3Thursday 9th September 2021

Martin had fallen asleep very late. The night before he had gone out with Meg, he had taken her to one of the most popular places in Milano Marittima. They had had a drink practically on the sand and had danced a bit, but not the samba. 

She, with an electric blue dress that left her back and a good portion of her breasts exposed, and that made several boys' heads turn, every time she came closer to speak in his ear because of the volume, she would rest her warm, smooth skin on his, making him feel almost caressed. He liked it, even if he almost had the feeling of wanting something stronger, more suitable for an evening with music like that. The conversation had gone as smoothly as alcohol, and at times everything seemed so perfect that it almost seemed written by a good screenwriter.

Then they had retreated to the small greenhouse of the house and he had shown off all his amorous arts. That small space was warm, soaked in a humidity that fogged the windows and made everything stick to the skin. The climbing plants hung like silent spectators, and the air smelled of wet earth and night flowers. No one would have come in at that hour. No one would have seen them, Martin knew that well. He had pushed her gently against the work table, his hands on her hips, his breath already broken just from having her so close. She had smiled, also because, he knew, she had been teasing him all evening. Her half-closed eyes communicated desire, trust, hunger.

His fingers had moved slowly, exploratory, while the damp fabric of her clothes had become almost useless. He had pressed himself against her in an electrically charged contact, the wet skin that slipped and clung at the same time. He had kissed her neck slowly, as if every inch was a world to explore, then he had gone up to her ear, where he had whispered something strong that had gotten exactly what he wanted: to have his nails dug into her shoulders. When he had knelt before her, after a fleeting glance at those two breasts so pale, almost blue with the night light, he had thrown himself between her legs, sucking with force on Meg's fleshy vagina. The humidity made every surface of skin shine, everything was sensation. His fingers, his tongue, his gaze fixed on her body as he watched her moan hoarsely.

She had clung to his shoulders, to his hair, looking for a hold while the wave overwhelmed her with the force of something expected and yet always surprising. There was no shame, there was something perfect, something that Martin would have wanted even harder, terribly harder.

In the meantime, Martin had touched himself frantically, so much so that when he got up, he had lifted Meg's leg to enter and in a few minutes he had reached a powerful orgasm.

When the alarm goes off, Martin has already been awake for a while, excited as he thinks back to the night before. He turns over in the tidy bed, with the sheets still stretched out, as if he hadn't even moved in it. The room is modern, bright, with an almost maniacal order that even his mother sometimes makes fun of a little: books stacked with precision, the training bag ready by the door, the clean sports shoes lined up under the desk. On the wall, a calendar marks the week with red markings: training, gym sessions, language tests.

In the living room, he hears his father's voice. He's talking on the phone, something that hasn't been uncommon lately. Martin gets up, puts on a light T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The parquet floor under his bare feet is cold, biting.

His father is sitting at the table, in a freshly ironed white shirt, with a tablet turned on in front of him, on a newspaper page and a cup of coffee in his hands. Graying hair that is thinning, vaguely angular features. He is talking to someone who deals with sports, perhaps a youth area manager. Martin remains standing next to the door, waiting for him to finish.

When the man hangs up, he turns to his son with an attentive look, never truly relaxed.

"There is an opportunity, made on an exceptional basis. Technical tests behind closed doors, without media coverage obviously. As for the absence, I will take care of it with the coach."

Martin nods slowly.

"And school?"

"I spoke to a couple of schools in the area, always language schools. High-level. They have no problem inserting a boy in the running, especially if he has an average like yours. Obviously an impeccable four-month period is needed. You have to confirm the averages."

Martin bites the inside of his cheek. A second of silence. Then he nods.

"Okay," he says, to whom his father's last statement seems superfluous.

The man observes him for a few seconds in silence. There is no explicit affection, only a silent determination. Then he goes back to looking at the tablet.

"If you make it, Martin, everything changes. I know that the injury, leaving the Academy dimension has... destabilized you. But as you see, other opportunities come, but you know that we cannot afford to make mistakes."

Martin knows well what "cannot" means. It is plural only by convention. In reality it means: you cannot.

As he prepares breakfast with yogurt, cereal, banana, he feels a knot closing in his stomach. The night before, with Meg, he had managed for a moment to forget everything, to give the best of himself, bringing her to the maximum of pleasure. But now, inside that silent house, he feels the pressure on himself again. He cannot disappoint. He knows it.

And yet, something inside him begins to resist. Maybe it is that new sporting dimension, still hostile, or the scholastic one, which is still obscure to him. He gets up, goes back to his room and takes his bag, he has to go to the morning gym session.

Martin arrives right on time, as always. He trains alone, headphones in his ears, a trap mix chosen to keep the rhythm. Squats, pull-ups, sit-ups. Few pauses, no smiles. Every movement seems to want to respond to something that is inside him and only he can visualize. When he stops, he is soaked in sweat, his T-shirt stuck to his skin, his breathing struggling to come back.

In the locker room, while he takes off his wet T-shirt and throws it in his bag, he notices that other guys have already arrived, older than him, regulars at the gym. Some are discussing what the best pre-workout is, others are discussing amino acids as if they were talking about the best teams in the Champions League. They talk about squats, flat bench presses, creatine cycles. Some, fleetingly, look at their swollen muscles in the mirror with a pleased expression, others take photos of themselves in "uniform" to update their profiles.

Once the locker room is empty, Martin, in his sports briefs, stands in front of the mirror in silence. His body is toned, trained with method and precision: clean abs, tight lats, toned legs from the work in the gym and on the field. But something still stings him.

How do some of his teammates, those who skip the warm-up with a thousand excuses, who mix proteins without even knowing what they're taking, who live on grilled chicken, bacon sandwiches and energy bars, still have explosive power, an almost animalistic reactivity? It's a question he often asks himself, and now it comes back, sharp. And his thoughts inevitably run to the group of Francesco, Diego, and especially Riad. That shapeless, instinctive, disjointed trio, but who on the pitch seem to have something more. A different, less controllable strength. More real?

Martin dries his face with a towel, a drop slides down his back. Then he puts on a clean t-shirt, takes his bag and leaves, saying goodbye to the girl at the reception who shoots him a very long look of pure interest.