Chapter 8 - Saturday Morning at Ten
The wind off Lake Michigan was brutal, howling across the open fields of the Lincoln Park community sports complex and turning the compressed snow into a fine, stinging powder.
Luca Moretti sat in the back row of a metal bleacher that smelled of rust and wet wool. He wasn't wearing his custom Brioni suit or his expensive cashmere overcoat. He wore a simple black parka, dark jeans, and heavy hiking boots, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep them from shaking.
Around him, a dozen parents stood huddled in thick parkas, holding steaming paper cups of coffee and cheering for a cluster of four-year-olds who looked more like colorful bundles of down insulation than an actual soccer team.
On the small, snow-dusted turf field, a little boy with dark, unruly curls and a bright red jersey numbered '7' was aggressively dribbling a neon-orange soccer ball past a confused defender twice his size.
Leo.
Luca’s throat tightened. Every time the boy kicked the ball—using the exact same inside-of-the-foot technique Luca had used on the school pitches thirty-five years ago—a sharp, aching wave of grief and wonder washed over him.
Ten feet away, standing near the team bench holding a thermos and a spare set of woolen mittens, was Nia.
She wore a thick navy parka, a cream-colored beanie pulled down over her dark curls, and a pair of sturdy snow boots. She was laughing as little Maya tugged on her sleeve, pointing excitedly at her brother on the field.
Nia didn't look up immediately. She didn't scan the bleachers to see if he had come. She was entirely focused on her children, radiant, grounded, and completely alive in a way Luca had never seen her during their entire marriage.
"Go on, Leo! Use your left!" Nia called out, clapping her mittened hands together.
Leo glanced toward the sideline, caught sight of his mother, and flashed a quick, brilliant grin—a grin that carried Luca’s exact smile, bright and fierce and unyielding.
Then, the boy’s eyes drifted past his mother.
His gaze landed on the back row of the metal bleachers.
Luca froze.
Leo stopped running. The orange soccer ball rolled away from his foot as he stared up at the tall, solitary figure sitting alone in the cold bleachers. The boy’s dark eyebrows drew together in a familiar, analytical frown—the exact gesture Luca made when evaluating a complex problem.
On the sideline, Nia’s head snapped around.
She followed her son’s gaze. Her eyes met Luca’s across the snowy turf.
For three seconds, the shouting parents, the whistling coach, and the scrambling children faded into complete silence.
May you like
Nia didn't look angry. She didn't look triumphant. She simply gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.
Luca stood up from the metal bleacher. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He took a deep breath of the freezing Chicago air, stepped down from the stands, and began walking across the snow toward the field.
