Alex stood in front of Isabella's door, his heart beating harder than it had any right to. Not the kind of heart pounding he felt when Lecce were defending a one-goal lead in the final minutes of a match. No, this was something else. It was raw and jittery and almost embarrassing. His palms were clammy, useless things hanging awkwardly at his sides. He glanced down at them like he could will them to be less sweaty, wiped them on his jeans, then clenched them into fists and let go again.
Breathe, Alex. Just breathe.
He lifted his hand to knock, hesitated mid-air like a glitching robot, and dropped it again. He hated how stupid he felt. Like some clueless teenager on his first date. Like none of the years he'd lived mattered, like the Champions League medals, the goals, the stadium roars, none of it prepared him for this.
Why was it so hard to knock?
It's just a door. Just wood and hinges and a little rectangle with a number on it.
But still, he stood there frozen.
