Page 131 of My Italian Love Affair

Now all that’s left to do is the post-match interviews -

Which does unfortunately mean facinghimagain.

The last time I interviewed Matteo, he was furious; miserable and moody, stone-faced and sulking while doing his best impression of a thundercloud in football boots. He’d apologised, sure, but it doesn’t change what happened, or how it all went down.

Tonight, after a strong team performance and a goal to his name, he’ll surely be in a much better mood.

*

The press area is humming with the usual post-match energy - journalists positioning themselves, camera crews adjusting their angles and players filtering in fresh from the dressing room, still high on the thrill of victory.

I get through my first few interviews smoothly, speaking with a couple of the players who had standout performances tonight.

Next is the team’s goalkeeper, who had pulled off two crucial saves in the second half.

He’s always an easy interview - relaxed, chatty, with the kind of charisma that makes my job infinitely easier.

“Two huge saves tonight,” I comment. “How are you feeling?”

He grins, running a hand through his still-damp curls.

“Like I deserve a raise.”

I snort. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to your agent.”

“I’d appreciate that.” He laughs, then sobers slightly. “But seriously, it was a big night for us. We knew we had to bounce back after the last match, and I think we showed what we’re capable of.”

I nod, steering him through a few more questions before wrapping up. I quickly double check my list of players despite the fact that I know deep downexactlywho’s next.

And judging by the distinctly smug energy radiating from a few feet away, he knows it too.

I look up and come face-to-face with Matteo.

He’s already watching me with his arms crossed over his chest, his usual sharpness softened by the glow of victory. He’s still in his full kit, white socks pushed down to his ankles and showing off his muscular calves, dark hair damp with sweat that also clings to the collar of his jersey.

“Always a pleasure to see you,Daphne,” he says in greeting.

His voice is all warm and smooth with just the right amount of teasing undertone.

I hate the way the sound of my name on his lips stirs something in me - something new and deeply inconvenient.

“Rossi,” I reply, keeping my voice even, professional. “A much better result tonight.”

“Observant of you.”

“Shocking, I know. It’s almost like I get paid to notice things.”

His smirk deepens, and for a split second, I brace myself for whatever infuriating remark he’s about to throw my way.

But to my surprise, he actually answers the question.

“We were sharper tonight. More composed. Controlled the midfield better, stayed aggressive in attack.”

He shrugs like it’s all just another day at the office, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in his dark eyes.

“And, you know, it helps when we actually score goals.”

“Right. Who would have thought that might be a winning strategy?”

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