Together On The Field - l.s

thirteen

One year and a half ago, Harry knew he would have been sitting at this very table soon, in the offices of the club, surrounded by Inter Milan managers, his manager, just beside him, and Mourinho sitting in front of them. The men are talking about sums of money and projects, discussing his salary and the extension of his stay at Inter Milan. One year and a half ago, he thought that what he wanted was clear, that there was no need to discuss, to talk about money or other unimportant stuff, to waste words, that he just wanted to stay, that he would have signed that extension even if it was blank, because there wasn't anything to hold him back somewhere else.

Then everything changed, because he made up with Louis, and his dream became more a nightmare, even if he still cares about this team. But he can't help the lump in his stomach he feels as soon as the managers pull out sheets and clauses to sign, so he keeps his eyes down on his lap, nodding sporadically with no conviction every time his manager or the CEO say something, because he doesn't dare speak up.

"Josè? What do you think?" urges Harry's agent, addressing the Portuguese coach, who's sitting on a swivel chair, legs crossed, and hasn't said a word since when they started the meeting. "Doubled wage, extension until 2018 and a one million bonus whether the team wins the championship in the next two years, I think we all agree," adds the manager, looking back and forth from Harry to the coach and nodding all pleased with himself.

"It think it sounds perfect," adds the Inter sports director, pushing the sheets towards Harry, so he can sign them.

And Harry feels his heart sink to his stomach. Mourinho brings a hand under his chin and fixes a conspiratorial glare on Harry, who manages a nervous half-smile in return.

"Perfect," drawls Mourinho thoughtfully, scratching his thin gray beard. He confessed to Harry that it was the Italian's football fault. Too much stress.

"Yeah, it would be truly perfect," he adds, batting his eyelids. "Such a shame it's not what the Pup really wants."

-

"I could hear your voice from the lift."

Mateo enters Harry's room making a disgruntled face at the radio, which is broadcasting a Beyoncé song. He smiles when he takes in the sight of Harry, humming along, standing in front of the wardrobe, the room full of suitcases, the bed covered in stacks of clothes.

"It's an impossible task," complains Harry, greeting Mateo with a gesture of his hand, without lifting his head up. "Can you explain to me how am I supposed to fit all the stuff I hoarded for one year and a half in two suitcases?" He whimpers, looking back and forth from two stacks of t-shirts on the floor to one suitcase, resting open on the desk, already half-full. He considers a t-shirt with a critical glance and throws it in the left stack, only to think better about it and put it on the right one.

"Look, this is the stuff I need to take with me," he explains, pointing at the pile of clothes on the right, that by now has reached the height of a ten year old kid. "And those are the suitcases. How am I going to do this?" He dramatically drops onto the bed, throwing one hand on his forehead.

Mateo stifles a laugh and approaches the desk, careful not to stumble on the stuff blocking the way. "And that should be the stuff you want to leave?" he questions, motioning at a couple of old sweatshirts discarded on the floor.

"Yeah. At least I think so, I'm not sure. Maybe I should take those, too," answers Harry in a tragic tone of voice.

"Harry, you're a disaster," ascertains Mateo, making his way among the clothes.

Harry props on his elbows to give him an outraged glance. "Well, last time I checked I called you to help me, not to remark on my inability to pack," he fires back, rolling his eyes. He was actually hoping Mateo would do all the work.