The next morning, I waved goodbye to Nonna, who gave me a small smile, her hands, which were steadier than last night, holding the watering can above the flowers. I switched on the lights in the kitchen, making my way to grab a couple of protein bars. The light flickered once, twice, then completely gave out.

With Lucy's hand in mine, I stepped outside in the damp, bitingly cold morning air.She talked animatedly about some play that she was taking part in. The same one she had been talking about for weeks now, where she was going to dress up as a tortoise.

Fifteen minutes later. I stood in front of her elementary school and waved goodbye to her. However, she paused, shuffling her feet and looking at her shoes.

"Forza, sputa il rospo," I rolled my eyes at her, asking her to spit out the frog or whatever was on her mind.

"So-" she took a deep breath, chewing on her lip before she finally looked up at me. "We have the Gita Scolastica next month, it's like five euros."

"Okay," I nodded, hoping against hope I had enough in my pocket for her class field trip. I shoved my hands into my pocket, coming up empty. Then, the other pocket, and finally managed to take out a crisp ten euro note. I thanked the unrelenting stars and handed it to her.

She shook her head. "It's just five."

"That's okay," I grinned at her. "Use the rest to get yourself some snacks or something."

A bright smile lit up her face, and she flung her arms around my midriff. "Mio Dio, you are the best!"

I struggled to hold back a smile so I could maintain my cool older brother image.

She leaned back finally and placed the cash carefully at the back of her ID card before securing it in place around her neck. "So...did you talk to dad?"

"Sí," I lied, without really knowing why.

"What did he say?" she asked, her eyes lighting up, her fingers gripping the frayed straps of her bag hard. I made a mental note to try and get her a new backpack when I could; she had been using the same Spiderman one for the last three years now. "Why didn't you tell me he called? I want to talk to him!"

"Well, you know," I shrugged. "It's usually way past your bedtime. Time difference and all."

"Maybe this weekend then?" she asked, peering up at me.

I nodded curtly, hoping against hope he would call by then.

"So what did he say?"

I gulped. "Told him about your play, said he's really excited to watch the tapes." I flashed her what I hoped was a convincing smile.

Her smile faltered, but she quickly plastered it back on. "Thanks, Lu! I'll see you later!"

I waved at her as she joined a couple of her friends on the front porch, skipping up the short staircase and into the grey brick building. I pulled my hood low over my head, my hands jammed deep into the pockets of my track jacket as I took the turn towards the training grounds.Every few seconds, my right thigh would twitch. My entire nervous system was hyper-attuned to the phantom weight of my phone.

I pulled the device out for the twentieth time since waking up. The screen illuminated my face with a harsh, cold glow: 7:14 AM. No new notifications. No missed calls. No text messages.

Seven days. It had been a full week since my dad had answered a single one of my calls.

My chest tightened, a suffocating, familiar panic clawing its way up my throat. Maybe it was for the better that he was ghosting me. What was I going to tell him anyway? Me being benched for a game would only reinstate his belief that I needed to let go of soccer, and 'get a real job.'

Although the idea of the most deadbeat man I had ever known asking me to get a real job was almost hilarious if it hadn't been so suffocating.

There was nothing for me to do. It was almost as if I was ten years old again. Watching Ma waste away at home. Helpless. Like always.
BZZZ.

The sudden, sharp vibration against my palm made me jump, my heart leap into my throat. My thumb scrambled across the screen, my breath catching in a desperate, jagged gasp—

App Update Complete.

I stopped dead on the gravel path, staring down at the stupid, meaningless notification. A wave of bitter, burning nausea surged through my stomach. I let out a shaky, frustrated breath, my knuckles turning white as I squeezed the phone, half-tempted to hurl it into the damp bushes bordering the pitch. I couldn't. There was no way I could afford a new phone right now.

All Elliot Hayes needed to do was cry to his mommy. Get her to enroll him at the club I had bled and sweated for hours for. The club I had to perform for every single day so they would vouch for me.

All he had to do was to get Charlotte Hayes to get the big bad Luca benched cause he dared not uphold his whimsical, three-hour movie fantasy. Get her to drive him home in cars that I probably wouldn't be able to afford my entire life.

The bitter taste of resentment at the base of my throat was almost enough to forget how pale and small he looked yesterday.

'I would never do that to you'

What the fuck had he meant by that? Like we had some sort of special connection? He was just a weirdo, plain and simple.

I slid the phone back into my pocket.

I closed my eyes, but I couldn't erase the image. He had sat in that dark, freezing theatre for two and a half hours, micro-napping under a paused projector screen, waiting for me to come back from a bathroom break that was a lie from the start. My stomach twisted, and I had the sudden urge to kick something.

BZZZ.

My leg twitched again. I snatched my phone out, my eyes wide, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Group Chat: Pippo - "Vance è già in campo. Muovi il culo."

Coach Vance was already on the pitch, and according to Pippo I needed to move my ass.

I let out a hollow, bitter sound that was half-sigh, half-groan. I swallowed hard, the taste of ash thick in my mouth. I slid my phone away and entered the training grounds, waving once at the kindly old guard who gave me a smile.

The rain had turned the training pitch into a swamp, but none of us cared. When Coach Vance blew his whistle after the warm-up and hauled us into a huddle, he announced that Sunday's match against Lombardi was officially off due to flooded pitch conditions.

I was ecstatic. Delighted, even. Sitting on the bench alone and my agent in the stands would have been pure, unadulterated torture. Now, the match didn't count. It was a complete reset.

After hitting the showers that afternoon, Pippo, Teo, Rossi and I were in the middle of making weekend plans when we spotted Elliott sitting on the sidelines, on the grass. I exchanged a glance with Teo, my stomach knotting at how small and fragile Elliot looked in the moment.

"Think we might have gone a bit overboard?" Teo muttered, nudging me.

"I...I think so," I sighed. Elliot was hunched over, scribbling ferociously. His pile of manila folders was scattered on the grass around him. "Maybe we should apologize."

"I mean...he needed a reality check. Let's be real. Guy's fourteen; he can't be running to his mom every time something goes wrong," Rossi debated.

"Well yeah, but...we did sort of abandon him at the theatre," I reasoned, shuffling my feet uncomfortably.

Pippo groaned. "Come on, not like we wanted to watch that shit in the first place. You know Coach Vance is bending over backwards for Charlotte Hayes."

"The place is probably half running on her donation." I shook my head.

"Ugh, okay. Go give him a kiss-" Pippo shoved me so I staggered a few steps ahead.

"What, you guys aren't coming?" I raised my eyebrows at them.

"I just wanna see how he receives your apology," Rossi shrugged.

I groaned. "Cowards die."

"No," Rossi grinned. "Cowards get benched."

I managed to not punch him as I made my way to where Elliot sat cross-legged, his eyes fixed on a new folder. He continued to scribble rapidly, his eyes narrowed at the sheet of paper. I waited for him to acknowledge me, which he didn't do till my cleats appeared in his vision. Then, slowly, he looked up.

"Um...hey."

He didn't respond to my lame opener, glancing behind me to see the rest of the guys before looking back at me.

"I just wanted to say...sorry," I said finally. "That was...a bit too much. I shouldn't have shoved you like that."

"I have realized that your reaction arose from a compound set of stress factors," Elliot said, his voice flat, steady, and entirely devoid of heat. "Specifically, the sudden loss of a projected career milestone, the presence of your peers, and a perceived threat to your social standing within the squad."

He didn't look angry. He looked like he was reading the legend of a tactical map.

"Your aggression was an attempt to regain control of an environment in which you felt powerless," he continued, holding his pen between two fingers like a scalpel. "The physical contact was an irrational emotional outburst, but the underlying motivation was predictable. You felt humiliated. When individuals of high emotional reactivity experience humiliation in front of their peers, they routinely project the blame onto the nearest accessible variable. In this instance, that variable was me."

I glanced at the notepad open in his lap and at his phone, which lay on the grass, open on some football article from the looks of it. Was he...taking notes about my behavior the other day?

I stood there, my mouth slightly open, my brain struggling to catch up to the sheer clinical precision of his response. The rest of the guys were watching from thirty yards away, but it felt like Elliot had just systematically dismantled me in front of a packed stadium.

"Elliot—" I started, my face burning. "Just-"

"FUR...ther...more," he interrupted.

God. No. Fuck no. Not 'furthermore.'

He adjusted the strap of his bag over his bony shoulders with meticulous care. "I was unaware of whatever arrangement Coach Vance made with my mother. It was, I reiterate, not my request whatsoever. However, I have catalogued your behavioral response for future reference." I gawked at him, but apparently he wasn't finished. "A cut-and-dried case of displaced anger."

He straightened up and cleared his throat, pulling the folder up in front of his face so he was hidden from view. He turned a page and then looked up at me. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"About...what?"

"Whatever it is that is ailing you."

"Nothing...is ailing me," I managed.

He nodded, then stood up, brushing the damp grass off his knees, and placed his new, perfectly organized folder into his backpack. "I accept your acknowledgment of physical boundary violation," Elliot concluded, looking directly into my eyes with an unnerving, unblinking clarity.He turned and began walking toward the academy doors, his stride even and measured, leaving me frozen on the muddy pitch while Rossi, Pippo, and Teo burst into muffled, wheezing laughter behind me.

"He's like a fucking robot," I declared to them. Teo grabbed his chest like he was in physical agony. "Don't even think he needed an ap-"

All three pairs of eyes in front of me widened comically, and it took me a few seconds to realize they were staring straight past me. I turned to see Elliot, who had appeared like a phantom behind me.

"Sall...way," he said loudly, completely butchering the Italian 'hello'. "I was musing over whether, as a peace offering, you all would like to have some jello-toe?"

"Uh," I glanced at the guys who all nodded fervently. "Sure."

"Splendid," Elliot nodded back. "It will be my treat. Any places come to mind?"

"Free ice cream?" Teo muttered, wiping mud off his cheek as he started leading us down the street. "I mean... I'm not saying no to free food."

Ten minutes later, we pulled open the door to Gelato d'Oro. The place smelled like toasted waffle cones and fresh espresso, a warm sanctuary from the downpour outside. Chiara's mother owned the place, which meant we ended up here at least twice a week after practice, but today, behind the glass counter, it was just her.

At sixteen, she was a year older than me, had sharp eyeliner, and was currently leaning over the freezer tub in an oversized vintage sweater. My heart did a quick, familiar flip in my chest.

"Go on, mate," Pippo huffed, shoving my shoulder a little too hard as we walked in. "Ask her out today or stop staring at her every Tuesday."

"Shut up," I hissed, shoving him back, though my pulse was already racing.

"I'm serious," Teo whispered from behind me, grinning. "Ask her to the cinema on Friday. Stop being a coward."

I wiped my damp hair back, stepped up to the glass counter, and rested my elbows on top, putting on my absolute best smile. "Ciao, bella."

She looked up, her dark eyes lighting up with an immediate, playful grin. "Look what the rain dragged in. You guys look like drowned rats."

"Yeah, well, rat-in-chief here came to see you," I said smoothly, gesturing to myself. "And maybe get two scoops of hazelnut. Unless you want to come get coffee with me later and tell me what flavor I should be getting."

Chiara rolled her eyes, but a subtle pink flush hit her cheeks, and her mouth twitched into a smile. "You know what? Maybe."

"So...yes?" I grinned, leaning a fraction closer. "Or do you need me to tell you how your eyes remind me of hazelnuts?"

She giggled at that in a way that made my chest all fuzzy. "Wow. That is the worst thing anyone has ever said to me ever."

"Hey, if it helps-" I winked at her, "It is my favorite flavor."

Before she could answer, Elliot materialized right at my elbow. He didn't even look at Chiara, just pulled a small, laminated card out of his wallet and held it out toward her like a badge.

"I require a single scoop of dairy-free, oat-milk-based vanilla," he announced in a flat, unyielding tone that cut straight through our banter. "It must not contain almond protein, cross-contaminated soy, or artificial sweeteners with a bitter glycemic index. Please ensure the scoop has been thoroughly sanitized with warm water prior to—"

"Hey, it's fine!" I cut in quickly, mortified, stepping between Elliot and the counter to save the interaction. "Chiara, ignore him. He's fine. Just give him whatever vanilla you've got back there."

Chiara blinked, a bit startled by Elliot's robotic efficiency, but gave me an amused, knowing nod. She scooped a basic vegan vanilla into a paper cup and handed it over. Elliot accepted it, took a single, precise lick, stared at the paper cup with deadpan intensity, and said flatly:

"This is disgusting."

Teo almost choked on his own spit. Elliot set the cup down on the counter without another word, took his napkin, and walked straight over to a corner table, abandoning the ice cream entirely.

I flashed a sheepish smile to Chiara before bolting. We crowded around the small metal table a minute later. I sat down next to Rossi, barely noticing Elliot sitting quietly at the end. His sharp, grey eyes were darting around the place, possibly coming up with ways to insult the interior decor.

Suddenly, the phone sitting on the table next to Elliot's wrist began to buzz violently, its camera flash pulsing bright white against the metal table. Elliot looked down at the screen, immediately stood up, and walked straight out the front door into the rain to answer it. No excuse me. No I'll be right back. Just got up and went.

"Man has zero manners," Teo chuckled, shaking his head.

As Elliot walked away, his heavy black canvas bag slumped against the side of his chair. The zipper was half-undone, and the bright yellow corner of a manila folder was sticking out.

"Look," Teo whispered, pointing. "More homework."

"Pass it here," I said, reaching over and pulling the folder out.

I opened it up, expecting another endless breakdown of corner kicks or 1986 goal trajectories. The top pages were indeed covered in his neat, hyper-diligent handwriting- tactical breakdowns, distance metrics, player profiles. But as I flipped toward the back, a lined page caught my eye.

It wasn't football.