The heavy door clicked shut behind Elliot, and the quiet stillness of the room collapsed back onto me.

I filled the sample cup with numb, mechanical detachment, handed it to the attendant, and dragged myself down the stark white corridor toward the away dressing room.

The noise hit me long before I reached the double doors. Thumping bass from Teo's speaker vibrated straight through the concrete walls, accompanied by the chaotic, deafening roar of thirty men who had just dragged Italy through a world-class comeback.

When I pushed the heavy door open, a wave of humid heat, cheap prosecco, and sweat washed over my face.

"There he is! The hero!" Pippo yelled, sloshing champagne over his shirt as he grabbed my shoulders, pulling me into a chaotic headlock. Lollo smashed a palm against my chest, and someone threw a soaked towel straight at my head.

"Scored the winner and then took a forty-minute piss!" Teo barked over the music, grinning as he shoved a half-empty bottle into my grip. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Cap. Drink!"

I took a heavy swig, letting the sharp, bitter alcohol burn the back of my throat, but it did nothing to warm the cold knot twisting in my stomach. Around me, the boys were singing, jumping on the wooden benches, shouting about securing our World Cup spot after twelve long years.

But the chatter in the room was already shifting.

"Let them celebrate tonight," our assistant coach was telling a cluster of defenders over by the ice baths. "In a year, we're in the same Euro group as them. You think their coaching staff and Hayes aren't going to tear this tape apart? Next summer in Berlin, they'll be waiting for us."

Hayes.

The name echoed off the tiled locker room walls like a threat.

I leaned back against my locker, my fingers tightening around the cold glass of the bottle until my knuckles went white. We had won tonight, sure, but tonight was just a qualifier. The Euros were the real stage. One short year. A heartbeat in football time.

England would be out for blood, and Elliot would be leading the charge.

I pictured him back in their quiet dressing room right now—already pulling up the match telemetry on a tablet, those sharp, analytical gray eyes breaking down every single stride I made, every gap in our backline, every flaw in my game. He didn't play on emotion; he played on mathematical precision. He would dissect us until he owned every square inch of the pitch.

And in a year, I would have to stand in that tunnel opposite him.

Not in a quiet, sterile medical room with fluorescent lighting, no audience, and a pair of hearing aids sitting on a stainless steel tray. But under the blinding stadium lights of Europe's biggest tournament, surrounded by eighty thousand screaming fans.

I'd have to look into those clear gray eyes, carry the crushing weight of every vile thing I'd ever said to him as a kid, and somehow try to play football while my chest burned with a desire that would utterly ruin me if anyone ever found out. 

Why was I even feeling this way about him? Seemingly, out of nowhere? It had to be purely physical. Even the most hateful person in the world with a live pulse would look at Elliot Hayes and not argue that he was the single most breathtaking thing that ever walked the planet. Maybe some curious part of me just wanted to see him that way. See him lose his mind. See all his logic break down for a personal ego boost. 

"Luca!" Teo slammed a hand down on the bench next to me, cutting straight through the noise in my head. "What's wrong with you? We just beat England on their own turf!"

I forced a tight, arrogant smirk onto my face, the armor clicking back into place before anyone could see the crack.

"Nothing," I lied, throwing my head back to finish the champagne. "Just thinking about how much fun it's going to be to break them again in June."

*

Lucy had a lot of talent. Singing was not one of them.

That, of course, did not stop her from singing in Italian loudly, with a flag on her back as she sat on the couch beside Chiara. The pair of them had been watching the match on repeat for the past couple of hours, dissecting every little move and every referee call.

"That was such an unnecessary free kick," Lucy scowled for the third time in a row. "I mean, come on! Pippo just touched the guy, and he went over."

Chiara exchanged a glance with me and slowly reached over to pry Lucy's energy drink from her fist. She didn't seem to notice.

"You have school tomorrow," I reminded her, taking the remote off the desk and shutting the television off. Lucy groaned, slumping back into the couch and pouting up at me. "You've watched the same shit for the last two hours, Luc. Go. To bed."

"Ugh, you're so old," she grunted, getting back to her feet and stomping away, the Italian flag swaying behind her.

"She means to say she is proud of you," Chiara said, squeezing my shoulder as she sat beside me.

"Look at you putting words in her mouth," I said, leaning back into the cushions and switching the TV back on, muting it instantly.

"You were unreal out there today," she said, moving closer to nudge my shoulder. "Really."

"Yeah, we got lucky Hayes' team isn't half as good as him," I answered, combing my fingers through my hair. It was a bit easier not to imagine Elliot in compromised positions now that I was physically far from him. "Speaking of—" I turned to look at her, "I found out today the guy has hearing aids."

She chuckled. "Oh. Buongiorno, Luca. Everyone in the Italian-speaking world knew."

"Hey," I managed. "I'm clearly not a bigot. Treating him the exact same as anybody else."

She giggled and leaned into me. "I can't believe you did it. You'll actually be playing on the world stage. That's incredible."

I placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in to plant a kiss on top of her coconut-smelling hair. "Yeah. Mom always said I'd make it."

She settled against me, easy, familiar. There'd been a few times — a summer ago, before everything got heavy — when this exact position would've gone somewhere else. When a kiss in her hair meant something, or led somewhere, and we'd both been fine with the nothing-serious of it. Now she just fit under my arm like a cat finding a warm spot, and I felt nothing but the plain comfort of her, no pull, no heat, none of the thing that—

I didn't finish the thought. I didn't want to know what I was comparing it to.

"Ah, about that," she leaned away to look at me, her face suddenly serious. She knitted her eyebrows and spoke slowly, "You're still not speaking to your dad?"

I shrugged. "Lucy's talking to him. It's fine. He's alive."

"Is he going to... come? To see you play?" she asked.

I shrugged again. "Who knows?"

"You'll invite him?"

I shrugged again.

"Luca—"

"Just let me—" I shut my eyes, "bask in my own glory for a sec."

"You've been basking in your own glory for nineteen years," she rolled her eyes.

"Are you complaining?" I asked, opening an eye and peeking at her.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," she said, hiding a smile as she leaned over to grab a half-opened packet of chips from the table.