Page 118 of My Italian Love Affair

For a moment, I push aside my irritation at Mark and justtake it in.

In the end,thisis what really matters.

Not the players showing up for PR.

Not Mark’s ridiculous outfit.

Thekids.

The ones who live here, who don’t have families waiting for them at home.

They don’t care about press, about cameras, about football careers - they just want someone to play with them, to listen to their stories, to treat them like they matter.

Something tugs in my chest, but I shake it off before it can settle too deep.

A staff member approaches, all smiles. She greets us in Italian and we all share quick kisses on cheeks.

As she moves to lead us over towards a private room where we’ll wait for the others to arrive, I square my shoulders and mentally prepare myself.

I already know that one of those people is Matteo Rossi, and since I’m going to have to deal with him today on top of everything else, then I’m going to needa lotmore patience than I currently have -

And to hope that he’s in a better mood than he was the last time we spoke.

*

The front room of the children’s home is alive with movement.

The camera crew has arrived, setting up their tripods and checking sound levels, their voices a low murmur as they discuss the best angles for the shoot. The players are heretoo, dressed down in team-branded polos and joggers and standing in a loose circle with a few of the staff as they go over the logistics of the day.

I’ve managed to avoid Matteo so far, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

I’ve attached myself to a man named Giuseppe; an older Italian gentleman with silver-streaked hair and warm, expressive eyes. He introduced himself the moment I walked into the room, his handshake firm but kind, and within minutes, he had launched into his life story.

“I grew up here, you know,” he tells me, gesturing to the walls around us. His English is excellent, though accented, his voice rich with nostalgia. “Came here when I was seven. My parents -” he pauses, corrects himself - “myfirstparents. They were not good people. This place saved me.”

I listen intently as Giuseppe explains how, at thirteen, he was adopted by a couple who had no children of their own. His voice grows softer as he speaks of them, his expression touched with both fondness and grief.

“They were good people,” he says, his thick fingers curling together like he’s holding onto the memory itself. “Strict, but kind. They taught me how to work hard, how to be honest, how to be good.” He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Mamma used to say that blood means nothing if the heart is true.”

I smile at that, but there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite shake.

“They gave me everything. A home. An education.Love.” He clears his throat, his voice turning gruff. “They’re gone now.”

There’s a beat of silence as he stares off into the distance. His weathered face is almost unreadable, but his misting eyes say enough.

I open my mouth, but what can I even say to that?

I’m sorryfeels cheap.

That must be hardfeels insufficient.

“But I had them for a long time,” he adds finally, with a small, firm nod.

Almost as if it’s something he reminds himself of often. As if it’s somehow enough.

And now, in his retirement, he spends his days here, giving his time to the home that once gave him everything. He doesn’t have children of his own, but he has this.

He hasthem.

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