The gym smells like sweat and cheap cleaning spray.
I sit on the cold bleachers, pulling at the loose thread on my sock while Coach Lamberti barks orders at the class.
Another Thursday. Another hour pretending we care about dodgeball and laps.
"Teams of five!" Coach shouts, tossing colored bibs at us.
"They better be fair this time!" Luca yells from somewhere in the group, earning a half-hearted laugh from a few classmates.
I roll my eyes.
Of course he has something to say.
He always does.
Coach glares at him but doesn't bother responding.
We shuffle into groups, grumbling.
By some terrible stroke of luck, I end up on Luca's team.
Fantastic.
We're warming up, simple passing drills across the court.
My legs already feel heavy, but I push it down, the way I always do.
When it's Luca's turn to catch the ball, he's slow.
Not like him.
Normally he's quick, sharp, annoying.
Now he flinches when the ball comes too close to his side, barely managing to catch it without twisting his face in pain.
Weird.
"Focus, Moretti!" Coach barks.
He tosses the ball lazily back, smirking like he doesn't care.
But something's wrong.
I can feel it.
He moves stiffly.
Flinches when someone bumps his shoulder too hard.
Not enough that anyone else would notice—except maybe me.
Because when you grow up knowing exactly how to watch for danger, you don't miss the signs.
Not that it's any of my business.
I grit my teeth and focus on the game.
"Bianchi, move your ass!" Luca calls, grinning like a jerk when I hesitate for half a second.
I snap a glare at him.
"Maybe if you didn't move like a grandpa, I wouldn't have to slow down."
A few kids snicker.
Coach doesn't intervene; he's too busy lecturing someone else.
Luca just laughs under his breath, but his face tightens for a split second when he shifts his weight.
That... wasn't nothing.
Still. I'm not going to ask.
Not going to care.
After a few more rounds, Coach finally blows the whistle.
"Water break! Two minutes!"
I grab my bottle and retreat to the side of the court, wiping sweat off my forehead.
From the corner of my eye, I watch Luca slump down onto the floor near the bleachers, stretching out his legs stiffly.
His usual cocky posture is gone, replaced by something smaller, tighter.
But the second he notices me looking, he straightens up, flashing a smug grin.
"Don't tell me you're tired already, Chiara." he says.
"In your dreams, Luca," I shoot back, taking a long drink of water.
He chuckles and leans back on his elbows, pretending to be relaxed.
It's a good act.
If I didn't already suspect something, I might believe it.
Coach calls us back for the last match of the period.
Five against five, real scrimmage, no mercy.
The game is chaos—people shoving, balls flying, sneakers squeaking across the polished floor.
Luca plays, of course.
He still runs, still jokes, still talks trash every chance he gets.
But he's slower.
And when someone barrels into him by accident, he lets out a barely audible grunt and stumbles back like he's been hit harder than he should've been.
Something about it coils uncomfortably in my stomach.
But I don't say anything.
Because saying something means caring.
And caring is dangerous.
Especially when it comes to people like
Luca Moretti.
The bell finally rings, signaling the end of class.
Everyone explodes into movement, scrambling for the showers or the exits.
I grab my stuff and head toward the locker room, weaving between clusters of sweaty, exhausted classmates.
As I pass by him, Luca pushes himself up from the floor a little too slowly.
"Try to keep up next time, Bianchi," he says with that annoying smirk.
I roll my eyes and bump him lightly with my shoulder, making sure it's on the opposite side of where he seemed sore.
"I don't slow down for losers," I mutter.
He barks a laugh, a real one this time.
But when he thinks I'm not looking, he presses his hand briefly to his ribs, just for a second, before dropping it.
I pretend not to see.
And for a moment, it almost feels like we're even.
Both hiding different things in plain sight.