Page 17 of My Italian Love Affair

Some interviews are quick, snappy affairs - five minutes, a few generic answers and then the player moves on. Others stretch longer, usually when a more seasoned journalist manages to crack through the polished veneer of media-trained responses and get something more interesting.

I keep to the edges of the room, notebook in hand, my pen tapping idly against the page. I watch the others attentively, trying to pick up on their rhythms, the way they keep a player engaged and how they pivot smoothly when they sense a topic isn’t getting them anywhere.

Mark, of course, is nowhere to be seen. Not that I expectedhim to hold my hand through this, but it’s painfully clear that I’m on my own.

Just as the energy in the room starts to lull, a shift ripples through the crowd.

It’s subtle at first. A few journalists glancing towards the entrance, a couple of hushed murmurs.

Then, like a wave rolling through the room, conversations start dying down, attention redirecting towards the doorway.

Something’s about to happen.

Or rather, someone’s about to arrive.

Someoneimportant.

I straighten instinctively, my fingers tightening around my pen.

And that’s when I glance towards the entrance and spothim.

Matteo Rossi.

I know his name because it’s impossible not to. He’s one of Italy’s biggest football stars - a striker for Roma, a national team regular, and the subject of far too many tabloid stories.

Matteo Rossi is, without a doubt, the most handsome man I have ever seen in real life.

In fact, he’s probably the most handsome man anyone in thisroomhas seen in real life.

And, unfortunately, he knows it.

He strides into the room like he owns it, with an air of effortless arrogance that makes it painfully clear he expects the world to revolve around him.

Heads turn, eyes follow, and the collective energy tilts in his direction, as if he carries his own gravitational pull.

He’s taller than I expected, with the kind of lean, powerful build that makes it obvious he was born to be an athlete. His olive skin is smooth, his dark hair cut neatly but still with just enough of a tousled edge to suggest he doesn't trytoohard.

And then there’s his face - hisridiculouslysymmetrical face. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose that looks to have somehow survived years of professional sport without a single break.

His mouth is curved in a lazy, knowing smirk - like he’s in on a joke the rest of us haven’t heard yet - and he’s dressed in a way that makes him look casually put together.

He’s wearing a navy suit that’s tailored within an inch of its life, but with the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone and no tie around his neck; reminding us all that he’s relaxed and cool, not just another boring athlete in a stiff, corporate setting.

The obnoxiously large watch on his wrist catches the light as he moves, flashing like a beacon of wealth and status, and I wonder how many of those he owns.

Five? Ten? An entire drawer full, all perfectly suited to whatever level of effortless charm he’s trying to exude that day?

As he starts making his way towards the front of the room, shaking hands and flashing grins with the kind of smooth charm that has undoubtedly saved him from many scandals, I feel my irritation flare.

It’s not the face or the suit. It’s not even the way everyone around him seems to unconsciously straighten up, eager for his attention.

It’s theattitude.

It’s the way he walks, like he expects everyone to move for him.

The way he acknowledges people with a brief glance, like their presence is noted but not necessarily important.

The way he radiates the unshakable confidence of a man who has been adored his entire life and has never once had to question it.

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