It was a little easier to not collapse onto the ground when the Euros began.

Our opening match was the third match of the tournament, against Netherlands—a team that I had faced a couple of times already in international friendlies. The pressure this time, however, was incomparable.

We stood in the tunnel as the stadium roared outside.

"This is it, Moré," Lollo muttered in my ear, squeezing my shoulder from behind.

"Yep, it is." I tried ignoring the writhing worms in my belly, trying to feel some of the confidence I had injected into my locker room speech. I had never played on such a huge stage, and neither had most of the team. I couldn't show my nerves; it would make things so much worse for them, no matter how much I was lying to myself or everyone around me.

The national anthems played soon after we jogged onto the pitch to a deafening crowd. I gazed up at the stands, watching the sea of blue cheer us on. And even though it should have made me feel better—should have made me feel invigorated—it was terrifying in a way nothing else was.

This is what I was here for. This is what I had trained my entire life for. This is what I had sacrificed everything for.

What if it was all for naught?

I gulped, taking a deep breath before plastering on a smile and waving at the crowd. We took our positions around the center circle soon after. I could hear the crowd even through the haze in my brain as a high-pitched, shrill whistle pierced through it, and we were off.

The game was slow, for the most part, which was a relief. Unlike us, the Dutch team had made it to the Euros multiple times in the last decade. They were much more comfortable in their skin, which was apparent by the way their ball possession steadily increased up until the first half.

At the forty-second minute, I managed to break into a run on the right wing. I passed to Teo, who back-heeled to Lollo, who made it right outside the penalty box. Up in the stands, the crowd went wild with anticipation. I pelted toward the ball, lifting my leg to kick it when I felt a sharp pain in my lower back and toppled onto the grass. A whistle erupted as I looked up to see their number 2—de Jong—grinning sheepishly with his arms held up.

Teo pulled me back to my feet, grumbling under his breath as the rest of the team hounded the referee. Lollo spoke angrily to de Jong, who simply shrugged and walked away.

A fruitless free kick later, the game resumed.

I glanced up at the scoreboard as the half-time whistle rang.

Netherlands 0 – 0 Italy

I sat at the back during half time as Coach Vardo spoke to us. I nodded at appropriate times, my mind racing elsewhere. England had had their first game against France a couple of days ago. Elliot had one goal and one assist in their 2–1 victory. And somehow, I couldn't help but panic.

He was the player of the season. He was the most favorite player at the tournament—hence making England the frontrunners for the title.

But the worst part was how calm he had looked. This was how it was supposed to be. He was a professional, as was I. This was what we were there for. This was... how it was supposed to be. I told myself over and over and over again, hoping it would actually be true.

But was it supposed to hurt like hell? Was it supposed to feel like a burning agony in the pit of my belly when Bennett had embraced Elliot after his goal? When Elliot had lifted three fingers horizontally—forming an E—and kissed the tip of them?

"Think we face them in the knockouts?" Rossi had wondered out loud at lunch the previous day, as we watched the highlights of the England vs. France match.

"Inevitable, isn't it?" Lollo had chimed in. "Either that or the semis. Maybe even the finals if we're unlucky enough."

I had decided to drink a tall glass of water instead, squeezing my eyes shut so I didn't have to see the way Bennett looked at Elliot. My Elliot. Or... he had been. I had no right to feel this way. I wished I didn't feel this way. I wished I could rip my heart away so I could focus on things that were actually under my control.

There was some catharsis in the fact that Elliot didn't seem to look at him—at all. And I couldn't help but feel a gratifying, sadistic pleasure each time Bennett reached out to Elliot and he subtly flinched away. He would never flinch away from me. He hadn't.

Until, of course, I had pushed him away.

I was pulled back to the locker room when Coach Vardo addressed me, and even though I wasn't completely sure what he had said, I nodded.

The second half was almost as uneventful as the first—except at the eighty-second minute. Their right winger lobbed a pass right over my head to their striker, who pelted a straight, powerful shot into the back of the net.

I stood still, panting, as all my fears crystallized into a single moment. The Dutch side broke into a thundering roar. I glanced at Lollo, who was grimacing up at the scoreboard like he could somehow erase it. But there was no wiggle room. It was a great shot, a clear goal.

And the only one that game.

I dragged myself off the pitch ten minutes later, carefully shaking the hands of the Dutch players. Sven de Jong, their loud defender, walked up to me with a grin that somehow didn't reach his eyes, but my overexerted heart felt too numb to care.

My first international game, the most important game of my life so far, had ended. Another loss.

Elliot Hayes was better. He had seventy percent better accuracy, or whatever the hell it was that he had told me that day. But I wasn't sure I cared about that. He was better. A better player, a better human, a better lover.

All I was was someone who had let every single person down—whoever had dared to trust in me. As if believing in me itself was a sin. Whereas, I was the greatest sinner.

*

"Don't even—" Lollo snatched my phone from me, switching it off and shoving it into his pocket as I groaned and lay flat on my back on the bed.

"Tyrant," I muttered as he grinned at me and slumped beside me.

"Stop reading that shit, it's gonna get to your head," he declared. "We face Austria tomorrow, we redeem ourselves. What's done is done."

"He's right—" Pippo muttered as he sat at the edge of my bed, his eyes glued to his phone screen. "Plus, Bellini's full of shit."

I scoffed, covering my face with my hands. I wasn't sure Pippo was right. In fact, it felt like for the first time—Bellini had hit the nail on the head.

Moretti e la maglia azzurra: manca il cuore? — Moretti and the blue shirt: is the heart missing?

Does Moretti need his English 'friend' to shine?

I had had negligible influence on the game, which Bellini had quickly pointed out in his article. That I needed Elliot to make a mark on the pitch. And of course, he had put 'friend' in air quotes.

But the next day, the roaring stadium was almost enough to drown out the voices in my head.

Lollo, beside me, gave a low whistle, his fingers twisting the edge of his jersey, his feet fidgeting nervously. Today was our second group stage match. A chance at redemption after the disastrous Dutch game.

I glanced up at the stands, my stomach twisting in guilt at the hundreds of faces beaming down at me. All still trusting, all still hoping. Or all still putting up a facade—much like their captain.

Lollo squeezed my shoulder, leaning in to speak softly. "We got this, Moré. Block everything out. You said that, remember?"

I nodded, taking a deep breath as we filed out of the tunnel and onto the pitch. I glanced up at the Italian supporters again as the national anthem started booming from the speakers. I fixed my gaze on my cleats, taking deep breaths to try to clear my head.

I couldn't think about anything. I had worked for this for far too long. We needed this win, or we wouldn't be able to make it to the knockouts. Not now. Not after we had finally reached Euros and had a real shot at an international trophy.

Ten minutes later, after the team photos, we took our positions in front of Austria. I shut my eyes, and instantly, Elliot's glistening gray eyes floated to the back of my mind. But I couldn't think about it. Not now. I had to win. We had to win.

A short while later, we were off.

I could tell my team was underconfident, possibly because I myself was underconfident. So I decided to put on a show. Something I was actually good at.

I gestured at the fans to scream louder for every chance we created, passing confident smirks to the opponents as we intercepted the ball from them for a free kick. I blocked out the world, blocked myself out, and focused on the ball as I caught it from Lollo's pass. And I broke free.

Before I made it too far, however, their defender—Fuchs—pelted toward me. I knew I had nobody beside me or behind me and was forced to kick the ball out into the stands in panic—something that the Austrian player was quick to notice. He sneered at me as he stood at the sidelines, twirling the ball between his hands.

"Can't do much without your English boyfriend?"

My ears burned, my blood turning to ice at his taunt. He threw the ball to one of his defenders, and the game restarted before I even got my bearings. He was trying to get in my head, using whatever bullshit articles he had read to try to psyche me out. It was the nature of the game: trash-talking, belittling the opponent.

But something about the specific nature of that taunt hit the one thing that some ugly part of me knew was true. Elliot shone without me. He was the one who made the difference. I might be a better finisher, but I wasn't a playmaker of his caliber.

It was the exact same wound again. I didn't feel the blue shirt, couldn't perform as well for Italy—the shirt I had bled for more than a decade.

I took a steadying breath, focusing on the ball and tuning out everything else. I would rather be a dead man than let a random guy get in my head. Or two random guys. Or a million of them.

I pelted down the right wing, making a back-pedal pass to Pippo, who lobbed the ball over a sliding defender and passed it to Teo. I closed in on the penalty box; another pass and I rocketed the ball toward the goalpost. One of the Austrian defenders leaped to his feet—a beautiful header that lobbed the ball off the goalpost. We had a corner.

"Take it," I said to Lollo, who nodded and took his position at the flag post. He curled the ball over the Austrian defenders, giving me a free pass, and I headed the ball into the back of the net.

Italy 1 – 0 Austria

L. Moretti (#9) 22'

I flashed my signature 'M' symbol: two upside-down victory fingers with the index fingers touching, inverted near my chest. The team rushed over to me in a suffocating embrace. Our first goal in a major international tournament. The skies above thundered as the Italian crowd went wild, chanting, "Moré! Moré! Moré!"

I flashed them a victory smile, kissing the tip of my finger and lifting it toward them.

The goal gave my team the confidence we needed as our midfield went aggressive. By the eightieth minute, we had full control of the game and an overwhelming majority of possession. I flicked a pass to Lollo, who shot straight at the goal. The ball rocketed into the top left corner of the net.

Italy 2 – 0 Austria

L. Moretti (#9) 22'

L. Lorenzo (#11) 81'

The game ended without us conceding a single goal. I made it a point to glance at Fuchs, who stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the scoreboard. I shot him a wink and a smirk, and I could almost see the steam billowing from his ears.

Uno reverse, bitch.

And even though it was only our second game, the energy in the locker room was infectious. Coach Vardo tried to get a hold of the team, fighting a smile as he tried to tell us what we should improve for the next game. I glanced down at my phone, opening text messages even though I knew I wouldn't find anything.

Do let me know how your respective training is going. I am taking the weekend off. Last one before Euros. I can travel.

That was his last message.

Possibly ever.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, the infectious cheering in the locker room disappearing into a pit in my stomach. All the euphoria I should have felt dampened as a heavy cavity opened in my chest. England had had another historic victory over Germany, 3–1, pitching them as tournament favorites. Elliot had scored the first goal and provided an assist for the second. I had watched the game in my room with Lollo and Teo, both of whom had made comments that did not reach me.

Every time Elliot appeared on the screen, my heart seemed to break a little more. He seemed... normal. And I hated myself for expecting anything else. He was a professional. He was playing just like he always had. Eerie, mathematical, scary precision. Like he had completely erased the incomplete equation he had with me.

Someone slapped my back with startling violence, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I looked up to see Lollo crouching in front of me, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "You good?"

I nodded, plastering on a smile and shoving my phone into my pocket. I glanced behind him and saw that the locker room had emptied out, somewhere between their ecstatic singing and my reverie.

"You've been spacing out for like ten minutes," Lollo said, taking a seat beside me and pulling off his cleats. "You did great, Moré. Not much Bellini can say about your performance today."

"Yeah, you too," I said quietly, checking my phone, which had buzzed with a notification. It was the group chat with Chiara and Lucy, where both of them were spamming GIFs.

"Lunch?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll join," I said, reaching for my flask and taking a long sip of water. Lollo kept staring at me throughout, chewing on his tongue as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.

"Alright," he said finally, giving my knee a squeeze before rising to his feet. He ruffled my hair playfully, grinning ear to ear. "We win this."

I managed to force a smile, which disappeared the second he left. I slumped against the cold locker, gazing up at the clinical white lights.

Just one month. Just one more month of my circus performance.

Before the rest of my life followed.