Free CRAVING U (The Rook Café) by Llàrjme

take
the lead.  A blue and gold midfielder lost the ball to the Dogado playmaker, who quickly found one of his own forwards breaking free down field. 
The Brenta goalkeeper, Puccio, even though he had time to come out and
contest the shot, inexplicably stayed put between the goalposts, giving the
opponent time to stop the ball with his chest and fire a rocket into the net.
    “Goal by number 7 for Dogado ,
Federico Brunelli,” Tricky the Voice reported drily.
    “Fuck!” Matteo cursed, punching the air
with his fist.
    The goalscorer, meanwhile, ran alongside
the stands, celebrating his goal and pointing his finger at Marika, seated
among her friends.
    Like falling dominoes, everyone’s head
turned and looked at her.  Her cheeks turned scarlet at being singled out for a
dedication by the opposing team’s player.  She was at the center of everybody’s
attention, not least that of her girlfriends, who were smacking their lips and
making squealing noises all around her.
    While number 7 hammed it up in front of
the crowd, the Brenta players waited impatiently, the ball already in
place at center field.  “Would you get a load of that asshole!”  Matteo cursed
the good fortune of this Romeo from Dogado under the balcony of Brenta ’s
fans.  He was so upset by Federico’s antics, perhaps in part because they were
directed at the wrong girl, that he stared him down as he took his position.
    “Got a problem, number 10?”
    “Only with fools like you, number....”  He
ostentatiously looked down at the guy’s chest.  “Seven,” he finished.
    Federico smiled wickedly at him,
high-fiving his teammates who had gathered around him.  One of them could be
heard saying, “Aww, the big baby is crying.  Losing 1-0 at home!”
    “You wish!” Matteo responded,
challenging.  “You’re not getting any more out of us in our house.”  His
eyes met Federico’s.  “You can count on that!”  His eyes remained on his
opponent’s face, heedless of the referee’s whistle telling him to begin play.
    “You better watch it,” the ref told him.  “This
is the only warning you’re going to get.  Next time, I’m giving you both yellow
cards.  Understood?”
    Fr0m the sidelines, the Brenta manager was flinging his arms about like an orchestra conductor in Act I of La
Traviata , trying to get Matteo to put an end to his infantile and useless
display of testosterone.  “Matteo, cut it out and get your head back into the
game.  Now!”
    The manager, Vincenzo Esposito, originally
and nostalgically from Sorrento in the sunny south, had adopted the Brenta
Soccer Club as his baby and his passion.  Short, balding, with thick dark
eyebrows, olive skin, and a stocky build, he was just a few years over forty
and had had been married for fifteen of those to Rosaria.  She had made him a
happy father three times: one daughter, and two twin sons.
    To look at him, he didn’t seem like much
of an Adonis, but his sunny disposition, his love for soccer and for “his boys”
in particular, made him attractive in a puppy-dog sort of way.
    His real job was in a credit recovery
office, but in his free time he coached the blue and gold .  He had taken
over for the former coach when Matteo was still on the age 11-12 team, and he
had grown up alongside them.  Technically and tactically competent, he had a
way with young players, who listened to him with respect and admiration. 
Everyone within the soccer club had believed that he would be the man to lead
the Brenta team to a championship in the Junior Elite league, and “his
boys” hadn’t disappointed, having won the title two years in a row, leading the
league in goals scored and with an undefeated record at home, before losing the
title last year due to a serious decline in defense.
    Precisely because he was a serious coach
who prided himself on his integrity, he hadn’t let himself get carried away
when, just before the summer, he had received an informal visit from