Natán was thoroughly enjoying the absolute last days of his vacation.
The weight of the brutal European Championship loss had slowly, mercifully begun to lift from his shoulders, dissolving into the warm, salty air of the Spanish coastline.
For the past three weeks, he had done everything in his power to completely disconnect.
He had traded the manicured, perfectly cut grass of the Etihad Stadium for the wild, untamed beauty of the Mediterranean Sea.
His days had been beautifully, exhaustingly active.
Every morning, long before the sun had even fully crested the horizon, he had gone surfing.
He would carry his surfboard board down to the empty shoreline, paddling out into the freezing, deep blue swells.
There was a unique, meditative peace to sitting out on the water, waiting for the perfect wave, feeling the immense power of the ocean surging beneath him.
It washed away the dreary, lingering memories of the Manchester rain.
When the beaches eventually filled up with tourists and locals in the late afternoon, he had played beach volleyball.
He would strip off his shirt, join a group of deeply tanned, incredibly competitive locals, and spend hours diving through the scorching sand.
His competitive spirit, honed by years of elite professional sports, refused to let him take it easy.
He spiked the ball with lethal accuracy, laughing loudly and high-fiving his teammates, his skin covered in a thick layer of sweat and granular sand.
When the sun went down, the energy shifted but never truly dissipated.
One evening, he had stumbled into a crowded, neon-lit dive bar with some old academy friends and did karaoke.
Despite possessing an absolutely atrocious singing voice, Natán had shamelessly belted out the lyrics to an old Enrique Iglesias song, earning roars of laughter and good-natured boos from the intoxicated crowd.
It was incredibly liberating to just be a normal, nineteen-year-old kid making a fool of himself without a camera lens shoved in his face.
But he couldn’t completely abandon his profession.
With the brutal reality of the Premier League season rapidly approaching, he needed to maintain his elite fitness.
He had played football in a local five-a-side tournament to keep up his game speed.
Playing on a worn-out rubber turf pitch enclosed by high chain-link fences, Natán was a blur of devastating motion.
He didn’t go in for hard tackles, terrified of a pointless injury, but he kept his footwork terrifyingly sharp.
He executed lightning-fast step-overs, dropped his shoulder, and curled the ball into the top corner with his lethal left foot, leaving amateur defenders completely mesmerized and gasping for air.
He had also gone to an Espanyol game, sitting in the VIP box as he watched his former club play a pre-season friendly.
Walking back into the stadium where he had made his name brought a rush of profound nostalgia.
He spent half the match signing jerseys for wide-eyed kids who still viewed him as their hometown hero, feeling a deep, enduring love for the club that had molded him.
Beyond the intense physical conditioning and nostalgic trips to his old football club, Natán made sure to dedicate proper time to completely mundane, everyday relaxation.
He spent his lazy afternoons napping deeply in the shade of sprawling olive trees, consumed wonderfully unhealthy amounts of freshly baked ensaimadas from the local town bakery, and spent endless hours mindlessly scrolling through his phone while listening to the rhythmic, hypnotic crashing of the ocean waves against the sun-baked rocks.
During one of those quiet, lazy evenings indoors, scrolling through available social media on his phone, he decided to do some research on the woman he had met before.
He had met a beautiful woman named Kylie at a seafood restaurant a few weeks prior, and out of sheer curiosity, he looked up her Instagram.
And found a TV show about her family.
He hit play, immediately realizing he was in far over his head.
The English in the TV series was incredibly thick, stylized, and rapid.
He immediately had to pause the show and put on the Spanish subtitles.
He spent the next two hours completely glued to the screen.
It gave him an entirely new layer of respect for the black-haired woman he had shared paella with.
He hadn’t seen her much since that dinner.
Their schedules had conflicted, and the bustling coastal town was larger than it seemed.
So, it just happened completely by chance that he saw her on his final day here.
Natán had just finished packing his duffel bags for his early morning flight.
He was taking one last, melancholic stroll down the bustling beach promenade when he spotted a familiar head of dark hair walking toward him.
She was wearing a light, breezy sundress, holding a pair of sunglasses in her hand.
“Kylie,” Natán called out softly, a genuine smile instantly breaking across his face.
Kylie stopped, turning her head.
Her face immediately lit up in pleasant surprise.
“Nathan. How are you?”
“Good,” Natán nodded, stepping closer, ignoring the slight butchering of his name’s pronunciation.
“Very good. How are you?”
“I’m great,” Kylie beamed, looking out over the sparkling expanse of the ocean.
“This place is wonderful.”
Natán looked around, a sudden wave of premature homesickness hitting him.
“No place like home.”
Kylie looked at him, her expression softening into something slightly more complex.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Natán tilted his head, his sharp instincts picking up on a subtle shift in her tone.
“What’s wrong?”
Kylie let out a small, self-deprecating sigh, brushing a stray lock of black hair behind her ear.
“I’m feeling kind of happy to be away.”
Natán shook his head solemnly, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
“Um, for me, home is home. I didn’t say that right.”
“Maybe try saying it in Spanish,” Kylie offered gently.
Kylie listened as Natán seamlessly transitioned into his native tongue.
She didn’t understand a single syllable of the rapid, melodic string of words that flowed effortlessly from his lips, but she was instantly mesmerized.
His voice dropped an octave, the raspy, breathy cadence of the Spanish consonants rolling off his tongue with a profound, undeniable masculine confidence.
It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the absolute hottest thing Kylie had ever heard in her entire life.
A sudden, deep warmth flooded her chest, sending a very pleasant, involuntary shiver directly down her spine.
She stared at the sharp line of his jaw as he spoke, completely captivated by the rhythmic, sensual vibration of the language.
For a brief, dizzying second, she finally understood exactly how other women felt when they swooned over a posh British accent.
This was entirely unfair, she thought, feeling her cheeks flush hot and red.
When he finally stopped speaking, he looked at her expectantly.
Kylie blinked, shaking her head to clear the sudden, intoxicating fog from her brain.
“I have no idea what you said.”
Natán chuckled softly, seamlessly switching back to his broken English.
“I asked if you want some ice cream.”
Kylie smiled, a genuine wave of relief washing over her.
“Yeah, that sounds nice.”
They fell into step beside each other, walking slowly down the sun-drenched promenade toward the main strip of shops.
As they walked, Kylie turned to him, her curiosity piqued by the brief language demonstration.
“I noticed something the other night at dinner,” Kylie said, gesturing toward the locals chatting animatedly outside a nearby cafe.
“When you talk to the waiters, or the people on the street here, it sounds… different. Like, it doesn’t sound like the Spanish I’ve heard before. It sounds different.”
“Ah,” Natán smiled proudly, tapping his chest.
“That is because here, we speak Catalan. Not Spanish.”
“Catalan?” Kylie asked.
“Is it a dialect?”
“No, no,” Natán corrected her gently, his hands moving expressively as he tried to find the right English words.
“Is completely different language. Spanish is from Madrid. Catalan is from here. Catalonia. It is older. It sound a little bit like French, a little bit like Italian. We say ‘Bon dia’ instead of ‘Buenos dias’. We use more soft sounds, but also very sharp ‘T’s and ‘L’s.”
“So you speak both perfectly?” Kylie asked, genuinely impressed.
“Yes,” Natán nodded.
“In school, we learn both. But at home, with my mother, my father, my friends… only Catalan. It is the language of my heart.”
Kylie smiled at the poetic, earnest way he described it.
“That’s beautiful.”
When they finally stepped inside the brightly lit parlor, the sweet aroma of waffle cones hit them instantly.
Natán immediately walked up to the curved glass display, his dark eyes scanning the colorful mounds of gelato with the intense, paralyzing indecision of a child.
He shamelessly asked the amused server for a tiny plastic spoon, tasting the rich dark chocolate.
Then he asked to try the pistachio.
Then the stracciatella, followed by the mango sorbet, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he analyzed each flavor profile.
Kylie simply stood beside him, laughing warmly at his absolute lack of urgency as the line behind them slowly grew.
Finally, after sampling half the store, he settled on a massive scoop of tart, refreshing lemon.
Kylie, rolling her eyes playfully at his ridiculous antics, quickly ordered a double scoop of classic vanilla bean in a sugar cone of her very own today.
With their sweet treats in hand, they kicked off their shoes and ventured down toward the shoreline, letting their bare feet sink into the cool, damp sand.
The late afternoon sun was beginning its slow, majestic descent, casting a brilliant, fiery glow of burnt orange and soft pink across the sprawling canvas of the Mediterranean sky.
“I saw your TV show,” Natán said suddenly, looking over at her as a warm coastal breeze ruffled his dark hair.
Kylie paused, a look of genuine surprise flashing across her features.
“You did?”
“Yes,” Natán nodded enthusiastically, a bright smile gracing his lips.
“It was very good.”
“You actually sat down and watched that?” she asked, her tone teasing but clearly flattered.
“I put the subtitles,” Natán confessed with a sheepish shrug, taking a quick lick of his lemon gelato.
“The English… it was very fast. Very fast. But your face. Your eyes. I understand the story from how you look. You are very, very good.”
A soft blush crept up Kylie’s cheeks, illuminated by the fading golden hour light.
They continued walking side by side, their shoulders brushing occasionally as they navigated the uneven, sloping terrain of the beach.
The conversation flowed effortlessly, drifting from the complexities of her reality television and beauty empire to the immense, crushing pressures of his footballing life in Manchester.
They talked about their families, their childhoods, and the bizarre, isolating reality of living in the public eye.
As the minutes bled into hours, the vibrant sunset slowly gave way to a bruised, twilight purple, and eventually, a deep, star-speckled indigo.
The rhythmic, hypnotic sound of the crashing waves provided a perfect, uninterrupted soundtrack to their deep, wandering dialogue.
They were so profoundly engrossed in each other’s words, so captivated by the easy, undeniable magnetism vibrating between them, that they completely forgot about the ice creams in their hands.
The frozen treats melted quickly in the residual Spanish heat, running down their wrists in sticky, sweet rivers.
Kylie eventually noticed the mess, letting out a bright, ringing laugh as she wiped her vanilla-coated hand on a napkin, while Natán simply rinsed his sticky fingers in the foaming ocean surf.
The beach had emptied out entirely, leaving them wrapped in an intimate, beautiful isolation.
The humid night air enveloped them, smelling of salt and seaweed, as they strolled aimlessly along the water’s edge.
The world outside of this specific stretch of sand ceased to exist.
There were no cameras, no expectations, no tactical meetings, and no grueling filming schedules.
There was just the gentle roar of the sea and the comforting, steady presence of the person walking beside them.
It was a rare, crystallized moment of pure tranquility, extending far beyond the superficial boundaries of a simple vacation fling, settling into something that felt surprisingly heavy, deeply comforting, and incredibly real under the dark, beautiful night sky as they shared this very special bond and walked together in complete, utter bliss with one another right now.
Eventually, the cool night breeze began to pick up, carrying a slight, sudden chill.
Kylie pulled her light cardigan tighter across her shoulders.
“I should probably go,” Kylie said, her voice laced with genuine reluctance.
“It’s already late.”
Natán immediately stopped walking, turning to fully face her.
“I can walk you back if you want.”
“I’m not that far away,” Kylie reasoned gently.
“I’m staying at the Plaza.”
“We’re like a twenty-minute walk,” Natán pointed out, gesturing back toward the glowing lights of the town center.
Kylie smiled, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
“Okay, a guide would be kind of nice.”
The cobblestone streets of the coastal town were quiet, illuminated only by the warm, amber glow of vintage streetlamps as they made their way toward the Plaza.
They walked comfortably close together, the earlier conversational momentum settling into a comfortable, deeply charged silence.
As they navigated a narrow, winding alleyway, the back of Natán’s hand accidentally brushed against Kylie’s knuckles.
The brief, fleeting friction of skin against skin sent a sudden, electric jolt straight up his arm.
Natán immediately pulled his hand back, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He looked away, suddenly intensely fascinated by the crumbling brickwork of the adjacent buildings, a boyish shyness completely overtaking him.
He didn’t want to overstep; he didn’t want to ruin the magic of the evening with a clumsy, unwanted gesture.
But Kylie didn’t look away.
She watched the subtle, nervous swallow of his throat, finding his sudden timidness overwhelmingly endearing.
Without a single word, she gently closed the small gap between them.
She reached out, her fingers softly grazing his palm before she confidently slipped her hand entirely into his.
Natán stopped walking for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching, before his fingers instinctively curled around hers, locking them perfectly together.
Her hand was soft, warm, and fit perfectly within his.
They didn’t say a thing.
They simply resumed their slow, leisurely pace, walking hand in hand through the quiet Spanish night, anchored entirely to one another now, completely lost in this perfect, quiet, beautiful moment.
They finally came to a gentle stop outside the grand, arched entrance of the Plaza Hotel.
The massive wooden double doors stood slightly ajar, spilling soft, golden light out onto the pavement.
Kylie lingered on the bottom step, turning to face him.
She didn’t let go of his hand right away.
“Well, this is me,” she said, her voice dropping to a soft, quiet murmur.
“Well, goodnight,” Natán replied, a heavy, reluctant ache settling deep in his chest at the thought of leaving her.
Kylie tilted her head, a playful spark dancing in her striking eyes.
“Do you want to come in for tea?”
Natán let out a soft, genuine chuckle, his thumb gently tracing the back of her hand.
“Um, I drink enough of that in England, so sorry, no thank you.”
Kylie smiled, stepping up onto the first marble stair so that she was perfectly level with him.
She released his hand, but instead of pulling away, she reached up, her palms resting gently against the broad, warm expanse of his chest.
Natán’s breath caught in his throat.
Kylie leaned in, closing her eyes, and pressed her lips softly against his.
It wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t desperate.
It was an incredibly gentle, tender, and beautifully agonizing kiss, tasting faintly of sweet vanilla and coastal ocean salt.
Natán’s eyes fluttered shut, his hands instinctively coming up to rest on the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against his body.
He kissed her back with a slow, reverent heat, entirely lost in the dizzying, intoxicating softness of her lips.
The busy, chaotic world around them completely dissolved into absolute nothingness.
When she finally, reluctantly pulled back, slowly resting her forehead against his chin, they were both completely breathless, their hearts racing in absolute unison with each other today.
Kylie slowly opened her eyes, looking deeply into his dark, dilated pupils.
She offered him one final, devastatingly beautiful smile.
“Maybe another time,” Kylie whispered softly.
She took a slow step backward, letting her hands fall from his chest, and turned around.
Natán stood completely frozen on the cobblestone pavement, entirely gobsmacked, as he watched her walk gracefully up the stairs and disappear through the massive wooden doors of the hotel lobby.
He raised a slightly trembling hand, his fingertips gently brushing against his own lips.
He could still feel the phantom pressure of her kiss, still taste the faint trace of vanilla.
A massive, foolish grin spread across his face, his heart soaring into his throat.
He had played in front of millions, won trophies, and scored magical goals, but absolutely nothing compared to the violent rush of adrenaline he felt right now.
But as the heavy wooden doors clicked shut behind her, the intoxicating high suddenly crashed into a wall of brutal reality.
The smile slowly faded from his lips.
He looked down at his watch.
It was past midnight.
He wasn’t going to be here tomorrow.
His flight back to Manchester was scheduled for eight in the morning.
His vacation was officially over.
By tomorrow afternoon, he would be back in the gloomy, rain-soaked north of England, reporting to the City Football Academy to begin his grueling tactical work under Pep Guardiola.
He had responsibilities, contracts, and an entire nation’s sporting expectations resting squarely on his shoulders.
He wouldn’t be walking on the beach tomorrow.
He wouldn’t be eating lemon gelato.
And he wouldn’t be seeing Kylie.
Natán let out a long, heavy sigh, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
He turned away from the hotel, beginning the long, solitary walk back to his family home in the dark.
The Mediterranean sea breeze suddenly felt a little colder than before.
There was no way they could make this work.
She was a Cali girl and he lived in Manchester.
As he walked off into the Spanish night, Natán Comas made a quiet promise to himself: he was definitely going to see her again.