Page 110 of My Italian Love Affair

“No.”

Bullshit.

I fight the urge to sigh.

“Then what do you think went wrong?”

“What doyouthink went wrong?” he counters, his tone edged with something bitter. “Since you seem to have all the answers.”

I blink at him, admittedly surprised by his snark.

“I’m asking you, becauseyouwere on the pitch.”

“And I’ve been playing this game for years,” he bites out, his gaze narrowing. “Long before you decided you could just waltz in and write about it.”

The words hit like a brutal slap to the face, and I go rigid, my fingers tightening around my recorder.

I don’t even think he realises what he’s just said. Not fully.

But I do. I hear it loud and clear.

Long before you decided you could just waltz in and write about it.

As though I don’t belong here.

As if I’m not fighting every fucking day to find my place in this industry.

“Right,” I say, my voice deceptively calm despite the way my pulse thunders violently in my ears. “I suppose you’d rather I was writing about something a little more fitting. Fashion, maybe? Tourism? Or back to my good old roots of petty celebrity gossip?”

His jaw clenches, then relaxes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

His dark eyes narrow, his expression completely unreadable.

“You always do this, don’t you?” he mutters, his voice quiet and low. “It’s second nature to you,giornalista.You twist my words and make them into something they’re not.”

I let out a sharp laugh.

“Right. Because there’s absolutely no history of men in this industry dismissing women’s opinions on the sport.”

Something flickers across his face - something quick, almost imperceptible - but the tension remains. I square my shoulders, refusing to show him the way that he’s got under my skin.

By hell or highwater, I’m going to finish this interview.

“One last question,” I say, not letting him get another word in before I can steer the conversation forwards. “Despite tonight’s result, do you still believe Roma has what it takes to go all the way this season?”

For a moment, I think he won’t answer.

Then, finally, he exhales, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Yes,” he says. “We’ll come back stronger.”

It’s the most honest answer I’ve gotten from him all night.

I nod, keeping my expression neutral.

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