"Sometimes I forget you're like a big deal."

I glanced from my reflection in the full-length mirror of my closet to Chiara, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her head tilted as she studied me.

"Subtle, Miss Romani," I snorted. "It's probably because I'm just so humble. Trying to fit in with you normal people."

She rolled her eyes, throwing her head back with a groan. "Annndddd you ruined it."

I turned to her with a chuckle. "Be honest, does this tux scream 'Golden Boy Winner'?"

She squinted, her hazel eyes traveling down my burgundy suit and black shirt, which she had picked because it apparently complemented my eyes. "It's..." she grimaced, "it's okay."

I faltered, fiddling with my cuff links before blinking at her. She laughed, "Chill, I'm messing with you. You look great. Total—" she did the Italian hand gesture, kissing the tip of her fingers with a loud, wet smack, "lady killer."

"So I don't need a stylist then," I confirmed.

She frowned at me and pointed at herself. "Hello? What am I?"

"Secretary, best friend, stylist, etcetera—" I responded with a grin.

"Unpaid labor, basically," she said, rising to her feet and coming to stand in front of me. She leaned over to brush my curls off my forehead, smiling. "I am very proud of you, Luca."

"Whoa, don't get all sappy on me now, Romani," I chuckled, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "I appreciate your vote of confidence."

"Now please get out so I can go to my apartment and sleep," she said. "I am half-dead on my feet."

"Oh, it's okay, Luc! I am totally fine! Let me help you—" I did a high-pitched, nasally impression of her voice on the phone an hour earlier.

"Hey, I had to make sure you don't commit any fashion crimes." She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Alright, alright, I'm gonna leave now. You got the keys?" I glanced at her purse, which was on my bedside table.

She nodded. "You win that trophy, golden boy."

"You go to sleep, zombie girl," I answered, putting on the cologne that she claimed was the least offensive as I headed out the main door of the penthouse.

The charity gala was at Hotel Principe di Savoia, a five-star hotel a few blocks away from my place. A sleek, black Mercedes pulled up in front of my apartment just as my watch read seven, and Pippo and Teo waved at me from inside.

"You guys look weird—too civilized," I remarked as I slid into a seat beside them. Rossi and Ricci waved at me, putting their heads together over some phone game they were playing.

"It's really weird," Teo said, "and to be honest, my balls can't breathe."

"Yeah, they don't have lungs," Pippo scoffed, slumping back into his seat.

When the car pulled up to the venue, there was already a storm of paparazzi outside—cameras flashing blindingly, photographers jostling and shoving each other as sportspeople I mostly recognized made their way along the carpet and up the short flight of stairs.

We walked up the staircase, flashing bright smiles at the waiting paparazzi whose flashes went crazy the second I turned to them, as the roar of the crowd spilled over the security barriers.

Camera lenses clicked in a continuous, deafening wave. Reporters pushed their microphones past security guards, shouting names over the flashing lights.

"Luca! Over here! Luca!"

"Luca, word on the Golden Boy nomination?"

"Moretti! Look left, Luca!"

My collar felt a size too tight. I tugged at my bowtie, adjusting the fitted tuxedo jacket as I stepped off the bottom step and onto the velvet carpet. Ever since my last three goals in Serie A last year—especially that ninety-second-minute curl into the top corner against Monarchs FC—the media coverage had completely exploded. Even though I had had almost a year of suddenly not being the Italian-American kid trying to earn his spot on the wing, I was still getting used to being Serie A's golden boy, the league's fastest-rising star, and the face splashed across every sports paper in Italy.

"Look at you, big shot," Pippo grinned, elbowing me in the ribs as photographers practically broke into a sprint to catch my angle. "Try not to blind them with that million-dollar smile, fra. Leave some media attention for the rest of us."

"Yeah, save some sponsor deals for the squad, Moré," Rossi muttered from behind us, though he patted my shoulder with a rare smirk as he adjusted his cuffs.

I flashed a practiced smile toward a cluster of press cameras, holding up a quick hand wave that elicited another volley of blinding flashes.

It was still surreal seeing Elliot here with us. He had been training with us for a week, but that week had quickly turned into a form of slow, psychological torture. I had tried to tell myself I would be fine—that I could handle just watching him from across the grass, keeping things professional. But watching Elliot move during drills, seeing the razor-sharp precision of his passes, the way sweat clung to his throat, and the effortless grace of his footwork, was like physical agony. Every time he glided past me or brushed against my shoulder during a scrimmage, my stomach twisted into knots, my pulse spiking so hard I could barely focus on Coach Vance's instructions. Having him so close on the pitch every single day, yet having to act completely unfazed, was wearing me down to the bone.

And the worst part was how nonchalant he was.

Touching and guiding and leading my form like it was the most normal thing to do.

Perhaps it was. Except his touch alone made my brain run into overdrive, creating scenarios that belonged nowhere on a professional football field.

The grand doors of the hotel swung open, sweeping us out of the autumn chill and into a vaulted ballroom dripping in gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and the soft hum of high-society chatter. The ceiling was painted with intricate frescoes, the gilded glass offering a kaleidoscope of glamour.

"Luca!"

I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Mira, my agent, waved at me from across the room, tottering over to me, almost slipping on her heels. She wore a simple white dress, sophisticated and just short of being too low profile.

"Damn, look at you," I grinned at her, planting a kiss on her cheek. "You clean up well."

"Ugh," she scowled, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Save the flattery for your sponsors. We have a long night ahead of us."

I expected the black-tie affair to be packed with club executives, Italian celebrities, league legends, and wealthy patrons. Waiters glided through the crowd with silver trays of champagne, while a live string quartet played smoothly in the background.

Almost immediately, a group of suit-clad league directors and a prominent Italian television host maneuvered through the crowd toward us.

"Luca! The man of the hour!" the host beamed, extending a hand to shake mine before I could even catch my breath. He shook Mira's hand, who introduced herself with her practiced 'business' smile.

"We were just talking about your performance last month," the host continued, "Absolutely sublime. The league president wants to introduce you to a few key donors before the auction begins."

"Uh, thank you, sir. It's an honor to be here," I said, offering a warm smile and slipping into the effortless charm that always seemed to come naturally whenever cameras were on—even if my chest was hammering.

"Oh, it's Susan Galli," Mira muttered. "She's a high-stakes investor. I've heard she might be investing in your club."

"Is that...good?" I asked her from the corner of my mouth.

"Stay here, rookie," she winked at me, making her way towards the gray-haired, stately woman at the corner of the room.

"Luca Moretti?"

I turned around at the voice, feeling a brief flash of rage at the tall, well-built middle-aged man with thinning hair and a broad smile that did not seem to reach his eyes. The guy who had asked Elliot about being the 'token deaf player.'

"Riccardo Bellini, Sky Sports 24—" He stretched out a hand, and I shook it out of professional courtesy. His skin was cold, which made sense since he was also cold-hearted from the looks of it.

"Of course," I plastered on a smile. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I must say—" he said, leaning closer to me, "it has been rather interesting seeing your journey from youth Ambrosiana to now this—" he waved a hand at the ornate ballroom around us, "—the highest level of Italian football. And as an American, no less."

"I am afraid you may be mistaken, Signor Bellini," I stated, my jaw set tight. "You may not have done your research correctly; my parents were in fact both Italian."

"Why, yes, of course—" he smiled wider, which was almost uneasier than if he were scowling. "Your father is not in the picture, though. Rarely seen with you. And your mother—"

I gritted my teeth. "Excuse me."

I would not give him the reaction he was looking for so he could run with the hot-headed American striker image he was so clearly trying to project onto me.

"Buona fortuna, Moretti!" he called after me, zero hint of any sincerity in his voice.

As I was drawn deeper into the circle of admiring executives and flashing smartphones, it became slightly easier to forget about Riccardo Bellini and his oily smile. My eyes instinctively darted toward the entrance.

Stepping silently into the hall, looking impeccably sharp in a white, tailored velvet tuxedo, was Elliot. My stomach flipped. The color white made him look incredibly sharp, emphasizing his lean but well-built torso and chest. His hair was immaculately golden, the waves falling in beautiful rivulets on his forehead. The overhead lights bounced off the top of his head, making it glow golden.

My throat went dry, and I immediately picked up a glass of wine from a passing waiter's tray. Elliot stood near the edge of the crowd, pale and detached from the glamorous noise around him. Looking like he had just stepped out of a fairytale.

But beneath his composed exterior, I noticed something off right away. His eyes were darting frantically across the crowded room, his posture unnaturally stiff— even for him. His fingers kept twitching upward, repeatedly adjusting and fidgeting with his hearing aid. A quiet pang of worry tugged at my chest—the sensory overload of the string quartet, clinking crystal, and booming chatter was clearly getting to him.

And somehow, even though he hadn't noticed me so far in his clear nervousness, and I hadn't made any gesture to make him notice me—he turned to look right at me.

I held my breath, as if breathing would break the heavy, solid air between us. The noise of the party melted away in a few seconds, replaced by the sound of his panting after a ninety-minute drill. I let my eyes travel lower down his body before meeting his eyes again, breathlessly. A thick magnetic field seemed to form invisibly between us, shoving away the insignificant crowd and beckoning me towards sin in the shape of a nonchalant white tux, gray eyes, and golden hair.

Before I could even take two steps in Elliot's direction, the league president—a broad-shouldered man in a bespoke tuxedo with a heavy gold watch—clapped a firm hand on my shoulder.

"Luca! Mio caro, come, come," he boomed in Italian, guiding me smoothly toward a circle of high-profile figures. "I want you to meet the regional directors from Pirelli and Armani. They've been raving about your match-winner against Monarchs FC."

What followed was a dizzying hour of high-society networking. I was introduced to luxury brand representatives, sportswear executives dangling prospective endorsement deals, and veteran Serie A legends who offered hearty slaps to my back and cryptic advice about handling the Italian media pressure. I smiled until my cheeks felt numb, nodding at jokes I barely registered and accepting compliments while keeping my public charm dialed up to maximum.

In the background, the silent auction was underway. Custom signed match balls, vintage Serie A jerseys, and private VIP box packages were going for tens of thousands of euros.

Near the elaborate buffet station, the rest of the squad had settled in comfortably. Rossi, Pippo, and Teo were piling their plates high with cured meats, smoked salmon, and gourmet tartlets, washing it down with prosecco and making zero effort to blend in with the elite crowd.

Their loud, raucous laughter carried over the soft swell of the live string quartet. I offered another tight, polite smile to a watch sponsor who was handing me his business card, but my eyes automatically swept the perimeter of the ballroom, looking for the one person who hadn't joined in on the chaos.

Where Elliot had been standing just moments ago—restlessly adjusting his hearing aid at the edge of the crowd—there was now only an empty marble pillar and a stray waiter holding an empty silver tray. He was gone.

I glanced toward the main exit doors, then back at my teammates, who were currently attempting to stack five caviar tartlets into a tower while cracking stupid jokes. Excusing myself smoothly from the corporate group with a practiced "Mi scusino, signori," I slipped past the flashing cameras, ignored Pippo waving a glass of champagne at me, and slunk quietly out of the roaring ballroom into the dimly lit, quiet corridor beyond.

Following my gut, my feet carried me down the long, marble-lined hall away from the music and chatter, heading toward the double doors that led out to the grand stone terrace overlooking the palace gardens.

Pushing one of the heavy doors open, the cool night air hit my face like a welcome splash of water. Standing alone at the far end of the balcony, leaning heavily against the carved stone bannister, was Elliot.

He had his hearing aids resting on the ledge, and his eyes were closed tight as he took slow, deliberate breaths.

I walked up quietly behind him on the soft stone floor, stepping carefully. "Elliot?"

When he didn't turn around, I reached out and gently tapped his shoulder.

Elliot almost jumped right out of his skin. He gasped, spinning around in a sharp, defensive posture, his hand instantly flying up to his chest as his wide, pale eyes locked onto mine.

"Jesus—sorry!" I said quickly, holding my hands up in surrender, stepping back a half-inch so he could read my lips clearly in the dim terrace light. "It's just me."

Elliot let out a long, ragged exhale, his shoulders slowly dropping from his ears. "Luca," he breathed softly, the quiet of the night wrapping around us. "You... startled my nervous system."

I recalled the 'sorry' sign and made a fist with my thumb resting on the side, rubbing it in a small circular motion on the center of my chest. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

His hearing aids were still sitting where he'd left them on the stone ledge, two small pale shells catching the garden light. He kept glancing at them—the way you'd watch a door you weren't ready to walk back through. I understood, somehow, that he'd taken them out because in there it had all been too much, and that putting them back meant letting the noise in again.

I reached over and picked them up before I could think better of it.

They were smaller than I expected. Lighter. Warm still, from being against him. I turned them over once in my palm, careful, like they might break—God knew I had a record—and Elliot went very still, watching my hands hold the one thing I was fairly sure nobody was allowed to touch.

He didn't stop me.

I held them out to him on my open palm. Not putting them on him. Just—here. Yours. When you're ready.

Elliot looked at the aids in my hand, then up at me, something working behind his eyes that I couldn't read. Then he picked them up—his fingers brushing my palm, brief, warm and electric—and folded them into his own fist without putting them back in.

"Not yet," he said quietly, understanding the offer for what it was. "The acoustic environment is still hostile. But—thank you."

I placed my folded elbow against the bannister, leaning on it as the wind picked up around us. The loud sounds of people laughing and chatting, a stream of music, still leaked softly through the corridor.

"How come—" I began before leaning in so he could read my mouth better. "How come you are here?"

He gazed at my lips for a few seconds, his cheeks flushing dark pink under the dim lights in a way that made my heart thud loudly. He looked up at me before answering, "Too many people trying to talk to me."

"Travesty." I shook my head.

"You enjoy talking to people," he observed. "You seem to be a bit of an extrovert."

I shrugged. "I don't hate it, I suppose." I realized I was looking back at the gala and he wouldn't be able to see my mouth, so I turned to him again. "I don't hate it, I suppose. Good way to make connections."

"You look very handsome, Luca," he said suddenly. I glanced at him, knowing it was going to be another one of his analytical observations, despite my stomach fluttering hopefully. This was the second time he had called me 'handsome' in that matter-of-fact way, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Like he had studied me and decided that that was, in fact— true.

I wasn't unused to compliments like that. But I was unused to Elliot Hayes. And somehow, from his mouth—

Mio Dio. His mouth.

All I had to do was lean in. All I had to do was close the few inches between us. My lips tingled with want, logic flying out the window as I stared at his lips. The defined cupid's bow that gave him his elegance, the shape of them, his bottom lip slightly plumper than his top one— something I had noticed on the field in the qualifier match.

I gulped, my throat suddenly parched.

His voice was soft when he spoke, none of the curt, crisp tone he would use for his statistics. "The burgundy complements your eyes very well."

I turned away from him, suddenly wishing I had something to do with my hands. Instead, I placed two fingers on my chin in a gesture of 'thank you,' glad that I didn't have to use my voice. I moved my hand slightly towards him. "You look great like... all the time," I added finally, managing to look at him.

"Eleanor can be rather... intense about fashion," he said. "I suppose I can be too."

Something painful twisted under my ribs at his words. I had never heard him mention the name before and wondered if it was common knowledge in Italian media. A girlfriend, perhaps?

"Who's Eleanor?" I asked, my voice slightly higher than usual.

"My mom's stylist," he answered. "She's been with her ever since her early Hollywood days. Knows fashion and the people in fashion really well. So I let her do me at times too."

I choked on my own spit, coughing loudly. He sprang into action, patting my back with firm thuds before I finally managed to straighten back up. "That... doesn't mean what you think it does."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "What does not mean... what do I think?"

"You said you let her... do you."

"Yes," he nodded. "Like she has been doing my mother for the past decade."

I burst out laughing. More than the slip of the tongue, it was his pure and unshakeable conviction in what he had said. "You're unbelievably cute."

I bit my tongue the instant the words slipped out of my mouth.

"Hm?" Elliot asked, reaching over to touch my shoulder once. "I can not read—"

I heaved a sigh of relief. I turned back to look at him. "You know what you just said?"

"That Eleanor has been d—"

I chuckled again.

"What?" he whined. "What am I saying wrong?"

"Hayes, come on!" I threw my head back before looking back at him.

"Is it... sex?"

I snorted. "Yes. You implied Eleanor has been sleeping with your mother since her early Hollywood days and now sleeps with you."

"Oh, in that case—" he shook his head. "No."

He scrunched up his nose adorably, grimacing in feigned disgust. "That is not what I meant."

"I know," I assured him.

"She is a good lady," he continued. "She was the one who brought Woofie home."

"Hm?"

I watched as he reached into his pants pocket, fishing out his phone and scrolling past his gallery before showing me the picture of a small Pomeranian with three legs. "That's him, Woofie."

"Your rescue dog?" I asked, taking the phone from him.

He nodded fervently. "He was the first one. I was, what... almost ten around that time?"

"He's adorable," I gave him half a smile.

"He was..." he took a deep breath. "He was on the... the keychain. The plaster one."

My heart plummeted straight to my stomach. "Oh. About that. I... I'm really sorry."

"You did not do it intentionally," he said, reaching an arm over mine to swipe to the next picture. "That is Redford. Mum hated his name."

"Wait—go back," I said. "The Pomeranian."

Elliot swiped back obediently until Woofie filled the screen again, three-legged and grinning up at the camera with his tongue out. I knew I could no longer bring back the paw print keychain, but maybe there was something else I could fashion?

"Send me that one," I said. "For, uh. He's funny-looking. I want it."

"Oh." Elliot blinked. "Certainly. What is your number?"

"Just—here." I took the phone out of his hand before I could talk myself out of it, my thumb already moving. I pulled up the keypad and input my own number, and let it ring once against my hip before I hung up. Two seconds. My phone buzzed in my pocket, saving him into it without either of us having to say a single honest word about why.

I watched him save my number, typing meticulously.

Luca Moretti Striker #9, Milan

I laughed softly. "Also add—curly hair, one ninety-three centimeters, A positive blood group."

He frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. "That... that would be against the system," he clicked his tongue, brushing a hand through his hair like he was genuinely upset. "I will have to input the metrics of the rest of my contacts. And I do not know them. Maybe if I send a collective email to attach the required—"

"I was kidding," I said, nudging his shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh," he smiled brightly. "Yes. That does make more sense."

I pulled out my phone and typed in his name.

ELLIOT

"Hayes—" Elliot said, leaning over my phone screen so I got another hit of his cologne. Vanilla and sandalwood. Dark, sophisticated, and maddeningly sexy.

"I don't know any other Elliots," I responded, holding my breath so I wouldn't lose my mind at his scent. "This should suffice."

He stood up straight and nodded. I grinned at him. "There. Now we've both got it. Easier."

"Efficient," Elliot agreed as he resumed showing me his gallery again.

"I can see why you named him Redford," I remarked at the rust-colored Siberian husky with one eye. He swiped again, and I came across the picture of a gray cat with two kittens nursing on her.

"That's Minerva, that's Ginger, and that's Po."

"Like from the movie?" I inquired.

"Yes!" Elliot beamed at me. "Kung Fu Panda, see? He's white with black spots near his head!"

"Like a panda," I laughed. "Ingenious, truly."

"That's Kiwi—" a ball python, "—Harry," a donkey, "Patty—" a baby Highland cow.

"You have like... a rescue or something?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not officially, no. Mum has a few she supports. I just bring them to my place back in Inverness."

"Oh," I swiped further to look at the numerous cats, dogs, snakes, and even a few animals I wasn't sure I knew the names of.

"There's a large farm there. I'm not able to visit that often these days, so I've got Mariette looking after it."

I didn't ask who Mariette was. I couldn't. I couldn't speak.

He was glowing.

His eyes were a bright silver, his face pink as he spoke rapidly, stumbling on words and consonants, his pitch rising and falling randomly as he told me the lore behind every animal that he had fostered. He looked so happy and carefree. And it was the most beautiful sight in the world. His warm smile seemed to pierce through my own chest, making a fuzzy warmth bloom inside.

"—she finally agreed," he continued. "Sat-is... Stat—kally—" he clicked his tongue.

"Statistically—" I offered.

"Statistically," he echoed. "Snakes are only going to bite when they feel threatened or are manhandled." He swiped through the rest of the list, pausing in front of each and every rabbit and hamster. Even fish. He remembered the name of every single one, often narrating—stuttering—an anecdote about each of them.

The quiet of the terrace settled around us, the cool night air cutting through the lingering heat of the gala inside.

Elliot had stopped talking, his gaze fixed on me with that quiet, intense focus that always made my chest feel too tight. The faint glow of the garden lights caught the line of his jaw and the crisp collar of his formal shirt.

"You look really hot like that," I blurted out.

The words left my mouth before my brain could stop them.

Elliot blinked, a subtle twitch in his expression as his eyebrows pulled together. His lips parted slightly, his eyes searching mine in confusion. "What?"

I stepped closer, the cool air between us evaporating instantly as a surge of warm, reckless passion took over. "You heard me, Hayes," I muttered softly, my voice dropping an octave as I leaned in, my gaze dipping down to his lips. "You look stupidly good tonight."

Elliot went dead still. His chest stilled, his pale gray eyes widening just a fraction as I leaned further in, closing the gap until I could feel the faint warmth radiating from his face. For a split second, he didn't pull away—his eyes flicked down to my mouth, his fingers twitching against the stone railing as if he were contemplating bridging the final inch himself.

I could feel him exhale slowly, the warm, minty breath mingling with mine. The wine hummed beneath my skin. Neither of us moved. His thick eyelashes cast shadows on his pale cheekbones. He lifted his eyes to me again, his pupils dilating starkly under the silver moonlight.

His lips parted in a breathless gesture, a soft gasp that would have been inaudible if I wasn't focusing all my attention on him.

Then, the heavy terrace door banged open.

"Moré! Fra! There you are!" Pippo's voice hit the balcony like a wrecking ball.

I jerked backward instantly, my heart slamming against my ribs as Pippo and Teo marched straight onto the terrace. Before I could even compose myself, Pippo grabbed me by the arm, and Teo swooped in on my other side, grabbing my shoulder.

"Come on, man, we're pulling you out of here," Pippo declared loudly, grabbing my sleeve and forcefully dragging me backward toward the door.

"Wait—what? Guys, hold on—" I stumbled, trying to dig my heels in, but the two cockblockers were already hauling me away like a prize catch.

"Coach Vance is looking for you to meet some sponsor from Milan," Teo threw out, his tone completely nonchalant and blatantly fabricated as he helped steer me through the doorway. "Super urgent. Millions of euros on the line. Couldn't let you sit out here getting cornered."

"He wasn't—" I tried to turn around, looking back over my shoulder at Elliot.

Elliot stood frozen by the balustrade, his hand hovering near his ear where he subtly adjusted his hearing aid, his wall slamming back up instantly as he watched the scene unfold with an unreadable, deadpan stare.

As Pippo dragged me past the threshold and back into the brightly lit hall, he slapped my back hard, grinning triumphantly. "You're welcome, bro!" he barked loudly over the noise of the party. "Saved you from another endless Hayes lecture on match statistics!"

A part of me was extremely irritated at the intrusion; the other part of me was glad. I couldn't trust myself around Elliot anymore. What was I trying to do? Kiss him on the balcony in a public event like this one?

That was reckless. Too reckless. Even for me.

Soon enough, I was inside and shaking hands with random sponsors. Although my mind kept traveling back to Elliot leaning against the bannister. His carefree smile, the way his eyes lit up, the way his words ran into each other, completely losing their crisp, formal cadence when he got excited. And how badly I wanted to witness more of it all.