Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 (6 page)

"Ugh, no. As appealing as that sounds, I think I'm
nervous enough about meeting your grandfather, I don't need the post coitus
glow to make it worse."

"Izzy, you're so adorable when you're embarrassed.
Let's go," he turns us in the direction of the stadium.

"Where's Mazzy?" I ask just as she comes into
sight as we round the back end of an SUV parked next to us. She's waiting at
the gate chatting it up with some players that appear to play for the other
team since they're not wearing the same uniform as Diego.

"Looks like she's flirting with the enemy."

"You up for playing spoiler?" I ask Diego, he
can't miss the mischief twinkling in my eyes.

"What are you thinking?"

I explain my plan to make it seem like she's the third wheel
in our ménage. Add what I vaguely know of Diego's reputation on and off the field
and this demonstration should send her prospects for tonight's festivities
packing.

Once within earshot of Mazzy and her admirers, I call out to
her. "Hey, babe," I deliver while Diego's arm is snaked around my
waist. "We were wondering where you disappeared to." Diego lets go of
me and closes the distance between him and Mazz. Before she knows what hits
her, he's swooped her around and dipped her like he did me a moment ago,
creating what appears to be a very intimate kiss.

Our audience starts fumbling apologies and muttering excuses
for their rapid departure. Removing themselves from our presence before Diego
raises a very irate Mazzy.

"What the fuck was that?" she shouts once she's on
her feet.

I shrug, giving her a taste of her own ridiculous
go-to-answer.

"Hmmpfh." If I’m not mistaken, she stomped with
her sound of annoyance. Her reaction brings back the silent hysterics.
"You're—" I'm cracking up, "—welcome."

Diego walks us right past the attendants at the gated
entrance. We continue past a few sections in the stadium, arriving at a section
marked reserved. I recognize Diego's grandfather immediately. The resemblance
between grandfather and grandson is uncanny.

Deep breaths, Izzy.

Even with my internal pep talk, my steps falter. “It’s okay,
Izzy,” Diego whispers into my ear. His attempt at calming me does double work
when my mind considers the fact that the gesture comes off as more intimate
than friendly. With a sigh, I return to moving.

“Lito, this is Izzy and her friend Mazzy.
Izabella es la
mujer que yo te dije.
"

"You've been telling your grandfather about me?" I
ask.

Diego is sporting the deer caught in the headlights look.
I'm guessing that my understanding of the Spanish language has shocked him.
He's quite adorable with that "Oh, shit" look on his face. I suppose
this was my turn to stun him into silence.

"
Izabella, mucho gusto. Mi nieto me ha dicho cosas
maravillosas sobre ti.
" So Diego has been telling his grandfather
about me, wonderful things according to my understanding. "My name is
Lorenzo, but you may call me Enzo."

"
Much gusto, Enzo
. It appears I may have broken
your grandson,” we both quirk an eye in his direction. “My apologies."

"
Hijo
, don't you have a game to play?" Enzo
questions Diego.

"Uh, yeah." He looks so confused, but he gives his
grandfather a hug. "Sebastian should be along soon."

"He's already been by. He said something about meeting
up with some guys from class. He’ll be back by the time the game starts."

Turning his attention back to me, I notice Mazzy diving into
conversation with Enzo. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" I don't
answer, I simply let him guide me away from within earshot of others. "So,
you speak Spanish?" I nod. "What more don't I know about you?"

I chuckle. "We haven't got the time nor is this the
place to let you in on all my secrets, but if you play your cards right, maybe
we could play an interesting game of Truth or Dare tonight."

His eyes light up, but the excitement is quickly replaced
with frustration.
Did I say something wrong?
"Fucking Izzy,"
he starts before I can ask, "it's not going to be easy playing when I'm rocking
a fucking hard on." He presses into me. "With as revved as you've got
me with your bilingual tongue and the visions I've conjured for the dares, I'm
not sure how many truths I'll discover about you."

The hunger in his eyes traps me in his stare, I fail to
notice that he's closing in for a kiss until his lips are on mine and he's
maneuvering his tongue to pry them open. With his hands framing my face, the
world around us is lost. Any qualms I might have had about public displays of
affection are null and void.

When he pulls away, I can only stare. Curious about what it
means to be kissing me in such a way in front of any one of the thousands of
people surrounding us that wants to look. "What was that for?"

"Just making sure everyone here knows you're fucking
mine."

"I'm yours?" I squeak the question.

He just gives me a nod with a look that says,
"Duh."

"Okay, it's time for me to stretch and warm up. Did I
tell you how fucking hot you look?" I shake my head. "You'd look even
hotter in one of my jerseys." I fight the panic his words stir inside my
overactive brain. I struggle to keep my breathing under control. "Relax,
Izzy. I'm just talking about wearing my jersey to my next game."

"Ha ha. We haven't even gotten through this game and
you're already inviting me to the next?"

"It's not a long term commitment. My next game is
Tuesday."

The truth in his words causes me to blush. I'm being
ridiculous, making more of something than there is. So, I decide it's my turn
to take charge. Snaking my hands up from my position on his chest and around
his neck with one hand I grab the hair at the nape of his neck and pull him
into me for another kiss. This time it's my turn to take his breath away. I'm
met with no resistance and Diego is quickly taking over.

Breaking the kiss, Diego holds me in his arms. "I
really gotta go now, but we'll continue this after the game?" he
questions.

"We better," I retort.

"Watch for me, okay?"

I look at him curiously.
Isn't that why I'm here?
"But how will I tell you apart from the rest of the soccer studs on your
team?"

That earns me a loud laugh. "You'll see me," he
declares simply. "I'll be the one jukin' fuckers and scoring."

And he was right.

Diego's game went quite
well. Enzo proved to be quite helpful in explaining the game of
fútbol
and
how it’s played. Admittedly, the concept is so foreign to me that it might take
me a lifetime to understand it. Mazzy and Sebastian seemed to hit it off well.
I wondered if there might be a love connection there. Baz, as Diego calls him,
was cool with me even though I felt guilty as sin.

“So, what did you think?” he asks with that easy going come
and get it smile. “Was it boring?”

I just give him a shrug. I’ll let him sweat it a little longer.
I can’t tell him that it was incredibly hot watching him run around on the
field. At times, it was even awkward as I felt myself gaping at the way his
muscles flexed and knowing his grandfather sat right next to me.           

“We’ll see after the next game,” I deadpan.

August 2006

Since learning of the pregnancy, Diego and I are both eager
to share the news, but we understand that while the odds are in our favor,
they’re still a one in four chance that I could miscarry in the first
trimester. Of course, that didn’t stop us from telling Lito, Mazzy, and Baz.

Mazzy’s first response was to claim, “More champagne for
me.” Of course, she would rub that in…if there’s one thing this pregnancy is
going to make me miss it’s my bubbly. Lito was so excited; he was ready to hop
a plan across the pond to come help take care of me. Like grandfather, like
grandson. Baz was the most hilarious, “Only time will tell if you’re the
father, D. Izzy and I spent a lot of time together.” Diego wasn’t as amused
with the joke. The man sees red when he thinks about me with any man other man
than him. In fact, he woke up the next morning unexpectedly upset with me.
Apparently, he’d had a nightmare that involved a Jerry Springer type of
paternity show and the results were in, he was not the father.

This last week has flown by. Today is Diego’s first game
with London United. I swear the man is a machine. Between shopping for furniture,
unpacking, and organizing the new house, he’s still managed to make his
promotional appearances and all his practices.

He’s made me the center of his undivided attention, making
sure I’m eating the right foods to help with my iron deficiency, hounding me to
take my vitamins and supplements—I’m terrible at remembering this shit,
researching natural ways to combat morning sickness, which seems to have become
an everyday thing and not just in the morning.

Somewhere within all this madness, he’s managed to read
What
to Expect When You’re Expecting
all the way through and has now moved on to
The Expectant Father: Tips and Advice for Dads-to-Be
. I’ve tried to get
him to relax a bit. I’m a little concerned he’s going to burn himself out with
his intense workout regimen, settling into our new home, and his constant
concern over me and the pregnancy.

However hard I try to get him to slow down, I have no effect
on what he considers his job. At this very moment, I can smell the breakfast
he’s making me. He insisted that I be properly fed before heading to the
stadium. We’re getting there early. Diego’s eager for me to meet Mr. Stafford,
the owner of the London United.

"Morning,
bella
," Diego greets me with a
tray in hand that puts a five star hotel's room service to shame.

"Oh my gawwwwwd. That smells divine. What did you make
me?"

"I tried something new. I combined some of you most
recent cravings with what I know you love. One egg, two egg whites omelet with
Monterey Jack and Feta cheeses, sautéed spinach and mushrooms, tomatoes, and
avocado," he says pointing to the beautifully plated omelet. The orange
slice and strawberry garnishes evident he's picked up a thing or two from his
master chef best friend. "No coffee, but after failing miserably at
finding your favorite tea, I enlisted the help of Grace and she delivered. This
here is a cup of vanilla honey chamomile herbal tea. And this here is good ol'
apple juice.”

Fuck yeah! Apple juice!
It's the simple pleasures,
really...but for some reason apple juice is my new liquid gold.

"Don't just stand there. Give it to me already," I
demand.

"Oh, I'm gonna give it to you, Mrs. Santo." I
catch the twinkle of mischief in his eye. "But for now," he holds up
the tray to me, "your breakfast."

While I dig into my breakfast, Diego is going on about the
game and the buzz Mr. Stafford says there is about his debut with the team.
He's so adorable when he's this excited. He mentions something about a party
for one of his teammates in a few weeks, a photo shoot for an ad campaign for a
line of bath products for men, and another photo shoot and interview with one
of Europe’s premier sports magazines.

I don't know if it's just in my head or what, but I manage
to make my breakfast disappear unusually speedy for me. I'm finishing the last
of my apple juice when Diego walks back in with the PlayStation 2.

"We're gonna play in here?" I ask.

"Figured why leave bed until you absolutely have
to?"

"You know when we play in the bedroom that I fight fire
with fire. You prepared to lose,
Santo Feo
?" I taunt. I can see
that my words are jogging his memory back to one of the handful of times we
played FIFA as part of his pre-game ritual. I'm ridiculously awful at any of
these games that don't allow me to just rapidly press whatever fucking buttons
I want and score, win a fight, whatever the fuck ever. So, the first time he
talked me into playing with, or rather against, him, frustration led me to
strip and lay naked in front of him. I didn't end up winning, but instead of
losing with a goose egg to his dozen, I managed to get within one point of
tying.

"Oh, Izzy," he tsks, "I've been onto your
evil ways for some time now." He removes his shirt. "I think you
might have bigger challenges," he finishes with a flex of his delectable
abs.

Fuck me and be still my heart.
I need to concentrate.
I hate losing, but damn he's edible. Unfortunately, the fact that I devoured
the breakfast he made me doesn't make me any less hungry for my ab-licious
husband.

He hands me my purple glitter-fied and bedazzled controller,
"You ready?" I look in the direction of the television and there on
the screen is the start menu option for the game. I'm screwed. I was so focused
and distracted by his abs that I didn't notice he had moved on and connected
the game console.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," I sigh.

Despite my attempts to remain focused on the game we were
playing, the muscles in Diego's back were too distracting and the first game
ended with Diego having an insurmountable score and me calling the skunk rule.
I fared better the next couple of games only because halfway through game two,
I called a timeout for a potty break, but instead put on my sexiest piece of
lingerie. He was so distracted I managed to pull ahead by a point. In the
end, I still lost the games, but I called it a wash because I've never scored
so many points against him even on one of the rare times I had won.

As per our game day ritual for him, we take a shower when
we're done with the customary three games of FIFA. Ever the doting husband and
father-to-be, Diego takes care of my needs first, washing my hair and then
scrubbing the rest of me from head to toe, paying extra attention to my belly.
He's so in love with him or her, I'd be jealous if this bundle of joy at the
center of his attention wasn't mine. Plus, there's no denying how much the man
adores me.

"Diego," I whine, "I don't have a jersey to
wear." topping off my complaint with a pout for the good it does me; he's
in the bathroom trimming his beard down.

"
Bella
, could you grab the box on my dresser in
the closet?" 

"Sure," I grumble. He's either ignoring my pout or
he didn't hear me. Either way, I'm annoyed. "Here," setting the
box down on the counter beside him unable to disguise my irritation.

"Ha ha...what's got your panties all twisted,
Bizzy?" 

Bitch Izzy? Really? That's what he's going with right now?

Rather than open my mouth to foot-in-mouth disease, I turn
to leave.

"Izabella," calls out Diego. "You're
forgetting something."

I whip around to give him a mouthful to discover him holding
out the box I just brought him. My eyes go wide. "What?" incredulity
lacing my voice.

"Open it," he demands. Because I feel like a bit
of an ass getting all huffy with him, I hesitate. I suppose his patience is my
reward for our early years. Shaking my head, I lift the lid on the small box.

"Wha—" I gasp. I drop the box and leap onto the
most amazing husband ever. He stumbles with my abrupt motion.

"I take it this should fix our pouting situation?"
he inquires.

I'm planting kisses all over his face. I can't help it. He
thinks of everything, every time. I don't know why I thought today would have
gone differently. So, yeah, I'm feeling like an ass right now, but I think the
barrage of kisses I'm covering his face with is a good start to making it up. I
climb down my Adonis' body.

Inside the small white box is a rhinestone studded red
t-shirt custom designed to look like his jersey with a shallow V from shoulder
to shoulder in black rhinestones and the team’s logo on the left breast in red
and clear crystals. Picking the shirt up from the box on the floor, I see where
there would be sponsors listed on the sleeves, on mine there’s a rose with a
halo framed in a black crest of crystals on one, on the other, . I turn to see
that the back is sporting more of the rhinestone work from on the front.
There's his number twenty-four in clear rhinestones, but it's the name across
the top that gets me. My eyes fill with tears as I re-read what he's had
written for my name in black crystals:
His.

"
Mi bella preciosa,"
he soothes, "
no
llores
." Don't cry he tells me.

"I'm over these fucking hormones. There was a time you
could surprise me and I'd be just that...surprised, not this fucking sobbing
mess."

Diego laughs at me. "Izzy, you're over them? You've got
about thirty-six more weeks. Get used to them, babe.” He swipes an errant tear
from my cheek. “So, I did good?"

"You know you did, but when did you find the time for
this?" I ask, holding up the beautiful one-of-a-kind shirt.

There's a gleam of guilt in his eye. "Well," he
starts sheepishly, "the week after I signed the deal with London United, I
found this company in Florida that makes them. I asked them if they did custom
work and we collaborated on what you're holding in your hand."

"I love it," reaching up to hug him again.
"Okay," I give him a peck on the cheek, "time to get dressed.
Gotta go, gotta go," I taunt, turning to leave.

"You fucking tease," he scolds, charging towards
me with a couple of strides, scooping me up and jogging us the rest of the
distance to our bed. Plopping me on my back, he nestles up to my side pressing
his boxer brief clad body into me.

When I finish my giggling and open my eyes in Diego's
direction, I am mesmerized by the most joy, love and lust filled eyes ever.
"You know I love you, right?"

"I do," I coo. "But how much do you love
me?"

"So much, so much." He presses his lips to mine.
He's not in a hurry. He trails whisper soft kisses across my lips, catching my
bottom lip between his; he sucks lightly and swipes his tongue across the span
of my pout. His kiss, this kiss, it isn't about lust and desire. He's pouring
his heart out to me and taking every beat of mine. When my lips fall open on a
sigh, Diego takes advantage and languidly twists and twirls his tongue around
mine. I hum my appreciation incapable of anything else because I don't want to
interrupt his kiss.

By the time Diego is finished with his proclamation of love,
I'm out of breath and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. As frustrating as
it is, we won't be having sex before his game. We did that on Valentine's Day
the first year we were dating and it was just too close to game time and he
said his legs felt like noodles out on the field. It wasn't his worst game, but
he was noticeably affected by something.

Diego groans as he pulls back from me and falls on his back.
"Hey," I try to comfort him, "we could always relieve the
tension." Pausing before I continue and propping myself up on my side to
face him, "I here it's pretty customary to play your first international
football match with noodle legs."

"Fucking, Izzy," he says with a laugh. "You're
a cunning little thing. That's fighting dirty with dirty."

"It's up to you. You want this," gesturing to the
length and curves of my body, "bad enough to possibly play a game with
noodle legs?"

"Always the voice of reason," he huffs. "You
manage to put it into perspective every time. I'll probably thank you for it
later, but right now..." He trails off as he rolls off the bed with a
shake of his head and moves to the closet.

Grabbing the custom blinged out t-shirt, I slip it over my
head a little concerned about my swollen breasts. To my delight, the shirt had
just enough give to hug my curves without drawing too much attention to them.
My cleavage is another story.
Shit!

"Hey, D," I call out to Diego. "You really
think I should wear this to meet Mr. Stafford?" 

Stepping out of the closet shirtless in his black vintage
tracksuit pants with his beat up game day bag, he inspects my appearance for
the potential problem. He's been using the same bag since he was in high
school. I didn't always know there were so many superstitions associated with
sports. Diego is no exception to those believing in superstitions. He has a
rhyme, a reason, and a story for each and every one of his. I can see when his
eyes zero in on why I'm concerned about meeting his boss in this shirt. He
starts and stops, before he spits out, "Fuck that. You look hot in that
shirt."

"Are you sure it's not too hooker-ish?" He laughs
inwardly, but answers with a shake of his head. "Allll-righty then. Toss
me my pants sitting on the chair right there," pointing to the chair just
off to his side.

I slide on my matching black vintage tracksuit pants that I
cropped and added elastic to, to fit my game day style of comfy and sexy. After
showing Diego my alterations to these vintage track pants years ago, he said
that he loves knowing that the hottest woman in the stadium is there to watch
him...just him. 

I walk to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.
Smoothing out some of the wrinkles in the shirt, I inspect my belly. It's far
too soon to see a bump or feel anything, but I get lost in the thought of when
those things happen.