Page 15 of My Italian Love Affair

"No. I managed to find my way just fine, thanks."

“Good. You’ll want to stay close today, Sinclair. You’re here to watch and learn: that’sit,” he says. “The last thing we need is you asking something embarrassing and making us look bad.”

I grit my teeth behind my smile. I hate the way he makes it sound like we’re some sort of team - like he’s actually concerned about my journalistic integrity and not just his own reputation.

"Don’t worry," I say smoothly. "I wouldn’tdreamof making you look bad."

Mark tilts his head slightly, studying me for a moment before nodding.

Apparently, he’s satisfied that I’ve agreed to play the role of obedient protégé for the day.

"Good. Now, let’s get you introduced to some people whoactuallyknow what they’re talking about."

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to stay calm as he turns and strides further into the room, expecting me to follow.

I take a second - just one - to compose myself. Then, with a measured breath and my best professional smile, I do exactly that.

*

The press room hums with a chaotic sort of energy - the kind that comes from a crowd of people who are both highly competitive and yet somehow all on first-name terms.

It’s one of the strangest atmospheres.

The journalists move around in tight clusters, interactingwith quick handshakes and polite grins, chatting like old friends and laughing easily.

But after almost one year of working in this industry, I know better. Half of these people are probably waiting for the perfect opportunity to outmaneuver the other.

There’s a fine line between camaraderie and competition in this world, and everyone here knows it.

In this industry, being first is everything - the first to get the best quote, the first to release a breaking story, the first to frame the narrative before anyone else can.

It’s not just about reporting. It’s aboutwinning. About securing exclusives, gaining the trust of the subject you’re interviewing and getting the inside scoop before it leaks to a rival publication.

I can already see the subtle jockeying for position; the way some journalists linger near the front row, staking their claim, while others engage in strategic small talk, casually planting themselves near the media handlers who I can only assume control access to the biggest names.

There’s a rhythm to it all, an unspoken pecking order I haven’t quite figured out yet.

But one thingisclear: no-one is here to play nice.

My so-called mentor included.

At the front of the room, a long table is set up and lined with sleek black microphones. Behind it, there’s a branded backdrop plastered with sponsor logos.

The entire setup is polished and professional, designed for efficiency.

This is routine for the players, a part of the job they’ve done a thousand times before. They’ll come out, give soundbites that are just diplomatic enough to be usable and leave without saying anything too scandalous.

All while getting paid an eye-watering amount of money.

Shaking away that nauseating thought, I scan the room, taking it all in and letting myself absorb the atmosphere.

I keep having to remind myself that I really am lucky to be here, that other graduates my age would do anything to be in my shoes right now; and so I try to learn from everything I’m being exposed to.

But while I’m new to sports journalism, I’m not a complete amateur, and I’ve at least done my research.

I know the key players, the big headlines, the ongoing rivalries. I’ve read up on Serie A - the main football league here - and skimmed through enough articles to understand which teams are having a crisis and which players are making waves.

It’s thecultureI’m unfamiliar with. The unspoken rules, the dynamics between journalists, the way everyone here seems to carry themselves with an air of casual authority, like they belong.

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