Page 6 of The Road to You

MICHELE

“ T hat risotto alla Milanese with ossobuco was something I will remember for eternity.” Lena beams at me with a wide smile, and her cheeks flushed from the wine. The way she pronounces the Italian words, with that charming accent, makes my lungs forget how to work.

I knew it this afternoon, but dinner confirmed it. She makes me forget.

For the first time in months, I don’t feel like a man whose career is slipping through his fingers.

I don’t think about the team that cut me loose, the injury that haunts my nights, or the uncertainty clawing at me like a shadow I can’t outrun.

With her, I forget the pain gripping my leg most of the time.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t see the baggage I carry, the weight of expectations, or the headlines dissecting my downfall. With Lena, I’m just Michele. No past, no pressure.

“I know! I was stunned the first time I had it after moving to Milan.” I chuckle, reaching out instinctively when she stumbles on the uneven cobblestone. She catches my elbow, her fingers gripping tightly as she steadies herself.

It could be the wine, or the late hour, or the sheer absurdity of how easy it feels between us, but I don’t want tonight to end. I don’t want to go back to my empty apartment, to lie awake staring at the ceiling, drowning in spiraling thoughts that make my nightmares become almost tangible.

“You’re not from here?” she asks curiously, looking at me with those big blue eyes that mesmerize me.

It’s refreshing that she doesn’t know. She has no idea how long it’s been since I had a night like this, feeling light and letting my mind rest. It’s been years since the last time I allowed myself to be something different than the soccer player, just Michele, and nothing more.

I shake my head, smiling. “No. I’m from a small town in Puglia, in the south.”

Her expression softens. “Really? I’ve heard the south is amazing in the summer. I’d love to visit someday.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice, like she doesn’t believe it’s possible.

I wonder why she feels like she can’t do something this simple, visiting a place she wants to see. She is already here, and from what she told me, she’s staying for a while. Nothing should stop her from doing what she wants.

“It really is,” I say. “The colors, the scent of fruit warm from the sun, the way people smile and live slowly like they’ve got nowhere else to be, it’s something else. Even the taste of food is different.”

Silence settles between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. We walk aimlessly, just enjoying this moment. And I realize I don’t want to say goodnight yet.

“Come with me,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.

She turns to me, brow furrowing slightly. “I…” There’s hesitation in her voice, and I rush to reassure her.

“It’s a public place. Plenty of people. Nothing to worry about.” I wink, trying to put her at ease.

She exhales a soft laugh. “Sorry. I guess I’m just used to men expecting something in return after dinner. And I’m not interested in…that.”

My stomach twists. It’s infuriating that she even has to say it. It’s disgusting how some men treat a meal like it’s a transaction.

“They’re not men,” I mutter. “They’re pathetic losers who can’t get a woman any other way.”

She’s quiet for a beat and gazes at the paved street under her feet. Then she says, so softly I almost miss it, “My ex was like that. He always expected something in return.”

I glance at her, but she keeps her head down, shoulders slightly hunched, like she’s ashamed. And that pisses me off more than anything. What an asshole

“Look how that turned out,” I say, not bothering to filter my irritation. “He didn’t even have the balls to tell you he had his dick buried in someone else’s ass.”

A sharp laugh bursts out of her, and she shakes her head. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s something about the way she looks at me, like she’s seeing me differently.

She seems surprised that I don’t act like the men she is used to, and the idea makes me sad for her.

How can someone live always expecting the worst from the people around her?

Maybe it’s just her recent breakup making her distrusting, but still, it’s sad.

“But seriously,” she says, shifting the conversation, “where are you taking me?”

I grin. “We’re here.” I gesture toward a glowing neon sign up ahead.

Her face lights up, and it damn near knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Gelato?” She lets out a delighted laugh. “Are you serious? I don’t know if I have room for it after that dinner, but I’ll run ten laps around the block if it means I get to eat some.” She giggles, and the sound tugs at something deep inside me.

When we get closer to the outdoor space, she studies the display case like a kid in a candy store, eyes wide as she scans the endless rows of flavors. “Okay, I recognize pistachio, but the others? I have no clue. I need your help.”

I go through them one by one, answering every question as she listens, completely enraptured. The woman behind the counter watches us with amusement, probably used to the locals not making a fuss about it, but with Lena, it’s all marvel and awe.

She settles on pistachio and hazelnut, her voice stubbornly wrapping around the Italian words. “ Nocciola ,” she repeats until she gets it right and orders by herself. Her accent makes the word sound ten times sexier than it should.

We sit outside with our cups, and every time she takes a bite, she lets out a soft, appreciative moan that sends a low hum of amusement through me.

“So,” I say after a comfortable silence, “are you actually going to travel around Italy this summer? Or are you planning to hide out until it’s safe to go home?”

She exhales, stirring her gelato absentmindedly. “I’d love to. But the paparazzi are everywhere, even here. Trying to visit tourist spots turns into a nightmare fast.”

I know it too well. After my accident, they were relentless, circling like vultures, reminding me every damn day how much I fucked up.

“There are places that aren’t swarming with tourists,” I say. “And ways to avoid being seen.”

She laughs. “Easy for you to say. You live here. You speak the language. I can’t even read half the street signs.”

“I could go with you,” I blurt out. I don’t think. I just say it.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how insane it sounds. I barely know her. She barely knows me.

She turns, watching me with open skepticism. “Is that a serious offer? Because I’m waiting for the punchline.”

I rub a hand over my neck, ruffling my hair. “I know it sounds crazy. But if you want, I’d be happy to show you around.”

And the thing is, the more I think about it, the more I actually want to.

Because I don’t have anything to lose. I’m stuck, floating in limbo, with no real direction.

And for the first time in months, today felt like a breath of fresh air.

It’s almost exhilarating thinking about forgetting all my problems and living in the moment.

She tilts her head. “You expect me to travel with a stranger I just met?”

Fair point.

I reach for my wallet, pull out my ID, and hand it to her. “Take a picture. Send it to whoever you trust. If anything happens to you, they’ll know exactly who to blame.”

She snorts. “Not exactly reassuring. I’d still be dead in a ditch.”

I sigh. “You’re right. But this is the best guarantee I can offer. You’ve been with me all day. If I gave you bad vibes, run. Trust your gut. But if you do say yes, know that at any point, if you feel uncomfortable, you can ditch me. No hard feelings.”

She studies my ID, then snaps a picture. “I’ll send it to my lawyer. If you turn out to be a serial killer, he’ll make sure you rot in prison.”

I grin. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, I find myself agreeing to something completely insane. A spontaneous trip with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.

For the first time in a long time, without a plan or even a vague direction, I don’t feel lost.