Lucha Libre Love

Amor de Lucha Libre

Behind the mask, no one knew who I was. Not the crowds who cheered for La Mariposa, not the promoters who booked my fights, not even my family who thought I worked late at the accounting firm.

Only one person knew the truth.

"Your footwork is sloppy," Santiago said, tapping my ankle with his training stick. "Again."

"I've done this move a hundred times."

"Then do it a hundred and one. Perfectly."

Santiago had trained wrestlers for thirty years. He'd discovered me at a backyard show, seen something worth developing, and spent two years turning me into a star.

He'd also spent two years driving me absolutely crazy.

"You're too hard on me," I said, yanking off my mask after practice. "The crowd loves me."

"The crowd loves your character. I'm making sure your skill matches their expectations." He handed me a water bottle. "You have a title shot next month. You can hate me after you win."

"I don't hate you."

"Then stop complaining and train."

The truth was, I was in love with him.

Stupid, inconvenient, completely unprofessional love. The kind that made my heart race when he demonstrated a move, hands on my waist. The kind that made me volunteer for extra sessions just to be near him.

"You're distracted," he said one evening. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Liar." He stepped closer. "You've been off for weeks. Tell me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Because I'm in love with you, and saying it would ruin everything.

"Is it a man?" he asked quietly.

I laughed—harsh, surprised. "What makes you say that?"

"You have the look. My ex-wife had the same look right before she told me there was someone else."

"There's no one else." I couldn't meet his eyes. "There's no one at all."

"Good." The word surprised us both. He cleared his throat. "I mean, relationships can be distracting. You need focus."

"Is that why you're alone? Focus?"

"I'm alone because the only woman I want thinks of me as her trainer."

"What?"

"Forget I said that." He turned away. "Let's run the routine again."

"Santiago." I grabbed his arm. "What did you just say?"

"Something I shouldn't have. You're my student. It's inappropriate."

"Tell me anyway."

He faced me, and for the first time I saw vulnerability behind his stern exterior.

"I watch you fight, and I'm so proud I could burst. I watch you succeed, and I want to celebrate with you. I watch you leave, and I count the hours until you come back."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you're young. Talented. Your whole career ahead of you." He shook his head. "What could I offer?"

"Everything." I closed the distance between us. "You've given me everything already. Skill, confidence, purpose. The only thing missing is this."

"If we do this—"

"We're already doing it." I kissed him.

He kissed me back like he'd been dying to do it, hands cradling my face like I was precious.

"The title shot," he said between kisses. "You need to focus."

"I am focused." I pulled him toward the back room. "On exactly what I want."

"Elena..."

"Say my real name again." I'd only ever been La Mariposa to him. "Please."

"Elena." He breathed it like a prayer. "Mi Elena."

We made love on the training mats, surrounded by championship posters and dreams of glory. He touched me like he was teaching me something new—patient, thorough, devastating.

"I've wanted this since the first day," he admitted. "When you walked in with no skill and all that fire."

"And now?"

"Now you have skill to match the fire." He kissed my shoulder. "You're going to win that title. And I'm going to be there, more proud than I've ever been."

I won the title. In front of fifteen thousand screaming fans, I pinned the champion and felt Santiago's training pay off in every move.

Backstage, he found me still in my mask.

"Take it off," he said. "Let me see you."

I removed the mask. Underneath, I was crying.

"You did it," he said, pulling me into his arms. "My champion. My love."

"Our secret," I whispered.

"For now." He kissed my forehead. "But someday, when you're ready, I want the whole world to know."

We're still secret—La Mariposa and her trainer, professional in public, everything else in private.

But when I climb into that ring, I feel him watching. When I execute a move perfectly, I hear his voice in my head.

And when I come home to him, mask off, just Elena, I know I've won something better than any championship.

Lucha libre love—masked in public, unguarded in private.

The best kind of victory.