By the end of two weeks, Bellini's articles had become increasingly aggressive.

"Il numero 11 che l'Ambrosiana non ha voluto trascina gli Azzurri," Lollo read out loud with a groan. "He's actually lost his mind."

I scoffed, slumping onto the mattress and biting into an apple. 'The number 11 Ambrosiana didn't want is carrying the Italian team—' This had been Bellini's response when Italy reached the knockouts, sealing a clean victory over France in a high-tension 1–0 match with Lollo scoring our sole goal.

He squinted, staring at the phone in front of his face. "He's like a cartoon villain," he scoffed.

"You guys need to stop looking at what the news channel is saying after every match—" Teo said as he plopped onto the mattress, making it dip under him. Lollo glanced up at him from where he was lying on the mattress beside me.

"Keep your enemies close and your friends closer or something," Lollo said.

I smacked his head as he scowled. "You just invented a new saying."

"But you're right," Lollo grinned wolfishly, sitting up straight and nudging me. "Look at the bright side. Social media absolutely loves you. You're their favorite guy right now, check this out—"

He thrust his phone into my face, where I could see rows and rows and rows of edits of me. Playing, smiling, winking—the whole performance I had been exaggerating throughout the tournament. A few thirst traps with slowed-down phonk music and a shot of my abs when I had lifted the jersey to wipe my face.

Teo leaned over my shoulder and guffawed, slapping my back. "Bet Lumera regrets dropping you now."

My stomach turned as Lollo shot him a glance. "Too soon, fra," he murmured.

"Sorry," Teo shook his head before kissing the top of my head. "Nah, I mean it. Once we win this shit, they're going to regret this."

I leaned back into the mattress, scrolling mindlessly through Lollo's phone before a video popped up.

Elliot Hayes: The Golden Wonderboy That Rose Against All Odds.

My heart splintered into a million pieces as video shots of Elliot's infamous press conference of his Ambrosiana transfer played, followed by the goals he had scored so far in the tournament. Mostly assists, but four beautiful shots, including three free kicks that seemed to defy all laws of physics. The video continued with a shot of him smiling at the camera, his hair messy, his jersey soaked through, his face pink as he held up three fingers horizontally forming an 'E' and kissing the tip of it.

"Cheesy," Lollo scoffed. "But hey, if I had his records, I'd be as cheesy as possible."

An odd ringing had started in my ears, my stomach churning uneasily as the video repeated on a loop.

"Moré?" Lollo nudged me, and I glanced at him with a weak laugh.

"Right? So cheesy. He's never done that before," I added.

"Yeah, he's not a show-off really," Lollo agreed as he scrolled to the next video. Another montage of Elliot's goals and assists this game. One short video of Elliot lobbing a beautiful pass after weaving through three German defenders and passing the ball to Bennett. After the goal, Bennett ran to plant a heavy kiss on Elliot's temple, who laughed at him, his eyes bright.

My entire world spun rapidly in and out of existence.

This was it. Bennett could give him what I never could. They were now being called the three lions' golden duo. The perfect pair. So perfectly and sickeningly hellish. 

I shut the phone and handed it to Lollo, turning around and burying my face into the pillows. My mind whirled rapidly, my breathing ragged. Memories of Elliot in Inverness, him sweaty and naked and so desperate under me, his breathless giggle, the way his eyes sparkled when he was trying to joke.

The same way they sparkled now at Bennett.

Lollo stroked the back of my head, saying something I didn't quite catch.

"I'm gonna sleep," I said, my voice muffled.

I waited for the mattress to rise as Lollo got to his feet, said good night to me, and shut the door behind him. I reached for my phone, opening up Elliot's texts. England had made it to the quarter-finals. Just like Italy.

you're playing amazing, saw your game ag—

I erased my text and tried again.

Hey, how are you? If you are fr—

I erased it again.

I love you.

*

I knew facing Spain at the semis would be our biggest challenge yet. We had practiced our defenses like maniacs, knowing if we conceded once against their legendary defense— the game was as good as lost. 

End of Extra Time

Italy 0 – 0 Spain

I took a deep breath as I walked up to the penalty kick spot. Spain's goalkeeper spread his arms wide, his eyes focused on me, skipping on the spot.

The whistle shrieked through the air. I took a sharp breath and feigned a power kick before gently lobbing the ball right at the center of the net. The bluff worked; the goalkeeper flew to his side with his arms wide as the ball sailed under his torso.

The stadium erupted.

I flashed a confident smirk to the crowd as I went to join my team. Spain's striker took his spot in front of Rossi. I took a sharp breath, watching as the striker rocketed the ball into the top right corner with clinical precision.

We were even.

Lollo stepped up, his chest heaving. I forced myself to watch even though my legs felt like jelly. Just four shots between heartbreak and a dream.

He swung his leg; the ball whizzed past the goalkeeper's head, who managed to get his fingertips on it, but it wasn't enough. I patted Lollo on the back as he rejoined us. Spain's turn. Score. Italy's turn. Score.

We were now tied at 3. I glanced up at the scoreboard, my vision fading at the edges as the booming crowd seemed to reverberate in my very bones.

Moretti doesn't feel the shirt.

Two more shots. 4–4.

Teo took our last shot, hammering it home for a perfect 5 out of 5 penalties taken for Italy. If Spain missed this one, we were through. If they scored, we would go through another grueling penalty shootout, and my heart seemed at its absolute capacity already.

The Spanish midfielder took his position, placing his hands on his hips as he studied Rossi. I took a sharp breath as he struck and Rossi leapt, his gloves managing to slap the ball away.

The skies erupted.

I was lost in a sea of celebration: hugs, kisses, and shouts. The euphoria was almost reaching skin-deep as the Italian fans brought the house down. We had done it. One more game till the Euros. Our first major international trophy in years, the team's first shot at immortality.

The night before the finals, we all retired early to our rooms. I drank whatever herbal concoction Coach Vardo had told me would help calm my nerves and lay on the mattress. Tomorrow, we would go against England, who hadn't lost a single game all tournament, whose miraculous last-minute goal against Portugal had propelled them into the finals with an unbeatable streak. Elliot of course, had assisted England's only goal in that match. 

Elliot Hayes was the last thing standing between my biggest dream and greatest heartbreak.

The irony was almost funny.

I had made sure to go extra hard at the gym that day, so that sleep would come the second my head hit the mattress. And it did. Except I was woken up at around three a.m. by my phone buzzing.

I reached for my phone, squinting at the incoming call. The time read 3:45 a.m.

Nurse Rimi: Residenza Il Girasole

She knew I had finals today. She would never call me at this hour, especially knowing about my training schedule.

Not unless—

I silenced my phone, sliding it under my mattress, and squeezed my eyes shut, counting till the images of my mother on her deathbed faded away into blissful oblivion.