Page 46 of The Road to You
“Scusa?” A small voice interrupts us.
We both blink. Like we’ve been pulled underwater and dragged up for air, a return to reality neither of us saw coming or was ready for.
A boy, maybe six or seven, stands at the edge of our table, wide-eyed and clutching a well-worn soccer ball. His cheeksare flushed, and his voice is shaking with excitement. “Tu sei Michele Moretti, vero?”
Michele blinks, then nods and smiles gently. “Sì, sono io.”
“My dad says you’re the best striker Italy’s ever had! And that goal you scored at the Euro final…”
The kid’s eyes light up like stars. His dad hovers nearby, clearly trying not to interrupt but watching with a proud, hopeful expression.
Michele stands slowly, just a little stiff, but he masks it well, and crouches beside the boy, taking the ball and signing it with a steady hand. They talk for a few minutes, Michele asking questions and the kid answering shyly. They pose for a picture, Michele ruffling the kid’s hair afterward with a wink. “Keep practicing, Luca. I’m sure one day you’ll wear the jersey.”
“Davvero?” the kid’s voice cracks with joy.
“Really.” Michele nods.
When they finally leave, thanking him profusely, we’re left staring at each other across the table, both a little breathless.
For the first time tonight, I remember where we are. That he’shim. That I’m not just here with the beautiful, infuriating man I’ve spent the last weeks falling headfirst for, but with a national treasure. A face that lives in stadiums, in headlines, in highlight reels. And suddenly, we are no longer just two people sharing candlelight. Our lives are too complex and too public to pretend to be normal people. We are not, and we should remember that.
Michele runs a hand through his curls, lets out a long breath, and gives me a crooked smile. “Well. That killed the mood.”
I smile back, my heart still thudding. “Only a little.”
He reaches across the table again, and this time, he doesn’t pull his hand away. “They never forget. Kids like that. You should’ve seen me at his age. All I wanted was someone to believe I could be more.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Nowyou’rethat someone.”
He looks at me, quiet for a beat. “Yeah,” he says. “But tonight, I just wanted to bethissomeone.” He says softly, stroking my hand with his thumb, never leaving my gaze.
And I know exactly what he means.
The walkback to the hotel is quiet.
It’s not awkward, but we don’t feel the need to fill the silence with small talk. As if the sea stole our words and carried them out with the tide.
Michele walks beside me, his arm brushing mine now and then, but he doesn’t reach for my hand like he did earlier. He’s quiet, lost in thought, and the easy touches from dinner are gone, as if the moment with the little boy reminded us both of something we were trying to forget. That outside of this bubble, there’s a world that still sees him asMichele Moretti, the star. Not just a man who smiles at me across a candlelit table and makes my heart race without even trying.
His limp is subtle, but it’s there. I only catch it when he thinks I’m not looking, when his steps falter for a split second, or when he presses his fingers to his thigh like he’s trying to chase away the discomfort. He hasn’t done his physical therapy in almost two months; I’m aware of that. I’ve watched him push through the pain like it’s just another opponent he has to beat, but tonight, he’s tired.
I slow my pace until we’re walking in sync again. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.
When we reach the hotel, I turn to him in the elevator, trying to keep my voice light. “I think I’m calling it a night. I’m kind of beat.”
He nods. “Yeah, me too.”
But he doesn’t press the button right away. We just stand there for a moment, the space between us charged, like something’s still hanging in the air from before. His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine linger on the curve of his jaw, the way the light shadows his cheekbones. He smells like sea salt and lemon and the faintest trace of the cologne he wore to dinner. I want to lean into him. I want him to lean into me.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, when we reach our hallway and stop in front of our separate rooms, he hesitates. His gaze lingers, soft and unreadable.
“Buonanotte, Lena,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough around the edges.
Then he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, warm, slow, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. His stubble brushes my skin. I close my eyes without meaning to.
“Sleep well,” he adds, so quietly it could almost be a figment of my imagination.
