Page 26 of The Road to You
“I’m a soccer player.” He pauses, then he admits quietly, “I play for one of the biggest teams in Italy.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “Or at least, I used to.”
The weight of it sinks in. I don’t know much about soccer, but I do know it’s massive in Europe, like football in the U.S. My stomach twists.
“Are you famous?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
His hands tighten on the wheel. “Yes.”
And just like that, so many things click into place. The luxury hotels. The private boat rides. The vintage car. The fact that he never seemed concerned about money or time.
Holy shit.
By the time we reach the house, my mind is still racing. As soon as we step inside, I drop the grocery bags on the counter and pull out my phone.
I don’t follow sports. I don’t even Google people I date. I avoid social media unless it’s for work. But now I need to know.
I type his name into Instagram and immediately regret it.
“Twenty million followers?” My voice comes out as a squeak. I stare at the number, then at him, then back at the screen, like it’ll change if I blink enough. “Are you kidding me?”
“They’re just numbers,” he says, brushing it off.
I scoff. “Just numbers? Michele, this isn’t just local fame. This is international.”
He leans against the counter, his expression shifting from serious to irritated. “So what?”
“So what?” I repeat, incredulous. “You know everything about me, and you kept this huge part of your life hidden fromme. That’s not fair.” And, if I’m being honest, it stings. I trusted him. I let him in. But he held this back.
His jaw clenches. “Because, for the first time in years, someone didn’t recognize me.” His voice is rough, edged with something raw. “You didn’t have any expectations. You didn’t treat me like a star, or an investment, or a disappointment. You just…liked me. Forme.”
His confession slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. The tormented expression accompanying his confession is daunting.
“I was just Michele,” he says in a quieter voice. “Not the most promising soccer player of my generation who fucked up his career.”
I watch the shift in him, the crack in the mask he always wears. The easygoing charm, the teasing smirks, the lighthearted jokes, they were all hiding this. The heartbreak. The fear. The loss.
“For the first time since the accident,” he continues, his voice almost a whisper, “someone wasn’t looking at me with pity.” He swallows hard. “Do you know how many people bailed on me when I couldn’t live up to their expectations? Even the team I gave everything to, ten years of my life, dropped me the second they thought I was damaged goods.” His knuckles turn white as he grips the counter. “And my friends? One by one, they disappeared. I was no longer useful to them.”
I feel it in my chest, the sharp ache of his words. I know how much fame can make you lonely. You never know who is there for you or just for what you represent. I can’t blame him for basking in the moment of reprieve I gave him from all of that.
“What does your agent say?” I ask softly.
“He’s working on it, but so far, only minor teams have made offers.” His voice is hollow.
I don’t know much about soccer, but I can tell by the way he says it that it’s crushing him. Being at the top and then falling down. You feel like a failure.
“Are they that bad?”
“They’re not bad,” he admits, “but they don’t have a shot at winning anything. And I know it sounds arrogant, but I still have another ten years in me.” He stops himself. “Or at least, I did.”
His voice breaks on that last word, and something in me cracks open. I don’t think. I just reach for his hand, squeezing it gently.
“I’m sorry for how I reacted before,” I murmur. “I didn’t understand.”
Michele shakes his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fine. Honestly? I feel kind of…lighter. Now that you know.” He searches my face. “I just hope this doesn’t change anything.”
I meet his gaze; I don’t see the famous soccer player or the man running from his past. I see him. The real him. With all his insecurity and the weight he’s carrying alone. It must be devastatingly tiring and incredibly lonely.
“I don’t have a clue about soccer,” I say with a teasing smile. “So to me? You’re just Michele.” And it’s true. I have never watched a game or even thought about the game. It’s something so far removed from the American lifestyle that it doesn’t even make the news, unless it’s the World Cup, and even then, it occupies just a small fraction of screen time.
