Page 137 of My Italian Love Affair

I hate to think it, but maybe I’ve been wrong about him all this time.

“Follow me, then. We’ll start with the trophy room.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Matteo

The stadium is ours tonight.

The halls are quiet, the usual chaos of match day long gone, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I can breathe.

The air is thick with the familiar scent of sweat, turf, and something unnameable - something that lingers in the bones of this place.

I like it like this. When the noise fades, when the world outside doesn’t exist, when it’s just myself and the walls that have seen every version of me - triumph, defeat, blood, sweat, exhaustion.

And now,her.

Daphne walks beside me, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying to pretend she’s not impressed.

She is. I can tell.

The way her eyes flick around, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to jot down every little detail. She’s absorbing everything, filing it away like it might be useful later.

Giornalista. Always working.

I smirk, tilting my head toward her.

“You’re quiet, Sinclair. Taking notes?”

She scoffs.

“Please. I could give this tour myself with the amount of research I’ve done.”

“Then I suppose I should be honoured that you let me do the talking.”

She shoots me a flat look.

“Don’t get used to it.”

I grin, leading her down another corridor, pointing out landmarks - the family boxes, the best views, the hidden spots where players sneak off to avoid the press.

“You seem comfortable here,” she teases, glancing up at me. “A littletoocomfortable. You’ve spent just as much time hiding as you have actually playing, haven’t you?”

I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense.

“I’ll have you know,bella, I run more in one match than most people do in a month.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I smirk.

“Maybe I’ve had my fair share of dodging reporters. But hey, it’s a skill.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile.

We keep moving, the weight of the stadium pressing down on us in the best way. It’s a feeling I know well - the quiet hum of something sacred, something bigger than me.

I push open the door to the changing room, stepping inside like I own the place.

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