benajarafe, spain | july 2005
Juin’s eyes opened with a soft pop, her head resting on her folded arms; she was warm, laying in the sun on her front. She had fallen asleep, but—she lifted her head an inch, temple unsticking from her forearm, to squint at Quinn on the next lounger—it must not have been for long. She took a deep breath in to feel more awake, present, and pushed herself up slowly into a sitting position.
She reached out to charm ice back into her glass of green juice, then picked it up and swirled it around before taking a sip, then another. They had been drinking plenty of water, too, and gone for a run this morning, followed by yoga – all to balance out the sangria and not-so-healthy food they’d had the night before. She wasn’t overindulging by any means, but it had been so long since she had last had a proper holiday – and she deserved it, with a successful championship under her belt.
She had won the Western League and now the British (and Irish, she could practically hear her host-slash-manager beside her) one too, but at least playing for Quiberon it hadn’t felt such a diversion to go to the beach, or to the south of france for a day or two, sunbathe and swim, drink wine, eat fresh fruit. England’s beaches by contrast left a lot to be desired – and the times she had gone when the sun was shining, well, the other beachgoers had been a sight to behold, if one was being polite.
Juin set her glass down and reclined back on the lounger, adjusting her sunglasses and then her bikini, untying the straps and tucking them down to avoid tan lines. “How long have you had this place?” she asked Quinn, curious about when the former player had bought it (had she rewarded herself for a successful campaign, like Juin was now pondering?). “When you were at Braga?”
@Quinn Regan
