Chapter 2
1096 Words
Luca’s POV
The clock was almost dead. Ninety-two minutes. Tie game. The air in the stadium felt like it could crack.
I stood at midfield, hands on my knees, sweat stinging my eyes. My lungs burned. My legs felt like stone. But the ball was coming to me, and there was no way in hell I was letting this one end even.
Tino sent it in low, a bullet pass. I trapped it with my left, cut right, spun past the defender. Another guy lunged—too slow. The goal was right there. Keeper squared up.
I didn’t think. I just hit it.
The ball kissed my boot and screamed through the air. Upper left corner. Net shook.
The crowd went insane. The sound hit me like a wave. My heart hammered so hard I could hear it in my teeth.
I tore my shirt off and roared, running to the corner flag. Tino slammed into me, laughing like a maniac. The rest of the team piled in. We were a mess of arms and sweat and shouts.
The whistle blew. Empire FC 3, New Jersey Titans 2. Another win. Another notch on my record.
In the tunnel, the noise faded. My ears still rang. My legs shook from the run, from the high. I liked this part—the quiet after the storm.
Coach Ramos clapped my shoulder. “Good strike, Romano.”
I nodded. “Had to finish it.”
He gave me a look that said he knew I was talking about more than the game. He didn’t push. Coach never did. He knew I only gave what I wanted to give.
The locker room was chaos. Reporters at the door. Cameras flashing. Tino tossing his cleats in the corner.
“Dinner tonight,” Tino said, grinning. “You and me, man. We celebrate.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired.” He pointed at me. “You’re twenty-nine. You play like you’re nineteen. But you sulk like an old man.”
I smirked. “Go shower, Vega.”
I hit the showers last. Steam everywhere. Hot water pounding my neck. I closed my eyes. Tried to clear my head.
Didn’t work.
The past doesn’t leave. It just hides until it finds a way back in.
Five years ago. Bronx streets. Blood on the pavement. My father’s voice telling me to run. The sound of a gun that still wakes me some nights.
I killed that life when I left. Or thought I did.
When I got out of the shower, there was an envelope in my locker. No name. Just white paper.
Inside—one photograph. Me at fifteen. Standing outside the old neighborhood deli. My father beside me.
On the back, a line written in ink:
You can’t outrun blood.
I folded it slow, put it in my bag. My hands felt tight. My jaw too.
Tino saw my face. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Looked like something.”
“It’s nothing, Vega.”
He didn’t believe me, but he let it go.
We hit the press room. Cameras everywhere. I smiled for the first two questions, then quit pretending. They wanted quotes about the goal, the season, the playoffs. I gave them short answers. They hated that.
One reporter asked if I had anything to say to “my old friends in the Bronx.”
My stomach went cold. I leaned forward. “My only friends are on this team.”
The room went quiet. I stood and left.
Outside, night had swallowed the city. My driver waited by the curb. I slid in the back seat and told him to take the long way home. Needed air. Needed space.
We passed streets I knew too well. Corners I used to own. I watched them through the glass and didn’t wave.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I didn’t pick up. It buzzed again. Same number.
I answered. “Yeah?”
A pause. Then a man’s voice, low, scratchy. “You scored tonight. You always did like to win.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your father liked to win too,” the voice went on. “Didn’t save him.”
Click. Line dead.
I stared at the phone until the driver asked if I was okay. I said yes. I lied.
But who’s that nut job? I thought hard, trying to believe its some prank call.
At home, the penthouse lights were low. I poured a drink, sat by the window. The city looked calm from here. Like nothing ugly ever happened.
I took the photograph out again. My father’s face stared back. Mine too—young, unscarred, stupid enough to think family was everything.
I burned it in the ashtray. Watched the edges curl black.
Memories…the memories flooded again. But I had to control it. This was my new life, and nothing was going to take it from me.
Next morning, training. I ran drills until my legs screamed. Needed to burn the restlessness out of me. Coach didn’t say anything, but I saw him watching.
Tino jogged beside me. “You’re playing like you’re pissed.”
“Maybe I am.”
“At who?”
I didn’t answer.
After practice, the club’s media director called me into his office. He had the kind of fake smile you could see through.
“Luca,” he said, “we’ve got a new PR manager starting tomorrow. Wants to meet you before the press conference.”
“I’m fine without a PR manager.”
“This one’s different. The board hired her themselves. She’s… polished. Knows her stuff.”
“I don’t need polished.”
“You need someone to make sure the press stops calling you ‘the storm on two legs.’”
“I like that nickname.”
He laughed nervously. “Just meet her.”
I stood to leave. “What’s her name?”
He checked his notes. “Bianca De Luca.”
The name hit like a jab.
De Luca.
I kept my face still. “Never heard of her.”
“Good. Then no history to worry about.”
I walked out before he could see my jaw tighten.
That night, another message came. This time, slid under my door.
Black card. White ink.
Careful who you trust.
Underneath, one word:
De Luca.
I held it until my hand shook.
Tomorrow, I’d meet the new PR manager. Tomorrow, I’d find out exactly what game was being played.
And was this the best way to introduce herself? Creepy?
- Writer
