5: ZENON

...coming up on the fifth anniversary of that fateful day. Not only causing Azzurri to lose the championship, but it also led to a career-ending injury for the one-time superstar midfielder, Al."

"The country is remembering that disastrous defeat as they face their Brazilian teammates again, Steve. And many are once again questioning where Diaz's loyalties lied during that game."

I slide off my barstool, leaving a tip on the counter since my tab is paid. I know that before this sports report ends there will be more than a few people in my face.

A few customers had already slid a gaze my way when the sportscaster threw my face up on the screen.

Next week will be five years since I acted like a jerk and got myself kicked out of the game, lost the championship, and ruptured a meaningful relationship. No matter how hard I've tried, I haven't been able to live that down.

I maneuver through the crowded bar, walking around the tables with my head ducked as I head for the door. Just as I push the doors open, I hear someone behind me say, "Hey! Isn't that Diaz?"

I sprint down the sidewalk and around the corner to my car. Just as I breathe a sigh of relief about my great escape, a photographer steps out of an alley.

"Zenon Diaz," he greets while snapping pictures of me as I desperately fidget with my key fob to unlock my car door.

"Get that thing away from me," I grumble.

"A man has the right to make some money. I've got a family to take care of," he says, getting closer.

I spin around angrily. "Do I look like I give a fuck about your money or family?" I rumble as thunderclouds arise within me.

That doesn't stop him, and I grab his shoulders, feeling the anger taking over.

"Are you going to get mad and kick my ass, too?" he says while still snapping pictures.

That comment is all the reminder that I need to realize that he isn't worth it. Nor are the countless others who have a running commentary about what they deem as the worst mistake of my life.

Hopping into the car, I make a mad dash out of the parking lot and down the lane.

"Fuck!" I grumble, banging the steering wheel as I drive.

Mattia, the only friend that I have remaining from my old league, warned me that it was coming. He's in his first year of retirement, and although he didn't achieve half of what I did, he was able to retire from the game on his own terms.

Mattia Bonetti has had a beautiful and lucrative career. He married the girl of his dreams, and they have two beautiful children. Living out in Italy's countryside, he's content with running his vineyard and winery while reminiscing on his soccer career's highs and lows.

He has the life that I dreamt of.

After I allowed my temper to get the best of me, most of those so-called "friends" in my league turned their backs on me. All because of one heated moment where I lost control over the woman that I loved. The woman I'd planned to propose to.

I pull up to my house and see three news vans. I will not allow them to deter me from going inside of my home. Turning the car around and heading in the other direction is not an option.

Italy is hosting the FIFA World Cup this year, and our team will play in the tournaments again which means these reporters aren't going anywhere. If anything, they will grow in number.

I have no idea how these idiots found my home, but I have no doubt the other vultures will seek me out soon and camp out around my property.

I pull into the drive, wishing that I had an attached garage and hop out of my car. I rush up the front steps as they shout out their questions.

"Mr. Diaz! Mr. Diaz!" one reporter shouts, running up the drive with his microphone extended.

"Zenon! What are your predictions about this year's tournament and Italy's chances of winning?" another reporter asks, calling my name as though we're familiar with one another.

I ignore both until the final reporter asks the one question that always gets a rise out of me.

"Zenon! Is it true that you purposely threw that game because you wanted your home country, Brazil, to take the championship? Did your loyalties not lie with the country you've made your home for more than a decade?"

And then the first reporter pounces on that question. "Or did you hope that by throwing the game, you would be able to try out with Brazil again and make it this time, allowing you to return to your home country?"

My jaws clench, and my fists ball in anger. My chest heaves as I stop my trek into my home and spin around. Stalking back down the steps towards the first reporter, I see nothing but red.

"How dare you stalk me like vultures, come on my property, and then insult me by suggesting that I have been anything but loyal to this country?" I shout.

The second reporter, is backing away, and the first one is hightailing it to her van, but the third reporter who initiated the insults, is standing his ground.

I knock the camera from his hand.

"Hey! You can't do that! You have no right! You're going to pay for that!" he threatens.

I'm aware that the other two reporters are probably capturing all of this, and it will be on some news channels and social media, if not multiple ones, before the night ends.

"And you're on private property! You have no right to be here!" I shout.

Just as I pull my fist back to punch him, I hear a shout from behind me.

"Zenon!" I turn to see my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Maria Caparelli, rushing in my direction, wielding a broom in one hand and a rolling pin in the other.

She's wearing a reprimanding scowl on her deeply tanned and heavily lined face. Mrs. Caparelli is no more than four-feet and eleven inches, weighing roughly one-hundred-ten pounds, but she puts the fear of God in me despite my six-four height and two-hundred-nine pounds of lean muscle.

Instantly, my clenched fist drops to my side as if it has a mind of its own.

"Get out of here! All of you!" she shouts, chasing the third reporter back to his van as the other two hurriedly close their doors and watch the melee from inside. When the third reporter pulls off, she walks to the first van and begins banging on the door with the rolling pin until the van leaves, and the second van instantly follows.

By the time that she turns around and walks back up the drive, I'm struggling to contain my laughter. She's quite a sight with the broom and the rolling pin chasing off the reporters like they were stray cats.

When she comes to a stop in front of me, she leans the broom against the wall of my house but clings to her rolling pin.

"And you!" she says, shaking the rolling pin at me. "What have I told you about ignoring those idiots? You don't give them what they're asking for, no? That's what they want. If you act out, then you're giving them something else to report about, and you're better than that."

"Mrs. Caparelli, I had no plans on hurting him."

"Don't lie to me. I know you, Zenon Diaz. You're a good man, but you're also emotional and passionate like my late husband, Bruno, was. I saw the news reports. Let them talk."

"They're questioning my loyalty, Mrs. Caparelli. My honor, my word, and my allegiance to this country mean everything to me. Yes, I would love to play for Brazil, but I didn't make it. I accepted that a long time ago, and when the opportunity for me to play for Italy arose, I jumped at it."

"Come here," she says, beckoning me with a finger to lean down closer to her as she tucks the rolling pin under her arm.

I do as she says, and she grabs my cheeks in her doughy hands. "You're so honorable, but you make things hard on yourself. Tell them the truth."

"No."

"You owe it to yourself."

"No."

She kisses my cheeks, pats them, and then steps back.

"Why not?"

"Telling them that Brazil tried to recruit me back after my first two years won't solve anything."

"It will stop them from questioning your loyalty. They won't ask if you purposefully lost that game so that your home country could win."

"No matter what I tell them, Mrs. Caparelli, they're going to find something else to drag my name through the mud about."

"Yes, that will be one less thing, though."

"It doesn't matter," I say, shrugging.

"I've got some gnocchi and tiramisu," she says, smiling at me.

"I'll be right over," I promise as she turns and walks away laughing at me.

I jog into the house, shower, and change for dinner at Mrs. Caparelli's home.

***

Dinner at her house was wonderful, as always. She still cooks as though all her children are living at home, and truthfully, she only sees them twice a week now. As usual, she sent me home with leftovers, and for that, I'm grateful. That's less cooking for me.

As soon as I step outside of her house, though, I spot two more news vans across the street from my house. As soon as they spot me crossing the lawn, they jump out and head in my direction.

This time, I ignore them calling my name and recall Mrs. Caparelli's warnings. My phone rings the moment that I step foot inside of my home.

"Hello."

"Z, Mam?e is worried sick about you. She's been calling you for the last two hours, and you haven't answered your phone," my older sister, Aurea, says.

"I was next door with Mrs. Caparelli for dinner. I left my cell phone behind. I'll call her."

"Make sure you do. But how are you? We saw the video."

"What video?" I ask, peering through the curtains as I watch two entire camera crews set up across the street from my front lawn.

"Earlier today, you assaulted some camera guy. Then, this old lady comes out assaulting them with a broom and a rolling pin. What is going on over there, Z?"

"Aurea, it's not as bad as it looks. They were harassing me, okay?"

"But you knocked the guy's camera from his hand, and it looked as if you were about to knock him out had it not been for that old lady. Who is she, anyway?"

"She's my next-door neighbor, and honestly, I probably would have."

"Papai said that they would be coming back. He warned Mam?e that with the onset of your anniversary, that would be a great news piece for them again," Aurea says.

My father owns a newspaper back home, and he always had a nose for good news. He could detect a story out several miles away. Luckily, I'm his son, so when I assaulted a player from the opposing team causing me to be evicted from the game and our country to lose the FIFA World Cup Championship, he didn't cover it.

"I know. They've been parked outside of my door, and now two more crews are setting up right across the street from my yard. I guess they must have gotten the warning."

"Well, you be careful. Why don't you come home for a while? At least until this blows over," Aurea suggests.

"I think I'll pass on that offer, but thanks, though."

"It's been a while, Z," Aurea says.

"I know, and I'll return for a visit. Just not now."

"All right. Well, call Mam?e before she worries more."

"Okay," I say, hanging up the phone.

As I dial my parents' home, I get a text message from my younger sister, Uxia, who is working in Colombia.

UXIA: I saw the stories on IG. OMG! Are you good?

ME: Everything's good. Don't believe everything you see.

UXIA: You mean like my badass brother kicking ass? LOL!

ME: Yeah, even that.

UXIA: Well, I personally liked what my eyes saw. Hope that you sent them a message, and they don't return.

Glancing out of the window, I think about how unlikely that is.

"Hello?" my mother answers.

"Hi, Mam?e," I greet.

"Zenon! Oh, I was so worried about you. Are you okay? Did they press charges? Did anyone get hurt?"

UXIA: You still there?

ME: Yep. On the phone with Mam?e.

UXIA: Good luck with that.

"Zenon! Did you hear me?"

"Yes, Mam?e. No, they haven't pressed charges, and nothing was hurt except for his pride."

And his camera, I think, but don't say.

"Is it safe where you are?"

"No one's going to mess with me. I'm just fine."

"Your Papai and I were thinking maybe you should come home for a while," she says.

"No, that's your Mam?e saying that. I said let the man be a man," my father says in the background, making me laugh.

ME: I need that good luck already.

UXIA: LOL! I told you. If you need help, let me know, and I'll come over there and kick ass for my big bro.

ME: You stay beautiful. I've got this under control.

UXIA: Actually, you do need my help. Beat ‘em down granny was kicking ass.

"I just think it's safer if he returns home," my mother argues in the background with my daddy.

ME: Where did you get that name from?

UXIA: That's what everyone is calling her.

ME: Either way, I've got this handled. I'll talk to you later. I need to handle Mam?e right now.

UXIA: Bye-bye.

I resume listening to my mother list off all the reasons that I should come home.

"Mam?e, I'm going to end this call right now. I love you and Papai, but I need to get some rest."

"Okay. Please be safe."

"I will."

As I end the call, my text message chimes again, and I see that it's my middle sister, Graciana.

GRACI: I know it's late there, so I won't keep you. Are you okay?

ME: I'm good.

GRACI: Good. Talk to you soon.

As I head to my bedroom, I think about my family. They're loving but pushy, thanks to having a family full of women.

One thing they all suggested, I can't help but agree with, though. As I peer out the window in my bedroom, I see that the news vans are still there, and another one has joined them.

They're not going anywhere until this all blows over. I do need to get away. I just don't want to go home.

I set my phone on my nightstand and slide the charger in it. When it doesn't register, I pull the cord free and open my nightstand drawer.

I have two more unopened chargers inside of the drawer. As I pull one of them free, I see a little envelope at the rear of the drawer.

Pulling it out, I look at the cute, faded script on the front.

The key to my heart,

DM

Opening the envelope, I shake the little bronze key out into the palm of my hand.

Smiling, I recall a beautiful summer spent on a little island in America. Palming the key, I toss it up a few times and catch it as a smile and a plan blossom.

Sullivan Island, South Carolina would make the perfect escape.

I know that no one will find me there.