Page 119 of Back Room Host

I would never let him go again.

39

–––––

Luca

“And the winner is … Luca Mazzi!”

The referee raised my arm, the audience applauded, and all I could think about was Juri. I didn’t even care about the bruises and the busted lip I had gotten. All I wanted was to shower and get to him as quickly as possible, even though I knew he wouldn’t have time for me at the moment. But I wanted to see him—even if only from a distance.

“You were amazing!” With a nod of approval, Dario removed my mouthguard and helped me take off the gloves. “You were like a different person compared to last time.”

I could only give a weak smile. “Yeah, I suppose I was just in good shape today.”

“It seems like you’ve finally sorted out your shit.”

I pressed the sweat towel to my face and greedily drank some water. “Yeah, I also finally submitted my project,” I replied, not without pride.

“And what about this Juri guy?”

Dario burst into laughter when he saw my confused expression.

“Ha! Did you think I didn’t notice? The way you were looking at him during training when he was photographing us was so obvious.”

“Well, it took me a while to figure it out.”

“His photos are online. There’s even one of you in there.”

“Shouldn't you have asked for my permission first?” I joked.

“I’m doing it now. Is it okay?”

I rolled my eyes but laughed. “Of course.”

“You want to get out of here. I can tell.”

“Yeah, do I have any other obligations here?”

“Nope. Get out of here!”

With a broad grin, I said goodbye to Dario and stepped into the shower in the locker room. The small competition was held at Dario’s studio, which was great because I had my own locker there and could leave my sweaty gear behind. I would have hated to lug everything with me to Exil.

I got dressed and fixed my hair, then dabbed on some cologne. Once I was ready, I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my coat, and rushed out onto the street, wrapping a scarf around my neck.

It was already half past nine. Nightrain must have already started playing. I hadn’t expected to win the competition, but losing just to get there earlier was out of the question.

I took the bus through the city to Escher-Wyss-Station and hurried to the club. Serge and Dennis, the bouncer, were standing at the entrance, chatting and smoking.

“You were supposed to have the day off,” Serge said in his typical greeting. “And yet here you are with such a beaten-up face.”

“I can do whatever I want on my day off,” I replied with a wink—Serge knew I did martial arts.

They both laughed, and Dennis gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “The band’s already playing. You’re late.”

“Oh … I’m not actually here for the band.”

As I passed them and reached the ticket counter, I glanced over my shoulder. Serge waved me through. “It’s okay,” he said to Rosi. “Give him a stamp and let him in.”

---