future, if you won't care about yourself."

"I do care about myself," I whisper. "I just have more than I ever thought I would. Voy a estar bien."

She sighs. "I'm not going to get through to you, am I?"

"Maybe if you get a few shots in me first," I muse, tipping my head toward the bar.

"Te pasas. You don't pay me enough for that. If you buy them, I'll drink 'em." She slides her folder back into her purse, not bothering to open it for me to sign a contract.

Underwear modeling.

I weave through the patrons in the bar, wood floor shaking underneath us as the waves lap against the unstable posts below. It's amazing the whole thing hasn't collapsed into the sea it rests upon. The fact that it's been here since I was a child is awe inspiring. If this building can have this kind of longevity, who says I can't?

I finally reach the bar, after having to sign three autographs. I can practically taste the liquor on my tongue when a short brunette steps in front of me, curly hair slicked back into a ponytail, short dress hugging all the right curves that would have sent me over the edge when I first gained fame.

And it still does something for me. I'm still me, after all, but all the years of sex felt like all the years of million-dollar-salaries. Compared to the previous drought, they look juicy and inviting, but once you're in them, you see them for the oasis they really are. They crumble. Or, they don't crumble, but it's starting to feel very transactional in a way that makes me uncomfortable. So, except my regulars, I'm hanging up my hat.

"I was wondering if you'd sign my breast," she says in Spanish.

Well, nothing wrong with a little—

A laugh rings out to my left, and I catch sight of the bachelorette I saw before, and her two friends, but they've been joined by a fourth woman with dark loose waves and an easy vibrance of the setting sun. Her laugh draws me toward her, ignoring the bartender's waiting question of what I want to drink.

I can't explain what draws me to her. Every description I try to give makes her sound like every other woman in this bar—every other local woman walking down the street. And in a way she is. In all accounts perfectly average. So what about her loose dress and vibrant smile are drawing me in?

Shaking my head does little to shake her sparkling brown eyes or the carefree way she dances.

Before I know it, I'm halfway across the bar, pushing toward the woman who is the sunshine to my dark cloud.

And that stops me in my tracks. What am I thinking? I don't do relationships. They never end well. I do sex. That I do somewhat well, if they are to be believed. But relationships? For longer than I can remember, those have been a liability. And with everything Marcia just said about my negative cash flow, can I really afford to continue this walk toward the woman who sends warmth into parts of me I haven't felt in... maybe ever?

Maybe it's better to just keep that all under lock and key.

I wave back to Marcia, whose brows are knitted together. Eventually, she releases my gaze and turns back to her phone. A text pings my phone: Just get the tequila so we can get out of here. Please. There's a pool with my name on it.

Why are there pools by the ocean? Who goes to a beach to jump in a pool? Unnecessary extravagance.

I shake my head, hoping to shake images of the beautiful brown-haired beauty I'm trying very hard not to look at anymore.

"Six shots of tequila, please," I say to the bartender as he pours another patron's drink.

"Oh my order can wait," the older man says, standing to shake my hand. "It is such a pleasure to meet you in person, Sr. Calderón. We're so appreciative of everything you've done for our son. He's at the academy training to be a doctor now, because of your scholarship."

"It's such a pleasure to give back to the place that gave me so much. I know what it's like to grow up here and I'm glad my ability to give back some of what I've been given helps you." I'll have to get a signed picture from Marcia later, to send home for the man.

I'm in the middle of asking which program his son is working under when my attention is drawn back to the woman I'm desperately trying to ignore.

And she's making it impossible to do as she shouts, stumbling across the floor and tripping into a small crowd of drunk college students on an off-season spring break trip.

I see it all happening before it does. One of the men topples into another and they go down, tripping the woman further until she reaches the railing with alarming speed and the railing, which is as rickety as the rest of the place, cracks right in half, sending the woman right over the edge.

My muscles flex and before my brain catches up, I'm already diving after her into the water, Marcia screaming about safe activities as I do so.

Diving off a wharf bar into the shallow ocean waters is definitely not on my approved list of ensured activities. If I get injured doing this, my career could be over. No pay. Starting this very day until I'm healed.

But I don't have time to think about that as the woman's terrified face fills my vision and I brace for impact with the water, easily finding my bearings and bobbing my head above the surface.

She is not so lucky, and it takes me a moment to locate her flailing just below the water, deep enough that she cannot reach the bottom, but shallow enough that I can see the crab and the rocks lining the surface of the sand.

I don't think, drawn toward her sputtering cough and flailing arms. She's not drowning but it doesn't matter. All that matters is she's scared. And in less than a second I'm there, wrapping my arm around her and making sure she's above the water, floating next to me as I swim back toward shore.

She kicks and screams and punches me, which isn't the reaction I was expecting after I risked my career for her.

"Tranquilo. Just lay still. We're almost to shore."

"You don't understand. I can't do the ocean. I hate it. I can't—" her sobs are hysterical, coming between shouts and questions about what random coloured shadows are beneath us.

"Just relax. We'll be there faster if you cooperate."

"Oh, yeah. Just tell a person to relax, that will surely help them feel more calm," she spits. "And why the hell would I cooperate with you? I don't trust you."

And she's right. But she doesn't need to trust me, she just needs to get to shore safely. So I tighten my arm around her and push my lungs to breathe more air so I can get her out of the water safely and still keep my ability to walk tomorrow.

I have to get her out of here. I have to keep her safe. 

~ * ~ Author's Note ~ * ~

I moved into a new house today and I'm currently buried in boxes. So I may come back and edit this one later, if I find anything that needs adjusting. But I'm confident the only errors would be small ones, so I'm posting it now as planned. If you found anything, please feel free to leave me a comment -- it is always helpful! 

See you next week for Chapter Five! 

~Eliza.