Page 80 of The Road to You
“For you? After you ghosted me for weeks? Ignored texts, calls, my actual physical presence?” He lets out a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a bark of laughter. “Sure, I’ve got a minute.”
I close my eyes for a second, half smiling at his words, half feeling guilty. “I needed time.”
“You could’ve told me you were still breathing. Just a text. Even an emoji,” he points out bluntly, as usual. This is why I chose him all those years ago. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything, but he’s always been fair and loyal.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
There’s a pause. And then, softer, “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m getting there.”
Another beat of silence. “So why the call?”
I know he’s wondering if I want to go back or give up entirely. His ultimatum was real, not something he said out of anger orspite. It was his way of waking me up and making me realize I had to make a decision.
“I want back in,” I say more firmly than I expected my voice to sound.
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, since he left my parents’ house in a fury. “Finally. Thank God.”
“I’m serious,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I’ve thought about it. I’m not done. I can’t walk away from soccer without giving it everything I’ve got first, even if it’s hard, even if it’s slow. I want to play again.”
“Okay,” Marco says, his tone shifting into business immediately. “I’ll see what I can… Well, no. I’ll tell you the truth.”
“Go ahead.” I already know it will be a hard truth to swallow.
“I never stopped looking, even when you were MIA. But the interest right now is from minor teams. Nothing fromSerie Aor abroad. Everyone’s watching your leg like it’s a ticking time bomb. No one wants to commit without knowing if you’ll fully recover, or when. The uncertainty is a red flag.”
I let out a slow breath, lowering my head into my palm. I grit my teeth, but I expected this. “I get it. No one bets on a broken horse.”
“Michele…” he starts softly.
“I’m not mad,” I cut in. “I just need you to keep the door open. Please let them know that I’m working on getting answers. I’ll meet with the surgeon again, get a better idea of the timeline, and start the recovery for real this time. PT, the scans, everything. I’ll send you updates so you’ve got something concrete to pitch. But for now, if a lower league team wants me, I’ll listen.”
“You serious?” he sounds surprised.
And when I search for words to answer his question, I realize it’s the truth. I just want to play. “Yeah. I need the practice. Ineed the ball at my feet again. Even if it’s not a stadium full of screaming fans.”
Marco lets out a breath. “This is the first real conversation we’ve had in months. It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back,” I say, and I mean it.
“Okay,” he says. “Give me a week. I’ll start putting feelers out again. And let me know the second you get confirmation from the surgeon. If we can give them a timeline, even a vague one, that changes everything.”
“I will.”
There is a pause, a long one pregnant with meaning.
“And Michele?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you. For calling. For not giving up.”
I stare out at the olive grove, the breeze stirring the branches. It’s the first time I’ve heard something like this coming from his lips. He’s never been one to hand out compliments; advice, yes, but not praise. It’s almost overwhelming.
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m not doing this for pride.”
“Then what?”
