Our boarding group is called and we stand. I reach for her carry-on and she gives me a side glance but lets me carry it for her. We board the plane, stow our belongings, and take our seats.
“Carla, I’m apologizing in advance, I’m going to crash.” I place my headphones around my neck.
She reaches for my hand, playing absentmindedly with my fingers. “Just don’t drool.”
I snort and dip my head, tugging on my headphones. With her by my side and the weekend before us, I pass out before takeoff.
When the plane touches down, a feeling of peace washes over me. I’m home. We deplane in Milan, wait for our luggage, and hop into a van I arranged to drive us to the camp. We have four hours ahead of us and we both fall asleep for the ride.
But when the van pulls up to the old farmhouse, I’m relaxed, well rested, and excited to enjoy this time with Carla.
We step out of the van and I pull in a deep breath, closing my eyes as a wave of homecoming crashes over me.
Fields of green wrap around us, the blue sky is cloudless overhead, and my home beckons—rustic, and charming, and just how I remember it.
“Whoa,” Carla breathes. “This is beautiful, Luca.”
“Grazie,” I murmur. “I put a lot of hours, a lot of love into this property. The farmhouse…” I tilt my chin toward the ranch style home. “Welcome to my home.”
After I show Carla to the bedroom, I give her a tour of the property and the facilities. The cook, Davide, has been hard at work preparing the menu for the camp and has created a few recipes for us to try this weekend. The dormitories at the nearby agritourism hotel have been blocked off and are ready to be assigned to campers. Fútbol balls, goals, jerseys, cones, and other necessary items have been purchased or repaired and are primed for our first day of camp. The fields have been maintained and are in perfect shape.
With each passing hour, I relax. Everything is falling into place and we’re more prepared to kick off camp than I imagined we would be when I first received Paolo’s email.
“This is great,” Carla says as we walk along the side of the pitch.
“We have four pitches,” I explain, pointing them out. “I’d like to break them up by age group, and of course, this year, keep one for the girls.”
“I can’t believe nine girls are coming,” Carla admits. “They’re teenagers and have been playing competitively for years so I don’t think they’ll have the same homesickness that some of the younger players might experience.”
“That’s never been much of an issue before. A lot of the younger kids who attend are from nearby and their parents are always on hand. Or they come with an older sibling.”
“Ah, that makes sense.”
“This is the first time we have so many Americans joining us.”
Carla laughs. “I’m glad I could help round out your diversity.”
I grin and reach for her hand. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
I gesture in the distance and we increase our pace. As we approach the hill, Carla shakes off my touch. “Race you to the top!” She takes off at a full freaking sprint.
Groaning, I tear after her, but she’s had too much of a head start for me to pass her easily.
She reaches the top of the hill half a step before me and throws her arms in the air, whooping.
“Yeah, yeah, we all know you’re the campionessa,” I tease her.
She does an adorable dance, but her arms fall to her sides as she takes in our surroundings. Below us, a tiny, charming town sprawls to one side while the other is lined with rows and rows of grapevines.
“It’s a vineyard,” Carla murmurs.
“One of the best in Tuscany.”
“This is…wow. It’s beautiful.”
“You want to go for a tasting?” I tilt my head.
Her eyes flicker to mine. “Now?” She looks down at her rumpled clothing. “Dressed like this?”
