Rico had managed to slip away from the stadium’s media obligations, whisking Anne away to an Italian bistro nestled high in the Hollywood Hills.
Their table was tucked far away from prying eyes, bathed in the romantic glow of a flickering candle.
The dinner had been perfect.
They were engrossed in each other, easily going from flirtatious banter to engaging conversation.
As the waiter cleared away their main courses, Rico leaned forward, resting his forearms on the pristine white tablecloth.
“So, tell me about the sequel,” Rico urged, “You’re back on set for Princess Diaries 2, right?
What is it actually like behind the curtain?
How do they build Genovia from scratch?” Anne smiled, charmed by how invested he was her in her interests, It’s a massive undertaking,” she began, her eyes lighting up.
“Most people think it’s all just glamorous, but it’s a lot of long hours.
We shoot a lot of the interior palace scenes on these soundstages at Universal.” “How does Garry Marshall direct a room with that many people in it?” Rico asked, genuinely fascinated.
“I mean, a ballroom scene must have hundreds of extras.
Is it like a manager organizing a defensive structure?” Anne let out a bright, musical laugh at the comparison.
“Honestly, kind of!
Garry is a genius.
He has this incredible energy, but he knows exactly where every single person needs to be.
But what really anchors it is Julie Andrews.” “I was going to ask about her,” Rico said quickly, his cinephile heart practically beating out of his chest.
“Is she as regal in person as she is on screen?” “More so, if you can believe it,” Anne nodded enthusiastically.
“She’s the consummate professional.
I learn just by watching her hit her marks.
But what’s really fascinating is the lighting setups.
Sometimes we wait three hours just for the crew to rig the perfect lighting for a three-minute scene.” “Three hours for three minutes,” Rico repeated, shaking his head in sheer awe.
“That’s insane.
The patience you must have…
How do you stayed intune with the character?” “It’s tough,” Anne admitted, leaning in closer.
“You just have to find a little quiet corner in your mind and hold onto the feeling.” “That’s incredible,” Rico murmured, looking at her with admiration.
He had never been on the other side of the curtain, and hearing her describe the meticulous reality of his favourite escapism only made him respect her craft even more.
Before Rico could ask another deeply technical question about camera lenses, the waiter finally arrived, the stark contrast between their two lifestyles was hilariously laid bare on the table.
Anne had happily ordered a red velvet cupcake topped with a mountain of thick cream cheese frosting.
Rico had ordered a arranged bowl of mixed berries and a slice of melon.
Anne looked at his sad little bowl of fruit and let out a sigh, before looking down at her own sugary masterpiece.
She looked back up at Rico, a mischievous glint in her doe eyes.
“Want to see a trick?” Anne asked playfully.
Rico paused, a blackberry halfway to his mouth.
“Sure.” Without a second of hesitation, Anne reached out and grabbed the base of her cupcake and took the top off the cupcake, ripping the spongy cake in half.
She then turned the top half upside down, before sticking the frosting directly into the other side of the cupcake, firmly pressing the two cake halves together.
She had effectively trapped the thick layer of frosting right in the middle.
She held up the modified dessert with a smile.
“See?
Cupcake sandwich.” Rico stared at the pastry in her hand, confused.
He had literally never thought of that.
“What do you think?” Anne asked, taking a highly satisfying bite out of her newly constructed sandwich without getting a single speck of frosting on her nose.
Rico blinked, his piercing eyes wide.
“Life changing.
How did you come up with that?” Anne giggled, covering her mouth as she chewed.
“I’ve just always been doing it.
You should try it, it tastes way better.
It stops the frosting from just getting all over your face.” Rico looked at his bowl of plain fruit, “Maybe.” Right at that exact moment, a buzzing sound shattered the intimate quiet of their booth.
Rico’s phone buried deep in the pocket of his tailored jacket, was ringing loudly.
He quickly reached in and mashed the side button to turn it onto vibrate.
“Sorry,” Rico muttered, looking embarrassed.
“I thought I turned that off.” “It’s fine,” Anne smiled softly, waving a dismissive hand as she took another bite of her cupcake.
“We were in a rush getting out of the stadium.
It happens.” Rico pulled the silver flip phone out of his pocket and placed it face down on the table, fully intending to ignore whoever was calling.
But a mere three seconds later, the phone began to vibrate violently again.
The mechanical buzzing rattled aggressively against the hardwood.
Rico watched in silent annoyance as the device slowly began to vibrate itself right to the edge of the table, inching closer and closer to the drop.
Before he could grab it, the phone slipped over the edge and plummeted to the carpeted floor with a dull thud.
Anne burst out laughing.
“I think your phone just committed suicide.” Rico let out a sigh and bent down, his broad shoulders disappearing beneath the table as he retrieved the offending device.
“Sorry, one moment please.” He picked it up off the floor and flipped it open and brought it to his ear.
“Hello, who’s this?” Rico answered, his tone curt and impatient.
“I’m Bruce Arena,” the voice on the other end announced.
Rico closed his eyes and just sighed, his jaw clenching tight.
Bruce Arena was the head coach of the United States Men’s National Team.
Why the hell was the USMNT calling him now, at nearly midnight on a Saturday?
“I’m kind of busy at the moment,” Rico said coldly, disinterested in the conversation.
“I assure you this is more important,” Bruce pressed on.
“I highly doubt that,” Rico shot back without missing a beat, glancing across the table at Anne, who was watching him with curious eyes.
“I’m offering you a place in the USMNT team,” Bruce stated boldly, dropping the monumental offer right on the table.
It was the call millions of American boys dreamed of receiving.
A chance to represent the Stars and Stripes on the international stage.
“Well, I’m declining,” Rico replied effortlessly.
There was a stunned silence on the line.
“What do you mean?
Declining?” Bruce stammered blindsided by the immediate rejection.
“I’m not playing for a country that calls football soccer,” Rico stated bluntly.
“You’re really going to turn down an International career because of that?” Bruce demanded, his tone rising in disbelief and rising anger.
“I have better options elsewhere,” Rico answered unfazed.
He didn’t owe this man anything.
He possessed dual citizenship, and his talent was a global commodity.
“You guys are third in a two-horse race,” Rico added ruthlessly, dismissing the entire American soccer infrastructure in a single sentence.
He would much rather play for Brazil or England.
“Listen to me,” Bruce pleaded, trying a different tactic.
“Let me just meet you, and we can talk about the project and the future of that team that is built around you.
You can be the face of the sport in this country.” “You can reach out to my agent,” Rico said coldly, “but I’m not playing.” Without waiting for another word, Rico snapped the phone shut and tossed it back onto the table, shaking his head in sheer annoyance.
Anne was staring at him, her cupcake forgotten on her plate.
“Who was that?” “Uh, the coach of the US Men’s National Team,” Rico answered casually, picking up his fork to stab a piece of melon.
Anne gasped softly.
“Woah.
You really turned them down.
Just like that?” “It’s nothing personal,” Rico shrugged, chewing his fruit.
“But just because I grew up here, it doesn’t mean I form here.” “I never knew you felt like that,” Anne murmured, taken aback by how detached he was from the country they were currently sitting in.
“I don’t mean any offense by it,” Rico explained, leaning forward to clarify his position.
“But I grew up in England.
I spent the first six years of my life there, soaking in the real football culture.
I only moved here when my father was on his last legs with his knees and retired in the MLS.
This was a retirement home for him.” “So you still spent most of your life here,” Anne pointed out logically.
“Well, partner that with the fact I spent most of the holidays in Brazil,” Rico countered, his dark eyes intense.
“My mother made sure I knew my roots.
I don’t feel American.” “It just sounds like you don’t want to play for them,” Anne observed quietly.
“Honestly, I don’t,” Rico admitted with vulnerability in his voice.
“I don’t want to be a big fish in a little pond.
That’s never been who I am.
I need to be playing with the best in the world, fighting for every single inch.
I can’t do that here.” The air at the table suddenly shifted.
The romantic energy that had been humming between them just minutes ago evaporated, replaced by a suffocating reality.
Anne slowly lowered her hands to her lap, her mind rapidly connecting the dots of his burning ambition.
“So what does that mean for us?” Anne asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Rico froze.
The fork halfway to his mouth slowly lowered.
“What?” “So when you eventually leave the US to go pursue your dreams,” Anne continued, her large doe eyes locking onto his with desperate clarity, “what happens to us?” Rico didn’t have an answer.
He stared at the beautiful woman sitting across from him, his mouth slightly open, but no words came out.
He had been so entirely caught up in the intoxicating rush of the last week, the late-night drives, the shared popcorn, the kissing in the dark, that he had ignored the rapidly approaching collision course of his own life.
He had been trying to have his cake and eat it too.
He wanted her, but he desperately wanted European football.
Anne swallowed hard, a painful knot forming in her throat as the silence stretched on, answering her question louder than any words ever could.
“I’m not going to follow you there,” Anne said softly, her voice thick with a sudden realisation.
“I got my life here.
My career, my family, the studios…
I can’t just pack up and leave.” “I didn’t expect you to,” Rico said quickly, “I already told you what my plan was.
I told you I want out.” “When do you want out by?” Anne asked, her tone hardening just a fraction.
Rico looked down at the table, unable to meet her gaze.
“Couple months.” Anne felt like all the air had been violently sucked out of the room.
She had thought, in her naive heart, that the connection they shared over the past few dates was enough that she could maybe get him to stay.
She thought he was putting down roots.
But he clearly didn’t want to stay.
His mother’s lethal glare in the hallway suddenly made sense.
She had only been fooling herself.
“Oh,” Anne breathed out.
A sudden flash of anger and hurt washed over her.
She had let her guard down.
She had thought they had something special, but as she looked at him now but his eyes were already fixed thousands of miles across the Atlantic, she realised the brutal truth.
She was just his fling.
A temporary distraction to pass the time until his plane ticket to Europe was booked.
Anne abruptly stood up from the booth, her chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Annie, wait—” Rico started, half-rising from his seat, panic finally piercing his stoic facade.
“I’m going to go,” Anne cut him off, her voice devoid of the warmth he had fallen for.
She looked down at him one last time, “See you around, Rico.” Before he could even process the words, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the restaurant, disappearing into the dark Los Angeles night.
Rico slowly sank back down into the velvet booth.
He let out a long groan, the sound lost in the ambient hum of the restaurant.
He put his head in his hands, alone in the dim light, realising exactly what his ambition had just cost him.
A/N) Obviously they get back together.
Also,
I searched it up but I couldn’t find anything.