Tango in Italian E-Book

Ylva Kaiser

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 329

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After moving from Northern England for her university studies, Sienna Archer is now making a name for herself in London’s business district, seemingly far away from where she started. Her personal life, however, is a different matter; apparently, being an independent woman with a career is still far from ideal when it comes to dating, and to add insult to injury, she is haunted by a betrayal in the past she cannot seem to shake, and that only reinforces her professional aspirations. A chance meeting with professional footballer Nicolo Di Luca on a business trip to Ancona drastically changes everything, and back in London, Sienna finds her rational, single-minded reality upended. Striving to follow her best friend’s advice to move on as she battles with her past and what she truly wants out of her career, she gradually begins to question the choices she has made, and wonder whether a part of her heart never really left Italy. As the football season nears its culmination and unexpected challenges present themselves closer to home, Sienna must face her own demons and decide what truly matters. But is a spark enough to bridge not only geographical distance but also two completely different lives? Tango in Italian is a story of love, science and football, and about how following your heart can lead you to the most unexpected places.

Leseprobe

Forse non sarà una canzone

A cambiar le regole del gioco

Ma voglio viverla così quest’avventura

Senza frontiere e con il cuore in gola

E il mondo in una giostra di colori

E il vento che accarezza le bandiere

Arriva un brivido e ti trascina via

E sciogli in un abbraccio la follia

Notti magiche inseguendo un goal

Sotto il cielo di un’estate italiana

E negli occhi tuoi voglia di vincere

Un’estate, un’avventura in più

Quel sogno che comincia da bambino

E che ti porta sempre più lontano

Non è una favola e dagli spogliatoi

Escono i ragazzi e siamo noi

Notti magiche inseguendo un goal

Sotto il cielo di un’estate italiana

E negli occhi tuoi voglia di vincere

Un’estate, un’avventura in più

Edoardo Bennato & Gianna Nannini, Un’ Estate Italiana

Official anthem of the FIFA World Cup, Italy 1990

(English translation)

Maybe it won’t be a song

To change the rules of the game

But I want to live this adventure like this

Without borders and with your heart in your throat

And the world in a carousel of colours

And the wind caressing the flags

A thrill comes and drags you away

And dissolves madness in an embrace

Magical nights chasing a goal

Under the sky of an Italian summer

And in your eyes the desire to win

One summer, one more adventure

That dream that begins as a child

And that takes you further and further

It’s not a fairy-tale and from the locker room

The boys come out and it’s us

Magical nights chasing a goal

Under the sky of an Italian summer

And in your eyes the desire to win

One summer, one more adventure

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 1

I drive the grey, nondescript rental car down the coastal road from the airport, fussing over how the automatic transmission does not shift gears as quickly as I would prefer, the engine whining in protest as it struggles to catch up with my demands. My clothes already stick to the seat in the flimsy air condition, and I roll all four windows down, the pleasantly warm September air sweeping through the compact little Fiat and tossing my hair around in a way that almost – almost – makes me imagine away the roof of the car and the annoying way it blocks the raw sunshine. It is a shame company policy does not allow me to rent a convertible, since this weather and this road are both essentially screaming for it. I press down on the accelerator, the tires screeching with friction as I pull them around the serpentine bends leading down to the rocky white outcrop upon which Ancona perches. From above, its natural harbour appears shaped like a claw, protectively folded around the cove as if daring anyone to attempt to breach it. The pale terracotta silhouette of the cathedral, standing proud at the highest point of town, holds my gaze as I swivel past.

The production facilities are located on the north side of town, while the hotel rests to the south, where the coastline is wilder, yet more tranquil, green forestry scrambling up white, craggy cliffs. I have never been here in high season, but I imagine it will get far more crowded than this. The complex seems huge; apart from the oblong buildings lining the waterfront, where my room is located, there is an elevated section, almost like a tower, but I cannot tell whether it is even in use at this time of year. There are no lights in the windows, and I have yet to see anyone enter or leave.

I lean over the balcony, the breath of the sea on my skin. The white rocks turn pink in the receding sunlight, the impression that of quartz crystals scattered at random across the shore.

Inside, the TV is on, panoramic views of the hotel rolling by in a slideshow to supposedly soothing music. I switch the channel, past a news reel in rapid Italian, a similarly unintelligible talk show and some form of documentary on sailing, pausing briefly on the sports channel, recapitulating highlights from the final round of qualifiers for next summer’s European football championship. I start unpacking while I watch the summary of goals and missed chances – one of France’s is particularly hideous – and make a mental note that I ought to call Mike about buying tickets. This time the championship will be held in England, and missing out would be equivalent to asking to have your citizenship revoked. Though it has been years since he played himself, he does sometimes kick about with friends’ children or younger cousins, to their immense glee, and both of us are as childishly involved every time there is a big tournament.

I toss my travel T-shirt away and collect my hair in a bun, relishing the thought of a warm shower. Travelling with hand luggage means there is not much to unpack, but I do find hangers for my blazer and work blouse. It might be silly, but feeling well-dressed inspires confidence, and wearing a blazer always seems to improve the quality of my presentations. It is almost as if even I take myself more seriously.

My phone vibrates with a text from Rachel, and I glance up.

Hey, it says. Hope you arrived safely. I don’t want to ruin your day, but… well. There is something you need to see, and it is probably better to give you fair warning.

There is a link to a Facebook post, and even as I click on it, a nasty feeling is settling in my stomach. Do I really want to see this? Probably not. In fact, maybe I should just…

Too late. The page opens to a half-blurry picture from what looks like a party, the background dim and filled with beer glasses on a high table. I cannot tell if it is a pub or at someone’s house. What I can tell is that there are people in the foreground, seemingly drunk dancing, except for two of them, who are busy making out. One of whom happens to be Nathan, my so-called boyfriend.

I scroll down the post and realise it is from his own account. As in, not just a drunken mishap. At least not one he regrets. Great. Just great.

I know we have not been seeing each other for that long, and that I was not all that certain of where this was going, yet it hurts more than I thought it would. Somehow, I am not surprised, because this is how it usually ends. And still, I just hoped it would perhaps be different, this time. He did tell me, only last week, how much he liked me. Was that a complete lie, or do some people actually change their minds that fast?

I’m sorry, Rachel writes. I just thought you should know.

Yeah, thanks, I write back. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Wish you were here, even though you probably wouldn’t have had that much to do.

You know I’m excellent at wasting away time in the sunshine, the reply comes. Wish I was there too honey. That appalling Abbott- Smythe family is coming in today.

Ah, joy. Who would have thought interior design could be so detrimental to mental health? Don’t let them push you around. Especially that horrid woman with the pink leopard coat. That alone should be illegal.

I won’t. Will let you know later if I’m still alive or if I overdosed on lunch G&T’s. Take care and enjoy!

Enjoy, I think to myself. As if. Although that idea had indeed occurred to me, that this would be some form of working vacation, or at least that I would have time to relish the extended summer, Nathan’s post leaves a foul taste in my mouth. It really would have felt better to have Rachel with me, as a partner in crime, a pillar to lean on. Anything, really, to prevent myself from being holed up in my own mind. I should probably work, to keep myself distracted, but I know myself well enough to recognise that it will only make me more annoyed.

As the sun sets, I head up to the terrace for a glass of wine, catching the last rays of light as they disappear over the horizon, hues of bonfire orange gradually shifting to blood red before they fully plunge into darkness. I swirl my glass, letting the final sparks reflect in the white wine, turning its already warmly yellow tone golden. The waiter tells me the grape is Trebbiano, commonly grown in this region. It is crisp and mineral, with subtle hints of lemon. Most of all, it disappears all too quickly, same as the fading light. My mind drifts, unbidden, to Nathan’s post and I order another. It is unsettling, the way I cannot seem to push it from my mind. I think back on the first time we met, our easy conversation, his contagious laughter, how he insisted on paying for lunch, which turned out to last six hours and end in a grappa tasting. While my tongue curls at the memory of the tart, petrol sensation of the liquor, the gesture lingers. Guys showering me with acts of affection have been rare to say the least, and I reluctantly acknowledge a part of me might be somewhat starved.

What changed? I ask myself. Was it something I did? Or something I didn’t?

Immediately, I despise myself. Why do I blame myself, when he is the one who has been cheating? Yet the feeling is difficult to shake. I think of my boss, urging me to analyse every situation one step further. “Why do you think this person reacted in this manner?” he might say. “It was unnecessary, yes, but what provoked it? What could you have done to prevent it?”

“Read minds”, I mutter to myself as I sip my wine. “Anticipate bullshit.” The sun is long gone now, the night as black as my soul. Distractedly, I wonder whether it is possible to understand another person entirely. If you can ever expect them to live up to what they make themselves out to be.

I suppose it would make sense to cry, but somehow my eyes remain dry. I am not sad as much as disappointed. Dispirited, disillusioned. Here we go again. I do not expect much, these days, but even so, it is apparently possible to be negatively surprised.

Almost in compulsion, I flip through my phone, noticing nothing of interest as much as the resounding absence of human contact. I gaze into the oblivion, willing it to speak to me, but even the void is silent.

Sleep is unruly, once I force myself into bed. There are people with knives, floodgates rising, flashlights swiping through the dusk in search of a murderer. Then the more familiar, but no less disturbing: the impression of a teenage girl’s bedroom, floral and innocent, imploding in on itself, collapsing into a bottomless nothing.

I open my eyes to darkness, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. My back hurts from the unfamiliar bed and the far too stiff pillows and from curling up on itself in cramps. My phone flashes at 03:50.

It has been going on for a while, these dreams and these nights of disrupted rest. Some would certainly attribute it to stress, of one kind or another, but I do not feel stressed. I only feel empty, deflated, sick of everyone and everything.

Freud would have a ball with this, I find myself thinking.

I groan, throwing my arm over my eyes, before weariness overwhelms me.

Chapter 2

People tend to talk up hotel breakfasts to no end, but the fact of the matter is that however lavish, these buffets are remarkably overrated when you are on your own. I order a double espresso, then walk aimlessly along the tables, filled to the brim with exquisite cheeses, Parma ham, fresh fruit, all imaginable forms of bread, sweet and not sweet, eggs made to your preference, and a veritable mountain of ricotta, sitting in the middle of it all like a snow-capped peak. In the end, I order an omelette and nibble it distractedly while I scroll my phone for the news and work emails. Eventually, when the omelette has run its course and my coffee cup is sadly empty, I move out to the terrace, where at least I can savour the heat of the sun although the stark light makes me squint to see my computer screen, and feel slightly less depressed. I finished preparing the presentation for today’s meeting weeks ago, and I have seen the slides so many times I think I would be able to draw them from memory, if I only had any artistic skills whatsoever. Nevertheless, I go over them yet again, make mental notes, answer a few emails despite the “out of office” automatic reply banner that is clearly displayed across my screen.

By the time the sun has moved behind the far side of the complex, I figure it is about time I start moving. It is only a short drive, but traffic here is unpredictable at best. Gathering up my things into my bag, I glance at my watch, then, longingly, over at the coffee machine. I could use another one of those if I am to get through this day. I still have time, and there are hardly any other guests here, just the one guy hanging around by the bar, seemingly without ordering anything. I hoist the bag up on my shoulder and walk over, reaching for my wallet.

That is when I realise that the man standing by the bar looks familiar. So familiar, in fact, that I allow myself a second glance. And…

Holy shit.

I know this guy. Or rather, I know who he is. All too well. Shit shit shit.

What the hell is Nicolo Di Luca, Italian international and AC Milan professional football player, doing right here, in my hotel?

Right, the Euro qualifiers. Weren’t they only a few days ago? They must have played somewhere nearby. I had been watching England qualify over at Nathan’s and – damn it, don’t think about him. Don’t go there. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Anyway, what would I be doing thinking of Nathan when last year’s ‘Best Midfielder of the Serie A’ is right here in this room?

My mind is spinning. I cannot even count off the top of my head the number of times I have seen this guy do ridiculous things on the pitch. Immediately, my thoughts go out to Mike. My brother would have committed murder to be in my shoes right now, given all the times he has been screaming his head off at some outrageous pass or cross into the box from the man in question. He is not the type to score many goals, but when he does, it is always spectacular. Most of all, it is the way he reads the game, the way he seemingly always knows where his teammates and opponents are in order to execute the best possible move…

Without noticing, I seem to have drifted closer. My hand is resting on the side of the bar as I try – and probably fail – to casually lean against it. I glance over, even as I try not to be too obvious. I signal to the barista to get me an espresso, even though caffeine is now probably the last thing that I need given the rate at which my pulse is racing. I swallow, eyeing him out of the corner of my eye. He is not much taller than I, but his lean build and something about his general aura – or my distorted imagination – makes it feel like he is towering over me. His dark brown hair coils down his neck, not exactly long but longer than I would normally approve of in a man. Yet somehow, it suits him. It falls into his eyes as his head tips down to look at his phone, and I find myself swallowing at the way it frames his face. The watch on his wrist looks sleek and tasteful enough to probably be outrageously expensive, its dark grey face contrasting neatly against his tanned skin.

“Your coffee, signora”, the barista says, drawing my attention. I nod, unable to focus entirely on him, my eyes darting uncontrollably to my side even though I try to be subtle. He does not say anything, thankfully, but I can tell from the smirk passing over his features that he knows exactly what I am looking at.

“Grazie”, I manage. Sipping my coffee, I eye him over the rim of the cup. It appears as if he is waiting for someone, the way he just idly hangs around, glancing interchangeably at his watch – most likely the price of my car – and his phone. At least he seems to have nothing better to do at this particular moment. I steel myself, swallowing the innate shame that rises in my throat. What the hell, he is just a normal guy, like everyone else. Except, not really, because clearly the average person is not capable of scoring directly from a corner kick. Never mind that now. I put my empty cup down on the counter, a little too forcefully, and in the process manage to make him look up. Straight at me, who in all honesty could have done with another minute or five to steady myself.

“I… Hi.” I smile, nervously, while my stomach is doing triple backflips inside. “I don’t mean to bother you. This feels really awkward and all, but…” I swallow, sheepishly, before blurting, “I really love to watch you play.”

“Thank you”, he says, and while he must be hearing this kind of thing from random – and not so random – people every day, there is a kind look in his eyes. At least he does not look like he is about to sigh dramatically and brush me off straight away. He has a nice voice, too, I notice. Deep and smooth, somehow reassuring.

“I… I… Hold on. Just a minute.” I roam around in my bag, frantically, searching for anything that might serve. I dare not look up until my hands close around my calendar, and even then, I feel embarrassed as I hand it over.

“I’m sorry”, I say, flinching, “that’s the best I have. I am here for work.” I shrug, apologetically, but he does not seem to mind. He takes it, almost delicately opening the first page, flipping past all the contact details and password notes I should probably not be showing around in public, and I watch, entranced, as he signs his name with a flourish. I’ll never be able to get rid of that calendar now.

“What do you do?” he asks, startling me. I look up, and find his eyes trained on me. Dark brown, with a faint speck of green, if the light is not playing tricks on me. It indeed might be, because I do feel slightly faint.

“I…” I stutter, caught off guard. Dear lord, get a grip. “I work with vaccine development. I am here to oversee one of our production sites, and do quality control on their procedures.” I shrug. Don’t overdo it, you don’t even know if he knows what QC is.

“That sounds interesting”, he says. “And important.” He raises an eyebrow. “A lot of people don’t know how many lives are saved by vaccines every year. It’s a good thing you’re doing.”

I try to hide the surprise that must be visible on my face. I guess I had half expected most athletes – exceptionally fit, innately healthy, commonly uneducated – to not give two cents about vaccinations, probably believing themselves half immortal and immune to everything. Moreover, I realise, as silly as it is, that it makes me glad to hear a person I admire say that he finds my work important. Again, get a grip. But there is something inquisitive in his gaze that does not let me relax.

“I had the shingles vaccine only recently”, he goes on, continuing to surprise me. “My brother-in-law was sick with it the other year, and he said it was horrible. I didn’t want to take the risk.” He cocks an eyebrow. “That’s not one of those you are working on, is it?”

“No”, I say, swallowing, “but I know a couple of people, back from when I was at university, who do.” Are we seriously talking about this?

“So, you’re a doctor?” He has long since stopped writing in my calendar, but he is still holding it, and while he must be heading somewhere, and I probably should too as I have a schedule to adhere to and no idea what the time is, I cannot make myself ask for it back.

“My degree is in molecular biology”, I say, wincing at how incredibly pretentious it sounds. “Spent quite a few years in a lab, growing cells and doing experiments…” Sounds cute, the way you say it. As if it wasn’t the seventh circle of hell, eighteen-hour workdays for a salary that would make a gas station attendant laugh his ass off. “…to understand what causes disease so that we can help patients, or, ideally, to prevent disease altogether.” I smile. I am such a nerd. What does he care? He kicks a ball for a living. Just shut up. “So, yes, I am a doctor, but not that kind of doctor.”

“Impressive”, he says. “My mother always wanted me to be a doctor. You know, something useful.” He shrugs. “But I guess you have to be better with numbers than I was.”

“Well, you had ten league goals and fourteen assists last year, nothing wrong with those numbers. Although I do think the one against Hellas Verona wasn’t offside after all, so it should have counted as well.”

Fuck. It is out of me before I can even react. Why the hell did I say that?

“Maths was never my strongest side either”, I try to cover up.

He looks at me for a moment, and it is all I can do not to crumble to the floor.

“You are good with numbers”, he finally says, smiling, and that smile sends a nerve firing inside me, straight from my brain into the pit of my stomach and all the way down between my legs. I realise I have been anatomically unaware of its existence right up until this point, but as fascinating as that is, I am unable to focus on anything else than how my body screams in silence. I do not know what to do with myself, and I have never been so acutely aware of my failure at rational thought ever before. It is fantastic, and exhilarating, and deeply and profoundly unnerving.

Say something, my brain urges me, with a note of desperation. Anything.

But I cannot. There is no way, no words big enough, or comprehensive enough, or even remotely appropriate, for what I feel in this moment.

Go on, say something, my brain pleads. As in, I cannot take this anymore.

“Practice makes perfect”, I say, my voice a barely audible rasp that underperforms massively, but it is the best I have, because I can barely comprehend how I am still standing. I have no idea what just happened, only that I have never before felt this unbalanced, and I cannot for the life of me tell whether it is a good or a bad thing.

“I am sure”, he says. He hands the calendar back, and I understand the conversation is over, the moment has passed, and I can only be left wondering for how long my brain decided to exit reality. A few minutes? Twenty? Half a day? My insides feel like mush.

“Thank you”, I say, fighting with myself. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too, Sienna”, he says, and it is not until he is gone, the room suddenly feeling vast in size as the space his presence occupied – so much larger than it ought to be for any single person – is rendered vacant, that I never actually told him my name.

Chapter 3

I do not know how I get through the meetings, but I do, although I fear some of my brain cells may never have entered the building. I move on autopilot, still reeling from what happened back at the hotel, and almost miss my floor despite having been here so many times I could probably draw the emergency exit plan from memory. The complex is sleek and modern, large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a vast open field flanked indefinitely by the ocean. It is built close to the hospital, visible around the corner with its nondescript off-white square structures reflecting the sunlight. The meeting room is equipped with state-of-the-art video conferencing equipment and equally advanced coffee-making facilities, but the interior designer clearly breezed over the ergonomics course as the chairs are flat-out murderous. I move around restlessly, desperately striving to find a position where my butt does neither cramp nor fall asleep, and where my spine does not become etched on my skin in the form of bruises.

“Dr Archer, would you mind going through the procedure once more on the board?”

I practically jump at the offer, wincing slightly as the ghastly chair releases me from its talons, and straighten myself as best I can as I run through the new procedures, the protocol amendments developed globally that will be a pain to adhere to, and the results of the QC done so far. The laboratory data is sound, but this is all about repetition, repetition, repetition. When you are working with the health and safety of other human beings, there is no room for error.

“Any questions?” I finish, doing my best to maintain a calm and inviting smile even though my head is filled to the brim with information and starting to ache. I really should start taking notes during these meetings, but it seems a skill lost to me, the extent of my failure to scribble down anything coherent exponentially proportional to the number of years that have elapsed since I received my degree. Having a PhD doesn’t actually increase your brain size, I scold myself, nor your memory storage space. I sip on my third espresso of the day and try to sort through the disorganised jumble in my mind.

At the break, I find myself chatting to one of the Italian site managers, Luigi. I know his wife is in life science too, working for another company in another field. He gestures in his typical flippant manner as he sips his coffee standing up.

“This new batch of the influenza vaccine”, he prompts, “it is promising. Very high yields and specificity.” I nod.

“We need to ensure you – we – can keep it up though. It would be a huge advantage, obviously, being able to provide pan-influenza protection rather than the single-strain variant we offer every year, but we must be humble in that we have yet to figure out how long immunity lasts. It’s likely that we will still have to provide repeated immunisations, but with a broader coverage, it might still be preferrable.” This is something I am proud of. I know this is a strong product, with a definite public health advantage, but most of these people are first and foremost salesmen; they will never quite understand the true medical value of this innovation, however much I explain it. My job is to simplify it as much as possible while managing to convey the revolutionary essence of the product.

“Of course, of course”, Luigi quips, nodding. I can tell Euro signs are rotating on his retina as we speak. “Everyone is very excited to get started. This is a huge thing for our site.”

“I’m glad”, I say, meaning it. My team have worked on this for so long and having come this far is a huge success. Still, it ought to feel more exciting than it does. My response comes out flat and it bothers me.

“So how is your boyfriend?” I look up. Frowning, I realise I must have told him about Nathan’s existence in a weak moment, one which I now inwardly curse.

“Oh, no… Um, I, we… We’re not…” I wave my hand around vaguely, not making any sense. “There is not much to say, really.”

“And you travel so much, too”, he says sympathetically. “It must be difficult when you see each other so rarely.”

I grimace. I have never thought of it that way.

“It is my job”, I say, disbelievingly. “How am I otherwise supposed to do this?”

“Perhaps he felt left behind.” Luigi shrugs, leaning against the table. “Men tend not to like that.”

“You mean they don’t like women who have their own careers?” I shoot back, knowing full well I should not get into this conversation and that it does me no favours whatsoever. Cultural differences I can handle, but there are limits to my sense of diplomacy and I need to keep them in check. Luckily, Luigi only chuckles.

“Not like that, no. But I have never known a man who does not want his woman to long to come back to him. A woman who travels alone for work…” He shrugs. “The signal is pretty clear; she does not need him.”

“Well, it’s not so much about what I need as about what I must. He should be glad that if I do come back, it’s because I want to, not because I need to.”

“Ah, but you see”, Luigi says, “that is exactly the problem. This leaves you with the decision, which is precisely what he cannot handle.”

By the time I return to the hotel, exhaustion threatens to pull me under. I glance towards the restaurant, white linen billowing in the evening breeze, and find I cannot bear to spend another instant there alone. Instead, I stop by the bar, leaning against the counter to keep my head from spinning. I cannot remember the last time I ate.

The bartender – thankfully not the same as this morning – hands me a glass of water on a napkin and asks for my order. I point to a slice of pizza al taglio and devour it standing, the thick bread and molten cheese a comforting cushion in my belly.

In the elevator, I lean back, resting my head against the wall. My eyes close, as if by their own accord, and I exhale a long, unsteady breath. Slowly, I feel my pulse settling, the sensation of vertigo gradually dissipating. Struggling to compose myself, I fumble in my pocket for my phone, daring myself to skim through my emails.

The elevator doors have almost closed, but then a hand sticks through the crack and forces them back up. I glance up from my phone, briefly.

It is him.

My eyes meet his as the doors close behind him, shutting us in, into a world of our own.

“What floor?” I croak, eventually, when it has been quiet for what feels like an eternity. I have nothing better to say.

“Three”, he says, his eyes still on me, and I swallow as I manage, “Same as me.”

We travel the floors in silence, a tense silence – or maybe it is just my imagination, for why would he find it tense? Why would he care at all? We are just strangers sharing an elevator. The only awkwardness is the fact that I know who he is and the name of his sister and where he grew up and his season statistics, not to mention that I asked him to sign my work calendar, for lack of anything more appropriate, some hours ago.

After several years, the elevator comes to a halt, the doors sliding open. He motions for me to go first, so I do, reluctantly, because despite my inner panic, I neither can nor want to look away from him. I walk along the corridor, vaguely aware of his presence behind me. By my door, I stop, waving my key card about ridiculously.

“This is me.” I do not know what else to say, however much I want to.

He points down the hall. “My room is just down there. Fancy a drink? It’s not that late.” Sensing my hesitation, which is, in reality, only pure shock, he adds, “Unless of course you have other plans…”

I cannot tell if he is being serious or not. I cannot tell if I am dreaming or not. But I can tell my feet are moving by their own accord, following him to the door at the end, so close behind him while he unlocks it that the overwhelming sensation of him comes over me again. A faint, yet powerful scent lingers in the air where he has just been, trailing after him. An intriguing hint of citrus, fresh and clean, yet with an undertone that is difficult to pinpoint, elusive and enigmatic, except that it is heavier, huskier, and very distinctly male.

The room is about three times the size of mine, at the corner of the building, with a double-sided terrace reaching out to the ocean. Off to my right there is a large bathroom, and what looks suspiciously like a built-in sauna.

He opens the fridge – not a minibar, an actual full-size fridge – and pulls out a bottle of champagne, already unscrewing the cap around the cork in one, fluid motion. I watch his hands as they wrap around the cork, preventing air and precious bubbles from escaping. He has beautiful hands, I cannot help but notice, the fingers long and slender, their gestures precise yet delicate.

The whole scene is so laid back yet absurdly romantic I cannot comprehend it is happening but also cannot help being swept away.

He gestures to the terrace through the open doors, and I grasp my glass the way a drowning man clutches at a buoy as I walk out into the temperate evening. A footpath leads down to the sea, where craggy rocks pierce the surface like the vicious teeth of an animal. A folded parasol flutters slightly in the breeze, but there are hardly any sounds – this is far from the main beach to where most guests head. These cliffs are secluded, as if shy.

I sip my champagne; the bubbles are exquisite, petite, elegant. I revel in the taste, reminiscing baked brioche, apples, and caged sunshine. I take another sip, to calm my nerves, before facing my host.

He stands behind me, just a few steps away, staring down into his drink as if lost in thought. Once he senses my gaze on him, he looks up, his features relaxing.

“Cheers”, he says, raising his glass to toast mine, and I cannot help but smile.

“How did your work meetings go?” he asks, and I marvel at the fact that he has even considered what I did after he left this morning. Even so, I tell him, in so many words, what transpired, what the purpose was, deliberately leaving out my overall sense of confusion, attributable solely to the man in front of me. He nods, sips his champagne, asks questions far more insightful than I could have imagined.

“My brother-in-law is a dentist”, he says by way of conversation. “He goes to plenty of conventions, and I get to hear him talk about medical things at dinner sometimes.” He smiles wryly. “Though I figure what you do is far more advanced.” And I do not know what to say to that, even though I silently agree.

“So what are you doing here?” I enquire in return. “Congrats on qualifying for the Euros, by the way. But shouldn’t you be back in Milan by now?” Given that I have already revealed how closely I have watched his games, I figure there is no use denying that I know where he plays. He shrugs.

“We got two extra days off, and our next game isn’t until Monday anyway. I went to see some friends.”

It seems such a casual thing to do, yet I do not question it. There is something else nagging on my mind, a question far greater, that makes far less sense.

I lean against the railing, my elbows resting against the wood, my back against the soft lull of the sea.

“Why did you invite me in?”

He shrugs, and it is as if a sudden streak of insecurity sweeps over his features. Then it is gone again, in an instant, so fast I wonder if it was ever there.

“It was the way you looked at me”, he says, sipping his champagne, levelling his gaze at me.

I expected a half-laugh, a cocky so you mean didn’t really want to be here? or a matter-of-fact because I could or even a challenging why not? Not this. Tentatively, I raise an eyebrow.

“I am fairly sure people look at you all the time, wherever you go”, I say, slowly, but I do not let my gaze waver from his.

“Not like that, they don’t.” He edges closer, his hips at a height with mine, his eyes still trained on me. I swallow.

“How is that, then?” Despite the champagne my mouth is suddenly so dry it comes out as a whisper.

“Like…” He seems to struggle for words, his accent suddenly more pronounced. “With meaning. Feeling.”

Wonder, I almost fill him in. Admiration. Longing. But I cannot form a single comprehensive word as he takes another step towards me, setting his champagne glass down on the railing, swaying slightly in the breeze. He leans against it, arms on either side of me, and the world comes to a standstill – the wind hesitates, birds hover mid-air, the waves rise but refrain from breaking.

Then his hands find their way around my neck, slipping slowly, sensually into my hair, irrevocably sending shivers down my spine. His touch is soft, and gentle, yet every fraction of his skin on mine feels like lightning, like fire. I am so physically aware of his closeness every part of my body seems on edge. My hands travel up his neck in response, into his hair, my fingers marvelling at the silky softness between them even as my tongue explores his, and I feel my blood throbbing at the base of my throat, in the pit of my stomach, and everywhere in between. One hand resting on my hip, his thumb eases beneath my shirt, its touch featherlight on my heated skin.

His lips move to my neck and I lean back, giving him space. His fingers trail along my spine, and I find myself pulling him closer, urgently, almost desperately. A single thought goes through my head, determined, decisive. Screw Nathan. If he can, then so can I. What is more, he never made anything feel like this.

Truth be told, I realise as he takes a step back, inhaling sharply, I have never felt anything remotely like this, with anyone.