Wake up.

Wake up.

WAKE. UP.

It was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

"We are really sorry." The doctor had told my dad almost a decade ago, one hand on his knee, her face furrowed with the expression that I had realized people used when they pitied you. I remembered Lucy and how she had been too young to understand what was going on. How it took her weeks to realize that Mom wasn't coming to do her hair before bed each day. How many weeks she went with the only lopsided braid I had managed to learn, the toast that always ended up being too burnt or too raw in her lunch box that was held together by rubber bands, while I myself—'forgot' to eat.

The burning behind my eyelids was too tangible, pulling me back onto the stone-cold floor where I lay. I looked up at the slightly parted curtains of my hotel room, making a conscious effort to breathe through the heavy air.

I had been a coward then. I was still a coward today.

'You have to go, Luca,' my dad had said, placing the tux he had rented on my unmade bed. 'This will be... your last chance—' His voice had broken, and I did not turn back to look at him.

'You need to say goodbye to her,' he had said, placing a shaking hand on my shoulder.

I hadn't. I had stayed in my bed. I had stared up at the ceiling for hours. I had let my curls tangle; I had left my bed unmade, even though I knew my mom hadn't walked into my room for months now—ever since she became bedridden.

I had been a coward then—because the idea of seeing my mom in a sleep she would never wake up from, no matter how 'peaceful' my dad had claimed she looked—wasn't one I was ready to face.

I had always been a coward.

I let things go.

I let people leave.

Because facing them would mean facing the truth.

And I wasn't someone who ever could do that.

How do I be normal for you?

My ears bled from Elliot's shaking words.

Do you love me?

The answer spilled and died in my throat, crushing my heart in icy claws. If only I could have said yes. That's all he needed. A yes. An assurance. An assurance that I was a fucking coward while the award ceremony raged on outside. My circus.

'I've realized, honey—' my mom had said to me one day when she was combing my hair gently, making sure each curl was in its place, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners as I had scowled in protest. 'If something feels wrong, more often than not, it is because it is wrong.'

A loud knock on the door felt like something banging against my skull. I waited for it to go away. But it didn't.

"Luca?"

I dragged myself to my feet from my position on the floor, lowering my legs from the mattress. I reached for my phone, which was still open to Valentina Reznick's text.

I had a great time tonight! :) Papa invited you to the art auction in January, if you are up for it. Will make travel arrangements.

I hadn't responded.

I took a deep breath before opening the door a peek to see Lollo and Teo peering at me, their eyebrows furrowed in worry.

"What's going on, fra?" Teo said, while Lollo's eyes seemed to dart around my room. "You feeling sick?"

"No." I shook my head, massaging my temple and the crick in my neck. "What's going on?"

"It's ten-thirty," Lollo said slowly. "You skipped breakfast and the morning drills. Wha—" His eyes roved down my frame before he shook his head, his forehead creasing. "Are you sick?"

He stepped up to me, placing one warm hand against my clammy forehead, frowning. "You might have a fever. What's going on?"

He pushed the door open, and I let him, because I did not have the strength to hold it shut anymore.

"You look awful," he stated as Teo walked in, fixing my bedsheet and plopping onto the mattress. "Did you sleep at all? Got drunk yesterday or—"

I shook my head.

"Thought you left with—" Lollo nodded. "Her."

I shook my head again. "Just left a little early," I said, the image of Elliot's devastating gray eyes like a knife twisting in my heart. "Sorry. Guess I was exhausted. I'll join you guys at lunch."

"Coach Vardo was asking about you—" Lollo continued. "Said he came to wake you up, got no response, figured you needed to rest."

"Didn't show up for hours, so we came here," Teo said, picking at a stray thread on the bedsheet. "This is not like you, Moré. I have never known you to miss a morning drill. Even with the rain and thunder, even if nobody was on the pitch, you've been there. So, what's going on?"

"Is this about the award?" Lollo asked, leaning on one elbow on the mattress.

Only then did I realize what he meant. The Player of the Season, the one that Elliot got. The one I never truly got to congratulate him for. The night he was supposed to celebrate— where he had become a crying, shaking, trembling mess. All because of me.

That's what I did. I took away his happiness.

I grimaced and shook my head once, immediately regretting the way a muscle pulled in my shoulder. I remembered returning to the hotel in a trance and collapsing onto the cold floor. I had taken off after Elliot the second he had left, not really thinking, not really knowing what I wanted to say. What I could say so my world and his would stop collapsing on us. I had walked back to the national camp in a trance, my brain too numb, all coherent thoughts escaping me. And somewhere in between it all, I must have dozed off.

"At least social media has good stuff to say about us, eh?" Teo added, slapping my back with a faltering grin.

"What...?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"Ah let's see—" Lollo cleared his throat theatrically, pulling out his phone and squinting at the screen. "Some poll says our team is the...hottest."

I coughed. "The hottest?"

"The hottest," Lollo grinned, rubbing my back. "But let's be real, Moré here is the one carrying that on his shoulders."

Teo chuckled, ruffling my hair. "Come to the pitch, you'll feel better."

"I need a shower," I said shortly, making my way into the bathroom without waiting for a response. I was aware of them exchanging looks with each other. They called after me just as I washed my face, telling me they were heading back to the pitch. I didn't respond.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror and used the face wash I had brought to scrub it clean. What the hell was I doing? I had the biggest tournament of my life in a week. And here I was, sleeping in, missing training as the captain of a national team that hadn't had a single major trophy in more than a decade.

I let the cold shower hit my sweaty skin, leaning against the tiles as it drizzled down my body. I kept my eyes open, rubbing them vigorously, knowing what torturous image was going to conjure behind them the second I shut them.

I remembered the way he was shaking, the way he kept beating at the center of his chest, overwhelmed, overstimulated. I knew how to take care of him. I knew him.

And god, I was so madly in love with him.

And still, I stayed quiet.

I dried myself off, pulling on my training kit and leaning against the sink. I had made my decision. I had ignored him. I had let him feel abandoned. I had chosen the fake image I had built over his devotion.

And now I would pay the price.

But that price was mine to bear. I wasn't going to let my team, my country, fail because their captain was a coward. They, like Elliot, deserved better.

And maybe he would be fine. Maybe this is what was going to happen anyway. Maybe he was going to go back to his training camp; maybe Bennett would be there offering him something I never could. He deserved the world. And the world wasn't mine to give.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to run through the hallway, emerging onto the brightly lit pitch where Coach Vardo immediately walked over with a frown. He asked me if I was feeling okay. I lied. He asked me if I needed to rest. I said 'no', honestly.

I wasn't sure what I needed. Wasn't sure how to get rid of something that was not anything. An emptiness. A hollowness that felt like sadness but looked like damnation.

I plastered on the well-practiced smile, one that didn't reach my eyes. But the only person who ever had access to my soul wasn't there to note the difference. To give me a clinical breakdown about why the brightness in my eyes was decimal points different than usual.

And I got onto the pitch and decided to lie for the rest of my life. Even if it killed whatever little part of me was still, agonizingly, hopefully—alive.