Nothing Has Changed
Nothing had changed.
“Uuungh...”
Yohan let out a pained groan as he struggled to push himself upright.
During the match, after the final whistle, and all the way home, he had felt perfectly fine—not a single ache anywhere.
Yet the moment he woke, every inch of his body throbbed with a deep, relentless soreness. A bruise had even bloomed around his neck. He must have taken a heavy beating during those fierce duels with the Sassuolo players.
After a match, clubs used any number of methods to help their players recover. Sometimes they brought them back to the training ground the next day for light recovery sessions. Other times—especially late in the season, when the team was not involved in European competition, or after an early exit from a cup—they simply sent the players home to rest completely.
Yohan fell into the first category. The nervous energy of his debut had drained him far more than usual, and his muscle tension was so severe that the club insisted he recover under their supervised program. They had done what they could right after the match with cool-downs and stretching, but it had barely made a dent. So while most of the squad enjoyed a day off, Yohan and a handful of other exhausted players had no choice but to report to the club.
He dragged his aching body through a shower, then reached for his school bag—and stopped short.
Ah, right.
The club had already promised to contact the school and explain his absence for him.
He eased open the well-oiled door. The moment the delicious smell of breakfast drifted from the kitchen, his face brightened and he headed straight toward it.
Whole-wheat toast sat golden and inviting, topped with the convent’s homemade grape jam and scrambled eggs—exactly the breakfast Yohan always ate and always loved.
“You’re up? Come eat.”
“Yes. Are the other sisters still sleeping?”
“No, they’re awake. But Sister Melissa stayed up all night looking at the photos she took of the match, so they went to bed late. They’re just resting a little now. She kept saying how wonderful it was to finally have a smartphone.”
“Really?”
“You looked absolutely magnificent yesterday, our Yohan.”
Yohan’s face lit up with a wide, boyish grin. He had expected worry about injuries; instead he received nothing but praise, and it filled him with quiet delight.
Of course the sisters worried about his body. But they understood that once you became a professional, bruises and knocks—big and small—came with the territory. They had accepted that truth long ago. So they simply never mentioned their concerns, careful not to burden him. Thanks to that quiet care from the four of them, Yohan could throw himself into football with a completely free heart.
After breakfast he hugged each of the sisters tightly, just as he had the day before, and left the convent. A car sent by the club carried him to the training ground.
“Huh?”
More people than usual were waiting at the entrance to the first-team facilities. Yohan made a small sound of surprise. The driver smiled and explained.
“A new player put on an incredible performance yesterday. That’s why they’re here.”
“A new player... that’s me, right?”
“That’s right.”
“They’re all waiting for me?”
“They are. Whenever a player debuts or gets signed, crowds like this always show up.”
“I see... Could you stop here for me? I’ll tell the club I insisted on getting out.”
“Got it.”
The driver readily agreed. The club had anticipated exactly this and even increased security so that Yohan could give his first proper fan service without trouble.
Thanking the driver, Yohan stepped out. The moment the waiting fans spotted him they erupted in cheers. He scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed, then walked over to the nearest pair—a father and son.
“Hello.”
“Lee! Hello. Could you sign something for my boy?”
“Please, just call me Gio. I don’t have a pen—do you have one?”
“Of course! Yesterday’s match was incredible.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep working hard. Hi there—what’s your name?”
He beamed at the little boy standing beside the middle-aged man. The child answered at once.
“Giovanni!”
“Same root as my name, huh? So you’re a Gio too?”
“Yes!”
Among the crowd were fans already wearing jerseys with Yohan’s name printed on the back. His eyes went round.
“Do they sell these in the store already?”
“No. I asked, but they said I’d have to wait a few days, so I just had it done unofficially.”
“Ah.”
Seeing a jersey brought by someone who looked about his own age sent Yohan’s energy soaring. He signed it with genuine care and a bright smile.
When he was little he had met both Laurentino Melendez and Lorenzo Lucca. Both men had been extraordinarily kind to the small boy he had been. Watching them, Yohan had decided that if he ever had fans of his own, he would treat them with the same wholehearted attention. And these were, in every real sense, his very first fans. So he stayed a long time—signing, taking photos, filming short videos, offering quiet words of encouragement—giving them everything he could.
Only afterward did he finally enter the club, where staff sat him down for a formal talk. It was about what had happened after the match when he climbed into the stands. So many people had surged toward him that several spectators had nearly been hurt. The image of Yohan embracing the nuns had stirred the Catholic heart of Italy, but the safety risk was real. Under normal circumstances he would have faced a fine or even a suspension. Thankfully nothing serious had occurred, yet the association decided the club had not prepared him properly and issued a warning and fine to the club instead of the player.
The club was happy enough to pay any fine; the real problem was that fans or the player himself could have been injured. So once recovery training finished, Yohan spent time in an official’s office learning about everything that happened off the pitch. He had never even realized how close they had come to an accident, and he listened with complete seriousness.
At the same time, the club gently suggested that perhaps it was time for him to leave regular school. Roma ran its own full academic program for youth players—complete with proper diplomas—so even if the worst happened, his future would be secure. Training and studying in the same place would be better for both him and the club. They raised the idea carefully.
“I’m going to keep going to school,” Yohan said, refusing without hesitation.
The Italian Football Federation already provided institutional support for players who stayed in ordinary schools. Attendance and exams would never be a problem. He simply did not want to leave his friends.
“He’s here!!”
The next day, after the club had given him a proper rest, Yohan walked into school—and flinched when the entire class swarmed him at once. He had known they would be happy about his performance, but he had not expected every single one of them to rush over.
Yohan got along with everyone without a single rough edge. From the very beginning there had never been a person who disliked him. A crowd gathering around him like this was only natural.
The friends who had not received match tickets might have felt left out, but Ciro and the others had already covered for him, saying they had paid for everything themselves. That was partly true—the food and snacks had come out of their own pockets. They had not lied, exactly, and they had protected Yohan, who would have fretted endlessly over anyone left behind. Still, the thought bothered him enough that he quietly decided he would buy tickets for the whole class the next time he was certain to start a home match.
“Gio, I heard the club’s going to sign players after the season ends? If they don’t, they’re finished, right? Talk to the owner for us.”
“Just film one video! My middle-school friends won’t believe I’m friends with you!”
Plenty of fifteen-year-old nonsense poured out of them. Ciro finally pushed through the throng and held out his phone.
“Gio, look at this. It’s huge online right now.”
“What is it?”
On the screen was a photograph: Yohan perched on Lorenzo Lucca’s shoulders, both arms raised high as he looked out over the stands, captured from behind. The image had already spread far beyond Roma fan pages. Someone had darkened the background and heightened the lights until it looked like a pure, romantic masterpiece worthy of a football Pulitzer.
“Oh. That’s cool.”
Ciro’s brow furrowed at the flat reaction.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“We saw this and cried so hard we had to change our underwear, and the guy in the picture just says ‘that’s cool’?”
“Well... what am I supposed to say? It looks cool, so I said it looks cool.”
“At least yell like you did when you scored your debut goal.”
“That was just heat of the moment...”
“You’re supposed to love it. Show some feeling!”
“I do love it.”
“Then why does your face look like that?”
Ciro still had not come down from the high of the match. He was more excited than Yohan himself, as if he had been the one standing on those shoulders. Whether they had been at the stadium or not, every one of them felt enormous pride that Yohan was their friend. As a result, people never left his side. It was typical teenage behavior—still unfinished with puberty and hungry for attention.
That was one of the reasons clubs preferred their players to study inside the academy. Football was Italy’s great local sport, and regional loyalty ran deep. When a player from the local club attended an ordinary school, scenes like this were inevitable. The club worried about the sheer volume of attention pouring onto a young player.
The person who finally rescued Yohan from the chaos was Haley. She stormed up with a face that promised death to anyone who touched her, and called out in a deliberately angry voice.
“Hey, Turtle. Come with me.”
“Okay.”
She led him out of the classroom and down the same alley where he had once taken her. When he followed without a word of protest, she gave a big, satisfied nod.
“Good job.”
“At what? The match?”
“No. For following me. Good job.”
“Ah. Okay.”
“Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
“For what?”
“I just got you away from your fans.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks. So how was the match? Fun, right?”
“Not really? But it was more watchable than I expected. On the way home Mom talked about you the whole time, you know that?”
“Really?”
“Really. She even called America and chattered on about how well you played.”
“How can you talk about your mother like that...? Just say she talked about it...”
Haley ignored the scolding and simply stared at him. Then she shrugged.
“Nothing’s changed.”
“What hasn’t?”
“Never mind. Just keep being like this.”
“I don’t know what you mean, but okay.”
“You don’t know, so how is it okay? You’re weird.”
“Sorry. Hey—are you going to America for the break?”
“Of course. Want to come with me? Mom actually told me to ask you yesterday.”
“Hmm... if I have time, sure.”
“The football season ends before vacation starts. You’ll have nothing but time. Aren’t you going to play that nerd game with Aiden?”
“I told you not to mention that game.”
“You told yourself not to mention it.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean ‘ah’...? So are you coming or not?”
“If I can go, I’ll tell you. When you give me the dates I’ll buy the plane tickets—”
“Mom’s paying for the tickets.”
“I have money too.”
“Fine.”
“I’ve saved up a lot...”
“You idiot. In interviews you say Mom feels like your real mother, so why do you get so awkward when family wants to buy you a plane ticket?”
Yohan thought about it and realized she had a point. Drawing a line like that would only make Caroline feel hurt. He would pay everything back later; for now he should just lean on his guardians the way a minor was supposed to.
Having made up his mind, he suddenly found himself curious and looked straight into Haley’s eyes.
“Did you watch my interview?”
“No. Squid showed me the article, so I know about it.”
“Squid?”
“Ciro.”
“Ah... so he’s Squid this time? But if Ciro showed it to you, doesn’t that mean you did see the article?”
“Don’t talk back. If I say I didn’t see it, I didn’t see it. And buy me that drink you still owe me from last time.”
“Okay. Want it now?”
“Yeah. Lead the way.”
“Got it.”
Today Haley’s sniping seemed sharper than usual. Yohan wondered, just for a second, whether it might be that particular day that only girls had to deal with. Then he quietly fell into step beside her and headed for the school store.