I watched the screen illuminate as it rang once.

Then twice.

I sighed, pulling my knees closer to my chest as the digital clock clicked over to 3:00 AM. It was 9:00 PM in Boston. He should be home by now. I leaned closer to the glass, making sure the screen brightness was turned all the way down, and glanced over at where Lucy was sleeping peacefully. Her small back rose and fell in a comforting, steady rhythm. I tried again.

And again.

Finally, on the fifth try and after eleven days of deafening silence, my dad's voice cracked through the receiver. "Ehi, Luca."

I sprang to my feet and hurried out onto the narrow, wrought-iron balcony that jutted over the quiet courtyard below. Flaking green paint chipped off under my shoes, and dry ivy clung stubbornly to the stone balustrade, smelling faintly of damp earth and city exhaust. I pulled the rusted netting door shut behind me to provide whatever sound insulation I could. It was eerily quiet outside, save for the dry, distant thrum of cicadas hiding in the trees down the street. "You haven't responded for eleven days," I muttered, dragging my earphones out of my jacket, unspooling the tangled white cord, and twirling it around my index finger to position the inline mic against my mouth. "What's going on?"

He sighed, and through the tiny screen, I heard a soft, metallic clatter followed by the dull thud of ceramic as he set his phone down on a dark granite counter. Behind him, warm, expensive recessed light bathed a sleek kitchen in a soft glow. It was modular, pristine, and completely unfamiliar.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "It's been pretty crazy here." 

"Bet," I scoffed, my voice flat.

"How about you?" he asked, trying for a tone of easy fatherly concern that felt about five years too late. "How's Lucy?" 

"She's fine," I responded shortly, resting my elbow against the damp, cold iron railing. "Starting sixth grade soon."

"Oh, right," he nodded, looking off to the side of his camera. "That's great. Actually—" He shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip before forcing a strained grimace. "How's football?"

I gulped, my throat instantly going bone-dry. I couldn't tell him I was benched. I couldn't let him hear the panic in my voice.

He raked a hand through his thinning hair and answered before I could even get my bearings. "Your assistant coach actually emailed me," he said, leaning closer to the lens. I could see how pale and washed-out he looked under the sharp indoor lights, devoid of his usual tan. "Something about... harassing the tactical analyst on the team?" 

"It was a stupid joke," I answered slowly. 

"Maybe," he shrugged, though there was a sharp edge under his casual tone. "But it led to you being benched."

"For one game," I gritted my teeth, the sting of the humiliation flaring hot behind my ribs. "Crazy how you don't know if I'm alive or dead, but you know the second I've been benched."

He opened his mouth as if to defend himself, thought better of it, and shut it again.

"It's just that... are you sure about this whole thing, Luca?" 

"What thing?" I asked, deadpan.

I knew what he meant.

Everyone knew what he meant.

The mold growing on my bedroom walls knew what he meant. "Football," he confirmed smoothly. "It's... it's a matter of chances, son. A statistical gamble. Maybe if you could do something—"

"I haven't dropped out," I said, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the freezing wrought-iron balustrade, staring down into the dark, empty street three floors below. "I'm... I'm still passing. I'll finish my graduation."

"Have you considered... playing football as more of a hobby? Realistically?" He shifted, leaning his weight on one hand. "Actually, I could get you into a community college here. Get you toward a... a stable job."

"Have you got a stable job yet?" I laughed bitterly, right in his face.

"Yes, actually," he said, nodding without taking the bait. "I've been meaning to tell you."

"Oh." The words caught in my throat. On screen, as he reached up to adjust his phone angle, I caught a glimpse of the modular kitchen behind him, bathed in a subtle warm glow. A clearly expensive apartment that I knew for a fact— he did not own.  

"I... we moved into a new place in Back Bay," he continued, his eyes darting nervously toward the hallway behind him before settling back on me. "Her name is Clara. We've been seeing each other for about eight months now, and... well, we are living together for now. Let's see where it goes."

I stood frozen on the balcony, the chilly night air biting through my thin socks.

"She's wonderful, Luca," he said, his voice lifting with an artificial lightness that made my stomach turn. "She works in corporate finance. She's been really good for me. And she's super excited about you and Lucy—she actually wants to fly you both out to Boston for dinner next month so everyone can meet properly."

I couldn't speak. I just stared at him, the noise of the cicadas swelling in my ears like static, while my father sat in a multi-million-dollar kitchen asking me to give up on the only thing keeping my life from completely falling apart.

"No," I responded, blood pounding in my ears so hard my voice sounded like a whisper. "No," I repeated to myself.

"No?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing. "Think about it, Luca. Be realistic for once. Your stubbornness—"

I flashed him a middle finger and hung up, shoving my phone in my pocket.

I leaned against the mossy wall, taking deep, steadying breaths and resisting the urge to slam something. Lucy was still asleep inside, and the only thing standing between her and the disgusting reality that was our deadbeat father was my own sanity.

I went back into the room after fifteen minutes, making sure my phone was on flight mode on the off chance that he dared to call me again. I slumped onto my mattress on the floor beside Lucy's bed and set an alarm. I had about two and a half hours to get whatever sleep I could.

And because no decision I make ever seems to be right, I immediately removed flight mode. I ignored the way my chest tightened when I didn't see my father's incessant calls coming through, and started doomscrolling on it instead.

Some soccer videos, news, someone somewhere died, someone somewhere was born. My thumb froze on a photo that made something ugly twist under my ribs.

It was a carousel post. The first photo was Chiara leaning in, her lips pressed against Elliot's cheek, her face glowing like a lightbulb. Right next to her, Elliot looked like he'd been frozen mid-thought, rigid and expressionless in his immaculate coat, but against her bright, dimpled smile, he looked like some brooding, enigmatic superstar. The caption below it was in Italian. I knew what it said. Even though I wasn't fluent. Still, already anticipating the way my stomach would feel, I pressed the 'see translation'.

"Look who dropped by the shop today!! ⚽✨ Actual genius @elliot.hayes.official in the flesh! Still can't believe it, best rainy Tuesday ever!!"

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding a heavy, bitter rhythm against my ribs. Mio Dio. She was so pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely, a stray curl falling across her cheek, her dark eyes shining with pure excitement. For three months, I'd been coming into her shop, trying every smooth line, every easy smile, trying to get her to look at me like that. Three months of effort, and she looked at Elliot—who hadn't even looked her in the eye, called her ice cream disgusting, and barely mumbled an 'ok'—like he was a god descended from the clouds.

I swiped through the comments. Her friends were losing their minds: "NO WAYYY Chiara!!" "IS THAT A KISS ON THE CHEEK OMG" "Is he as handsome in person??" "Omg ask him for tickets next time!!"

I bit my teeth together so hard I heard them click. Of fucking course. There was the guy the universe decided would have the longer end of the stick for no fucking reason.

I clicked on his handle and reported his account for harassment. Of course his account was private. Not everyone was worthy enough in his eyes to see his perfect life. His photos, which were probably carefully tailored. On sunny beaches, in high-rise buildings, in front of spreads of food that probably cost more than my entire apartment.

I blocked his account and threw my phone onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, hoping to wrest some answers from a universe where "the world is unfair" seemed to only apply to a very specific set of people with single-digit bank accounts.

On the roof, a trail of water turned into a droplet that shimmered like diamonds against the broken wood. I watched as it pelted down with a loud PLUNK into the bucket below. The one I had placed last monsoon, after reminding myself again and again that I needed to get it fixed. That the bucket would only hold for so long.  

I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw aching from how hard I was grinding my teeth.

I hated him.

I hated his money, I hated his stats, and I hated the stupid, effortless space he occupied in a world I was bleeding to be part of.

*

By Friday that week, I was ready to flip out at the first person who tried to talk to me. Coach Vance had just announced that due to the derby against Monarchs FC next week, our weekends were canceled.

"We cannot afford another loss," he had said that morning while most of the team collapsed onto the floor with wails of distress. "Sorry, boys."

Only one person had not looked sorry at all.

"No rain forecasted on Saturday and Sunday," Elliot beamed from the sidelines, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he spoke in a rapid, shrill voice that made my ears hurt. "It's perfect weather to test out the 5-3-2 we have been practicing!"

So that evening, the mood in the locker room was sour, to say the least.

"Man," Pippo groaned. "The one time I finally get Andrea to agree to go out with me. And I'm getting fucking cockblocked by football."

"I have my re-exam on Monday," Teo sighed, slumping onto the bench beside me. "Probably gonna take off early. But I don't wanna miss the game. Reckon Coach will let me play if I miss a practice?"

"Don't think it's Coach you have to worry about," I snorted, nudging him and pointing with my chin at the man, the myth, the asshole: Elliot Hayes. He had walked into the room, his nose buried in his notes.

Much to my horror, he walked over to me and flashed me a brilliant smile that was just short of being creepy. "You played very well today," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet as I slowly pulled on my socks. "In fact, just within the last week, your pass accuracy increased by—"

"Look, Hayes—" I said slowly, looking up at him. I hated the way he beamed at me like he was... happy. Like there was any fucking thing in life to be happy about. "I don't know about your statistics, but I have a hundred percent probability today of punching someone. Unless you want to be that person, leave me alone. Va Bennet?"

Pippo gave a pained chuckle beside me.

Elliot narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "That is... not possible to gauge. I would be leaving my notes with you, Luca. Since I won't be here this weekend."

I could almost feel the sudden joy in the air as everyone perked up.

"Oh... how come?" I asked in a would-be nonchalant voice.

"My mother insisted I come with her to her premiere," he said. "I wanted to ask you. But since you had practice, I took the liberty to ask Chiara. She seemed delighted. She even gave me a tip about—"

"You... what?"

I had only ever heard the phrase "seeing red" before that very instant. But right then, a primal rage inside me made it almost impossible not to tear Elliot Hayes apart.

"What...?" I repeated, rising to my feet to tower over him. A heavy silence fell over the locker room; I was vaguely aware of Pippo muttering something in Italian, but my brain was vibrating too hard against my skull to care to translate. "What the fuck did you say?"

I gripped the front of his sweatshirt. Of course he would go behind my back and try to get the girl I was clearly after. He wasn't naive, innocent, or sweet like he pretended to be. Of course he wasn't. He calculated every single thing.

His smile faltered, his eyes widening as a surge of vicious pleasure tore through me.

"I asked her what flavor of ice cream you like, since you rejected the strawberry cheesecake I presented," Elliot continued, his voice wavering slightly. "She offered cookies and cream, so I brought—"

"Oh, you did?" I flashed him a menacing smile. "Oh, that's amazing. Where is it? In here?"

A surge of sadistic pleasure that I was already ashamed of urged me on. I had no control over anything else, except Elliot Hayes' designer bag.

"Luca, wait—" he squeaked, making a desperate grab for it.

I swung the bag around in a violent, furious arc, intending to hurl it across the locker room to teach him a lesson. But I hadn't realized the top was wide open.

Centrifugal force took over. The bottom of the tote whipped upward, and the entire contents exploded across the tiled floor with the dramatic force of a shattered briefcase.

A dead, suffocating hush instantly fell over the room.

What lay scattered in a sprawling radius across the concrete floor at Pippo's, Teo's, and half the team's feet wasn't playbooks or highlighters.

It was an outrageous, impeccably curated stash of personal care products.

A sleek, rose-gold tube of high-end tinted lip balm skittered across the tile, knocking right into Pippo's sneaker. A tube of hand cream tumbled beside a glass bottle of rosewater face mist. A bottle of SPF 50 sunscreen rolled in a smooth arc, coming to a stop next to a pocket-sized cuticle oil, two different shades of glossy chapstick, and a luxury rollerball perfume that had popped out of a clear cosmetic pouch.

I froze, my hand still raised in the air, staring down at the disaster zone in sheer disbelief.

Pippo slowly bent over, picking up the rosewater mist and giving it a tentative spray into the air before letting out a whistle. "Damn. Smells like a five-star spa in here now. Hayes, are you running a boutique out of your gym bag?"

A few guys on the bench started snickering. Teo held up the cuticle oil with a grin. "Seriously, Elliot, what's with the five-step skincare routine before a derby? You trying to dazzle the defenders with your glowing skin?"

"You keep tampons in there too, Hayes?" someone from the back row jeered, triggering a chorus of low chuckles.

Elliot didn't even flinch. Still on his knees, he neatly gathered his scattered items and tucked the tinted lip balm back into his clear pouch, looking up at the guys with a completely blank, unbothered expression.

"I do not menstruate," Elliot said, deadpan, before turning his attention back to his stash.

He picked up the sunscreen and looked at Teo, perfectly earnest. "Sun damage is cumulative, Santoro. Extended exposure to UV radiation accelerates skin aging and causes severe dehydration, which directly impairs thermal regulation during high-intensity endurance sports. And the scented hand cream contains magnesium, which aids muscle recovery. If anything, neglecting basic barrier protection before a match is suboptimal performance management."

Teo's grin faltered, completely unable to counter the logic, while Pippo just shook his head in quiet disbelief.

Watching Elliot sit there—so utterly unfazed, so ridiculously reasonable while I stood over him looking like a bloodthirsty lunatic who had just assaulted a human beauty counter—made a sudden wave of hot shame crash over me. I felt like an absolute idiot.

My face burned. The sheer absurdity of the moment made my brain short-circuit, and in a desperate bid to mask how stupid I felt, I snatched Elliot's empty canvas tote off the bench and hurled it across the room.

"Suboptimal performance management?" I shouted.

"Hey, heads up!" Teo yelled, laughing as he caught the flying tote mid-air. "Pass it here!" He spun it around like a helicopter, sending a rogue hairbrush flying into the showers.

"Gimme that!" Pippo jumped up, intercepting the bag as Teo launched it across the locker room. The rest of the guys joined in, laughing and hollering as the empty canvas bag got violently flung back and forth between bench rows like a chaotic game of hot potato.

"Stop—please, give it back!" Elliot cried out, his calm demeanor completely cracking as he scrambled to his feet, trying to track the bag soaring over his head.

I hated how small he suddenly looked. No sign of any calculations, no sign of any analysis, no sign of his maniacal precision. Even his shrill, robotic voice seemed to tremble with a complete lack of confidence.

"Intercept!" I barked, jumping up to snatch the tote right out of Pippo's throw. I couldn't deny the satisfaction I got, seeing the mighty Elliot Hayes, who always told me how wrong I was with mathematical precision, never had to struggle a day in his life, never had to worry about monsoon because of the holes in his roof he couldn't get fixed—completely helpless.

I caught the bag by the strap, intending to hurl it back toward Elliot before I went too far, but I whipped my arm around with way too much force.

SNAP.

A sharp, brittle crack echoed off the metallic lockers, seeming to rattle them and cutting right through the laughter.

The violent motion of my throw snapped the top strap completely off the canvas tote. A heavy, clear plastic ball hanging from the zipper split cleanly into pieces as it slammed hard against the tile, shattering like glass.

The room went dead silent. The tote dropped uselessly to the floor from my hand.

Inside the clear sphere had been a small, delicate plaster of Paris mold. Whatever was etched inside it was now broken in pieces and scattered on the floor—a dozen sharp, white fragments and fine chalky dust.