Offside Lives: Part 3

Chapter 3 – Luca’s Win

Luca Marinelli loved three things about the tunnel before a match: the echo of boots on concrete, the scent of grass mixed with sweat and rubber, and the moment the cameras turned on—when he became someone else.

The tunnel hummed with nervous coughs, the faint jingle of shin pads. Someone muttered a prayer in Italian.

He bounced on his heels as the Kraljevic team lined up behind the fourth official. Across from them, NK Rijeka waited in white. Somewhere behind the glass, the Croatia scouts were watching. He told himself he didn’t care. Still, he bounced a little higher. A smile tugged at his mouth. The cameras were rolling. And when the red light blinked, the world was watching.

He glanced down the line. Tomas stood near the front, silent, arms crossed. His jaw was tight, eyes locked ahead. Luca narrowed his eyes, weighing the mood. Tomas stayed locked in his own head, a taut silhouette ready to snap.

Behind him, Mo was muttering a prayer under his breath. Luca leaned in slightly.

“Pray we win or pray you get subbed off first?” he said, low enough that only Mo could hear.

Mo cracked a smile, kept his head bowed. “Just covering all bases.”

Luca chuckled. He spat, adjusted his collar, and stared at the floodlights ahead.

“Veskic in the squad?” Mo asked, stretching his neck.

Luca scoffed. “Yeah. Might see him late, if Renz gets sentimental.”

Mo shrugged. “Crowd still loves him.”

The announcer called Luca's name. The chant started before he finished.

“LUUUUU-CAAAAA!” A wave of teenage girls in knockoff kits screamed from the south end. His agent told him not to look. He waved anyway.

The match started fast. A defender caught him with an elbow in the first ten minutes. Nothing serious, just enough to rattle him. The ball moved quickly, side to side, heavy touches in the midfield.

Then a corner. Rebounded high. Luca chest-trapped, let it drop, and smashed it low with his left. Keeper never moved.

Later, a free kick just outside the box. He stood over it, arms loose, the crowd swelling behind him. Bent it around the wall with pace. Net rippled.

Stadium exploded.

He didn’t run. Just stood there, arms wide, soaking it in. He was a showman, and the show was working.

At halftime, he walked past Tomas. Their shoulders brushed. Tomas said nothing.

In the second half, Luca missed an easy pass. Turned to see Tomas already looking away.

Moments later, an opposing midfielder came in late—hip check and studs up. Luca hit the turf, cleats slicing a groove beside his ear.

Tomas noted the precision, the calm under pressure, but he gave nothing away. Not even a nod.

Dario came on with ten minutes left. He jogged out with a quick nod from Renz. Slower than he once was, but steady. His first touch was a little stiff, the second better. He held his line, cleared a low cross, and chased back without needing a shout.

Renz stood still on the sideline, hands in his pockets. Dario didn’t look his way.

Up in the press box, Mia adjusted the lens. She hadn’t expected to see Dario out there. But there he was. Reading the play, tracking the ball, moving like it still mattered. She tightened the focus and made a note of the time.

In stoppage time, Rijeka earned one last corner. Their striker was tall, rangy, dangerous in the air. He rose above the pack and nodded it down into traffic. Tomas rose with him and deflected it. The ball skipped loose inside the box. Dario stepped in, met it square, and cleared it hard upfield.

The crowd held its breath. Then erupted.

They held the line.

Final whistle. 2–1. Luca scored both goals.

***

After the match, in the mixed zone, a reporter from Sky Sports asked Luca how it felt to be carrying the team again.

Luca laughed. “We carry each other. That’s what makes this club different.” He glanced toward the far end of the corridor, catching Tomas in his periphery. Just for a second, he wondered if the captain bought it. If anyone did.

Behind him, Tomas walked past, not stopping.

***

Hours later, the rooftop bar downtown was packed. Local influencers leaned against glass railings, phones out, waiting for the right lighting. Bass thumped from overhead speakers. Branded cocktails came fast, pushed by bored servers in club jerseys. Kraljevic didn’t do subtle.

Luca arrived late, flanked by two models, one French, one Brazilian, and a TikTok influencer whose name he didn’t know but whose follower count he did.

Drinks flowed. Phones lifted. Someone moved through the crowd with a tray of small pink pills, offering them with a grin. For a moment, Luca caught the glint of the capsules under the lights. He took two, slipping them into his pocket without comment. The room buzzed—too bright, too loud, too easy to disappear in.

In the VIP section, Clara was already there.

Hair up. Black dress. Red lipstick. She stood beside a music executive; her smile calculated, a networker’s mask. She pretended not to see Luca. But when the executive stepped out to take a call, she turned.

“You played well,” she said.

“You watched?”

She nodded.

“You came with him?” Luca asked.

“I came alone. He just happened to be there.”

He smiled. She didn’t.

“You want to leave?” he asked, quieter.

Clara hesitated. Then finished her drink in one long pull. “Five minutes.”

The hotel wasn’t far. A short ride. A mid-level suite. Blackout curtains. Two bottles of champagne on ice that neither of them touched.

Afterwards, she lay on her stomach, scrolling through her phone. Luca lit a cigarette.

“You know he still loves you, right?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“He’s going to find out.”

Clara turned to look at him. “You worried?”

“I don’t scare easy.”

She smirked. “You should.”

He offered her the cigarette. She waved it off.

“He’s not stupid,” Luca said. “Just slow to admit it’s over.”

Clara sat up and wrapped the sheet around her. “It was over a long time ago. But it’ll never really end for him. That’s who he is.”

He watched her disappear into the bathroom.

Thought about calling her back. Didn’t. Picked up his phone instead, opened Instagram.

The post-match photos were already up. He looked good. So did Clara. There was a shot of them side by side. He stared at it for a long time. Then saved it.

In the morning, she was gone.

A note on the pillow: Don’t confuse attention with affection. The handwriting was narrow and deliberate, each letter angled forward.

Luca laughed. It fit her. It could’ve been his own line.

***

At training, Tomas didn’t speak to him. Didn’t even look at him.

But during the crossing drill, when Luca cut inside and tried a flashy flick over the center-back, Tomas took him out rough, but clean.

Luca hit the ground, rolled, popped up smiling.

“You’ve still got it, old man,” he said again, louder this time.

Tomas didn’t answer. He walked away, hand clenched, fingers rigid and pale against the seam of his shorts.

The suspicion in Tomas’s eyes hadn’t been subtle. No proof. No accusation. But a seed was planted.

Tomas hadn’t gone to the party. Word was he turned down the invite. Said he had other things on his mind.

Back in the locker room, Luca sat with a towel around his waist, scrolling through his phone. He kept checking the photo from the party.

Just a photo. But he knew it might have said too much.