Reghecampf made an announcement that surprised everyone.
"The next three days—no training. Complete rest. Spend time with families, recover physically and mentally. We have seven finals ahead. You need to be fresh."
For Andrei, the timing was perfect. He was exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally. The season had been a rollercoaster, and he needed to step off for a moment.
He called his mother in Iași. "Mama, can I come home for a few days?"
"You never have to ask, My dear . Your room is always ready."
"Can I bring someone?"
A pause. "The journalist girl? Elena?"
"How did you—"
His mother laughed. "A mother knows. Of course you can bring her. I want to meet the woman who makes my son so happy."
Andrei and Elena took the train to Iași that evening. The journey was three hours through rolling countryside, past small villages and endless fields. They sat close, her head on his shoulder, watching Romania slide past the window.
"Nervous?" Andrei asked.
"About meeting your mother? Terrified."
"She'll love you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I love you. And she trusts my judgment."
It was the first time either had said it so plainly. Elena lifted her head, looking at him with shining eyes.
"Say it again."
"I love you, Elena Dumitru."
"I love you too, Andrei Luca."
They kissed as the train rolled through the Moldovan countryside, two young people suspended between past and future, fully present in the moment.
Iași appeared through the twilight—the cultural capital of Moldova, historic and beautiful. The train station was smaller than Bucharest's, less frantic. Andrei's mother waited on the platform, and when she saw him, her face lit up with joy.
"Mama!" Andrei hugged her tightly. She was smaller than he remembered, grayer. The season apart had aged her somehow.
"Let me look at you." She held him at arm's length. "So thin! They don't feed you in Bucharest?"
"I eat fine, Mama."
Then she turned to Elena, and Andrei held his breath.
His mother studied Elena for a long moment—taking in her intelligent eyes, her practical clothing, the confidence in her posture. Then she smiled warmly.
"So you're the one who's stolen my son's heart."
Elena extended her hand. "Mrs. Luca, it's an honor to meet you."
"None of that formal nonsense. Call me Ana." She pulled Elena into a hug. "Thank you for taking care of him. A mother worries, you know."
The apartment was small, in a Soviet-era building that had seen better days. But it was clean, warm, filled with photographs of Andrei's father and his childhood. The smell of sarmale—cabbage rolls—filled the air.
"I made your favorite," Ana said to Andrei. "And cozonac for dessert."
They ate at the small kitchen table, and Ana told embarrassing stories from Andrei's childhood. How he'd once tried to dribble past a goalpost and broken his nose. How he'd cried when Romania was eliminated from Euro 2016. How his father had taught him to kick a ball before he could properly walk.
Elena laughed genuinely, asking questions, engaging with Ana as an equal. Andrei watched them connect and felt something settle in his chest—two worlds merging seamlessly.
After dinner, Ana pulled out old photo albums. Pictures of Andrei as a chubby toddler, as a gap-toothed child, as a gangly teenager. His father appeared in many—a sturdy man with kind eyes and calloused hands.
"He would be so proud of you," Ana said softly, touching a photograph. "Everything you've achieved."
"I wish he could see it."
"Oh, he sees it, My dear . I'm certain of that."
That night, Andrei showed Elena his childhood bedroom. It was tiny—barely room for a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Posters of Gheorghe Hagi and Cristiano Ronaldo covered the walls.
"This is where I dreamed of becoming a footballer," Andrei said. "Lying in that bed, imagining playing in big stadiums."
"And now you are."
"Now I am." He sat on the bed, and Elena sat beside him. "But it's stranger than I imagined. Harder. More complicated."
"Everything worth doing is complicated."
They couldn't sleep together here—Ana had prepared the sofa for Elena, respecting traditional propriety. But they stayed in his room talking until late, about everything and nothing.
"Thank you for bringing me here," Elena said. "For letting me see where you came from."
"You're part of my life now. I wanted you to understand all of it."
They kissed goodnight at his bedroom door, and Andrei felt a completeness he'd never experienced. This was what mattered—not ratings or transfers or trophies, but connection. Love. Home.
Mental State: Restored
Emotional Well-being: Excellent
Relationship: Deepened significantly
The next morning, Andrei took Elena to his old training ground—the muddy pitch where Poli Iași's youth teams practiced. It was exactly as he remembered: rutted, uneven, goals with torn nets, grass worn to dirt in places.
"This is where you learned to play?" Elena asked, surveying the rough conditions.
"Every day, rain or shine. Sometimes the pitch was so muddy you couldn't even see the ball."
They walked around the empty field. Andrei picked up a ball left by the fence—half-deflated, scuffed from overuse.
"Want to see my skills?" he joked.
"Please. Amaze me with your professional technique."
He juggled the ball—keepie-uppies, simple tricks. Elena tried to tackle him, laughing as he nutmegged her. They played like children, no pressure, no expectations. Just two people enjoying the game in its purest form.
After, they sat on the broken bleachers, catching their breath.
"This is why you play, isn't it?" Elena said. "Not for the money or fame. For this feeling."
"Yes. Exactly this." Andrei looked at the pitch. "Somewhere along the way this season, I forgot that. It became about stats and scouts and proving myself. But this—just kicking a ball, laughing, playing—this is what I fell in love with."
"Don't lose that. No matter how big you get, don't lose the joy."
"I won't. Not as long as you're here to remind me."
They visited his father's grave that afternoon. The cemetery was on the outskirts of Iași, quiet and peaceful. Andrei placed fresh flowers on the headstone—simple gray marble with his father's name and dates.
Elena hung back, giving him privacy.
"Dad," Andrei whispered, kneeling. "I'm doing it. Everything you wanted for me. I'm playing professional football, and I might win the league title. Inter Milan wanted to sign me—can you believe that?"
The wind rustled through nearby trees, carrying the scent of spring blossoms.
"I met someone. Elena. She's special, Dad. Smart, strong, challenges me to be better. I think you'd like her."
He stayed there for a long time, talking to his father, updating him on everything. When he finally stood, Elena was waiting, and without words, she took his hand.
They walked back through Iași together, this city of his childhood now shared with the woman he loved.
That evening, the three of them—Andrei, Elena, and Ana—sat together watching a Liga 1 match on television. CFR Cluj was playing, and they were winning comfortably.
"They're so consistent," Ana observed. "How do you beat a team like that?"
"By being perfect," Andrei replied. "No more dropped points. Win every match."
"Can you do that?"
Andrei thought about the journey—from that first night when the system appeared, through European heartbreak and impossible decisions, to this moment in his childhood living room.
"Yes, Mama. I think we can."
Elena squeezed his hand. Ana smiled.
Outside, Iași continued its rhythms—ancient and modern, past and present, dreams and reality all woven together.
Andrei felt ready. Rested. Reconnected to what mattered.
The title race wasn't over.
Complete Mental and Physical Recovery Achieved
Overall Rating: 72.4/99
All attributes restored to optimal levels
Ready for final push