The All-Star Game for the charity was scheduled the following evening. It had rained hard the previous night; even now, the sky was overcast by dark, angry clouds. I jumped on the spot to try to warm myself up, craning my neck to catch a glimpse outside the tunnel. The sky thundered, almost matching the roaring crowd below it.

It did not look like a normal football match, which of course, it almost wasn't.

The stands were packed with a bustling, deafening crowd. Up at the stands, I could see major celebrities whose faces had been splashed all over Italian media, prominent sportspersons, and, even though I was far enough away to not see his face— Riccardo Bellini.

I could almost smell his repulsiveness from my position.

Lollo slapped me on the back loudly, giving a low whistle as his gaze followed mine. "Whoa. This feels...unreal."

"Tell me about it," I scoffed. "Hey, at least we get to play on the same team again so you don't have to worry about me kicking your ass." I tugged at the pendant against my chest, putting it safely into my jersey.

"Ah, projection. Very meta, Moré," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "That's new," he added, nodding at my chest where the faint outline of the metal now rested.

"Yeah, Nonna gave me," I responded. "For good luck."

"That is sickeningly sweet. Love, disgusting," he scoffed. "Just be normal."

"Ooh, you are so edgy, Lorenzo," I smirked at him. "Edgiest fourteen-year-old I know."

"How is she...doing by the way?" he asked, suddenly very interested in his cleats that rested on the wet grass.

"Aw, you care about me?" I ruffled his hair playfully as he scowled. "Look at you. Empathy and all. Sheesh."

"I don't care about you," he said, slapping my shoulder. "No, fuck you. But sweet old ladies I like."

I burst out laughing as he groaned. "God, that came out wrong."

"At least that will fuel those thirst traps," he said suddenly, tapping at the metallic outline under my jersey, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"The what—?"

He rolled his eyes. "Please. Don't act all innocent."

"Nah, I'm not," I grinned at him. "I just wanna hear you say you've been bookmarking my thirst traps on Instagram."

"Yeah, for blackmail," he said with a straight face, pulling at his white jersey, the same as mine except with the Italia FC crest on his arm. "For the record, my sister bookmarks them. And also, wouldn't it be so funny if Italia FC kicked Ambrosiana out this summer? You can cry on my shoulder at the World Cup qualifiers."

"Sounds like your wet dream, Lorenzo," I grinned, turning my eyes to the rest of the squad. Pippo, Teo, Rossi and, of course, Hayes from Ambrosiana. He was standing at the very back of the tunnel, his eyes glued to the sky as he craned his neck slightly. He reached over, wincing as he tugged at his hearing aid, fixing it under a pink headband before he straightened up.

I tried to catch his eye—I wasn't sure why, but I told myself it was so I could wish him good luck.

We were against the all-star senior team, a few retired legends from the sport, and a few internet celebrities that I touched too much grass to know about. I glanced down at our new, custom sleek white jersey with gold trim, the 'A' crest from SS Ambrosiana embossed onto my sleeve. I glanced back at Elliot, who had now sunk back into the shadows as the announcer in the stadium bellowed a welcome, talking about the sponsors and the charity.

"You gotta talk to Barone, man," Lollo said as I glanced at him. "The guy is making my agent run around in circles. There is no way he won't listen to you."

"I'll try," I answered honestly. "But you already know—" I nodded at Elliot, who was once again wincing, his fingers pressing down on his hearing aids that were barely visible from my distance as he blinked slowly at the stadium. "—high-profile transfer with Hayes. Even if they do go for you, it won't be for the next couple of seasons."

"My contract expires next season," he sighed. "Reckon I should just take a mental health break."

"If you need one. What's been going on?" I asked, studying him, rubbing the back of his head.

"Nothing," he said, shrugging. "But what else do I say? My dream club won't take me, so I will mope for a year?"

"I'll try talking to him," I said. "Barone. Just... you still gotta perform. At the qualifiers, here. Hell, Euros."

"Euros," he nodded. "Yeah. I'm hoping for that. Try not to outshine me, yeah?"

"That's a low bar," I smirked.

He elbowed my ribs with a scowl before sliding back into the line behind me. I glanced at the jumbo TV, where a small video about the charity was playing, and made my way quickly over to Elliot.

"Hayes—"

He was slumping on his side against the tunnel, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He turned to face me.

"You okay?" I asked, leaning close to make sure he could read my mouth, catching a whiff of his vanilla musk as my mind instantly raced to the banister last night. I suddenly didn't know what to do with my hands, so I just ran one through my hair. "You look... restless."

He glanced at the skies outside again, then back at me, and shook his head. I suddenly realized that his eyes looked dark, mirroring the color of the clouds swirling in the sky.

"You mean you're like... not restless? Or... not okay?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I am okay. Thank you."

"Right," I leaned away from him, my idiotic heart fluttering like I was a twelve-year-old watching the Pink Power Ranger again. "Good luck out there." I flashed him a smile and made my way back to the front of the line. I kept shooting glances at him, and even though he claimed he was okay, something was absolutely bothering him.

It became evident, horrifyingly so—the second we stepped out onto the pitch.

He was awful.

Not just having a bad day—he was terrible.

"Hayes!" Teo screamed from beside me at an eleventh-minute pass. Elliot had a clear shot for a header. The opposing goalkeeper was way off the line. Elliot didn't even look at the ball as it bounced uselessly in front of him and was cleared by a defender.

"Mio Dio," Teo muttered as Elliot paused for a second, blinking rapidly. "Fuck's gotten into hundred-and-ten mil?"

I kept glancing at him throughout the first half, watching in disbelief as he missed simple passes, toppled over at the slightest touch, and sat on the grass, his eyes wide and dazed. Normally, he would leap over sliding tackles and win every 1v1 contest; today, he lost possession easily, back-heeling a pass to their midfielder instead of Lollo, who yelled loudly.

"Hayes, what the fuck are you on?"

"Easy," I muttered, nudging him lightly as I studied Elliot jogging listlessly on the grass. He reached for his headband, yanking it again over his hearing aids, twisting and pulling at the delicate wire before shaking his head as if he were trying to clear some invisible buzz.

The cameras above flashed mercilessly. He winced at them, turning his face away to face the other side, which was no better.

I jogged up to him during an injury break where their forward had taken a rough tackle from one of our defenders. Elliot was sitting on the grass, cross-legged, leaning forward, one hand again tugging at his earpiece.

"What's going on, Elliot?" I crouched in front of him so he could see my face. He squinted at me before speaking softly.

"Sorry. I am... severely underperforming today."

"No stakes on this one," I lied. It was true that it wouldn't affect our league standings whatsoever; however—with most of the people coming to the charity gala to see our biggest transfer put on a show for the VIPs, I was sure the media would have a field day with his failure. "Are you feeling alright? What's going on?"

The referee's shrill whistle cut through the air, and he flinched immediately, reaching out with a sharp gasp as he pulled at his hearing aids.

"Is that malfunctioning?" I asked.

He wasn't looking at me; he had no clue what I had said.

The game resumed soon after, and I could not stop looking at Elliot. He was drowning under the camera flashes, his movements devoid of his sharp, ghostly quality. He was stumbling, jogging clumsily, reaching for his ear again and again—five times more till the halftime whistle.

The walk down the tunnel was a chaotic mess of cameras, shouting fans, and celebrity players laughing as they swapped banter. In the dressing room, the atmosphere was lighthearted—players from Tutto FC and Kingsley FC were cracking jokes, taking selfies for sponsor accounts, and grabbing energy drinks.

"Reckon your club regrets spending so much on him?" Lollo said, running up to me and muttering in a low voice. "I'd settle for less than half of that, and not stutter on the pitch."

"Get over it, Lollo," I sighed, a hot surge of annoyance in my chest. "It's not his fault how much Barone paid for him."

"Yeah," he shrugged. "He still has to perform though."

"It was a charity game," I shot back, my jaw tight as I glared at him. He faltered, taking a step back, his eyes wide as he shook his head. 

"I was...just messing with you, sorry," he murmured, slinking away to join the loud banter of my teammates. 

I didn't care about any of it. The moment I crossed the threshold, my eyes scanned the room for Elliot.

He had walked straight past the ice baths, straight past the refreshment tables, and walked directly up to the manager taking charge of the All-Stars squad for the night.

"Coach," Elliot's voice cut through the ambient chatter, sharp and rigid.

The manager looked up from his tactical board, surprised. "Elliot? Good run out there, son. A bit sloppy in the middle, but hey, it's an exhibition. You'll catch your rhythm in the second half."

"No," Elliot said instantly. His posture was impossibly stiff, his hands clenching his jersey so tightly his knuckles turned stark white. "Hook me. Sub me out for the second half."

The coach blinked, taken aback. "What? Son, the sponsors and the TV networks paid top dollar for you to play sixty to seventy minutes. You're the £110 million man. The fans in the stands came to see you and Moretti link up."

"My current tactical output is inefficient and detrimental to the squad's structure," Elliot recited in a monotone, his voice completely devoid of emotion, though a faint, violent tremor ran through his jaw. "I am requesting an immediate substitution."

Without waiting for the coach's permission or another word from anyone, Elliot turned on his heel.

I watched from across the room, my throat dry as bone, as Elliot unlaced his boots in silence, kicked them off, wrapped a heavy dark tracksuit jacket over his shoulders, and retreated straight into the quiet, isolated medical room at the back of the facility. He shut the door firmly behind him, completely locking the rest of the world out.

My feet stood glued to the spot. 

He didn't return to the bench for the second half.

So I made this fictional man. I MADE him. Now, I find myself crushing and gushing on him. And something tells me that is not normal. Or maybe it is?