I had never really known what I was missing.

I had told Luca before, and it was still true. The silence was all I had ever known, so I never knew if it was harder for it to be this way. I had nothing to compare it against.

But minutes ago, when Luca had whispered those words to me—the ones where I felt his lips moving against my fingertips so tenderly—

Ti amo, Elliot.

I wish I could hear his voice. I could feel the deep rumble of his chest, the vibrations in his tone, the way his lips moved so I could see the words. But to hear his voice: soothing, calm, so achingly loving.

I hid my face in the crook of my arm, snuggling deeper into his side. My chest was warm, fuzzy, and full. My legs were still weak and like jelly from the extended bliss.

"Luca—?" I turned sideways to look at him.

He wasn't looking at me, his face turned away. "Luca—?" I spoke again, placing a hand on his chest where I could feel his stuttering heart.

He turned to face me finally, his eyes dark, his curls falling over his forehead. I reached to stroke them away, his eyes fluttering shut for a second at my touch.

"What is on your mind?" I asked, because I knew something surely was. He was quiet. It wasn't like him to be quiet.

He placed one hand against my cheek, caressing it tenderly before kissing the top of my head. He leaned back, enunciating slowly, "I need to go. Coach called."

I nodded and sat up straight. He followed, the bedsheets rustling and pooling around his torso. I reached for my phone on the bedside table, swiping through it to see a message from my mum informing me she had reached the airport, one from Henrietta with a picture of Patty who had found a particularly large branch from somewhere, one from Bennett asking me when I was going to return to Stafford, and an email.

The email was from my agent, forwarded from UEFA. The subject line read: UEFA Champions League Player of the Season — Nominee Confirmation.

'Dear Mr. Hayes,

We are delighted to inform you that you have been shortlisted for the UEFA Champions League Player of the Season award for the 12th season, in recognition of your outstanding contributions throughout the campaign. The shortlist comprises three nominees, selected by the UEFA Technical Observer panel...'

I skimmed the rest—the ceremony date, the location, a request to confirm attendance—until my eyes caught on the list of the other two nominees.

One of them was Luca Moretti.

I turned to see him already on his feet, pulling on his trousers silently. I showed him my phone screen.

He nodded, reaching for his discarded sweatshirt and pulling it on.

"This is week after next—" I calculated in my head, "—that's one week before the opening Euros match."

"Yep," Luca nodded, straightening up to brush his fingers through his hair. "Excited?" he added, no hint of his usual smile or smirk on his face.

I shrugged. "I do not really care for it."

"Well, a lot of it is... influenced by media opinion," he said slowly. "So someone who looks good on paper."

I tilted my head to the side, trying to study his reaction. He seemed calm... although there was a definite tension in his shoulders, which was in stark contrast to the tender moment we had shared minutes ago.

"I suppose," I said. "But I am sure at the end of the day someone with better stat-is-ti-cal—"

"Hard to judge," he said, pulling on his coat and shoving his hands into his pockets. "You, Lorenzo, and I have very similar metrics."

"True," I agreed. "But similar is not the same." I pulled up the season metrics on my phone—the ones I reviewed after every match. "Your expected goals overperformance is superior to mine. You convert roughly seventy-one percent of high-quality chances; I convert sixty-three. In front of goal, you are the better finisher. Statistically, it is not close."

Luca's shoulders eased a fraction. His lips parted ever so slightly.

"However," I continued, scrolling, "the award is for overall contribution across the campaign, not finishing alone. And there, the metrics diverge." I turned the screen toward him, though he did not look. "My progressive passing, chance creation, and involvement in build-up are each in the ninety-fifth percentile or higher. Yours are strong, but concentrated in the final third. I influence roughly forty percent more of each match by volume of actions. Lorenzo is close to me in creation but weaker defensively. So, mathematically, if the panel weights total influence—which they historically do—the probability favors me."

I set the phone down, satisfied with the analysis. It was simply the truth, laid out cleanly. I had assumed he would find it as interesting as I did.

But when I looked up, something was wrong with his expression. He did not look angry, I felt like anger was something I could deal with. His shoulders slumped, a dark shadow passing across his features. Like he was...defeated.

"Right," he said, his voice flat. "Yeah. Makes sense."

"I did not mean it as—" I paused. I was not certain what I did not mean it as. I only knew, from the set of his jaw, that I had done something. Some invisible thing, in some language I did not have. "You are the better finisher," I offered again, because it was the part that had pleased him, and I wanted to return to it. "That is not a small thing. I would not score half of what I do without—"

"You don't think it's got anything to do with the fact that, say—very certain media people absolutely despise me?"

I blinked. "Who... and why?"

"A bunch," he scoffed. "Someone told you make a better story."

"A... story," the words tasted odd on my tongue.

"Think about it—" he continued, "—you disappear from pro football for years. Come back, hammer it home for England, next season win the Champions League—"

"With you," I reminded him. "With the team."

He clicked his tongue. "Regardless. They love your face on the tabloids anyway."

"I have a seventy per—" I offered, willing him to understand the math of what I was trying to portray.

"I gotta go, El." He was already at the door. "Coach."

"You said that already." I reminded him, my heart sinking. The warmth and fuzz from minutes ago disappeared under waves of cold. 

He paused, one hand on the frame. For a moment I thought he might turn around. He didn't.

"Confirm your attendance," he said, nodding at my phone. "You'll win it. You should be there."

And then he was gone, and the room was very quiet, and I was left holding the data that had, somehow, been the wrong thing to say.