Ti amo, Elliot.

What the fuck had I been thinking?

Buried balls deep inside him, brain completely off, at the very edge of my sanity—and I confessed something that I had been concealing so carefully. And it felt like it was already costing me.

"Terra chiama, Moré, ci sei?"

My eyes snapped up at Lollo, who was blinking down at me, sweat dripping down his dark hair and onto his forehead.

I nodded, finished tying my cleats, and got to my feet.

"You good?" he asked, nudging my ribs as we started running laps around the national team pitch. "You've been super quiet, spacing out all day. Kinda scarier than the loud, obnoxious you."

I tried to smile, but it may have come out as a grimace. "Just trying to focus on Euros."

"Not Player of the Season?" he grinned, reaching out to ruffle my hair playfully. "Where's your cocky swagger?"

I shrugged. "Don't think I'll get it."

He groaned. "Don't let Bellini get into your head, fra."

"What?" I blinked at him, raising an eyebrow. "What about Bellini?"

"Oh." He pursed his lips, speaking slowly. "Well... he has been going rather ballistic. Just...just shit to psyche you out."

I crouched down to pick up my bag, pulling my phone from it as Lollo leaned over my shoulder. I typed in his name, and the very first article told me what Lollo was talking about. 

'Star Striker Moretti's First International Test

Can the controversial-'

I scoffed, "Controversial—?"

"It's bullshit, I told you-"

I rolled my eyes, reading the rest of the article, which went on to talk about how the team was highly reliant on the quiet Lorenzo and Rossi. How this would be the first time I was truly tested. I stared at the last line for a few seconds, my mouth dry. 

'—and whether one of Italy's loudest hopes in decades— Moretti— can bellow without Hayes's silence'

I shoved my phone back into my bag and straightened up with a deep sigh. "Yeah, you see? I am not getting that award. The slimeball is hard at work—"

He froze, turning around to face me, his eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, but he always is. What  makes you think—?"

"Media loves a story," I said, shrugging. "It's fine. Whatever. I don't really care."

"Who do you think gets it?" Lollo asked as we resumed our sprinting. "Lopez? Hayes?"

My heart leapt to my throat at the mention of Elliot's name. "Dunno. Maybe Hayes."

"Why?"

I rolled my eyes. "Drop it, Lollo. It's fine. Hayes provides a better story, a better image. Plus—" I laughed humorlessly, "I provide like... seventy percent less accuracy?"

"You're talking like Hayes," he muttered. "You have as much of a chance as him and Lopez. If not more."

"That's a lie and you know it," I challenged as I paused and crouched to pull out my flask, taking a long sip as I gazed around at the sunny pitch. Teo and Pippo were running drills behind us. The rest of the team was scattered, some running around the cones set up at the end of the pitch. I poured some of the water over my face, lifting my jersey to wipe it off with unwarranted aggression. Lollo's eyes dropped lower for a split second before coming back up to meet me, his face flushed from the heat.

"You know you also have a story," he said, shrugging. "Maybe not... the underdog, I guess. But you know? Italian American, scratched his way to the top, won championships—" He patted my back. "That also can amount to something."

"Maybe," I said, placing my flask back into the bag. "But I'm not expecting a lot, to tell you the truth."

After drills, Teo invited me for lunch again, but I declined, making my way to my bike in the back alley alone. I picked up my phone and set the map to Nonna's hospice—an almost two-hour ride on the outskirts of the city. The idea of being alone with my thoughts was damning, but at least I had an excuse to be alone for a while.

I hadn't gotten to see Nonna last week, making a split-second decision to go see Elliot instead. I didn't regret it. It had been worth it to see his eyes light up from the keychain. And maybe some part of me was relieved in delaying having to see my her anyway. 

Ti amo, Luca.

I cursed silently, struggling with the buckle on my helmet when I heard a loud beep behind me. I turned to see a vaguely familiar Merc, and Lollo hanging out of the driver's seat, waving at me. I walked over to him, fixing my helmet and pulling my visor up as I leaned against his window. "Not going for lunch?" I inquired.

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm too cool for that shit, you know that."

I scoffed. "They didn't invite you, did they?"

He scowled. "Yes, they did!"

I chuckled, patting the back of his head. "I'm just messing with you."

"How come you're not going?" he asked. "Life of the party and professional extrovert Luca Moretti—" He grinned wolfishly. "Chiara?"

I rolled my eyes. "Nope. Family stuff."

"Oh." His face fell instantly. He teetered on the edge of asking something; I could tell that much, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel before he apparently thought better of it. "Uh, well, is there anything I can do to help?"

"Nah, I'm fine," I shot him half a smile. "I appreciate it though."

"Right, let me know if you need anything, okay?" he said softly.

I groaned theatrically, "No, Lorenzo, don't go all sappy on me. It's disgusting, frankly."

He chuckled, reaching out to give my hand a squeeze. "Alright. Fuck off and die."

"Will do." I gave him a two-fingered salute before going back to my bike and hopping on. He remained standing near the porch till I whizzed off, weaving my way through the bright, dusty streets.

Elliot had texted me soon after I had left Manchester. Whole documents which apparently had mapped-out metrics. From Elliot, it was a—'these are the metrics that will decide who is to win'. From anyone else, it was basically a—'I am better, and this is why.'

I knew he didn't mean it that way. Of course he didn't. But it still stung. To have all my many, many flaws thrown in my face. Like even though I was loud and proud on the pitch, he was one of those people who saw right through it. He and a million other media people who claimed I was just a flash in the pan. Too hot-headed, too loud, too arrogant, too passionate—too American, not enough Italian.

And the Euros. Each step I took would be under worldwide scrutiny. Every single one of my actions would be overanalyzed. Bellini would be foaming at the mouth if I slipped up in any way. He had been soft-launching our team's 'geniuses Loreno and Rossi' anyway. 

I sped up, running a traffic light when I was sure there was no one around, as if trying to outrun my own thoughts. The harsh wind whipped around me, the familiar, comforting whir of the bike acting as catharsis.

Why did I care so much about this stupid award anyway? I had won Golden Boy last year. Why did I care so much for Player of the Season?

Maybe because last year, due to Elliot just having rejoined pro football, I hadn't competed against him.

Maybe because as a teenager, I had never truly outshone him.

In my raw honesty, I had never really proved to be better than Elliot Hayes.

Probably because I wasn't.

The way he moved on the pitch was eerie. A mathematical precision, like an alien playing. Not to mention his devil-may-care attitude outside, so unfazed by everything. The latter was a lie, of course. He was honest, to a fault. To the point where his honesty felt so pure that it was almost a lie.

And what the fuck was I thinking, saying those stupid words to him just because I was horny? He was going to remember those. Hell, I was going to remember that. How do you forget something like that?

Before this, it was fine. It was just sex. Hooking up. It was casual... but now—

'He's very, very devoted.'

Charlotte Hayes had said. And she was right.

The worst part of it all: even though I was seething that Elliot was going to win an award I never wanted in the first place, I knew if it was the other way around—he would have been elated. Because he was a much better man than I could ever dream of being.

I pulled up in front of the old white building, hopping off the bike and taking my helmet off to hang it against the handlebars. I made my way up the front staircase. The second that I did, the familiar smell of antiseptic, musty clothes, and medicines assaulted my senses.

"Luca!" Nurse Rimi waved at me, tottering over to me with a bright smile. "Ah, it's been too long! We have been expecting you."

I gave her a hug, kissing her cheek before leaning back to return her smile. "Hi, Rimi. Yeah, back to training for Euros."

She nodded. "I figured. Come, she has been asking about you."

"How... how is she doing?" I asked as she led me down a long corridor. A few nurses rolled some of the patients in wheelchairs, a few patients walking slowly nearby. Some family members gathered in a huddle, talking in soft voices near the pale white walls.

Her smile faltered, and she turned to me, sighing softly.

"She... is in the advanced stages now, Luca. She has been having great difficulty swallowing. Lost a lot of weight. But don't... don't comment on it."

I gulped and nodded, feeling my legs already go weak from the dread of seeing her frail and thin. Even more than I had last month.

"We have some liquid food on standby, in case we do need to use it. We might try it next week onwards; let's see how it progresses," she remarked as we stood in front of the door to my Nonna's room. She turned to me. "Just... try to act as normal as you can."

I nodded, shifting my feet.

Nurse Rimi opened the door, speaking loudly through it. "Concetta! Look who is here!"

The door opened, and I saw Nonna sitting in a wheelchair near the large windows. The floor fell from under my feet. She looked noticeably thinner than I remembered, her eyes glassy, her wispy hair unkempt. She gave me a quavery smile when she finally recognized me, her eyes lighting up in stark contrast to the dull surroundings. "Lulu!"

I swallowed the lump in my throat and crossed the room in three strides, kneeling on my knees in front of her and taking her cold hands in mine. "Nonna, I've missed you."

She laughed, patting the top of my head and cupping my face. "Look at you! My world champion!"

"Still got Euros, Nonna," I grinned at her, ignoring the way her hands shook against my face. I kissed the back of her hands. "First European champions, then world champions."

"Mio Dio, how long have you let your hair grow?" She shook her head, her thin lips pursed as she reached over with a trembling hand. I shut my eyes, leaning onto her lap as she carefully brushed through my hair, muttering in Italian I could not catch.

The back of my eyes burned with unsaid emotions. Her cold, slender fingers trembled hard, even more than I remembered. The same fingers that had meticulously 'fixed' my hair every morning before school, right before I messed it up again. The same fingers that had rolled ravioli on weekends only, because I had started a strict diet and could not eat processed food every day anymore. The same fingers that had held my little hand as she took me to the football academy when she saw how passionate I was about the game.

I sniffled, squeezing my eyes shut as the front of her smock became wet with my tears. My shoulders trembled. I wasn't ready for this. How could I ever be ready for this? What would I say to Lucy? Where would I go?

I took a deep breath, drying my eyes as best as I could before I leaned back to look at her. "Are you taking your meds?"

She didn't seem to hear me, her eyes fixed on the curtains beside her on the floor-length window.

"Nonna?"

"Carmela sarebbe tanto fiera di te," she said before turning to look at me.

Carmela would be proud of you.

It seemed to have been ages since I had even thought about my mother's name, let alone heard someone else use it. My stomach turned uncomfortably. Nonna was now almost the spitting image of my mother, just forty years later. Same gradual frailty, same glassy eyes, the same trembling in her limbs, bedridden till her last days.

"Sì, Nonna," I kissed her hands, holding them in mine. "E tu?"

She smiled, and for a second all her wrinkles seemed to disappear. "Io? Oh, sono così fiera di te, tesoro mio."

I sniffled, a low chuckle escaping my lips at her use of 'my treasure.' That she was oh so proud of her treasure. She hadn't called me that since I was a child. And back then, picking fights everywhere, getting into trouble every day—I had scarcely been a treasure.

"You are everything your father never was," she said quietly.

"That's a very low bar," I laughed humorlessly, rising to my feet.

She sighed before looking up at me. "He came... to see me. Last week."

I blinked, my heart hammering in my throat. "W-what?"

She nodded. "Giovanni—" she said, and just the mere sound of his name made the edges of my vision flash white for a split second.

"Perché?" I asked, needing to know why he was there in the first place.

"He was... looking for you," she answered softly, as if she was as afraid of my reaction as I was. "I did not tell him."

"G—Grazie, Nonna," I gave her a nod.

Nurse Rimi knocked loudly on the door, leaning through with a large tray. "Concetta, il pranzo?"

My Nonna nodded as Nurse Rimi walked in and set the large food tray on the bedside table.

"Nurse Rimi—" I began as another nurse walked in to help Nonna with her food. "A word?"

She nodded and followed me to the small balcony overlooking the gardens, where a few residents sat in a circle, talking in loud Italian. "Giovanni Moretti—" I began. "He was here?"

A dark shadow passed across her face. "Sì," she answered. "I... I was about to tell you. I assume your grandmother did?"

I nodded, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "What does he want? Did he ask for information from you?"

She took a sharp breath. "Well, I did not know. Even if I did, I would not tell him. But yes, he did. Asked me about you. But actually, he seemed more interested in asking about Luciana."

"Lucy?" I raised my eyebrows at her. "Hah." I gave a humorless smirk, leaning against the bannister and glaring at the ivy tree in front of me like it had personally wronged me. "Guess he wants to manipulate a child now so she would support him."

Nurse Rimi shook her head before sighing. "He might be here again next week. If you—" she seemed to think better of whatever she was about to suggest and shook her head again. "He just went to Concetta, sat with her for a while, then asked me about Luciana and you. And left. But he did tell me he would be back next week."

"Can you give me a call next time he does?" I said. "I... I'd like him to stay away from my little sister."

"Right, will do," she nodded.

I spent another hour sitting with Nonna as she ate whatever little she could manage, blessed the pendant on my chest, and kissed my forehead in goodbye. And even though I should have felt warm, every step I took toward my bike weighed heavier than the last. Everything would be different the next time I would be here. And I did not know if I was ready for that difference. Cold dread dragged my steps as I forced my lungs to breathe the sharp air. 

What did Giovanni want anyway? I had barely spoken to him for the past four years. Just enough to know he was alive. Although I wasn't entirely sure I cared about that anyway. And Nonna's health was rapidly worsening... what the fuck did he want with Lucy? She had just gotten back from her suspension; what if he put her in trouble again? 

The Euros loomed like a serpent in the distance. And somewhere, beneath everything, I could still hear the clumsily pronounced Italian, soft, sincere, and catastrophic.

Ti amo, Luca.