I cannot stop thinking about Lorena's messy, accident prone antics.

Cannot stop.

The greatest techniques in sports psychology are no match for the way her left cheek gets a dimple when she smiles or how her eyes flutter up to mine.

Which is a problem.

I know nothing about her.

I've risked my life and career for a woman I literally do not know.

"Óscar?" A light tap on my door stops my pacing the floor.

"Who is it?" I call. Which was a rookie mistake. Never let them know it's you. Where is my head at today?

"Your brother, the groom."

Two steps to the door and I'm flinging it open to see him with a bottle of champagne, an opaque flask of something else, and a grin.

"It's been too long, bro," he smirks and pushes through the door. "I feel like we've hardly seen each other since you got here. How are things?"

"Things are okay," I answer, keeping my eyes firmly on the door handle as I close it.

"Not how Marcia tells it," he gestures to the seat across from him. "Why don't you sit down?"

Because if I sit down he'll see all of the nerves from everything bubble up to the surface. I need to move to let the energy out because if I don't stay level-headed and in control, people's livelihoods are at stake. Maybe even their lives.

"The world won't end if you take a break," he says, gesturing again and holding out a glass he materialized while I wasn't looking.

"It might," I sigh, but there's no use arguing with him. He inherited that piercing, questioning glare from our mother and if you know Hispanic mothers, you'll understand.

I take the glass and flop down onto the couch, willing my legs to be still. "So, how's teaching and married life going?"

Enrique winces. "It's been a rough transition for us. I..." he pauses and tips back a bit of whatever's in his glass. "I wasn't the best husband to her at the start and I'm realizing a lot of that was just not being able to handle the stress of teaching and getting to know her. But I think we know each other better now, you know? We're better at figuring out when things are going wrong and how to fix them. It's just still a lot. Teaching creeps into every area of my life and she didn't sign up for that but there's only so much Enrique to go around. She deserves better."

"And you'll do better."

"Yeah," he sighs. "Yeah, I think I will. Or at least she'll be comfortable calling me out. I'm hoping we can at least get there. Hurting her hurts, you know?"

I don't. I've never bothered to get close enough to a woman that hurting her was a real possibility before. Sure, I treat them with respect, but they're just strangers. And I tell it like it is. If they choose to expect more or hope for something I didn't promise, then as far as I'm concerned that's not on me. I have a system built on honesty and up front communication and it works because I'm Óscar Calderón, world's best fútbol player, or whatever.

And it's exhausting.

But Enrique's smile as he recounts the story of how Bianca called him out on his shit slowly morphs into Lorena's smile lighting up her eyes when I reached out to brush her hair behind her ear. Suddenly the tables are shifted and I'm the one hoping for things I can't have.

"Óscar?" Enrique brings me back. "What are you thinking about over there?"

"Your wedding," I lie, as quickly as I can. "There's so much to be done before the third big day."

Deflection successful.

He sinks back into his chair and runs his hand through his hair, tipping the rest of the alcohol into his mouth. "Trust me, I know. Remind me, why did I let Mamá have any say in what Bianca and I do with our own wedding?"

"Because no matter what else happened, she is our mamá and the two things in life that bring that woman joy are having the whole family together and watching her babies get married."

"And gossip," Enrique adds. "The woman lives for gossip."

"And extravagant clothes."

"And fancy nails."

"There's a few things, then," I admit and we both laugh like we used to when we were six and three, sitting around the little wooden fireplace slash stove and talking about all the things we'd do when we got older.

"It's pretty amazing how far we've all come," I let out without thinking. "Who could have even dreamed we'd get out of that house, not to mention a wedding at the finest resort Roatán can offer?"

The room stills and Enrique pours another glass, reaching over to fill mine before pouring the rest of the flask's contents into his own.

"You don't have to support us forever, you know," Enrique says, avoiding my gaze. "Bianca and I have talked about it and we don't think it's right to keep accepting money from you. Though we will accept a wedding gift."

"The cheque's in the mail," I deadpan.

But we don't laugh.

I look up to see him staring into the bottom of his glass, doing everything he can to avoid my gaze. He knows.

"Marcia told you, didn't she?"

Enrique nods. "And about Abel's dumbass move to steal your staff. What are you going to do?"

That hits me like a truck. I should be thinking about how I'm going to keep this tour together, impress Porfirio, and get myself through the next week and a half in one piece so I can get back to Barcelona for the beginning of the season.

"You want to talk about it?"

I glance up to see Enrique's glass abandoned on the table, his gaze firmly fixed on me.

"I'm not sure I have anything to say. I still have no idea what I'm going to do."

He doesn't say anything, just staring at me like I should know what he means. And maybe I should. But I don't.

"I really don't know." I've been focusing on a childish bet with a woman I can't get out of my head instead of doing what I should have been, but I'm not about to admit that to anyone, let alone my brother.

"You're really going to make me ask?" he finally demands after a moment of expanding awkwardness between us.

"Yes?" I need to stall so I can get my head on straight.

"What is going on with you, Óscar? With you and Lorena?"

"What about me and Lorena?" I admit it sounds a little too nice hearing the names beside each other like that. Fuck.

"Look, you've always been competitive so I can see wanting to wager—"

"How do you know about that?"

"I didn't."

Shit, but he does now. "I just want to help make up for everything, Enrique. I only want to help you have the wedding you deserve. And Bianca, too," I add, hoping this will deter him from his laser focused line of questioning that makes my insides heat up.

"Bullshit. Why do you want to work with Lorena so badly? Anything I should know?"

"She's just a nice woman, Enrique, and I like working with her. Do I need anything more than that?"

"There's no way she likes working with you," he laughs, and it stings more than it should. "Rich, entitled, and demanding. She must love your very flexible nature."

"Oh, she's one to talk. Miss Inflexible should be her name."

"I'm not sure about that," he muses. "She and Bianca and Carla have been taking dance lessons with Divya."

Fuck me, I do not need to hear this right now. "I just want you to have the best wedding possible. And I have a lot of connections, so I can help make that happen. End of discussion."

"Doesn't look like the end of the discussion," he says, raising his finger off his glass to point at me. "Looks like the very beginning of a discussion."

"It's not. There's nothing to be said. I'm working with Lorena. She's great at organizing things and I have connections. We're just making sure you have a great wedding."

He mumbles something I can't hear and turns to look out the window, the waves crashing on the shore only barely audible through the open doors.

"You won't tell Bianca, will you?"

"What? That you like her best friend? No. I don't need my wife killing my brother."

"I do not—Hey, what does that mean?"

"You have quite the reputation, hermano, and so far as I can tell it's well-deserved. I don't think Bianca would love the idea of you trying to pawn your services off on her friend."

"Is that what you think this is? That I'm trying to—"

"Never said you were."

"Yes, you did. You implied I was, I don't know, using Lorena or something."

"Maybe you should use her."

The glass I'm holding slips right out of my hands and shatters against the tile floor. "Excuse me?"

"As your trip coordinator for your tour of the mainland next week. Sounds like she has the skills you need. From what I hear she's between jobs and could probably use the financial boost. Could be a win for everyone." He takes a swig of his drink and crashes the empty glass down on the table. "Just think about it," he says, navigating around the shattered glass, picking up the bottle we didn't touch and saluting me on his way out the door.

Rational, level-headed, fútbol-playing Óscar would have carefully cleaned up the pieces of glass. Or called down to the front desk to have the floor swept up.

But I just skirt around the bulk of it, not worrying if my shoes pick up the small fragments around the edges, and chase him out the door into the hallway. "Enrique!"

He stops, stills, and then turns to face me, grin like the Cheshire Cat pulling at his lips.

"I am not using Lorena." I grit out when I finally reach him, pushing to my full height to look down from him just a little. "And I am not now nor will I ever do something like what you're implying. They all know what they're getting into."

He doesn't cower like he should. He just smiles up at me and says, "I know. You've told me a million times 'they all know what they're getting into'. But do you?"

Do I know what I'm getting into? With Lorena? Nothing. She's going back to Canada and I'm going back to Spain and we will never see each other again.

So why aren't I jumping at the opportunity to do something more temporary with her? Why would I give my left arm to be able to spend time alone with her?

What is going on with me?

"You should think about it long and hard, brother, because Lorena isn't one to forgive easily, and she's not one to trust money. If you go in with this one, you're in for more work than you've ever had to put in before."

"I became the number one fútbol player in the world."

"Comparatively, that was child's play."

I don't have a comeback and before I can think of one the alarm on my phone starts beeping. It's time for whatever Lorena has planned this afternoon and I'm going to need to focus to make it look like I have any idea what's going on.

Ready or not, it's time to face the music of this bet we made. 

Too bad I'm more nervous than I've ever been before a game.