Chapter 12: The Grandparents' Blessing
The three days in Seoul passed in a frantic, sleepless blur. It wasn’t packing; Gabby left most of her things, telling the silently disapproving housekeeper to have them shipped. It was instead a whirlwind of last-minute doctor visits, paperwork signed on cold counters, and hushed, strained phone calls between Gabby and her mother. Hyukjae spent his time in a similar vortex: informing his own stunned, tearful mother; withdrawing from the semester; saying a terse, awkward goodbye to his coach and teammates. The reality of his contract, a photograph of the signed page sent from Mr. Walker’s assistant, was the only solid ground beneath his feet.
The flight was a numb, pressurized dream. Gabby slept against his shoulder most of the way, her face pale with fatigue. He watched the maps on the screen, the little plane icon inching away from everything he knew. When they descended through the clouds over Milan, the world outside was a patchwork of unfamiliar greens and orderly rows, the Alps a jagged, white-capped spine in the distance.
A car was waiting, a sleek black sedan paid for by her father. The driver spoke no Korean, and Hyukjae’s English was serviceable but stiff. Gabby took over, her Italian flowing melodic and effortless, a side of her he’d only heard in whispered endearments. It left him feeling both proud and adrift.
The drive north to Lake Como peeled back the layers of the landscape. The urban sprawl of Milan softened into rolling hills, then steepened into dramatic cliffs that plunged into water of a shocking, jewel-toned blue. Villas clung to the slopes like ancient, opulent barnacles. Their car wound along a narrow lakefront road, through tunnels carved into rock, past little towns with terracotta roofs cascading down to the shore.
“Almost there,” Gabby said softly, her hand finding his. Her grip was tight.
The villa wasn’t one of the famous palazzos visible from the water. The car turned off the main road, climbing a steep, private driveway lined with cypress trees. It ended at a set of weathered iron gates that swung open silently. The house itself was massive but not a museum; a warm, butter-yellow stucco covered in a tangle of blooming bougainvillea. It felt lived in, not just displayed.
The car hadn’t fully stopped before the front door burst open.
Two figures emerged. An elderly woman, petite but straight-backed, with a cloud of white hair and Gabby’s same fierce eyes. Behind her, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and a gardener’s tan, leaning heavily on a polished cane.
Gabby was out of the car before Hyukjae could move, half-running, half-waddling up the stone path. “Nonna! Nonno!”
The reunion was a storm of Italian and tears. Her grandmother, Nonna, enveloped Gabby in an embrace that seemed to swallow her whole, her wrinkled hands immediately cradling Gabby’s face, then fluttering down to rest, trembling, on the curve of her stomach. She spoke rapid-fire, her voice cracking. Gabby buried her face in her grandmother’s shoulder, her own shoulders shaking.
The grandfather, Nonno, stood back, his expression unreadable. He watched his wife and granddaughter, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing. Then those eyes lifted and locked onto Hyukjae, who had just retrieved their bags from the trunk, feeling abruptly like an intruder.
Nonno approached him. He moved with a slow, deliberate authority, the cane punctuating each step. He stopped in front of Hyukjae, looking him up and down. His gaze was a physical weight.
“You are the footballer,” Nonno stated in heavily accented English. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir. Lee Hyukjae.” He bowed slightly, instinctively.
Nonno grunted, neither approving nor dismissing the gesture. He looked over Hyukjae’s shoulder at the car. “This is all you brought?”
“For now, yes.”
“Good. Traveling light is good.” He turned, gesturing with his cane toward the house. “Come. The sun is for the lizards. We are for the kitchen.”
The kitchen was a sun-drenched cavern of worn terracotta tiles and dark wooden beams. Pots hung from hooks, and the air was thick with the smell of garlic, rosemary, and something rich and simmering. Nonna, already wearing an apron, hadn’t released Gabby. She held her at arm’s length, her eyes shining as they drank in every detail.
“Mamma mia, look at you,” she breathed in English, for Hyukjae’s benefit. “A woman. A mother.” She cupped Gabby’s cheek. “Your father called. He said many things. But he did not tell me how beautiful you look.”
Gabby’s composure broke again, fresh tears spilling over.
Nonna’s practicality reasserted itself. She patted Gabby’s hands and turned her attention to Hyukjae. “You. Sit.” She pointed to a heavy wooden chair at a long table scarred with decades of use.
He sat. Nonna bustled to the enormous stove and returned with a shallow bowl. She placed it in front of him with a definitive thud. It was filled with a twisted, golden pasta he didn’t recognize, coated in a simple, glistening sauce studded with specks of black pepper and flecks of parsley. The scent was immediate and primal.
“Eat,” she commanded.
“Nonna, he just got here, he might not be—” Gabby started.
“He is pale. He is tired. He needs food. Eat.”
Hyukjae picked up the fork she slapped down next to the bowl. The first bite was a revelation. The pasta was chewy, substantial, the sauce was just olive oil, garlic, and a sharp, salty cheese. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. He took another bite, then another, the simple act grounding him.
Nonna watched, a satisfied glint in her eye. “Pici,” she said, nodding. “You cannot get this from a box.” She turned back to the counter, beginning to chop something with a rhythmic, precise cadence.
Nonno had settled at the head of the table, pouring a deep red wine into two glass tumblers. He slid one toward Hyukjae.
“Barolo,” he said. “You drink?”
“A little, sir.”
“Good.” He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Hyukjae’s face. “The contract. It is real? For Juventus?”
Hyukjae swallowed a mouthful of pici. “It’s a contract with their Primavera. The youth team. But yes, sir. It’s real. My first training is next week.”
Nonno took another sip, contemplating. “You are very young. To leave your country, your family. For this.” He didn’t gesture to Gabby, but his meaning hung in the air between them, next to the steam rising from the pasta bowl. “And for her.”
“Yes,” Hyukjae said, meeting his gaze. There was nothing else to say.
The old man’s stern expression softened, just a fraction, at the edges of his eyes. “I was twenty-two when I married her,” he said, a slight jerk of his head toward Nonna. “I had nothing but a truck and two hands that knew how to prune olive trees. Her father, he threatened to have me arrested for theft.” He drank more wine. “He called me a thief of his daughter’s future.”
Hyukjae’s blood went cold. He set his fork down.
Nonno leaned forward, the wood of his cane creaking. “But I was not a thief. I was a gardener. I worked. I built something.” His blue eyes were like chips of lake ice. “This football. It is a real job?”
“It’s my job now, sir. I will work.”
Nonno held his gaze for a long, silent moment. Then he gave a single, slow nod. He raised his glass slightly. “Then we will see.”
A bridge, however precarious, had been extended.
Nonna brought over a plate of sliced tomatoes drizzled with oil, placing it between them. “Enough interrogation,” she chided her husband. She looked at Hyukjae’s nearly empty bowl. “You want more?”
Before he could answer, Gabby spoke from where she leaned against the counter, watching the scene with a soft, exhausted smile. “He always wants more, Nonna.”
The normalcy of the comment, the gentle tease, broke the last of the formal tension. Nonna laughed, a warm, cracking sound. Nonno’s mouth quirked.
Later, they were shown to their room. It was on the second floor, with a small balcony overlooking a terraced garden that descended toward a sliver of blue lake visible between the trees. The room was clean, spacious, dominated by a large wooden bed with a thick, embroidered coverlet. Their two suitcases looked lonely in the corner.
Gabby walked to the balcony doors and pushed them open, letting in the cool evening air scented with lemon blossoms and lake water. She stood there, her back to him, her hands resting on the stone railing. The sound of distant church bells floated up from the village below.
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, his hands settling over hers on her stomach. The goldfish was quiet now, lulled perhaps by the journey or the heavy pasta.
“They like you,” she said, leaning back into him.
“Your grandfather thinks I’m a thief.”
“He did. Now he thinks you’re a hard worker who eats well and answers directly.” She turned in his arms, her face tilted up to his. “It’s a promotion.”
He smiled, resting his forehead against hers. The enormity of it all—the new country outside the window, the new family downstairs, the new life growing between them—settled over his shoulders. It wasn’t light. It was a massive, real weight.
But here, with her in his arms in this sun-warmed room that smelled of her childhood, the weight felt solid. Something he could carry.
“We’re here,” he whispered.
She nodded, her eyes closed. “We’re here.”
Downstairs, the faint clatter of dishes and the low rumble of Nonno’s voice mixed with the evening chorus of crickets. It was not silence, but it was peace. For the first time since he’d walked into her father’s study, Hyukjae drew a breath that didn’t feel like the prelude to a fight. It was just air. Tomorrow, there would be doctors to find, a new city to navigate, a training pitch to locate. But tonight, there was only the bed, her weight against him, and the deep, knowing quiet of a house that had finally welcomed them home.
But tonight, there was only the bed, her weight against him, and the deep, knowing quiet of a house that had finally welcomed them home.
The silence didn’t last past dawn. Hyukjae’s new world began at 5:45 AM with the screech of an Italian alarm clock. He kissed Gabby’s sleeping shoulder, dressed in the muted grey light, and navigated the quiet villa’s stairs. Nonna was already in the kitchen, a silent sentinel who pressed a scalding espresso into his hand and a paper-wrapped panino into his coat pocket. “For later,” she whispered. Her nod was a command.
He met the team bus in the piazza of the small town below, a huddle of sleepy, suspicious boys. His Italian was limited to ‘ciao’ and ‘grazie’. Their Korean was non-existent. The drive to Turin was a mute, two-hour journey through fog-shrouded valleys. The Primavera training facility was a brutalist complex of concrete and pristine turf, smelling sharply of grass and industrial cleaner. It was nothing like the worn, familiar pitches of SNU.
The first session was a cold analysis. The coaches put them through drills Hyukjae knew, but the language barrier turned simple instructions into puzzles. He moved on instinct, on watching the others. He was fast, his touch precise, but he was thinking too much. A missed pass here, a hesitation there. The other players, boys his age with the hardened eyes of lifelong academy members, sized him up. They exchanged glances he couldn’t interpret.
“Lee!” the head coach, a wiry man named Battaglia, barked. He mimed a shooting motion, then pointed to his own temple. “Think? No. Feel. Correre!” Run.
Hyukjae ran. He pushed until his lungs screamed and the earlier pasta felt like a stone in his gut. He pushed until the only language was breath and motion. The ball became an extension of his foot again. A one-touch pass sliced through a gap. A darting run left a defender stumbling. He didn’t need to understand the words; he understood the sharp, approving nod Battaglia gave him as they trudged off the pitch.
He returned to Como as the sun was setting, every muscle singing. Gabby was waiting on the bench in the garden, a textbook open but unread on her lap. Her face lit up when she saw him, and that ache in his chest, the one that had nothing to do with football, eased.
“How was it?” she asked, standing to meet him.
“Loud,” he said, pulling her into a sweaty, careful hug. “And quiet.”
She understood. She always did. She led him inside, where Nonna’s cooking waited like a reward. This became the rhythm of his days: the brutal, silent focus of training, and the warm, verbal tapestry of home. He started picking up words. Palla. Ball. Passa. Pass. Veloce. Fast.
Weeks bled into a month. Gabby’s belly grew, a profound and gradual shift he measured each morning when she’d let him rest his hands there. Her grandparents became his anchors. Nonno taught him basic Italian over evening wine, gruffly correcting his pronunciation. Nonna fed him incessantly, her approval expressed in loaded plates.
Then, during a rare video call with his mother back in Seoul, the outside world intruded. “Hyukjae-ah,” she said, her face flickering on the screen. “A man from a company called Skyline Mobile called the house. He said he saw news about your Juventus contract online. He wants to talk to you about an endorsement.”
An endorsement. The words felt foreign, ridiculous. He was a reserve on a youth team who hadn’t played a real match yet. “What did you say?”
“I said you’d call him.” She sounded bewildered but proud. “They were very… persistent.”
He discussed it with Gabby that night on their balcony. “It’s money,” she said pragmatically, one hand tracing circles on her stomach. “Money we can use. The baby… an apartment eventually…”
“It feels strange,” he admitted. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You will,” she said, with a conviction that startled him. “They see it. I see it.”
The Skyline Mobile representative, Mr. Choi, was all polished, rapid-fire Korean. He’d tracked Hyukjae’s path from the Korean university league to the Juventus Primavera. “It’s a great story!” Mr. Choi enthused over a crackling line. “The hometown boy making it in Europe. Very inspirational. We want you as a face for our new youth data plan.”
The contract was modest, but to Hyukjae, the numbers seemed imaginary. It would cover a secure apartment in Turin, all the baby supplies Gabby researched online but never mentioned, and more. He signed the digital documents with a trembling hand, feeling like an imposter.
The first payment hit his new Italian bank account. The reality of it, the concrete number, sparked a singular, urgent thought. It wasn’t about money anymore. It was about a promise, about the goldfish, about the infinity pool and a father’s reluctant blessing. He needed to marry her. Before the baby came. Before anything else in this chaotic, wonderful new life solidified.
He began to plan in the stolen moments. On long bus rides back from training, he sketched vague ideas in the margins of his Korean-Italian phrasebook. A ring was the first, impossible hurdle. The thought of walking into a jewelery shop here, with his broken Italian, made him break out in a cold sweat. He mentioned a need for new trainers to Nonno one afternoon.
“I need to go to Milan. For football shoes,” he said in his stilted Italian.
Nonno just grunted, eyeing Hyukjae’s perfectly good cleats. “You have shoes.”
“Special ones. For… ankle support.”
Gabby offered to come, but he pleaded exhaustion, the strain of a lie tightening his throat. He went alone on his first free Sunday, the train carrying him back towards the airport that had brought them here. In the daunting Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, amidst the luxury boutiques, he found a smaller, quieter shop. He pointed to a simple, elegant band with a single diamond. He used every euro from his first endorsement payment. The weight of the small box in his pocket on the train home was more terrifying than any match.
Back in Como, the season’s final whistle blew. The three-month calcio break stretched before him, a yawning gap of time he needed to fill. The club’s academic advisor handed him a thick packet. “Your online studies,” the man said in careful English. “Module by module. You finish before preseason.”
The proposal plan crystallized amidst the sudden quiet. He would do it on her birthday, in two weeks. He knew where. He enlisted Nonna, whispering his request in the garden while Gabby ninned upstairs. The old woman’s eyes grew bright. She clasped his face in her flour-dusted hands and kissed his forehead. “Finalmente,” she breathed. Finally.
Now, the secret vibrated inside him like a second heartbeat. He attended prenatal appointments, holding Gabby’s hand as the doctor pointed out tiny hands and feet on the ultrasound screen. He logged long hours at the villa’s wooden table, headphones on, grinding through his college modules. And all the while, the ring box hidden beneath his socks in the dresser drawer pulsed like a beacon.
Two nights before her birthday, Gabby fell asleep early, a textbook splayed open on her swollen stomach. Hyukjae finished a module quiz, closed his laptop, and pulled out the phrasebook. He practiced the words, whispering them into the moonlit room.
“Gabriella Walker,” he murmured, the full name feeling formal and sacred on his tongue. “Will you marry me?”
It sounded insufficient. It sounded like everything. He placed a hand on the gentle curve of her hip under the blanket. She sighed in her sleep, shifting towards his touch. The future was a wide, unknown field, but he had the ball at his feet now. He just had to make the shot.
The air the morning of Gabby’s birthday tasted like rain and damp earth. Hyukjae woke before her, his stomach a coiled spring. The ring box was a profound, terrifying weight in the pocket of his jeans. Nonna had been a conspirator of few words but efficient action; a simple picnic basket waited by the garden door, and Nonno had been instructed, with a sharp nod, to keep Gabby occupied until midday.
“You are taking me somewhere,” Gabby stated, not asked, when he finally guided her down the villa’s back steps. She wore a flowing dress the color of the lake under sun, and her hand was warm in his.
“It’s your birthday.”
“You’re sweating, Hyukjae.”
He was. The path through the terraced gardens descended steeply, winding through groves of olive trees and bursts of pink hydrangea. He led her to a small, secluded clearing he’d found on one of his long runs, a natural shelf of flat stone overlooking a sheer drop to the water below. Lake Como sprawled beneath them, a brilliant blue platter scattered with toy boats. It was private. It was perfect.
He spread the blanket Nonna had packed, his hands clumsy. They ate in relative silence—crusty bread, sharp cheese, slices of salty prosciutto. The normalcy of chewing, of swallowing, almost undid him.
“This is beautiful,” she said, leaning back on her elbows, her face tilted to the weak sun breaking through the clouds. The breeze played with the ends of her hair. “Quiet.”
“I wanted it to be quiet.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears. He wiped his palms on his trousers.
She noticed the motion. Her eyes, which had been closed, opened and found his. She saw the tension in his jaw, the way his breath was a little too shallow. “Hey,” she said softly, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
Everything was wrong. The words were stuck. The box was burning a hole through the denim. He’d practiced the phrasebook Italian, a flowery speech, but now his mind was a white, screaming blank.
He just moved.
Getting down on one knee on the rough stone was awkward, his body protesting the sudden drop. He fumbled for the box, his fingers numb. He got it open, the small diamond catching a fleeting ray of sun.
Gabby’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide, then immediately shimmered with tears.
The speech was gone. All he had was the truth, raw and simple. “Gabriella Walker,” he said, the words rushing out. “I have nothing to give you but this. And me. And… everything.” He took a shaking breath. “Will you marry me?”
She was crying in earnest now, silent tears cutting tracks down her cheeks. But she was also laughing, a wet, joyful sound. She nodded, her head bobbing up and down. “Yes,” she managed to choke out. “Yes, of course, yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger. It fit. She held her hand out, watching the light play on the stone, her tears dripping onto her wrist. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss that tasted of salt and lake air and absolute certainty.
When they broke apart, she kept her forehead pressed to his. “You planned this,” she whispered, her voice ragged with emotion.
“Nonna helped.”
She laughed again, the sound bright and clear. “I’ll kill her later for not giving it away.” She pulled back to look at the ring again, then at him. Her smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “We’re really doing this.”
“We’re really doing it.”
The following week, the Primavera had a rare afternoon match against Atalanta’s youth side. It was a scrappy, wet affair on a waterlogged pitch. Hyukjae played with a new lightness, a freedom that had been missing. The secret joy of the ring on Gabby’s finger, the solid yes in his heart, translated into his feet. He was quicker, sharper. In the 70th minute, he collected a loose ball near midfield, turned into a sliver of space, and drove forward.
He weaved past one defender, then another, his touch sure despite the slick grass. The third defender came in hard. Hyukjae saw the tackle late, a late, studs-up lunge. He nicked the ball away an instant before impact, sending a curling, off-balance cross into the box where a teammate nodded it home. The crash that followed was brutal. Pain shot up his leg from the contact, and he went down, mud splashing up around him.
He got up, shaking his leg out. It was fine. Just a knock. As he limped back into position, he caught sight of a small group of men in long coats standing under the sheltered seats. They weren’t coaches. One, tall and imposing even from a distance, was watching him intently. The man said something to his companion, never taking his eyes off Hyukjae.
After the final whistle, Battaglia called him over. “Lee. Someone wants to meet you.” He nodded toward the tunnel. “Don’t look so scared. It’s a good thing.”
In the stark, tiled corridor outside the locker rooms, the tall man was waiting. Up close, his presence was almost physical. He had a quiet, composed elegance, sharp features, and an assessing gaze that missed nothing. Hyukjae recognized him immediately. The face was etched into the history of the sport.
“Paolo Maldini,” the man said, offering his hand. His voice was calm, low. “I saw your play today. The run before the assist. You saw the tackle coming.”
Hyukjae shook his hand, his own still muddy. “I felt it, sir.”
A faint smile touched Maldini’s lips. “Better.” He got straight to it. “Juventus sees you as a project. We see you as a player. Now. Our sporting director has spoken with yours. We are prepared to make an offer to Juventus for your transfer. A better offer. You would start with the first team for preseason. We have a different need for your profile.”
Hyukjae’s mind went blank. AC Milan. First team. Paolo Maldini was standing in a damp tunnel telling him this.
“The terms would, of course, be improved,” Maldini continued smoothly. “And the training ground, Milanello, is in Carnago. It is much closer to Lake Como. Twenty minutes by car, not two hours. Players receive a house. Many live nearby. Their families… they become a community.” He paused, his eyes knowing. “I understand your situation is unique. It can be isolating. For the player, and for…” He gestured, a graceful wave of his hand. “For the partner. This can help.”
It was too much. The enormity of it, the specificity, the fact that this legend was referencing Gabby’s isolation directly, without judgment. Hyukjae thought of the long bus rides, the days apart, the way Gabby’s world had shrunk to the villa and prenatal appointments. He thought of a house. A community.
“Yes,” Hyukjae said, the word leaving his lips before he could fully form a thought. “Yes, I accept.”
Maldini’s smile deepened. “Good. The clubs will settle it. We will see you at Milanello in July.” He gave a slight, respectful nod and turned to leave, his coat swinging. He stopped after a few paces and looked back. “And congratulations. I am told these things are best not left to chance.”
Then he was gone, leaving Hyukjae standing in the echoing tunnel, the smell of wet grass and mud filling his head, the future violently and wonderfully rearranged.
The move happened with a speed that blurred the days. Juventus, presented with a significant offer for a Primavera player they’d owned for three months, negotiated briskly. The contract from Milan was placed before him, pages of dense Italian legalese translated by a club-appointed agent. The numbers were surreal. He signed without hesitation.
They moved out of the villa in early July. Nonna cried, stuffing their bags with jars of preserves. Nonno gripped Hyukjae’s hand, his blue eyes fierce. “You work,” he commanded. “For her. For them.” He nodded at Gabby, her belly now a pronounced, beautiful curve under her sundress.
The house at Milanello was a modern, low-slung villa on a quiet street. It wasn’t the opulent decay of the Como villa; it was all clean lines and light, with a small garden already blooming. Three other similar houses were visible down the lane. As they were unpacking boxes the first evening, a woman appeared at their gate.
She was blonde, Swedish, and heavily pregnant. She introduced herself as Linnea, wife of the defender Emil. She brought a basket of pastries. “We saw the moving truck,” she said, her English accented but fluent. “There are four of us on this street whose Italian begins and ends with ‘ciao’ and ‘grazie.’ We have coffee every Thursday. You survive through us.”
Gabby, who had been apprehensively silent since their arrival, looked like she might cry from relief.
Preseason was a different kind of brutality. The intensity at Milan’s first-team training was several magnitudes higher. The players were older, faster, stronger. The famous names were just… guys in the locker room, tired and sore and cracking jokes he couldn’t understand. He was the project, the unknown. He kept his head down. He ran. He listened. He learned.
He came home each day to a house that slowly became theirs. Gabby’s things mingled with his on the shelves. Scans from the obstetrician in Milan were pinned to the fridge. And every Thursday, he’d leave for training and Gabby would join Linnea and the other wives—a Brazilian, a Dutch, a Nigerian—in one of their gardens. He’d return to find her smiling, a light in her eyes that had been dimming in the isolation of Como.
One such Thursday, he came home late after a double session. The house was quiet. He found Gabby asleep on the sofa, a book about infant sleep patterns open on her chest. The golden evening light cut across the room, illuminating the curve of her stomach, the new ring on her finger, the peaceful line of her mouth.
He knelt beside her, not to wake her, but just to look. This was his life now. The training grounds a short drive away. A locker with his name in the San Siro. A house. A community. Her.
She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She saw him and smiled, soft with sleep. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey.” He placed a hand on her stomach. A hard, distinct foot pushed back against his palm. The goldfish was a footballer now.
“Long day?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“The longest.” He leaned forward, resting his head gently against her. “But I’m here.”
She ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. “Good.” She was quiet for a moment. “Linnea’s husband said he saw you in the tackling drill. He said you were fearless.”
He snorted. “I was terrified.”
“I know.” Her fingers stilled, cradling his head. “That’s why it matters.” It was her old line, from the rooftop in Seoul, and it landed with the same quiet force.
The future was still a vast, open field. The baby was due in eight weeks. The first Serie A match loomed, an impossible dream made concrete on the fixture list. But here, in this quiet room in this borrowed house in this new country, the only thing that was real was the rise and fall of her breath beneath his cheek, and the determined kick of their child against his hand.