Page 113 of My Italian Love Affair

Luca Moretti is one of them.

He spots me immediately, his brows knitting together as he pulls his shirt over his head.

“That bad, huh?”

I simply grunt in response, walking towards my locker.

Luca smirks, leaning against one of the benches with his arms crossed.

“That interview with Sinclair looked intense.”

My shoulders tense despite myself.

Of course he saw it.Everyonesaw it.

I don’t answer. Instead, I yank my sweatpants from my bag and pull them on, my movements stiff.

Unfortunately, Luca doesn’t take the hint.

“Did you piss her off?” he muses. “Because she looked… How do I put this? One second away from punching you in the throat.”

I exhale sharply.

“I’m not in the mood, Luca.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t push.

“Calmati,Rossi,” he grins.Calm down.“I’m just saying, the only thing scarier than a pissed-off coach is a pissed-off woman.”

He’s not wrong.

And Daphne Sinclair? She’s scarier than most.

I shake my head, shoving my shirt on and grabbing my bag.

“I’m heading out.”

Luca lifts a brow.

“No team debrief?”

“I’ll read the fucking notes.”

He lets out a low whistle but doesn’t argue.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the exit.

I need space.

I need to clear my head.

And I need to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get back in Daphne Sinclair’s good books.

Chapter Thirty-One

Daphne

Islouch on the edge of my bed, fingers still hovering over my keyboard after hitting submit on my post-match article.

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