Nerves and Neon Lights

Saturday evening crept up fast, and Luca stood before his mirror, palms sweaty, heart thumping like a drumroll.

The date with Chiara—7 PM at the arcade—was finally here, a promise he'd delayed too long with training excuses.

His room was a war zone: shirts flung over his chair, a sneaker half-buried under a sock pile. Dark jeans hugged his legs, the white shirt crisp against his skin, and his Jordan boots gleamed black and bold.

Casual, cool—hopefully enough. He raked a hand through his hair, muttering, "Don't screw this up, Cappetta."

Sophia lounged in the doorway, smirking like she'd caught him stealing cookies. "Nervous, loverboy? You look like you're about to sprint a marathon, not play Pac-Man."

Luca glared, snagging a comb. "Shut it, swamp witch. At least I've got a date—not moping over snacks all night." She tossed a pillow at him, grinning. "Better not bore her with football stats—she'll ditch you for the claw machine!"

Downstairs, Emily peeked from the kitchen, her smile soft. "You look handsome, Luca. Have fun—she's a keeper."

Gianpiero nodded over his paper. "Don't overthink it. Be yourself." Luca managed a shaky grin, nerves buzzing like a live wire.

The walk to the arcade felt eternal, each step amplifying the what-ifs swirling in his head.

Chiara waited by the entrance, neon lights painting her in pinks and blues. Her denim jacket hung loose over a simple dress, her dark hair catching the glow—she looked effortless, stunning.

Luca's breath hitched. "H-Hey," he managed, voice cracking slightly. She smiled, warm and teasing. "Hey, stranger. Thought you'd forgotten me for the pitch."

He laughed, tension easing. "No chance. Ready to lose at everything?"

They dove in, the arcade a cacophony of beeps and cheers. First up: basketball hoops. Chiara's shots swished through, her grin widening as Luca's clanged off the rim.

"You're hopeless," she laughed, racking up points. He smirked, "Just warming up."

Next, racing simulators—his domain. He floored it, weaving past her car on the digital track, crossing the line first. "That's more like it," he crowed, earning her playful shove. "Lucky break, Cappetta."

The dance machine was a disaster. Luca's 83 Agility—a weapon on the field—meant nothing here. His feet tangled, missing arrows as the screen flashed red.

Chiara stumbled too, giggling as they flailed in sync. "You're worse than me!" she gasped, clutching his arm for balance. He laughed, cheeks burning. "Guess I'll stick to dribbling."

Breathless, they grabbed slushies—blue for him, red for her—and slid into a booth, the noise fading to a hum. Luca swirled his straw, guilt tugging at him.

"Sorry I kept pushing this off. Training's been… intense." Chiara's eyes softened, but her tone held an edge.

"I get it, Luca—football's your world. Just don't let it be your only world, okay?" He nodded, her words sinking in. "Yeah. I needed this—needed you."

She smiled, sipping her drink. "Good. 'Cause I'm not here to lose at racing every time." He chuckled, the weight of the week lifting.

They talked—about school, her art sketches, his U17 dreams—each word stitching them closer. The arcade's chaos faded, leaving just them, a quiet bubble amid the storm.

Outside, the night air nipped at their skin as they stepped into the glow of streetlights. Chiara zipped her jacket, glancing at him.

"Fun night, football star. Don't wait a month for the next one." Luca grinned, hands in pockets. "Deal. Next time, I'll beat you at basketball too." She laughed, waving as she turned away.

Walking home, Luca felt lighter, the tension of training and Santini's critique melting into the background.

Chiara wasn't just a break—she was a reminder of what lay beyond the pitch. Sophia's teasing, the U17 grind, the system's demands—they'd all wait.

Tonight, he'd won something different, and it felt damn good.