Page 20 of Guarding the Star

“My voice doesn't change,” I protest.

“It does. It softens. Like when you were little and you'd tell me about that dog you wanted to adopt.”

“Go to sleep, abuela. It's late. I love you.”

“Take care of yourself. And take care of her. Both at the same time, mija,” she says before she hangs up.

I lie on the bed. The laptop on the nightstand, closed. Inside it, a video I've watched three times. Searches. Finds. Smiles.

Down the hall, the murmur of Iris's TV bleeds under her door.

Chapter 7

Iris

Turns out Paula Delgado can dance, and I never would've guessed.

It's the only thing in my head right now. Not the charity gala the whole team had to attend, or how uncomfortable this dress is. None of that. The only thing my brain registers is the warmth of her hand on my hip and how she leads me like we've been dancing together our entire lives.

But let me rewind, because before the dancing, other things happened.

We've been acting for four weeks, and the problem is I no longer know where the act ends and the real thing starts. It's all getting too natural. My hand reaches for hers when cameras are around, and occasionally when they're not. She places her hand on the small of my back when people are nearby. I lean into her ear to say things that don't need whispering, but it means I get to feel the heat of her neck an inch from my lips.

When someone asks about our relationship, I improvise. And I'm getting better at it. The coffee story has grown: now it includes a second coffee, a dinner, and a made-up story about Paula burning toast that makes everyone smile, because imagining her doing something wrong is almost funny. Plus, people love hearing everyday details about famous people.

“I never burned any toast,” she told me the first time she heard the story, the second we were alone.

“You don't exist. You're a fictional character. The toast doesn't exist either,” was my apology.

Little by little, we're finding our rhythm. She says something dry. I turn it into a joke. Paula doesn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth moves a millimeter. I'm learning to read that millimeter.

The problem is I'm also noticing plenty of other things.

She puts her left hand on the back of her neck when she's tired. She reads before bed every night. The book she's reading now has a blue cover, and the pages are marked with little strips of paper. When something worries her, she rubs the scar on her hand with her right thumb, a gesture that lasts half a second and that she probably doesn't even know she does.

And I notice that when she puts her hand on my back, her fingers spread like she's trying to cover as much ground as possible. To protect me.

***

For the charity gala, I bought a new dress. Black, long, open back, a neckline that Zoe described as “holy shit, Iris” and that made Hades roll her eyes. A little uncomfortable, but spectacular.

Paula is wearing a suit. White shirt, no tie, two buttons undone. Her hair down for the first time, no bun.

The players do what we always do at these things. We smile. We shake hands. A sponsor introduces me to his wife. A league rep congratulates me on last season. Alex Drummond shows up with a glass in her hand and winks at me.

“Very convincing,” she murmurs as she walks past us.

I'd rather not tell her that it gets easier to act every time.

Lucía appears with a drink and raises an eyebrow.

“I like your girl,” she says. “She's a little weird, but I like her.”

At ten, the music changes. The string quartet packs up and a DJ takes over. The dance floor is half empty.

“Dance with me?” I ask, holding out my hand.

“It's not necessary.”