"No more than a couple of questions" said the press officer for the Roma City.

The journalists followed her instruction probably because of her stern expression and because she was one of the best in her job.Cristian hated answering to the journalists' questions, especially before an important match such as the national cup final. It was always the same bullshit, after all. They didn't even want a real answer, they didn't care about his thoughts, they just wanted a line, a few word that could help them to find a catching headline.

He entered the dressing room. He spotted his shirt. Sometimes it still felt like a dream reading his name on the shirt under the number 10. He had made it, despite everything. Although at the first he was alone in Rome and doubted himself and his talent.He perfectly remembered the day when a Roma City's talent scout had arrived in Porto Cristo and had accidentally saw him playing. It had been a stroke of luck. Cristian didn't even have to leave the house that afternoon, it was raining, and he wanted to keep his mother company.

He wanted to make her smile, because it seemed to him that she didn't do it so often anymore. When Juan, his father, was with her, she certainly didn't smile. They were alone that afternoon. It was the beginning of September, and the tourists started to leave, the streets returned half-empty and quiet, the loudy nightlife disappeared almost completely. Costanza, his mother, was intent on sewing a curtain, she had always been good at transforming the old into new, hiding tears and cracks. He had turned on the radio and started dancing to the music. He saw her laughing and he was happy. When his father wasn't at home he was happy and for that he felt terribly guilty, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Then his father had arrived. His face was dark, livid, like the cloud-filled sky of that afternoon. He didn't need to say anything to erase his mother's smile. Surely he had lost money to gambling. Again. A large sum. Again.Cristian had slammed the door, because he didn't want to hear or see yet another scene between the two. He remembered going to the only place where he felt safe, where he could stop thinking about his mother's weak smile and his father's arrogant one. Even if it rained he had found other kids like him on the soccer pitch. There were other people too. A young couple laughing happily and kissing each other, a child who wanted to join the players and whom the mother, with a large straw hat on her head, had to keep at bay, and then there was him. An adult man, neither young nor old, who, after speaking for a while on the phone, had begun to stare at him. His career has begun like that thanks to a talent scout on holidays who was looking for a shelter from the rain, and thanks to a boy running away from his problems. Not even six months later, Cristian had arrived in Rome and had signed his contract.

"Let's go," the coach drew him away from his memories.

The match was easier than he expected. He scored one goal and led the team to the victory. He made the fans happy, and that made him happy in return. He felt like a demi-god when the crowd screamed his name in ecstasy. Sometimes at night he still felt their chants, their words. These people liked him, unlike his dad who had always being to busy gambling.He spotted his son among the fans. Martin was there with Marika.

"You won, daddy" his kid screamed running towards him at the end of the match.He took him in his arms, placing a kiss on the kid's forehead.

"Here." He handed him the medal that was still around his neck.

"Are you all going to celebrate?" Marika asked. "I thought I'd take Martin to the beach for a few days to enjoy the sunshine".

Cristian saw Martin smiling at the idea. "No problem," he said, even if he already started missing his little boy who woke him up early in the morning jumping on his bed. It was so weird to think neither of them planned to have a baby. Martin was born after a drunk night out, and it was a miracle he and Marika found a balance. They had agreed that Martin would live with his father, but she remained his mother and as such she saw him very often. That night Cristian went to a night club with his teammates and Arturo to celebrate the latest win.

The club they chose was loud and crowded, under the white stone arches young people danced wildly,illuminated by psychedelic lights while the DJ encouraged them to dance, to move, to have fun. The first bottle of sparkling wine at their table was already gone. Patrizio was tipsy, and his wife was no different. Sayid was sober, but Cristian suspected it was just for the fear of making a fool of himself with the two girls he had invited on his lap.

The second bottle was coming when Arturo shook him by the shoulder. "How about that girl?"Cristian saw a dark-haired girl moving sensually and smiling at him.

"I don't think I want to have that kind of fun tonight," he said, taking the last sip of his non-alcoholic cocktail.

"Is there anything you haven't told me? It's been months since you broke up with Daisy".

"Sorry?"Daisy, an American model, had been his girlfriend for two years. They split up without drama. She was beautiful, intelligent, nice, but they could hardly ever see each other, and their love had slowly turned into friendship. He would have gladly done without Arturo's sudden interest in his love life. He already had to avoid the questions of his mother and the clumsy reporters. You need a hobby, he was about to say, but the his friend started talking again:

"I was wondering if you met anyone interesting, perhaps during the tour in New York."

"I haven't met anyone interesting, where should I have met them?" he lied. He had met an interesting aspiring journalist at the hotel, an interesting and charming fan at one of the friendly matches, and he had met Samir at the New Moon, but he had no relationship with any of them. A quickie in a club's bathroom wasn't a relationship. Suddenly he thought that he wouldn't find anyone at home that night and for a moment he felt an emptiness in his stomach.Arturo wanted to say something else, Cristian knew from the way he raised and lowered the glass, but then his attention was captured by someone else.

"Then that guy. What do you say? He has a great physique, I think" Arturo pointed to a tall, massive man near the bar counter.

"God, Arturo... and you're not even drunk. You're just naturally an idiot'.

"You'll bring me home tonight, then," Arturo said and from the way he looked at him, a little ironic, a little tender, Cristian knew he understood.It couldn't be otherwise. Arturo knew him in a way that his other friends would never have. He had been there with him and Cristian's mother when Juan didn't come home. He had been with him when Cristian ran away to not see yet another of his father's creditor. He was with him when he used to play in Porto Cristo and he had been with him on the day of the final epilogue, when he had said goodbye to his father, to all the good and bad things that were part of that man.It would be the anniversary of that day in a week.

The villa was empty, dark and silent, just as Cristian expected, but Arturo was with him, and this made him feel better. God, how much he hated not being able to fully enjoy the victory of that evening because of the memories. He placed the medal, which he had received during the award ceremony, in the showcase where he kept his trophies. He had turned a room on the ground floor into what he hoped was a collection of growing medals and cups.

"Your father loved you," Arturo said.

"When he remembered I existed. Maybe it would have been easier if he had been a horrible man every day, instead there were good days. He left me and my mother hanging, as if we had been clinging to a rock, and he would come every now and then to step on our hands but without ever letting us fall down". He felt Arturo's hand resting on his cheek. "It's been a long time but it feels like it was yesterday, and I'm still angry with him."

"It seems yesterday that I was making a fool of myself on the pitch with you, while you were already acting like a champion." Arturo joked. He made Cristian smile.

"You weren't so bad, you know?"

His friend snorted. "If you say so. Changing the subject Sayid wants to spend the next days off the coach has given the team in Mallorca. He invited us, what do you think? " Arturo took a pot from the cupboard, and Cristian already knew that he was going to cook spaghetti.

"Let's call Marc too, then"

"Ok. I didn't tell you before but while I was checking your social networks..."

"I haven't opened them in two days. Please tell me I'm not at the center of some stupid controversy," Cristian interrupted him. He had millions of followers on social media. Honestly he didn't want to spend time on them and he was glad Arturo took the time to read what people were saying about him.

"I saw Sayid's friend, Samir, right? He mentioned you".

Samir's name aroused his interest. In New York they didn't even exchange phone numbers and, after what he had read about him on the Internet, he decided that maybe it was better this way. Still, the memory of their encounter sometimes came up in his mind, without warning. "What did he write?" He felt stupid for being so anxiously curious.

"Just good luck for today's game. Do you want to answer him?"

"You can do it, write something generic."

"I see. You don't like him?"

It depends, he wanted to answer, instead he got up and handed his friend a pack of pasta. "I don't know him enough to say it."

The other looked at him as if he had said something stupid. There is no need to know the ins and outs of someone to have a first impression on them. "We'll go to bed after this," Arturo said sympathetically.