To Maintain Professionalism...

this is a story I wrote yesterday about my bff madi (who happens to be only a few months younger than me) and the love of her life, CRISTIANO RONALDO, who I have added some pictures of to this post cause you need to understand how hot he is!!! by the way, i had to click on each little thin rectangle thing to actually SEE the pix. but believe me, they are sexi.
oh and when it says "Manchester's best football player" it means soccer cause they call it football everywhere but america because we're retarded:

His impenetrable gaze caught me like fly in a spider web. He would be leaving soon to go back to Manchester, and I knew I had to make his every last minute here in Seattle memorable. I didn’t want him getting the wrong ideas about the people who live here.
“W-why-” This was bad. I couldn’t even talk. What kind of guy wants a girl who can’t even speak her own language? “Why don’t we…” I couldn’t hardly think, his gaze was so powerful. My body was lost just in his dark eyes, like I was sinking into a peat bog, and would soon be stuck there forever, encased in mud and slime, unable to escape, to move. Just sinking deeper and deeper…
“Madison,” his accent made every bone in my body melt, and my spine gave out, causing me to fall back against my chair to keep me from falling against the table and slamming my face into my plate of spaghetti. But I can’t do that. I am a professional sports journalist, interviewing a visiting professional star athlete after his big win. What kind of retard would slam her face into her food during an interview dinner? We are two professionals, therefore, we must keep things professional between us.
“Why I don’t music put on?” he asked, smiling lightly. I couldn’t help giggling a little and nodding my head. Oh, yes, very professional. If only I could speak fluent Spanish. No. This was wrong. What kind of interview would make suggestions toward possible romanticism? Professional, I kept telling myself, but it was so hard to keep things professional with the sound of acoustic guitars and the soft touch violins swimming around together in perfect harmony inside my ears.
“So,” I said sitting up feeling the table for my notebook and pen. His hand moved and I watched it surround something underneath the side of my plate that faced him. The black notebook was very small and fit in his large hand perfectly. He handed it to me and I took it from him, smiling, noticing how small my hands were compared to his.
“Thank you,” I said, opening up the notebook and unhooking the pen from the spiral binding. I needed to speed into this interview before I lost my head. “So,” I said again, a little uneasy.
“Dance, would you like to?” he asked me as he stood up.
“Uh…” I wasn’t sure how to respond. Of course I wanted to dance with him, but I NEEDED to…screw professionalism! I scooted my chair back as I rose to my feet.
“Sure,” I said, smiling and looking up at him from beneath my eyelashes. “One problem. I have no idea how to dance.” This was a total lie. I took ballroom dancing lessons all through high school, and I knew very well how to tango.
“Fix that I can.” My smile broadened as I made a connection to Yoda. The way he spoke reminded me so much of Yoda I almost started laughing. “I take American dance slow lessons.” Oh, great. “Give me your hands.”
I laid them out in front of me, probably looking like a total idiot. Those big hands took mine in their grasp, swallowing them whole. He threw them over his broad shoulders and I hooked my fingers together. Something brushed both sides of my waist and I looked down. His hands were resting around my waist, sending pulses of heat through my whole body. Our bodies swayed to the beat of the music. I couldn’t believe it. I was slow dancing with Cristiano Ronaldo, Manchester’s best football player. Then I remembered his girlfriend. My stomach lurched and my mouth went dry. She is so beautiful and so nice, I met her once-at one of the shows she modeled on-when I was touring Europe with my friend, Bonnie.
I looked up and was captured in his gaze again.
“What is wrong?” he asked, noticing the panic on my face. It isn’t cheating if you don’t kiss, right? Besides, why would he want to cheat on his super model girlfriend with some sub-par Yankee sports journalist?
“Nothing,” I said, banishing all thoughts of his girlfriend and putting on a fake smile.
“You lie to me,” he said, looking down at me, straightening his expression. “Something is very wrong with you.”
Something IS wrong with me. I was dancing, not interviewing, and only had the rest of the night to interview him before he left tomorrow morning to go home, back to…Manchester…so far away.
“Ronaldo make pretty girl feel better.” A chuckle sneaked past my lips. He stopped moving, so I did, too. Why did he stop? The sound of the ocean lapping the shore beneath the balcony drowned out the sound of the music and beyond him I could see the moon, surrounded by a vast universe of stars; the very sight of the starry background against his face made my knees give out. I started to fall and grabbed his shoulders tightly to keep from falling on my butt but my harms gave out, too. My waist was slipping through his grasp, and I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the worst.
I felt a hand on my back and an arm around my shoulders, supporting my neck. I wasn’t on the ground. My eyelids fluttered open to see his face, just centimeters from mine. The arm under my neck pulled me in, our faces getting dangerously closer when all of a sudden his lips were on mine and a sensation like none I have ever felt before rushed through my body, sending chills up my spine. All my senses were awakened, his touch, his warmth, his scent-musty cologne that tingled inside my nose-the way his muscles rippled around my body. It was then the butler walked out onto the balcony.