Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
And to hope that he’s in a better mood than he was the last time we spoke.
*
The front room of the children’s home is alive with movement.
The camera crew has arrived, setting up their tripods and checking sound levels, their voices a low murmur as they discuss the best angles for the shoot. The players are here too, dressed down in team-branded polos and joggers and standing in a loose circle with a few of the staff as they go over the logistics of the day.
I’ve managed to avoid Matteo so far, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful.
I’ve attached myself to a man named Giuseppe; an older Italian gentleman with silver-streaked hair and warm, expressive eyes. He introduced himself the moment I walked into the room, his handshake firm but kind, and within minutes, he had launched into his life story.
“I grew up here, you know,” he tells me, gesturing to the walls around us. His English is excellent, though accented, his voice rich with nostalgia. “Came here when I was seven. My parents -” he pauses, corrects himself - “my first parents. They were not good people. This place saved me.”
I listen intently as Giuseppe explains how, at thirteen, he was adopted by a couple who had no children of their own. His voice grows softer as he speaks of them, his expression touched with both fondness and grief.
“They were good people,” he says, his thick fingers curling together like he’s holding onto the memory itself. “Strict, but kind. They taught me how to work hard, how to be honest, how to be good.” He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Mamma used to say that blood means nothing if the heart is true.”
I smile at that, but there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite shake.
“They gave me everything. A home. An education. Love.” He clears his throat, his voice turning gruff. “They’re gone now.”
There’s a beat of silence as he stares off into the distance. His weathered face is almost unreadable, but his misting eyes say enough.
I open my mouth, but what can I even say to that?
I’m sorry feels cheap.
That must be hard feels insufficient.
“But I had them for a long time,” he adds finally, with a small, firm nod.
Almost as if it’s something he reminds himself of often. As if it’s somehow enough.
And now, in his retirement, he spends his days here, giving his time to the home that once gave him everything. He doesn’t have children of his own, but he has this.
He has them.
I swallow down the lump in my throat.
This is real charity work.
Not showing up for an hour or two, handing over a few toys that cost less than one percent of a footballer’s weekly salary and posing for some carefully curated photos.
Not shaking a few hands, tousling a kid’s hair and then disappearing back into their million-euro lifestyles, patting themselves on the back for their generosity.
The thought disgusts me, makes my stomach twist with something ugly.
Giuseppe is the one who deserves a camera in his face - not these idiots.
I push it all down as the children start filtering into the main room, and the frustration I feel momentarily dissolves.
They are adorable.
Most of them are hesitant at first, clinging to the edges of the group, their dark eyes flitting between the unfamiliar faces. Some look up at the players with open admiration, wide-eyed at the real-life footballers standing in front of them while others remain skeptical, unconvinced that these men will be worth their time.
They speak mostly in Italian, their voices soft and uncertain. Giuseppe explains that some are learning English, but it isn’t a priority.
“They have more important things to worry about,” he says.
I nod, understanding completely.
I crouch down, offering a smile, and slowly, a few of them warm up.
One little girl in particular catches my attention. She can’t be older than five or six, with tight curls framing her round face and a gap in her smile where her front tooth used to be. Her tiny hands clutch a well-loved stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin in patches, its ears slightly frayed.
She doesn’t say a word. She just watches me.
Big, dark eyes fixed on mine, her expression unreadable, but filled with something that tugs deep in my chest.
Curiosity? Caution?
Hope?
I tilt my head at her.
She tilts hers back.
A smile tugs at my lips. I arch a brow, playing along, and widen my eyes dramatically. She mimics me, her own brows furrowing in exaggerated concentration.
And then, she grins.
It’s a shy little thing - quick and fleeting - but it’s there.
And as if she’s just made the most important decision of her life, she steps forward with great determination, clutching her rabbit just a little tighter. Then, without a single word, she plops it directly into my lap.
Something in my chest squeezes, and I blink down at the rabbit, slightly stunned.