NOTE: there has been a title change for The Younger Man. Alejo and Thalia's romance is now called THE FORBIDDEN MAN, which more accurately reflects their epic love story. As a result, you may see the book referred to as either title on Goodreads or elsewhere :)
You can read a few excerpts of The Forbidden Man below:
**Excerpt is exclusive for you guys and totally unedited and unproofed and subject to change**
I walk over to him, conjuring up the confidence. I played softball and tennis as a young girl, and despite my size, I was actually pretty good at basketball. I used to play horse against my three brothers and won more often than not.
“From here?” I ask him, stepping up to what I think is an appropriate place to shoot from.
“Phhhf,” he says from behind me. “Anyone can make the shots from there. Back up.”
I move back a foot.
“No, no,” he says. “Come to me.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell him. “You’re so much taller than me.”
He laughs. “That only counts in real basketball, not this one. You’re actually closer to the height of the net than I am.”
That’s not exactly true. I sigh and move back another foot. The ball is tiny but so is the hoop and I’m pretty sure you’re meant to be playing it right up against the machine like you do at an arcade.
“This okay?”
He responds by mumbling something in Spanish.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Fine. If you must.”
The thing is, if I do score from here, it’s just going to look like it was only because I was closer than he was.
I end up shuffling right back until I’m standing just in front of him.
“Better, si?” he asks me, and with him looming behind me like this, I can feel his body heat. Doesn’t help that his already deep voice has taken on a huskier tone.
I swallow hard, totally aware that his presence is affecting me in ways it shouldn’t.
Don’t dwell on it, I tell myself. You just need to get laid, that’s all.
It’s true. It just can’t be with him.
“Better,” I manage to say. I take in a deep breath, hoping he can’t hear how hard my heart is pounding. I raise my arms and the ball, trying to focus on the net.
I shoot.
It bounces off the rim and back to us. Alejo reaches out and intercepts it before it has a chance to roll away.
“Concentrate,” he says to me. “Don’t be nervous.”
I pluck the ball from him and shake my ponytail over my shoulder. “Who said I was nervous?”
“I thought perhaps I made you nervous, standing so close to you.”
I give him a quick smile as my pulse accelerates. “Not at all.”
I try to shoot again but this time the ball doesn’t even come close.
“I swear I’m good at this,” I tell him as I walk over to pick up the ball. I can feel myself getting flustered, not just because of him but because I hate to lose. It’s one reason why I never made a career of sports myself, I was too hard on myself and prone to losing my temper and quitting out of frustration.
“I believe you,” he says as I walk back over to him. “You’re just doing everything wrong.”
I stop and put my hand on my hip. “Wrong?”
The tip of his tongue pokes through his teeth as he smiles. “Let me show you.” He makes the motion for me to turn around.
A wave of nerves comes over me as I turn around and go back into my position to shoot.
He comes up behind me and puts his hands – those large, warm, strong hands – on my upper arms, moving me in place. “Just relax,” he says in a low, gravely voice that makes my hair stand on end. “Let your body be loose, let it be easy.”
“Loose and easy, that’s how you like it, huh?” I say under my breath.
“Loose and easy, tight and hard, I’m not too picky,” he remarks and though his tone is light, there is definitely an undercurrent of desire in his voice.
What the hell are you doing?
“Stop overthinking,” he says, sliding his hands down my biceps and over my forearms until they rest at my wrists. “That’s your vice.”
“Vice? I have other, better vices than overthinking,” I tell him.
“Such as?” he says. His thumbs glide over the top of my thumbs. “Let them be loose.”
I try to let my thumbs be loose. I mean, how loose can your thumbs be, really?
I inhale through my nose and try to relax.
He’s not making it easier.
“I like red wine too much,” I admit.
“Who doesn’t?”
“I swear too much.”
“I swear in two languages.”
“I can eat an entire bag of sour candies in one sitting.”
“I can eat a lot of things in one sitting,” he says and fuck me if that’s not innuendo. “Now look at the net and shoot.”
I do as he says.
The ball goes soaring right into the net, then rolls down into a hole as the electronic scoreboard starts tallying up.
“I knew you could do it,” he says to me.
I burst into a grin and scamper over to the machine, picking the ball up. I throw it to him and he throws it right back to me.
“Don’t lose the momentum, keep going. You have nine more shots. This time I’ll let you do it on your own.”
“Oh you’re letting me, are you?” I tease him.
He shrugs and steps out of the way.
I take shot after shot and in the end, I end up scoring seven times out of ten.
“I’m starting to think perhaps you were, how you say, hustling me,” Alejo says, stroking his chin.
I throw him the ball. “You’re up next.”
Alejo gets nine out of ten shots, which was to be expected, but still I’m glad I held my own against him.
“You should be resting,” Mateo’s voice booms across the games room and the both of turn around to face him. “You too,” he says to me.
“This is resting,” Alejo says. “Helps me relax. Why put a games room here if it wasn’t for this purpose?”
“I didn’t put it here,” Mateo says. He looks strung-out and worried, not the unflappable coach I’m used to seeing. I guess everyone reacts differently before game day. “Meet in the warm-up room in twenty minutes.”
And with that he disappears down the hall.
I look at Alejo questioning. “Is he okay?”
“Mateo? Si. He’ll be fine tomorrow, it’s always the day before where he seems to lose it.” He pinches his thumb and finger together in demonstration. “Un poco.”
“Thank god you seem to have it together.”
“How can I not be fine, playing games here with you?” he says. “Besides, I have my superstitions.”
Now I’m intrigued. “Like what?”
“That’s for another time,” he says and starts walking toward the door. He chucks the ball behind him like an afterthought and then kicks it back with his foot.
The ball somehow arcs up and goes right in the net, the scoreboard lighting alight.
He gives me cocky smile, because he knows how good he really is, and then leaves.
1ST EXCERPT**Excerpt is unedited and subject to change. Takes place early in the book, after Thalia's first week of work at Real Madrid. She's having drinks with her boss (the coach) and his wife**
“You’re doing more than enough,” Mateo says to me and then raises his glass of wine. Vera raises what looks to be a dirty martini. “Here is to you, Thalia, for your first week at work.”
“And here’s to your proper introduction to the city of Madrid,” Vera says before she clinks her glass against mine and takes a hearty sip.
I do the same and immediately know that Mateo probably bought me the most expensive wine in the bar. It’s a big, bold, smoky red and it’s divine. My eyes flutter closed momentarily, my tastebuds dancing, my body immediately relaxing.
“Vera was just telling me that you get a lot of shit when you go out,” I tell him, starting to feel real good.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “I do. That comes with the territory. Real Madrid territory. Back when I coached Atletico -- even when I played for Atletico – I wasn’t hassled often. Maybe for autographs. But the fans…the Madridistas? They’re…what was that saying you taught me?” He looks at Vera.
“As crazy as an outhouse rat,” she says.
“Si,” Mateo says with a grave expression. “Crazier than an outhouse rat.”
“Sounds a lot like Man U,” I tell him. “Stewart couldn’t go anywhere without someone yelling at him over something.” The moment Stewart’s name leaves my lips, I immediately feel awkward. Like it’s a word I should have erased from my vocabulary, like it means something more than just my ex-husband’s name. It’s a word that still hurts.
Mateo seems to pick up on whatever vibe I’m giving off because he nods slightly, a sympathetic look shining in his eyes. “Luckily, there are some spots where we’re given some privacy,” he says. “And I don’t happen to go out all that often as it is.”
“Which means I often have to go out by myself,” Vera says.
Mateo smirks at her. “By going out, you mean watching Netflix by yourself?”
“Well, maybe Thalia and I will paint the town red whenever you feel like staying in.”
Mateo glances at me, raising his brow. “Please don’t let my wife talk you into anything. She knows that how important you are to the team.” He sits back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink while resting his hand on Vera’s knee.
“I also know how important it is to rest,” Vera says adamantly. “You always talk about how rest is as important as the work. I mean, hello, the whole country is built around siesta.”
“Siesta and rest is one thing,” Mateo says. “Going out with you is something else entirely. I’m barely man enough to survive it myself.” He smiles at me. “But, since we are about to go into the new season, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying ourselves for tonight.”
“Are you this strict with the players?” I ask him. I hate to keep bringing Stewart into my mind but I can’t help with the comparisons. Stewart was pretty relaxed with the team, which may have been his downfall on more than one occasion. A few times players showed up either drunk or with hangovers and the whole team suffered.
“I have to be,” he says. “I’m involved in every aspect of their lives. Even if I didn’t need to be, the boss would make it so. Jose believes in control, even though the players are free to do whatever they want. They aren’t slaves. But if it were up to Jose…”
“So what exactly do you know about them?” I ask.
“Their sleeping patterns. They’re supposed to log in their sleep details into an app every morning, though half of them forget. Their diet. What they did in their spare time.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re asking them about their sex lives,” Vera says with a scowl.
“No,” Mateo says hesitantly. “But they also know that, uh, if they’ve been…more…fucking than normal, then it could aggravate an injury.”
I’m trying not to laugh at the way he said fucking, but yeah, this is way more intense than my last job was. I guess if it creates champions for the most part, then it works.
“Poor guys,” Vera comments, munching on an olive from her drink. “They’re all young and in the prime of their lives, with all this fame and money to burn, and my husband has to make them cut down on all the fucking.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mateo says. “I just mean…”
“So what do the players do on a Saturday night, since we normally don’t have matches on Sunday anyway?” I ask him.
“They’re at home. Most of them live close to Valdebebas. They’re with family. Wives, kids.”
“I feel so silly,” I admit. “I feel like I should know all of this by now. I should know every player and who they are, deep down, you know?"
“Oh, cut yourself a slab,” Mateo says.
“A slab?” Vera asks with her brows raised.
“Yes,” Mateo says testily. “Cut yourself a slab. Like a slab of ham. Give yourself a break. Eat the ham.”
Vera stares at him for a moment with wide eyes until she breaks into a grin. “I don’t know if it’s the dirty martini, but you just made a lot of sense.”
I can’t help but laugh at his version of cut yourself some slack. “Okay, yes. I will eat the ham.”