Page 91 of The Road to You
“Feels…functional,” I say between breaths. “Still tight. Still weak. But yeah. It’s coming back.”
“It is,” he agrees. “And teams are starting to sniff around again. Cautiously, but they’re watching. I’ve got a few emails flagged for you. One coach wants a video update next week.”
I nod. I should be elated. I’m not.
“You’re frowning,” Marco says, sitting down beside me. “And don’t tell me it’s the cold.”
I roll the water bottle between my palms, letting the silence hang for a beat too long. Then I say it.
“I’m in love with a woman I can’t be with.”
The hurt in my chest is almost as unbearable as the first days after surgery, when I thought my leg was on fire. I clenched my teeth then and pushed through, and the leg is getting better. My heart is not even close.
Marco exhales, long and slow, like he’s been waiting for me to admit it. “Still?”
“Always,” I say, gripping the water bottle tightly in my hand, and staring down at my white knuckles.
He studies me, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been walking around like a ghost since she flew back to LA. You’re grinding through rehab like it’s penance, not recovery. You think I don’t notice?”
I don’t respond. What should I say? That I feel like my life doesn’t make sense anymore? I went through this massive surgery to play again. I knew the recovery would take around eighteen months to two years. I did everything right to get back even sooner because I wanted to play and go back to the field, but I still feel empty, even after recovering faster than expected.
“What happened, Michele? You two looked like you were building something real. I thought you were gonna fight for it.”
Soon after my decision to do the surgery, I told Marco I wanted to get back on the field, and that he needed to start planning my return to the scene. I was sure by now I’d feel better, motivated, ready to work my ass off to get somewhere. But I’m not. Yes, physically I feel better, I see daily progress, I can feel that I’m going in the right direction, but my chest is empty.
I shake my head, throat tightening. “She told me not to come with her. Told me I had to finish what I started here. That I had to chase the dream I’ve fought for since I was a kid. She didn’t want to become my regret. And she was right. Idowant that.”
“But?” Marco’s tone is serious, but not angry. He wants to understand because, as my agent, he needs to know what I think to pursue the right path in my career and push me in that direction.
“But I also want her.” As soon as the words come out of my lips, my chest feels lighter. Not healed, but at least I can breathe easier.
Marco leans back against the bench, his breath visible in the air between us. “You think that has to be a choice? Soccer or her?”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “I really don’t. She’s on set all day, every day. I’m here, in rehab, trying to convince my leg to behave like it’s mine again. It’s not just distance. It’s timing. Life. Everything.”
This situation is such a mess that I can’t even get my thoughts straight. Some days I think I can do it, go back to my old life, and other days I feel like I did everything wrong, and the latter are more frequent than the former.
“She’s still the background pic on your phone,” he says dryly.
Marco is not the kind of man who beats around the bush. He’s willing to do anything to make his clients’ dreams come true, but he also wants the path to be clear. No change of plans, afterthoughts, or anything that derails his work left and right. And I chose him because of this determination. I need him to be my reason, especially now that I feel lost.
I glance down and look at my phone, which I left on top of my gym bag. He’s right. It’s a photo from Puglia. She’s barefoot on the beach, wearing one of my shirts and laughing at something I said, her face lit up like I hung the moon.
“I miss her,” I murmur. “I miss how she smelled like lemon and sunblock. How she always managed to burn toast but still insisted on making breakfast. I miss the way she’d ask me a million history questions just to hear me rant. I miss…God, I miss everything.” I’ve never told anyone this, but I don’t feel embarrassed to pour out my deepest secrets because I know Marco won’t judge.
He watches me quietly for a moment. Then he says, “Your graft’s healing better than anyone expected. You’re young, marketable, and you’ve still got it. You’re gonna be ready for the second half of next season.”
I nod, but it feels mechanical. A nod that belongs to another version of me, the one who still believed that soccer was enough. Until I met her. She taught me that I love soccer, yes, but I love her too, and now I feel torn between two choices that don’t feel like choices at all. They feel like punishments.
He nudges me. “But it’s not gonna mean shit if you keep walking around like your soul’s been ripped out.”
A faint laugh escapes me, bitter and hoarse. “It has.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. Just lets it hang in the air between us, like the echo of something we both know but can’t fix.
I sip my water. My leg aches. My chest aches worse. I’m clawing my way back on the field and in my body, but without her, it all feels like a half-finished game. Like I’m winning something I can’t share with the only person who ever made it feel worth it. And maybe that’s the real reason I can’t smile.
Because this time, the goal isn’t enough.
