Page 19 of Flawless

That comment is all the reminder that I need to realize that he isn’t worth it. Nor are the countless others who have a running commentary about what they deem as the worst mistake of my life.

Hopping into the car, I make a mad dash out of the parking lot and down the lane.

“Fuck!” I grumble, banging the steering wheel as I drive.

Mattia, the only friend that I have remaining from my old league, warned me that it was coming. He’s in his first year of retirement, and although he didn’t achieve half of what I did, he was able to retire from the game on his own terms.

Mattia Bonetti has had a beautiful and lucrative career. He married the girl of his dreams, and they have two beautiful children. Living out in Italy’s countryside, he’s content with running his vineyard and winery while reminiscing on his soccer career’s highs and lows.

He has the life that I dreamt of.

After I allowed my temper to get the best of me, most of those so-called “friends” in my league turned their backs on me. All because of one heated moment where I lost control over the woman that I loved. The woman I’d planned to propose to.

I pull up to my house and see three news vans. I will not allow them to deter me from going inside of my home. Turning the car around and heading in the other direction is not an option.

Italy is hosting the FIFA World Cup this year, and our team will play in the tournaments again which means these reporters aren’t going anywhere. If anything, they will grow in number.

I have no idea how these idiots found my home, but I have no doubt the other vultures will seek me out soon and camp out around my property.

I pull into the drive, wishing that I had an attached garage and hop out of my car. I rush up the front steps as they shout out their questions.

“Mr. Diaz! Mr. Diaz!” one reporter shouts, running up the drive with his microphone extended.

“Zenon! What are your predictions about this year’s tournament and Italy’s chances of winning?” another reporter asks, calling my name as though we’re familiar with one another.

I ignore both until the final reporter asks the one question that always gets a rise out of me.

“Zenon! Is it true that you purposely threw that game because you wanted your home country, Brazil, to take the championship? Did your loyalties not lie with the country you’ve made your home for more than a decade?”

And then the first reporter pounces on that question. “Or did you hope that by throwing the game, you would be able to try out with Brazil again and make it this time, allowing you to return to your home country?”

My jaws clench, and my fists ball in anger. My chest heaves as I stop my trek into my home and spin around. Stalking back down the steps towards the first reporter, I see nothing but red.

“How dare you stalk me like vultures, come on my property, and then insult me by suggesting that I have been anything but loyal to this country?” I shout.

The second reporter, is backing away, and the first one is hightailing it to her van, but the third reporter who initiated the insults, is standing his ground.

I knock the camera from his hand.

“Hey! You can’t do that! You have no right! You’re going to pay for that!” he threatens.

I’m aware that the other two reporters are probably capturing all of this, and it will be on some news channels and social media, if not multiple ones, before the night ends.

“And you’re on private property! You have no right to be here!” I shout.

Just as I pull my fist back to punch him, I hear a shout from behind me.

“Zenon!” I turn to see my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Maria Caparelli, rushing in my direction, wielding a broom in one hand and a rolling pin in the other.

She’s wearing a reprimanding scowl on her deeply tanned and heavily lined face. Mrs. Caparelli is no more than four-feet and eleven inches, weighing roughly one-hundred-ten pounds, but she puts the fear of God in me despite my six-four height and two-hundred-nine pounds of lean muscle.

Instantly, my clenched fist drops to my side as if it has a mind of its own.

“Get out of here! All of you!” she shouts, chasing the third reporter back to his van as the other two hurriedly close their doors and watch the melee from inside. When the third reporter pulls off, she walks to the first van and begins banging on the door with the rolling pin until the van leaves, and the second van instantly follows.

By the time that she turns around and walks back up the drive, I’m struggling to contain my laughter. She’s quite a sight with the broom and the rolling pin chasing off the reporters like they were stray cats.

When she comes to a stop in front of me, she leans the broom against the wall of my house but clings to her rolling pin.

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