Page 79 of The Road to You
She hums, watching the olive trees sway. “Why do you think it’s so hard for you to decide?”
I stare at the ground, at the tiny cracks in the stones between my feet. “Because what if I say yes, and I fail? What if I try everything and still can’t play like I used to?” My voice tightens. “What if I’ve already reached the top and I’m just falling now?”
The only thing I know for sure is that I love to play, I don’t want to do anything else in my life, but it may not be possible for me anymore, and I have to decide on the next chapter of my life.
She’s quiet, but when she speaks, her voice is gentle. “And would that be such a terrible thing?”
I blink at her, surprised by her words. I expected some pep talk on how to conquer my fears, but not this.
“You’ve played football since you were six. You gave up birthday parties, school trips, and summers with your friends. You missed weddings. You trained in the rain, the snow, injured or not. You gave everything to the game, Michele.” She puts her hand over mine. “You gave your youth.”
I swallow hard, unable to look her in the eyes.
“You lived the dream of millions of boys,” she continues. “You won trophies. Wore the national team jersey. You were loved, still are. Maybe now it’s time to collect the rewards from all of that.” There is a hint of something she is not telling me, but I have an idea about what it is.
Lena. She saw me happier than she’s ever seen me. Hell, I was never that happy in my life, not even when I won everything it’s possible to win with my team. Because Lena makes me feel happy in a more complete, grounded way.
I shake my head, but my chest starts to constrict, not like heartache. It’s tighter, sharper. Like the room is shrinking around me, except I’m outside in the open.
I grip the edge of the bench, breathing through my nose. But my throat is thick. My fingers tremble.
“Michele?”
“I don’t want to stop,” I choke. “I don’t want it to end like this. I want it to end on my own terms. When I’m ready to let it go.”
And the truth of it, the clarity I’ve been waiting for, punches through me so hard I think I might fall over. My lungs burn, but I gasp through it, sucking air like I’m surfacing after drowning.
“I don’t want to give up,” I say again, steadier this time. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it takes months, even if I never make it back to the top, I need to try. I need to know I didn’t walk away when I still had something left.” Even if it means losing Lena for good.
Mamma exhales, and it sounds like relief.
“Well,” she says, squeezing my hand, “then there’s your answer.”
I nod, my throat still tight.
She tilts her head toward me. “And if tomorrow you change your mind, and you decide you’d rather move to Hollywood and become an actor with Lena, I’ll support you all the same.” There is a hint of amusement in her voice that she can’t hide.
I huff a laugh, wiping the corner of my eye, realizing a tear escaped. “I don’t think I’d be very good in front of a camera.”
“No,” she agrees with a smile, “but you’d look good doing it.”
I laugh again, the panic in my chest fading, replaced with something steadier. It’s still uncertain, still painful, but grounded now in purpose.
“Do what makes you happy, Michele,” she says, standing. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. You don’t owe anyone anything. Not the fans. Not Marco. Not even me. Just your heart.”
She kisses the top of my head, the way she did when I was a boy, then disappears into the house, leaving me there with the olive trees and the sky and the thrum of my pulse finally settling into something I can carry.
I lean back, close my eyes, and let it all settle. I’m not done yet. Not with football. Not with her. Not with this life.
The sky is fullyawake now, streaked with purple and pink, and the scent of jasmine floats on the breeze. Lena is still asleep, and the house is quiet except for the distant clinking of breakfast plates and the occasional coo of a dove.
I sit with the phone in my hand for a full minute before I make the call. My thumb hovers over Marco’s name, heart thudding against my ribs like a warning or a promise, I’m not sure which.
Then I press the screen. He picks up on the second ring.
“Well,” he says, voice dry but tight at the edges. “The prodigal finally returns.”
“Ciao, Marco,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “Got a minute?”
