Page 16 of My Italian Love Affair

I force myself to straighten my shoulders.

After all, I belong here too.

Well - at least for the next three months.

“This is the usual setup,” Mark says as he guides me towards a quieter corner. “Journalists get their turn for interviews based on the companies they’re working with. Since we’re with The Tribune, we get good options. Some interviews are one-on-one, others are in groups, and players come and go. As far as today goes, though, you just need to pay attention, look pretty, and not ask anything stupid.”

Ah, yes.

Becausethat’smy main concern.

“I’ll manage,” I say dryly.

Mark barely acknowledges my response, too busy scanning the room like a general surveying his troops.

“Good,” he says, distractedly. “Because the last thing I need is you embarrassing yourself - or, by extension,me.”

“I’ll do my best to contain my wild impulses,” I say with a tight smile, reminding myself that he’s much more senior than I am.

Mark smirks.

“See to it that you do.”

He gestures vaguely around the room, as if bestowing upon me some great wisdom.

“Watch how the others handle things. The good ones know when to push and when to back off. The shit ones get left in the dust. And let’s be honest, Sinclair; as a rookie, you can’t really afford that.”

Oh, wonderful - just in case I wasn’t already aware of my apparent incompetence, Mark is here to kindly remind me.

I inhale slowly, counting to three in my head.

This is fine. I can do this.

Three months working under him will fly by.

Hopefully.

Mark scans the room before I spot his eyes landing on a group of well-dressed men near the entrance. He claps his hands and rubs them together, not even bothering to look at me as he begins to walk away.

“Right. I need to go schmooze some people. Try not to look lost.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I take a deep breath, gripping the strap of my bag as I scan the room. It’s no use trying to find a friendly face here - it’s just a sea of tailored blazers, expensive watches and confident smirks.

The journalists here all look like they belong.

I wonder how many of them actually do.

Chapter Seven

Daphne

Over the next hour or so, I watch and listen to the sound of cameras clicking, questions firing and the occasional burst of laughter when a player says something unexpectedly charming.

The players themselves vary in their enthusiasm. Some lean forwards, engaging easily with the reporters and flashing PR-trained smiles. Others sit back, arms crossed and offering clipped responses that make it obvious they’d rather be anywhere else.

It’s exactly like Mark explained, though he conveniently left out how much of this process is just a waiting game.

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