Roatan Plunge | Love Travels #2

Two - Óscar

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.