He Is a Man
He is a man.
"Good. You're doing well. Just keep an eye on the cards and play our game, and Lazio will go home sniveling today. Don't settle for protecting the lead — go out there determined to put another one in and drive the stake home."
Lorenzo's full-throated half-time pep talk might as well have never happened. The second half had barely begun when Roma took a blow from Lazio.
Vitale's magnificent volley skimmed past van der Sar's gloves and rattled the net.
Outnumbered though they were, the Lazio supporters roared every bit as loud as the home fans as Vitale sprinted toward them. The faces in the away end were lit with smiles.
Just as Yohan was adored by the Roma faithful, Vitale was the darling of the Lazio supporters — cherished, protected, beloved.
One–one. The match had been reset, and as the minutes ticked by and the players' legs grew heavy, the game settled into a relative lull.
Then, twenty minutes into the second half, Coach Ferraro made a wholesale substitution of the players carrying cards.
Lorenzo. Yohan. And Ricci.
"Win it for us, Rafa."
Receiving a standing ovation as he came off, Yohan left the rest to Guidotti.
"Leave it to me."
And Guidotti did not disappoint. Eight minutes after coming on, he put away the insurance goal.
It happened in the kind of chaos that erupts when every player on the pitch surges toward a set-piece second ball — a so-called scramble goal. But no one dismissed Guidotti's finish.
No one except the Lazio players, that is.
Tweet—! Twweeeeeet—!
Even with both the captain and vice-captain off the pitch, Roma never lost their concentration — thanks in no small part to third captain Rossi's excellent leadership — and they sealed the Lazio match with a victory.
"Hahahaha!! Those fucking bastards!"
Ricci, whose already fiery temper had burned even hotter than usual today, threw his head back and laughed with pure delight. That was the signal. The players on the bench exploded onto the pitch as one, swarming their teammates in celebration.
Yohan was the first to reach Guidotti, wrapping him in a hug — and as he did, his eyes found Tomaso Vitale trudging across the field.
Vitale had taken just as much of a beating from Roma's defense as Yohan had from Lazio's. And yet he carried himself with dignity. Having experienced the derby a full year earlier than Yohan, he seemed accustomed to this kind of thing.
Of course, Yohan could see he was putting on a brave face. Outwardly composed, but the look in his eyes said he was thoroughly spent.
A flicker of kinship passed through Yohan — but this was a player from Roma's greatest rival club, so he didn't go soft on him.
He was still talking with his teammates when a Lazio player approached — the same one who had cracked him across the back of the head earlier.
"Hey, you okay? You didn't get hurt back there, right?"
Yohan blinked, caught off guard, then nodded.
"Huh? Oh — yeah."
"You played well. Good work."
The player gave Yohan a brief handshake, then sprinted off to back up his teammates, who were already arguing over a counterattack Roma had launched just before the final whistle.
Watching him go, Yohan let out a short, involuntary laugh. It was startling enough that an opponent who had spent the entire match picking fights with him would turn around and acknowledge him — but it was even funnier that the same guy was charging off to brawl with every other Roma player in sight.
Ordinarily, once a derby was over, Roma and Lazio players would console each other the way players from any two clubs might. Not today. The New Year's Eve setting had produced more than its share of contentious calls, and the unresolved grievances spilled into post-match scuffles. It was also evidence that the referee had failed to keep a proper grip on the game.
Either way, Yohan's first Derby della Capitale ended in a Roma victory.
In high spirits, he joined his teammates in saluting the fans, then returned to the locker room to share the joy of a New Year's celebration with the rest of the squad. After a shower and a brief recovery session with the club staff, he headed out of the stadium, signed autographs for the fans waiting for him, and climbed into the car with the Newman family for the ride home.
"Gio…! You were incredible…!!"
"No joke. Kid's got some fire in him, huh?"
The entire Newman family was still drunk on the match. More precisely, they were drunk on Yohan.
A few of them had watched his highlight reels online, but this was their first time seeing him live — and because it was a derby, Yohan had burned with an even fiercer competitive fire than usual. They were thoroughly stunned.
This different side of him. The opening goal that set the crowd alight. Everything Yohan had shown them today was nothing like his everyday self, and on the ride home he was subjected to a relentless barrage of praise and questions.
Yohan's first-half report card for the season read as follows:
League: nineteen matches, five goals, seven assists.
Europa League: five matches, two goals, one assist.
Combined, including substitute appearances: twenty-four matches, seven goals, eight assists — a record that, on attacking contributions alone, was enough to leave jaws hanging open.
Grasso, across all European competitions, sat at twenty-five matches, thirteen goals, and two assists. Vitale had twenty-two matches, eleven goals, and one assist.
Fans of Milan, Roma, and Lazio had already cast the three clearly gifted players as rivals of one another, and the debates had begun in earnest — who would claim the newly established Young Player of the Year award, and who would lock down which spots on the league's Best XI.
"Aah…"
With the kind of deep, contented groan a laborer lets out after a hard day's work and a cold beer, Yohan flopped face-first onto the bed.
That full-body ache that only came after a match against Lazio — he'd felt it in his bones since the Pulcini days. It was no different in the first team. If anything, it was worse. The players were simply that much better. The ferocious tackles and physical battles designed to completely break an opponent's spirit — the kind of intensity he'd never seen in the Primavera — had drained every last drop of strength from him.
He was buried under the covers, half-groaning, when the door opened without a knock and Hailey walked in. Yohan turned his head just enough to look sideways at her.
"What?"
"Your big sister comes in and you can't even say hello properly…"
"What hello? Wait — hang on… don't come over here…? Ugh—!?"
A flicker of urgency crossed Yohan's face, then twisted into a grimace. Hailey, putting on a show of seriousness, had strode right up to him — then suddenly hopped and landed on his back like a frog.
The air left his lungs. Pinned under her arms and legs, Yohan managed a plaintive protest.
"You can't torment a patient."
"You've been so dramatic lately."
"I require complete bed rest…"
"Complete, huh? Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Then what — am I heavy?"
"Not really."
"So how exactly are you a patient? Want me to hit you?"
"Would you stop hitting me already."
"This kid's hilarious. Have I ever actually hit you after saying that?"
"Plenty of times… well, not plenty, but often enough."
"When?"
"Poking me with your finger… pinching my arm…"
"The pinching I'll own. But poking with a finger isn't hitting — it's just… that."
"Just what?"
"…"
Hailey's words died in her throat. She knew exactly what the answer was — she just couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. After a moment of flustered silence, she chose the time-honored strategy of changing the subject.
"Whatever. Just get up already."
"Why?"
"I need a translator."
"A translator?"
"You know how after a match the experts get on TV and break everything down? The kids want to watch it and they need someone to translate. You're the only one who speaks Italian, so go help. It just started."
"You speak Italian just fine. Why are you ducking out?"
"Because I don't want to watch it."
Plenty of Serie A matches got the full panel treatment on television. True to Italy's reputation as the home of tactics, the analysts dissected everything from player movement to a manager's philosophy in granular detail. Yohan had watched a few times himself — and always turned it off almost immediately.
Because whenever they analyzed a Roma match, the panelists started praising him. It was mortifying.
Just watching was bad enough. Translating it out loud?
He was fairly certain he'd played well in this derby. That meant there was a high probability they'd break down his opening goal, his movement, all of it. And he was supposed to sit there and gild his own lily with his own mouth?
The mere thought was unbearable.
"I don't really… want to watch either. What about Aunt Carrie?"
"Mom's on the phone with someone. Grandpa and Grandma already went to their room."
"Then you do it."
"Did you not hear me say I don't want to watch?"
"Then just tell them to put on a movie."
"Fine, whatever. Get up."
"Okay."
He started to comply — then froze, realizing Hailey was still perched on top of him.
"You have to get off first."
"You can get up like this."
"I'm completely wiped out right now."
"If you keep talking like that — like you're daring me to eat you alive — do you have any idea what that makes me want to do to you?"
"Not particularly curious. I can already guess."
"Oh, can you?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm a little kid."
"Getting mouthy, are we? Feeling brave because you just played a match and think I won't touch you?"
Hailey's face slid in right beside his. Soft strands of her hair brushed across his cheek, and a faint tension ran through Yohan's body.
Off the pitch, Yohan was fundamentally a gentle soul. But he wasn't so innocent that he understood nothing about men and women. He was a man, after all.
When someone like Hailey pressed this close, a peculiar feeling stirred — and right now, that was exactly where he found himself.
This is bad…
If things continued like this, he wasn't going to be able to get up at all. So Yohan tried, with everything he had, to guide his soul toward some quiet, peaceful corner of his mind.