Page 37 of The Road to You

MICHELE

T he air is still cool when I slip out from under the sheets, careful not to wake Lena.

She’s curled on her side, one hand under her cheek, the other stretched toward the space I just left.

For a moment, I just stand there watching her softly breathing, tangled hair, the early morning sun painting gold along her bare shoulder.

We didn’t have the strength to sleep in separate rooms last night, not after the confession that broke our hearts into a thousand pieces.

If my parents complain about it, I’ll explain, but I think my mother already knows what happened.

Her eyes never left Lena and me during dinner, her mother’s intuition ramped up to a higher level, if that’s even possible.

I step outside, basking in the scent of coffee and freshly-baked bread.

Under the pergola, the world is silent except for the soft rustling of olive branches and the distant coo of doves waking with the sun.

I sit on the stone bench and rest my elbows on my knees, pressing my palms together.

My leg gives its usual throb, a quiet, cruel reminder of what might never be again.

Marco’s words echo in my head like a bell I can’t un-ring.

“Make a decision or I walk.” He’s not wrong.

I’ve been floating. Avoiding the mirror.

The rehab. The calls. Hell, my own thoughts.

But my talk with Lena last night brought everything back in full force, slamming against me, pushing me down, suffocating the breath in my lungs, and squeezing my heart in my chest.

She made the decision for both of us, and even though I wasn’t ready, I’m glad she did. The bubble we’ve been living in was always meant to pop at some point, and I knew it would hurt. Just not this much.

“You’re up early,” Mamma says from behind me. I turn as she pads over in her house slippers, her cardigan pulled tight around her body even though it’s already warm.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur.

She sits beside me without another word. I don’t speak either. We just sit there for a long moment, the kind of moment only mothers and sons know how to share.

Then she asks softly, “What’s bothering you, tesoro mio ?”

I let the breath out slowly. “Marco gave me an ultimatum. He says he’ll drop me if I don’t make up my mind about how to fix my leg. About playing again.”

“And what do you want to do?” Her voice is soft, like every time she guides her kids through a difficult decision.

She has always been like that, always listening, always the light of reason in our confused minds.

“That’s the problem.” I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t know. I keep waiting to wake up with clarity, to just know. But instead, I keep waking up like this: tired, confused, angry.”

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 fully awake 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?”

“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 or spite. 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 from Serie A or 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. I need 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?”

I smile. “For myself. For the game. To discover what I’m capable of doing when I’m not effortlessly at the top. For the girl still asleep in my bed.”

Marco chuckles. “You’re a romantic under all that charm, huh?”

“Always have been,” I mutter, ending the call with a smirk.

I set the phone down beside me and let the stillness wrap around me again. This is the beginning of the climb, and this time, I’m not afraid of the fall.