Page 92 of The Road to You
36
MICHELE
The waiter brings a bowl of olives and a bottle of sparkling water, but I don’t touch either. My leg bounces under the table. The nervous energy is coiled so tight I feel like I’ll snap. My stomach is so constricted I can’t eat anything.
Marco told me this morning he had “news.” That’s all. No hint. No clue. Just enough to mess with my head for the entire damn day. God, I hate him sometimes. I know he likes to talk in person about important things, but at least telling me if it’s good or bad news would be nice.
I glance at my phone for the tenth time, checking the clock even though I know it by heart.
7:28 p.m.
Two minutes early. He’d better show.
I look toward the door and, like he read my mind, he strides into the restaurant, that cocky grin lighting up his face like he just won the lottery. The maître d’ leads him to our table, and Marco claps me on the shoulder before sitting down. That happiness means good news, right? I’m so riled up after his call I can’t think straight.
I’m working my ass off to get back on the field and, while it won’t be an immediate return, my recovery is ahead of schedule, and the last check-up with the surgeon was promising in terms of getting back into my previous shape.
“Your face looks like someone stole your puppy,” he says, laughing.
He likes to taunt me, keeping me on my toes just to mess with me. I usually wouldn’t be pissed and laugh about it, but lately I feel so down I can’t even take a joke.
“Just tell me,” I shoot back. “I haven’t been able to think straight all day. Is it a contract?”
God, I hope it is. I can’t take this uncertainty anymore. I’ve played professionally since I was sixteen, and I’m not used to this long period of inactivity, being off the field, not having a team at my side.
He grins wider, opening the menu like we’re here to debate wine pairings. “Let’s order first. I’m starving.”
I’m going to strangle him. I swear, if he doesn’t tell me something, anything, right now, I will rip his head off with my bare hands. Prison seems a better alternative than the game he’s playing.
“Marco,” I warn, leaning forward. “Take me out of my misery before I lose my damn mind.”
He chuckles and closes the menu. “Okay, okay. You ready for this?”
I nod once, my heart pounding in my chest. No, I’m not ready, but I will never be. I’m coming from a year of bad news, and it’s difficult for me to focus on a positive mindset.
He leans back, arms stretched across the chair like he owns the place. “You got an offer. A big one. From a team in Los Angeles.”
The restaurant sounds are drowned out by the blood rushing through my ears and making me dizzy. Surely, I didn’t hear thatright. I’ve always focused on Italian or European teams. I never even considered the other side of the world. When I think about Los Angeles, my mind immediately goes to Hollywood, movies, and the jet set. But I always forget that they also have a soccer team.
I blink. “What?”
He beams. This asshole is so smug I want to slap him and then kiss him.
“LA Galaxy,” he clarifies, eyes gleaming. “They want you now. They’re willing to work with the surgeon and your physical therapist to bring you to a full recovery in their facility in Los Angeles and have you on the field whenever you’re ready. They offered enough zeroes to make your past contracts jealous.”
I blink again. “Los Angeles? As in…California?”
I know it’s a stupid question, but I can’t believe this is happening. I know soccer isn’t as popular in the US, but the teams tend to buy famous players from Europe who can boost their popularity with their fans. Usually, they go for someone at the end of their career who has already peaked but still has a few years ahead of them on the field. While their interest should be a punch in the gut because they consider me done with my career, I can only feel happiness bubbling up in my chest.
“Unless there’s a secret Los Angeles in Sicily I don’t know about, yes,” he says, pouring himself some water. “They’ve been watching your recovery. Your numbers are solid, the video we shot was a hit, and they want you.”
I sit back in my chair, stunned. My mind is spinning, trying to process the words. I want to play. I realize that I don’t care which team I choose because I just want to go back to what I love doing. Like Lena said, I want to do it for myself and no one else.
I thought he was negotiating withSerie Aclubs. I thought I’d be stuck in Italy for at least the next year. I was ready to forget my summer and look toward my future.
“But…why didn’t you tell me you were looking overseas?” I’m genuinely curious about this. He’s never kept me out of the loop about something so massive as actively looking elsewhere than what we agreed.
He shrugs, a little too casually. “Because I’m tired of watching you mope around like a lost puppy. You’ve been miserable since Lena left. And you know it.”
