Breaking The Rules of The Game

The Unvarnished Truth

The lingering bitterness of his earlier encounter had followed Marco like a phantom scent, clinging to him even as the afternoon sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the city. He’d hoped to lose himself in the recognizable ritual of his training, to let the sweat and exertion wash away the residue of his own clumsy social missteps. But even on the pristine green of the training pitch, with the roar of his teammates and the rhythmic thud of the ball against his boots, the memory of Sophie’s quiet departure pricked at him. It wasn’t the grandeur of a public failure that haunted him, but the quiet dignity of his own miscalculation, the subtle dimming of a nascent spark. He’d been so convinced of his need for isolation, so adept at erecting walls, that he’d managed to push away something potentially genuine, something that offered a rare breath of unadulterated air.

That same insistent pull had brought him back—he told himself it was a coincidence, not intention.

Yet here he was, the scent of roasted beans and steamed milk a potent, almost olfactory echo of his earlier disquiet. He found a small table tucked away in a corner, hoping for the anonymity he so desperately craved, yet acutely aware of every other patron, every hushed conversation, every clink of ceramic. His guard, an almost invisible yet formidable shield, was firmly in place —a practiced reflex honed by years of public life. He ordered his usual doppio espresso; the sharp, uncompromising bitterness was a recognizable comfort.

He was lost in the sterile landscape of his own thoughts, the usual mental replays of past games and future strategies, when a subtle shift in the ambient noise drew his attention. He fidgeted with his sports coat. That’s when it happened.

“Marco Rossi!”

The squeal cracked through the evening air. Before he could turn, a figure barreled toward him—sequins flashing, eyeliner smudged, and a phone already raised like a spotlight.

“It’s you! Oh my God, I knew you’d come for me!”

Marco blinked instinctively, taking a step back. He tried sidestepping left. She blocked him. He tried right. Mimicking his behavior exactly, she expressed her joy with a grin, reminiscent of someone who had recently received a trophy.

“Signorina…” He forced a polite smile, the one reserved for strangers and sponsors. “It is late. Shouldn’t you be—”

“Home? Never! I’m here for you.” She latched onto his elbow, angling her phone for a selfie. “Say ‘goal!’”

Snap. Snap.

Marco clenched his jaw, catching a flicker of movement across the street. Carmine, of course—the paparazzo who never missed a chance to stir trouble. Camera poised, expression smug, waiting for a headline to write itself.

Tessa squealed again, loud enough for the entire block. “He smelled like—like victory! Do you smell that? That’s victory!”

Marco’s temples throbbed. Trap, his mind whispered. Plant.

He drew a steadying breath, untangling her hand from his arm with practiced gentleness. “Grazie, signorina. Truly. But I came only for coffee.”

“Coffee with destiny!” she chirped, angling for another photo.

He managed a tight laugh, shepherded her a few steps away from the door, then seized his chance. Marco entered the café stealthily, as if breaking into a fortress, while Carmine's lens reflected light, and Tessa continued to shriek on her phone.

The coffee’s warmth steadied him, a mercy after the circus outside. He exhaled, letting the door swing shut behind him, cutting off the squeals and camera flashes. Inside, the café was hushed, civilized—an entirely different world, precisely what he needed.

He willed his pulse to slow, the storm of irritation to recede, and focused on the sanctuary before him. A few quiet tables. The gentle hum of conversation. The intimate clink of porcelain. He took it in like a man resurfacing after being held underwater too long.

And then—something shifted. A sound, subtle but distinct, cutting through the usual murmur. His eyes swept the room, a reflex as ingrained as his footwork on the pitch.

That’s when he saw her.

Sophie.

The barista and the woman spoke quietly, the woman facing away from him as she stood at the counter. The same thoughtful frown, the same focused intensity he’d noticed earlier, was present, though now directed at the selection of pastries. A flicker of something akin to apprehension, followed by a surge of unexpected, almost unwelcome, self-awareness, washed over him. He hadn’t expected to see the woman again, not here, not so soon. The carefully constructed edifice of his solitude felt suddenly vulnerable, a fragile structure threatened by an unanticipated re-entry.

Instinct told him to retreat. Curiosity made him stay. He could leave, slip out the side entrance, and erase this awkward, potentially uncomfortable second encounter before it even began. It would be the sensible, safe thing to do. But a contrary impulse and a nascent curiosity kept him captive, refusing to be entirely suppressed. He wanted to see her reaction, to gauge whether his dismissive gesture had left any discernible mark. And if he were to be brutally honest with himself, the possibility of a different interaction intrigued a small, unacknowledged part of him, one that didn’t involve the suffocating weight of expectation.

He observed her as she paid, tracing her movements, graceful and unhurried. With a steaming mug of coffee now in her possession, she clutched it in her hands and then turned in a different direction. For a heart-stopping moment, her gaze swept across the room, her eyes landing on his table. There was no gasp, no overt sign of surprise. Instead, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred. The slight upturn of her lips, which might have been a tentative smile of acknowledgment earlier, seemed to falter for a fraction of a second. Then, her expression settled into a neutral mask, her eyes, however, holding a direct, unwavering gaze that met his own.

This time, there was no mistake; the approach was unambiguous. No hesitation. Instead of avoiding him or ignoring his presence, she acknowledged him directly. Instead, with quiet, deliberate resolve, Sophie began walking directly towards his table. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, a tangible shift in the café’s atmosphere. The commonplace murmur of voices appeared to lessen, the ambient sounds receding into an almost respectful silence as she came closer. He could feel the eyes of other patrons, a subtle pressure he’d grown accustomed to, but this felt different. This was focused, direct, and, for him, unnervingly personal.

Marco’s internal alarm bells chimed, a frantic, discordant symphony. His mind raced, trying to anticipate her intentions, to prepare a defense against whatever was coming. Was she here to demand an explanation? To confront him about his rudeness? The mundane script of celebrity encounters played out in his mind, a predictable sequence of appeasement, deflection, and polite disengagement. With the essence of her drawing closer, his gaze locked onto hers, and he visibly tensed, his shoulders subtly becoming more tense.

And then, as though the universe wanted to mock him, his espresso arrived. The barista slid it onto the table with a polite clink. The timing could not have been worse. Sophie was already halfway across the room, each step measured, deliberate, and entirely unhurried.

He reached for the cup too quickly, as if caffeine alone might fortify him against what was coming. His hand jerked, graceless, and the cup wobbled dangerously on its saucer. A splash of espresso leaped free, landing squarely on the cuff of his shirt.

Marco hissed under his breath, fumbling for the napkin dispenser. His elbow clipped the table’s edge, his knee rammed the underside, and the chair let out a tortured squeak that cracked a few curious gazes his way.

Perfect. Smooth as silk.

He dabbed furiously at the spreading stain, only smearing it further, the dark blotch blooming like some cruel caricature of a sponsor’s logo. He shifted, trying to regain composure, but his foot caught on the chair leg. The scrape echoed in the hushed café, and when he glanced up, Sophie’s eyes were already on him.

She wasn’t laughing. Her facial expression did not include a smirk. Maintaining a steady grip on the mug, her gaze unwavering and steps unhesitant, she seemed unfazed by his emotional breakdown — or, perhaps even more unsettlingly, indifferent to it.

Marco felt heat crawl up his neck. He straightened in his chair too fast, spine bolt-rigid like a cadet awaiting inspection. The napkin was still crumpled in his hand, soaked through and dangling pathetically like a white flag of surrender.

Every instinct screamed at him to bolt. But his traitorous legs refused, rooted to the floor. All he could do was sit there, heart drumming, watching her close the last feet of distance, certain he looked less like the polished athlete who graced billboards and more like a boy caught cheating on an exam.

Holding a cup of coffee, she approached, appearing composed and unfazed by whatever was happening. Marco’s pulse thundered, his every instinct begging him to rise, to stand tall, to say something—anything that might salvage what he’d fumbled earlier.

And then his phone buzzed.

Not just any buzz. That buzz. The one reserved for his agent.

He froze. Sophie was only a few paces away. Her eyes held his, clear and unwavering, pulling him into the very conversation he had secretly both dreaded and craved.

The phone reverberated again, rattling against the wood of the table like a wasp in a jar. Marco flicked his gaze down. Lazzari.

At all times.

He pressed the screen to silence it, forcing his neutral expression as Sophie continued her approach. But before he could so much as smile in a greeting, the phone lit up again.

And again.

Marco’s stomach sank. Lazzari didn’t repeat the call unless the world was on fire. Which meant something was wrong. Very wrong. Something worth millions, probably tied up in clauses, percentages, and the endless tug-of-war between his brand and his body.

Sophie was three steps away.

The phone hummed a fourth time, insistent, shrill against his thigh.

Panic clawed at him. If he took the call here, everyone would hear—Sophie, the barista, the strangers sipping lattes like amateur referees in his private war. If he ignored it, he risked walking into a contract disaster that could derail his next season.

Marco’s instincts, usually sharp and decisive on the pitch, abandoned him in the café. He muttered a strangled apology—though to Sophie, the universe, or himself, he couldn’t be sure—and bolted, the phone gripped like contraband in his palm.

The bathroom was the only sanctuary in sight.

He shoved through the door and nearly gagged. The air was thick, oppressive, perfumed with disinfectant, trying—and failing—to mask something earthier, heavier.

And then came the sound.

A groan. A rustle of paper. The telltale plop that needed no translation.

An old man cleared his throat in the stall at the end, as though to formally announce his presence.

Marco squeezed his eyes shut. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Still, there was no time. He ducked into the nearest stall, popped the lock, and pressed the phone to his ear.

“What is it, Lazzari?” he hissed, his voice low, urgent.

“You tell me,” came the agent’s bark. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the numbers.”

The old man grunted, the echo carrying like an unwelcome soundtrack.

“Numbers?” Marco pressed a hand to his temple, lowering his voice even further. “Lazzari, I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’re in the middle of losing half your damn contract, is what you’re in the middle of! They’re cutting the appearance clause. Cutting it! Do you understand? If you don’t push back tonight, you’re playing next season for a sponsor fee fit for a junior striker in Series B.”

The toilet flushed—loud, unrelenting, a grotesque drumroll. The pipes gurgled like they were choking. Marco pressed his fist to his mouth, praying his words wouldn’t carry over the cacophony.

He whispered, “Can this not wait an hour?”

“An hour?” Lazzari scoffed. “They’ll have signed the revised deal by then. We’ll be finished. Done. You’ll be the laughingstock of the league. Get your head in the game, Marco.”

The stall beside him fell silent. Then a cough. Then, tragically, another flush.

Marco closed his eyes, every nerve fraying. Here he was—international star, face of brands, subject of tabloids—pressed against a chipped bathroom partition, whispering about millions while some stranger punctuated the conversation with digestive percussion.

And all he could think about was Sophie, standing out there, maybe still holding her coffee, perhaps still looking toward the empty chair where he’d been.

The absurdity was unbearable. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh, cry, or kick the stall door down and sprint into the night.

Instead, he dragged a hand over his face and muttered into the phone, “Fine. Tell me what you need me to do.”

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose, Lazzari’s voice still rattling through the phone, every syllable another nail hammered into his already fraying composure. The stench, the echo, the absurdity—it was unbearable.

And all the while, Sophie waited. He could feel it, like gravity tugging through the walls, through the tiled floor, through his very bones. Lingering in that place, she was still present, standing close to his table and trying to figure out his location and the cause of his departure.

He cut Lazzari off mid-sentence. “Handle it,” he muttered, hanging up before the agent could roar again. His reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink looked nothing like the cool, polished icon of the pitch. His collar was damp with sweat, a stain bloomed across his sleeve, and his eyes—wild, hunted.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, squared his shoulders, and forced himself back through the door.

And there she was.

Exactly where he’d left her. Coffee in hand, posture steady, eyes fixed on the empty chair he’d abandoned. No expression of a frown. Not even a sigh. With a calm and deliberate demeanor, she waited, as though it was always known that he would eventually return to her.

Marco’s stomach twisted. For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if he was walking toward an opponent…or toward his undoing.