.
By the time school lets out, my head is pounding, my ribs aching, and the weight of the day presses down heavier than my backpack.
But there's no going home yet.
Today's Saturday, a match day.
The sky over the field is thick with grey clouds when I jog out of the locker room, soccer cleats clacking against the pavement. The air smells like wet grass and cold sweat—familiar, almost comforting.
Almost.
The stands aren't full. They never are for high school games. Just some parents, bored classmates, and a few die-hard friends.
I scan the crowd without thinking.
Don't know what I'm looking for.
I stop when I see her—Chiara—leaning against the fence with Anna and a few others, arms crossed, talking, not even looking at the field.
Good.
I don't want her watching anyway.
Coach calls us over for the starting lineup.
I roll my shoulders back, wincing at the tight pull across my side. No one notices.
No one ever does.
"You're starting right wing, Moretti," Coach says, clapping my back a little too hard. I swallow a grunt of pain and nod.
Nothing new.
The whistle blows sharp, and we're off.
Running feels like dragging a broken machine through mud. Every sprint, every shove, every kick rattles through my bruised ribs. I clench my jaw and push through it.
Pain is background noise. It has to be.
The other team plays rough—elbows out, cleats up. Within the first ten minutes, I take a hit to my side that nearly knocks the wind out of me.
I stumble, catch myself, force my body upright.
No one helps me. No one stops.
I hear Brando shouting from midfield. "Come on, Luca, faster!"
I dig in harder, heart hammering against my cracked ribs. It feels like my body might break apart if I push any more.
But I can't stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
The ball comes flying toward me on the wing, a perfect cross from Samu.
I take the shot.
It curves wide.
Way wide.
"Dammit, Luca!" Coach roars from the sideline.
The back of my neck burns. My fists clench.
I hear laughter from the stands—maybe someone from school, maybe just the other team's fans—but it hits harder than the tackle.
When I glance over, Chiara's watching now.
Arms still crossed, expression unreadable.
Good.
Let her see me mess up.
Let her think I'm nothing but wasted potential.
It's easier that way.
The game drags on. My side throbs with every move. A few teammates toss me annoyed looks when I miss a pass or react too slow, but no one says it out loud.
They don't need to.
I can feel it.
When the final whistle blows, we've lost 2-1.
I bend over, hands on my knees, sucking in shallow, painful breaths.
I stay like that for a few seconds too long.
Someone claps my back—Brando again, voice forced bright. "Next time, bro."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
As we shuffle toward the locker room, I catch Chiara's gaze one more time.
A flicker of something in her eyes—confusion maybe, or pity—but then she looks away, laughing at something Anna says.
And just like that, it's gone.
Good.
Better if she doesn't see too much.
Better if no one does.