Page 123 of My Italian Love Affair

“It’s not a bad thing.”

Andthat, more than anything else, leaves me feeling completely off balance.

Because if Matteo Rossi is suddenly capable of saying things that sound dangerously close to nice -

Well. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!

Chapter Thirty-Three

Daphne

Idon’t go back into the room right away. Instead, I linger by the doorway as the children move outside, watching the chaos unfold.

Matteo is in the middle of it.

I tell myself I’ll only watch for a second, but then he does something else, and I can’t look away.

At some point, the camera crew shifts their focus to another part of the visit - players handing out gifts, shaking hands, posing for perfectly curated shots that will no doubt make the club look good.

Matteo, however, doesn’t seem to care about any of that.

He’s still outside, a football at his feet, surrounded by a group of kids who seem to absolutely adore him.

At first, it’s just the football. He’s still kicking it around with the boys, letting them dribble past him, pretending -badly- to be a terrible defender as they weave around him and score goal after goal against the imaginary net.

One of the older boys, maybe nine or ten, flicks the ball up with his knee and sends it flying towards Matteo’s chest. Matteo controls it easily, grinning as he flicks it back.

They’re laughing, teasing him.

“Sei troppo lento, Rossi!”You’re too slow, Rossi.

Matteo clutches his chest dramatically, stumbling backward as if he’s been mortally wounded.

“Troppo lento?” he echoes, mock-offended. “Io? Ma io sono il più veloce del mondo!”

Too slow? Me? I’m the fastest in the world!

I snort before I can stop myself.

Becauseof courseMatteo Rossi thinks he’s the fastest in the world.

The kids, however, are not buying it. They shake their heads, grinning, and one of them boldly points at another player on the team - who is standing across the courtyard in full media-friendly mode - and boldly declares, “Gatti è più veloce.”Gatti is faster.

Matteo gasps, scandalised.

“Traditore!”Traitor!

The little boy giggles and takes off running, and Matteo chases him, full sprint. He catches the boy easily and hoists him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

He shrieks with laughter, kicking his feet, and Matteo turns in a slow circle, letting the others take their revenge by pelting him with their tiny footballs.

I shouldnotbe smiling.

And yet.

The cameras are elsewhere, capturing some staged moment with another player handing over a cheque made out to the owner of the home, but Matteo doesn’t seem to notice - or care.

He’s here,reallyhere, his focus completely on these kids who are absolutely eating up every moment that they get with him.

---