Page 35 of The Road to You

LENA

T he scent of wild herbs floats through the open windows of the masseria, mixing with the distant hum of bees and the faint clinking of plates from the kitchen.

It’s late morning, and the light plays with countless shapes against the whitewashed walls and clay-tiled floors.

I’m curled up on the couch in the sitting room, with a book in my lap, and I haven’t turned a page of it in fifteen minutes, distracted by the sound of Michele’s voice echoing down the hallway as he talks to his father.

Everything feels easy lately. Effortless. Lazy kisses in the garden, naps under the olive trees, meals that last hours. I’ve never known time to stretch like this. But even in all this calm, there’s a pressure building, something we both keep not talking about.

That something comes crashing into our sanctuary less than an hour later. The door slams open, and Marco’s voice cuts through the house like a blade.

“I’ve been calling you for weeks, Michele. Fucking weeks.”

I hear footsteps, a low thump of wood on tile, probably Michele’s chair pushed back, and I’m already up on my feet, my heart thudding in my chest. I move closer to the doorway, hidden but listening.

I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I justify my action by telling myself I can’t understand a word of what they are saying in Italian.

But I can guess the vibe of the conversation just hearing the tension in Marco’s voice.

“I know,” Michele answers, his tone flat.

“You know,” Marco repeats, incredulous. “And yet here I am, flying all the way down to the middle of nowhere because you’re ignoring every single attempt to reach you. What the hell, Michele? What is this charade with the hot American?”

My stomach drops because I may not know what they are saying, but the Italian word for American is pretty similar for me to recognize in his harsh tone.

I guess I’m part of this conversation, but I already knew it because my life is so intertwined with Michele’s right now that it’s impossible to talk about him without saying my name and vice versa.

I step into the room just in time to see Michele’s jaw clench. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Marco glances at me, then back at Michele, raising his hands with a guilty expression.

“Alright. Sorry. But come on, man. What’s going on?

You disappear, blow off therapy, and ghost me.

We’ve got press hounding us, sponsors asking questions, and people starting to wonder what’s going to happen with your career. You think this is a vacation?”

His tone is frustrated, and his disheveled appearance, a crumpled shirt that has seen better days and creased linen trousers, tells me he is having a rough time. I suspect our impromptu trip is the topic of this argument.

“It’s not a vacation,” Michele growls.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Marco gestures broadly, his voice rising. “Beautiful estate, wine, romantic countryside… And no physical therapy. No rehab plan. No communication. What am I supposed to tell people?”

Michele moves toward him, chest rising with each breath. “Tell them the truth. That I’m fucked,” he says in English, dragging me into the conversation in the worst way possible.

The words drop like a bomb. My breath catches. Marco blinks, caught off guard. There is a long silence where time seems to stand still. Even the cicadas shut up.

“I tore my leg apart six months ago,” Michele continues.

“I’ve done everything. Therapy, trainers, even acupuncture.

You name it. And it still hurts when I do anything more than walk.

Still buckles when I push too hard. What am I supposed to do, pretend everything’s fine?

Go back on the field and make it worse?” His tone is so somber, and his words so discouraging, that my heart aches for him.

I know the situation is grim, to say the least, but hearing Michele say it like this to his agent feels so final that my heart bleeds for him.

“You could at least talk to me about it,” Marco says, softer now, the conversation switched to English for my sake. “We’ve been through too much for you to shut me out like this.”

Michele shakes his head. “You’re not hearing me. I’m not just worried about missing a few matches. I’m worried I’ve already played my last one.”

The room is silent. Even the light breeze outside seems to pause.

I press my back against the archway, guilt blooming inside me like a bruise.

I’m the one who dragged him through this madness, making him forget what he’s worked for all his life.

I’m the one who can resume her job anytime, while he’s missing an essential part of his rehabilitation as we pretend to be lovers all over Italy.

Marco exhales, then crosses his arms. “Look. If you need time to figure this out, take it. But you can’t disappear, Michele. I can’t do my job if you cut me out. Either you decide what the hell you want your future to look like…or I walk.”

His tone is soft but firm, and I can understand his point. He’s doing his job, making Michele look at a reality that he doesn’t want to face. But he can’t run from it for the rest of his life. At some point, it will catch up with him and make him pay with a vengeance.

Michele doesn’t flinch. “So walk.”

My breath hitches. My brain is struggling to comprehend the weight of this sentence.

Marco stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”

But Michele just folds his arms across his chest, jaw tight, emotion flickering behind his eyes. “Maybe I do.”

There is no hesitation in his voice. Not a single hint indicating he’s saying this purely out of rage, or even spite.

A beat passes. Then Marco turns on his heel and walks out without another word. The front door clicks shut behind him, and it echoes through my bones.

Michele stands still, unmoving. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like his body is physically reacting to a decision that will alter the course of his existence.

I take a step forward. “Michele.”

He looks at me then, and the hurt I see guts me. Not just the pain in his leg, or the frustration with his career. It’s the helplessness. The fear of losing everything he’s worked for and maybe losing himself along with it.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “This…all of this. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your life.”

A knot of guilt forms beneath my ribs.

“You didn’t pull me,” he says, voice rough. “I walked away from it.”

“But if I hadn’t…” The words struggle to get past the lump in my throat.

“Lena.” He closes the distance between us, cupping the side of my face. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re the only part of my life that’s made sense lately.”

His words hit me like sunlight, blinding and warm. But the guilt doesn’t leave because I know there is still a future for him. A future where he can do what he loves and thrive doing it. But he can’t see the hope, the light at the end of the dark, cold tunnel he is in right now.

I search his face. “You love playing. I know that. I’ve seen it in your eyes when you talk about it. I don’t want to be the reason you stop.”

“You’re not,” he replies, almost resigned to his new life. “My body is the reason. Not you.”

Still, the pressure is building. The scandal I ran from, the paparazzi, the weight of his career teetering on the edge—how can we survive this bubble when the outside world starts pushing back?

I blink fast, pushing back the tears. “I think I got used to pretending none of it matters out here.”

He sighs and rests his forehead against mine. “Then let’s keep pretending a little longer. It’s not that bad living in this fantasy, right?”

I let out a soft laugh, though it sounds like a sob. “God, you’re so bad at finding a solution.”

He smiles and shrugs. “I usually just kick a ball and score goals. That is what I’m good at, not problem solving.”

And this is what terrifies me, because football is his life, and while he’s upset now, with his agent’s ambush slamming reality in his face, he’ll regret his decision not to try and let his fears take the helm of his future.

“You’re decent at kissing,” I murmur, deciding not to voice my worries.

His arms tighten around me. “Decent?”

I manage a small grin. “Slightly above average.”

He kisses me before I can tease him more, slow and full of something I can’t name. And in that moment, I feel it again, that deep, gnawing truth: I’m not walking away from this summer whole. I’m already too far in. And falling harder every day. And I think maybe he is too.

The night has settled over the masseria like a soft blanket, thick with the scent of jasmine and the gentle chirp of crickets.

I step out onto the patio, where the stone holds the sun’s warmth from earlier.

Above me, the sky is black velvet stitched with stars, and through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of Michele’s mother preparing the sourdough for tomorrow’s baking, while his father pours himself a glass of grappa.

They were quieter than usual during dinner.

Kind, polite, but subdued. And Michele was practically silent.

He spoke in low, clipped tones to his parents all afternoon in the living room, too fast for me to follow.

But I didn’t need to know Italian to read the tight set of his jaw, the weight in his shoulders, the worried glance his mother cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking.

I’ve waited all day to talk to him, letting him have space. But now, I need him to let me in. I find him by the olive trees, where the moonlight turns the leaves silver. He’s sitting on the low stone wall, elbows on his knees, a beer dangling from one hand.

“You disappeared after dinner,” I say softly, walking toward him.

“I needed air,” he replies without looking at me.

I sit beside him, close but not touching. We listen to the wind rustling through the branches for a few seconds before I speak again.

“So…are you going to tell me what’s gnawing at you?” I already know the answer, but I need him to acknowledge it too.

He leans back, tipping his face toward the sky. “You saw it. Marco showed up, acted like a dick, and I kicked him out. That pissed me off and put me in a foul mood.”

“That’s not what I meant.” My voice is soft but firm. I don’t want him to avoid the conversation again.

His jaw ticks. “Then what do you want me to say, Lena? That I’ve been lying to myself for months? That my body betrayed me? That the career I built from the time I was a kid might just be gone?”

The words are sharp, but not cruel. More like they’re cutting him open as he says them. And they are cutting me, too, deep and sharp and painful. My heart bleeds with him for what he has almost lost.

I don’t flinch. I reach out and place my hand over his. “Do you still want to play?”

He looks at me then, really looks. The fire in his eyes is dimmer than it used to be, flickering but not gone.

“Yes.” His voice cracks. “God, yes. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. It’s all I know how to do.”

“Then why does it feel like you’ve already given up?”

That hits him. He blinks and pulls his hand away, dragging it down his face. There is so much pain and exhaustion in his eyes that I know it’s not physical, that his soul is what’s carrying the weight of his accident.

“Because maybe I have.” His voice is raw now.

“Do you know what it’s like to go from being at the top, having people chant your name in stadiums, watch you like you’re a god, to suddenly wondering if you’ll ever run without pain again?

I didn’t plan for this. I never even thought I’d need to.

I thought I had more time.” He lets out a bitter laugh.

“But time doesn’t give a shit. Neither does a mangled leg. ”

I shift, turning to face him fully. “You don’t have to be on top to still love what you do.”

He shakes his head. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s not. My whole life blew up back in LA, remember? I lost everything, my image, my credibility, my trust in people, and maybe my career. But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still trying. You don’t get to quit just because it got hard.”

His eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, I see the storm behind them begin to settle.

“You have money. You have a name. You have people who love you,” I continue, softer now. “If you never played another match, you’d still be okay.”

He swallows hard, and for the first time since Marco stormed in, I see something real break through his armor. Not pride. Not anger. Just fear.

“I don’t know who I am without it,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Football is the only version of me I’ve ever trusted.”

I slide my hand back into his. “Then maybe it’s time you get to know the rest of yourself while you try to go back. But you should play because it’s what you love to do, not because you don’t want to discover who you really are.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His gaze drops to our hands, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“I think you should get the surgery,” I say gently. “If it gives you a shot, even a small one, then you owe it to yourself to try.”

He doesn’t argue. He just listens.

“It might take time. A lot of time. You might have to fight your way back from the bottom. But if you still love it, really love it, you’ll find a way.

Not for the fans. Not for Marco. For you.

Think back to when you started playing. Was it for the money?

For the fame? Or was it just because you loved it? ”

A silence stretches between us. The night hums in the background. The stars blink down like they’re holding their breath, waiting.

Finally, he turns his face toward me. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” A small smile curves my lips.

“Cut right through the noise and say exactly what I need to hear,” he whispers.

I smile faintly. “It’s a gift.”

He laughs under his breath and presses his forehead to mine. “You’re not the reason I’m lost, Lena. You might be the reason I find my way again.”

My throat tightens. I lean into him, breathing him in, the faint scent of beer and soap and summer skin. His hand comes up to cradle my cheek, and his thumb sweeps across my skin like he’s memorizing me.

In the quiet of this grove, with the weight of all we are and everything still unknown, I whisper, “The way to find who you are is in here.” I put a hand on his chest. “ The road to you is through your heart.”

He kisses me then. Slow and deep, like an anchor, like a vow. For the first time all day, I feel him begin to come back to himself.