I grunt as I ignore Torres’s concerned voice and continue to push my body to its limits as I lift more than my usual amount. It’s reckless of me, and I run the risk of potentially injuring myself, but I need the challenge. Need my brain to turn off and focus on the burn, the pain that comes with overexerting myself.
But it’s no fucking use.
I still imagine the sugar on my tongue as if it were the taste of Isabella.
Plus, my annoying best friend, who jumped at the opportunity to see his family sooner, and invited himself onto my plane, is of no use either. Especially since he decided to tag along to my gym session as well after his wife requested he do his training early in the day so they can take their kids to the museum later.
Normal family shit.
Normal family shit that I can’t seem to figure out how to do.
I let the dumbbells drop to my sides as I ask, “How do you do it?”
He stops his reps while looking at me through the mirrored wall. “Do what?”
Right. This fucker isn’t actually in my head. Only when we’re on the field or he’s riding my ass about Isabella.
“The normal family stuff. Going to public places like the museum. You’re a Monarch. How the hell do you avoid getting mobbed? How can you not worry about your family’s safety when you’re out?”
He nods slowly as he drops his own weights and makes his way to take a seat on the bench across from mine. “You struggling to do stuff like that with Anna?”
Anthony Torres might be a pain in my ass, but he always means well. He’s a family man through and through. It shouldn’t surprise me that his tone has shifted to take me seriously, but it does soften me up a bit. Just a fucking bit.
“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know. I don’t think we’ve really even tried. I see how hard it is to sometimes do the most basic things by myself, so I don’t even bother bringing Anna into that mix.” I pause, thinking about earlier in the week when I decided to run a quick errand by myself and ended up on over a dozen gossip websites. I would usually defer simple tasks to my concierge team in my building, but when it came to getting things for Isabella’s guest room, I couldn’t help but do it myself. Especially when the thought of stocking up on her favorite lip balm came to mind. The same one that tormented me during our days in the Dominican Republic.
I shake the reminder away as I continue. “I’d rather fly Anna out of the city and take a couple of vacations throughout the year, to places that provide peace and privacy.” I hesitate, because I’m trying to figure out how to ask what’s really on my mind. “But I meant, how do you do family stuff, like with Denisetoo. How does she manage to be married to someone as famous as you and still, I don’t know, live a normal life?”
He studies me, and for a brief second, I swear he’s there again, in my head. Like he usually is during a game.
I brace for the barrage of questions, but he seems to take a different approach.
“Simple answer? We don’t live a normal life.” He shrugs. “We live in a secure building. When we want to do activities like the museum, we don’t show up on a whim. My assistant calls ahead of time and arranges for us to have an art curator escort us through the place while having one of my security guys walk with us. Sometimes the museum will provide an extra one for us. We skip lines and have access to back hallways, and our car is usually double-parked out front waiting for us when we’re done. So yeah, it’s not normal. But for the most part, when people see me with my family, they’re respectful. I try to take a few pics in the beginning, then I kindly ask the fans to let us be since I’m with my kids.” He sighs. “They’re usually pretty understanding, and for the few that aren’t, well, that’s what I bring security for.” He smiles.
“Really? Just like that? People give you space?”
He shakes his head. “No, Mateo. I demand it. For me and my family. Because having those moments with them is worth whatever extra hassle I need to figure out. And once you’re out enough times, it starts to demystify the experience of seeing a Monarch out, enjoying the city. It’s only when one becomes elusive that the media gets antsy and bloodthirsty for any piece of you.”
I point at my sweat-soaked T-shirt. “Oh, so we’re talking about me now?”
“Meh, I tried starting out that sentence being a little subtle, but then thought, this kind of stuff might be a bit too high-level for you. Best to give it to you straight.” He slaps my arm as hemoves to get up. “Besides, if you’re going to bring someone like Isabella into our world as a WAG, it’s best you have all the tips and tricks up front.”
A fucking WAG? The atrocious acronym for wives and girlfriends of professional athletes.
There’s a special breed of women who are infamous jersey chasers, in it to become WAGs. Isabella is most definitely not one of them. But then again, neither is Torres’s wife.
I swipe my gym towel down my face, then aim it at the back of his head.
I don’t miss.
“Don’t start again with that bullshit,” I warn.
Without missing a beat, Torres turns to me, leans down, and rests his hands on his knees. With the most serious face I’m sure he can muster, he asks, “¿A mí tú me ves cara de pendejo?”
I can’t help it when I start to laugh. “Yes, your face does tend to keep you in a perpetual state of looking like a real pendejo. Might wanna call a plastic surgeon and see what he can do for you about that.”
He reclaims his seat on the bench as he revs himself up. “Exhibit A.”
“Here we fucking go,” I mutter.
