The street outside Hotel Príncipe is packed with photographers and guests as our black limousine rolls to a stop. Across the street, behind a barricade guarded by large men in dark shirts, are fans of all kinds, decked out in the team's red and gold and waving signs with things like 'Real Barcelona' and 'cásate conmigo, Óscar' written on them. I roll my eyes at the last one. No one will be marrying me. Ever.

When the driver pulls the door open, I'm greeted by an overwhelming amount of media personnel and a much smaller crowd of guests dressed in outfits I don't want to imagine the cost of. My suit, to the chagrin of the team's media specialists, has been worn several times before, blue thread now holding parts of the black lining to the grey exterior.

'It isn't even a brand we work with,' Domingo had tutted when he found out my plans. 'At least let me get you a loaner.'

But I have more than I could ever need and this suit is just another example of how no one will care how I'm dressed. I have a luxury my female counterparts are not afforded: all suits look alike to the average columnist. No one ever worries about who or what Óscar Calderón is wearing. Even when they are worrying about everything else.

Cameras flash in front of me from the second I step out of the car, but I manage to turn back with a smile and grab Marcia's hand as she slides elegantly out of the back seat, fiery oranges and reds of her skirt swaying around her feet when she walks.

"Gracias for being my date tonight," I whisper, sliding her arm through my own. "I know this isn't your idea of a good time."

"Well, when Domingo says dates are mandatory, who are you going to ask but your trusty prima turned assistant slash media liaison?"

"If I asked anyone else-"

She cuts me off with a laugh. "If you'd asked anyone else you would have been calling me to get you out of there in fifteen minutes or less."

"And I can't do that, Marcia-ni modo. I care about these kids."

"Why do you think I'm here, wearing this death trap?" She gestures down at her gown and accompanying stiletto heels.

She doesn't say it, but I know it. She cares about them, too. Enough to tear herself away from her life in Canada and come running when I needed a new personal assistant slash all those other things Marcia does for me.

"You are the engine that keeps the ship moving forward," I mutter, smiling for the cameras as we make our way toward the hotel. Questions fly at us from all sides and I use my usual technique of counting until I hit seven and then answering the next question I hear.

"Señor Calderón, who are you with this evening?"

Can I just skip this one?

"Sr. Calderón tell us about what your charity is doing in..."

I can't hear the end or tell who it's coming from. Which is a pity since I'd actually like to answer that.

"Excuse me, señor, can you confirm you're continuing on with Real Barcelona into the next season?"

I flash my megawatt smile in the direction of the eager young man holding a black recording device in his shaky outstretched hand. "As you already know, Luis, contract negotiations and trading are not out of the question. I do love playing for Real Barcelona, but there are some things that are out of my control. If my staying here is something you're hoping for, we should all have our answer in a month or two."

He tries to follow up, but I let Marcia lead me down the pathway toward the entrance of the hotel, stopping here and there for a photograph, my shoulders climbing toward my ears with every new request.

Finally, after what feels like hours, we enter the hotel and my lungs gasp at the open air, quiet guitar playing throughout the room.

"Just remember what you're here for," Marcia whispers, wrapping her hand around my arm and squeezing lightly. "Remember why you're doing this."

"¿Y vos qué piensas? Why do you think I'm here?" I tease.

"Por favor. I know why you're here, Óscar. The question is, does anyone else?"

"¿Por qué dirías eso? No one else needs to know, Marcia. They aren't involved in my life and they never will be. So my motivations or-"

"Heart of gold."

"As you wish. None of that will ever be known. And I'm happy with it that way."

"Está bien-if you say so," she says. Probably because we've had this conversation hundreds of times and it always ends the same way.

"Sr. Calderón, we're going to get you into the ballroom now. We've seated you at a table with our award recipient."

The young man offers to escort Marcia into the ballroom, gently pulling her hand toward his arm, but I pull her back into my side. There is nothing more irritating than being waited on. Nothing goes at my own pace. Nothing does what I want it to. No one asks if I want the help before they pay for it. It simply happens. 'The way it is supposed to', as mamá would say.

As the waiter escorts us to our table, Marcia presses up on her toes to whisper in my ear. "It seems we may have a naive reporter out front who's planning to focus on your date rather than our event." Her phone is poised in her hands, and somehow I missed it. "Ya vengo. I'm going to go out and deal with that now. I'm sure I can convince them not to run anything. I mean, it's pretty easy to verify we aren't a couple. So, this is either a mistake or someone messing with you. I'm guessing the former."

"You sure about that?" I raise an eyebrow at her. "Neither one of us has a shortage of enemies if the authorities come asking for a list."

"Púchica, maje!" She swats at me. "You're lucky you're my cousin."

"That's how I convinced you to take the job," I joke, sitting in my assigned seat and letting her leave to do her work. It is why I hired her.

Now all I have to do is engage the guests and present an award. All tasks I've done a hundred times before, and all things I would rather not have to do again. But to him who much is given, much is expected. I can't let them down.

I can count down the minutes until I'm free to leave this reception and escape back to my room and be free of these stiff formal clothes.

The whole first course is spent shifting my food around on my plate and trying to pay attention to the words our guests are saying. Pablo, the young man receiving the award today, looks more at home here than I will ever be, laughing and eating and telling everyone anecdote after anecdote.

I, on the other hand, can barely pretend I'm paying attention, tapping my fingers on my knees and counting the number of glasses on the table. I hate public speaking.

And it's worse tonight because my assistant has gone missing to deal with a mysterious press issue. And the longer she's gone, the more I wonder if she isn't putting out a fire of a different kind with her overly jealous boyfriend, Abel.

If she's not back by the time I'm done with my speech, I don't care how it looks, I'm going to go find her.

Finally, in the middle of the main course-a paella I don't get to taste-I am called to the stage to a roar of applause, cameras flashing and guests reaching out to shake my hand. I catch Marcia at the back of the room giving me a thumbs up as I take my place at the podium, wiggling my toes in my shoes and focusing only on the sound of dishes clanking in the room.

After a small sip of my water and a silent prayer, I turn toward the old man who had just introduced me to the waiting guests. "Thank you for that warm welcome and charitable introduction. I am definitely not destined to be the greatest anything, but I am working very hard to make that goal a reality."

The lump in my throat grows slowly and I clear it away, turning back to the audience to begin my prepared speech about the importance of sport and everything that it takes to be successful. Domingo wanted to have someone write it for me, but if there's one thing I hate more than public speaking, it's spouting off someone else's words. If I have to do this, I'm going to do it as me.

I stumble only twice before the end, and I can feel a cool breeze welcoming me as I reach the concluding lines. "So please join me in congratulating Pablo for his outstanding performance on and off the field. I hope there will be many more years of success and growth ahead. May you continue to give back to the community that shaped you and do more than you ever dreamed possible. Felicidades, Pablo."

The young man looks like I've just offered him a palace with a title as he beams ear to ear, stepping up the makeshift stairs to the stage, proud to be wearing his suit that looks very much like my own.

And the look on his face is the whole reason I took this engagement with no complaints. The kid reminds me of myself when I was younger. So full of excitement and joy. The awards and the fame and the pressure are so large they'll swallow him whole if he's not careful.

And maybe even if he is.

He grasps the golden trophy with both hands and sets it down on the table before addressing the crowd far more eloquently than I ever would have.

Kid's going to be just fine.

I take the opportunity to make a quiet exit into the crowd, walking around the edges of the room and dodging through waiters, hoping to make it to Marcia before anyone asks anything else of me. She's so far away I can't tell if everything is okay.

I'm jolted from my task by a sultry voice from behind me. "It's so nice to see you here, majo."

I turn to face a stunning brunette in a clingy golden gown, and I cannot place where I know her from. Her face is soft and she doesn't look like she has a death wish, so she must know me from somewhere. Everyone seems so different with hair and makeup and professional stylists at work. I search the deepest recesses of my mind, trying to remember where I may have met her, but I come up empty. So I go for the stock answer I use every time this happens.

"Igualmente. I'm always happy to see my friends supporting events that are so important to me. Thank you so much for being here to celebrate Pablo. Lo aprecio mucho."

I turn away and press through the crowd before she has time to stop me.

"Tenemos que irnos. We're late," Marcia says when I reach her, not even bothering to look up from her phone. "Have you finished your requirements here?"

Her face is still buried in her phone, fingers typing hurriedly. Her face, as usual, is as unreadable as iron.

Dinner is still going on, and Pablo is still excitedly sharing the story of how his first coach shaped his future. "How are we late?" I ask Marcia. "They haven't even served dessert."

"Event started late," she says, shrugging. "Your flight to Honduras leaves from Madrid in the morning."

"Our flight leaves from Barcelona before dawn," I try to pull her phone away from her, only to be met with her steel grip.

"So you do pay attention." She snatches the device close to her chest so I can't see what she's been doing. "Truthfully, I have to get you through one more interview with the team's whatever-he's-called and then we'll be on our way to sleep so we can be awake in time for our flight."

"Fine. Have you made sure all my brother's bridal party have flights and hotels booked and paid for? Mamá called yesterday to say the family's were all arranged. And I know Bianca said she had the wedding party handled but I've never met her and I don't know how to-"

Marcia holds her hand up and closes her fingers. Probably a universal sign for 'cállate, primo'.

"I have it all handled. You shouldn't be worrying about Enrique's wedding. We have that in hand. What you need to worry about is this whole Honduran tour thing you're insisting upon. You don't owe that man anything-nada-and I don't understand why you're always jumping at his every beck and-"

"We've had this argument before, and I'm sure we'll have it again, but I'm just not in the mood right now-no tengo ganas. Get me through this interview and the plane ride and you can lecture me as much as you want once we hit the ground in Honduras."

"Is that a promise?" She laughs. "I think you might change your tune when you hear the hilarious publicity antics Porfirio has planned for you."

"Whose side are you on? I pay your salary."

"Ah, but that's why you hired me, isn't it?" She smiles up at me. "So you'd have someone to push back even though you pay their salary. You've had enough of the wishy-washy help of people who want something from you. What you need is someone who will tell you like it is. And when my contract is up-"

"We're not discussing this now y punto."

"Too bad. Let's go discuss Porfirio and your trip to Honduras then, shall we?"

"I'm never going to escape this nightmare, am I?"

"Probablement, no." She shakes her head. "Now let's go get you to your meeting so I can finish damage control on this whole 'Óscar Calderón has a new girlfriend' nonsense."

"¿Cómo? I thought you said they would never print it!" I say, loudly enough to be heard over the clinking cutlery. Thankfully, only the two tables closest to us seem to notice, and they pay me the courtesy of not turning to look.

Marcia guides me out of the room, voice low. "It seems it's been printed by that infant we saw earlier and it's already been picked up by at least three sources, including that Real Barcelona fan blog that never prints anything about you."

"I am worthy of news," I fume.

She nods. "De acuerdo." Her hand is a vice grip around my bicep. "But this is not a good time for them to decide that."

That blog is a sore spot on a bruise. If I ever meet the person who writes that drivel about my teammates and ignores every good cause I'm a part of, I will not be held accountable for how I respond.

* ~ * Author's Note * ~ *

Hello! I am having such fun writing Óscar's character and I hope you can see why. You might have noticed that in this chapter (as will continue in most of Óscar's other chapters) there is some intermixing between the Spanish they are speaking and the English in which I'm writing the story. I've tried to intersperse it in ways that make sense and that will allow those of you who don't know Spanish to follow along with everything that is going on. I want the story to be something you can follow, but including Spanish felt important to me and to his character.

I've tried to keep the dialect authentic to where he and Marcia spent their early years in Honduras, and where he is physically located in Spain, but sometimes those things shift or change over time, so please feel free to let me know if you know another way to say something. Also, PLEASE let me know if you find an accent missing. My autocorrect likes to think Spanish is typos which it isn't. Autocorrect has always been out to get me.

Thank you so much for reading so far! I'm so excited to share another chapter with you next week! And if there's anything you are confused by, please leave a comment and I'll help you with a translation :)

~Eliza.