8th September 2021 again

They are still guys who have finished training and are not in the best conditions to go for glamorous aperitifs in the center of Milano Marittima. The sports center where they had been training until a few minutes earlier is only a kilometer away from Full Moon, a place that serves pizza, hamburgers and a bit of Tex-Mex food, perfect for lightning-fast metabolisms like theirs. Outside, the asphalt still releases the heat of the day, and the air has that mixed smell of maritime pines, fried food and scooter gasoline that is typical of the Romagna Riviera.

They are ten and they're searching for outdoor tables, partly because inside there is a smell of overly hot cooking that sticks to you worse than post-workout sweat, partly because this way they can keep an eye on whoever passes by. The tables are low and wobbly, surrounded by sun-bleached plastic chairs. The restaurant lights are yellow, suspended on chains above their heads, attracting moths and mosquitoes.

Tonight there is more or less half the team, or rather, there are the survivors of the old team, the historical core, who have been playing together for what seems like an infinite amount of time.They sit down noisily, dragging their chairs as if they wanted to leave a mark on the floor, and slump down on them with their legs spread apart. Te t-dhirts are all different: someone still has the techinical one from the team, whit the stained armpits, someone quickly put on an oversize of some streetwear brand. Athletic shorts, pulled-up Nike socks, and pool shoes, some of which still had sand on them.

The clothing is a hybrid between post-gym and pre-evening outing, torn between the desire to show off and total disinterest.

The phones are already in their hands before the servant even arrives. Francesco has opened TikTok and laughs like an idiot, showing a video to Riad.

-Damn, look at those butts...-

Riad looks, nods, makes a trashy but very hasty comment: he seems distracted. He keeps the phone on the table, turned face up. Every now and then he glances at it, quickly, as if he were waiting for something. He doesn't laugh with the others, or at least not completely. He's been trying to call Gaudenzi for two days. The first time a secretary answered: "We'll let you know by Friday." Today is September 8, and the phone continues to be silent.

Diego rubs his neck and leans back, the chair creaking dangerously under his weight as a one-time "halfback." He runs his hand through his dark hair, kept short on the sides and longer on top. He makes as if to look at the lock of hair right in front of his eyes. He's wearing a baggy Lakers tank top, under which his broad shoulders and an old-fashioned compass tattoo peek out.

-Today the mister was pissed off, eh. All that's missing is for him to shoot us in the ankles.-

-He wanna win the Champions League.- Alby replies, still wearing his warm-up shorts, with a pocket unstitched from which the scooter key is sticking out.

-That hoe wants to undermine the first team coach.- Lucas replies, who knows the ins and outs of that team. -This merger has put us in the shit, but it went even worse for some. Fiorani has to win the championship, otherwise they'll kick him in the ass, and the coach is ready to take his place.-

-This put us in the shit twice. Because the new ones push. And add Samba to that and we're on the top.- Diego pontificates.

The name hovers in the air for a second before Riccardo, with his mouth full of chips, adds:

-If he always throws them under the seven, we're lucky. Luxury shit.-

The joke melts the laughter, but Riad stays silent. His legs, still pulled by workout cramps, are tanned anf full of thin slip scratches. His hands are intertwined under the table, sweated.

-Ricky, I love you, but don't such a moron.- Dieago says, pointing a chip against him. -The problem is that we are twenty-four, and the coach is deciding starters, bench players and...?-

-And...?-

-You tell me, you go to high school.- Diego teases him.

-What the fuck do I know, come on, speak clearly.-

-And who will watch all year. In twenty-four, there are those who will watch all year. Would you train for a year knowing you are the one watching?-

-Absolutely not," Riccardo replies. -But...-

-But shit, I don't want to end up like Lettiere, who has more presence on IG than on the field. And Vince too, he has feet like Playmobils.-

-Oh, what the fuck do you want?!- Francesco bristles, called into question.

Riccardo shooks his head.

-Yes, ok, but it's not like he's taking Vince out and keeping Samba, eh. And then you know that the season is very long and there are always a thousand problems, like the year we lost four games in a row when we were first in the standings and we found ourselves third.-

-The female year.- Riad giggles.

-Yes, exactly, but she had feet. And Samba has feet, for Christ's sake.- Riccardo cuts.

A brief silence, like a commercial break. Around, the chatter of the place merges with the chirping of crickets and the buzzing of mosquitoes around his ankles.

Then Diego snorts.

«Yes, okay, some free kicks, but first, we have to take them, second, he has to put them in and that's not a given. Football is a man's thing. It's not classical dance.»

"It's not Samba," Riccardo chuckles, pretending to dance South American, sitting down.

"Hey, whose side are you on?" Diego growls, "These guys want to undermine us, who have always played together, and you're a dancer?"

"Calm down," the other replies, glancing at a girls only table a little further away to find an elegant way out of the conversation, "the girls over there are better than your bullshit conversations."

"But you didn't have a girlfriend?" Francesco sneers. "If she catches you looking at minors, she'll have you thrown in jail."

"Not like you, who jerks on them directly on Insta, right?"

"Oh, are you done being a pain in the ass?" the interested party bleats, "I just keep myself informed. Like you talk about Samba, in the meantime I look at his girlfriend, which is better, on this I agree with Ricky."

"His girlfriend looks like someone who sucks your soul" Riad has finally made himself heard, since we're talking about girls.

"She has eyes that make you confess things you haven't done," Riccardo adds.

"And with the body she has," Diego says, "You look at her eyes? Ricky, I think you're becoming a fag."

They burst out laughing, except for Riad. He checks his phone again, then puts it in his pocket. He looks like someone expecting bad news, or good news that's been delayed too long.

Finally he decides, gets up and moves to the side with the excuse of going to the bathroom. He takes a very long look at a girl sitting with a guy, maybe he knows her, or maybe he saw her online, and his thoughts immediately become cloudy. He imagines her leaning against the bathroom wall of that place, just like that, without many filters, and he imagines her taken from behind, with all the strength he could put into an embrace in those moments in which, in his head, anxiety and frustration mix. But it is not a physical need: it is a need for control. An indirect punishment, against rejection, against waiting, against the world.

He regains control of himself, leans against the wall and sends a message.

Riad: you didn't let me know anything

Riad: it's September 8th

After a couple of interminable minutes, the answer arrives.

Gaudenzi: I'm sorry, nothing's happening

Gaudenzi: we'll talk about it in January if everything goes well

Gaudenzi: it's up to you

He feels the anger rising, he leaves the wall and goes back the way he came, passing by the girl he gave that long look to and who is now talking intensely to the guy who's with her. Riad has a flash for a moment, he wants to slam her against the wall and make her scream, because of the indifference she's showing him.

"Bro, I have to go back. Downstairs they're stabbing each other" he makes up a lie.

"Cool!" Diego chuckles, "So you can finally end up in the papers!"