Page 20 of My Italian Love Affair

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd.

It’s a classic deflection, but it works.

He oozes just enough charm that no one seems particularly inclined to push further.

Then, almost predictably, someone brings up hisotherreputation.

“You had quite the eventful offseason,” one journalist says, his tone just light enough to be cheeky. “Spotted on yachts, in clubs, a few high-profile dates… how do you balance it all?”

Matteo exhales a laugh, shaking his head.

“Ah, yes.The scandal.” He spreads his hands in mock innocence. “What can I say? I have friends. Sometimes I go outside.Dio mio, call the police.”

Laughter ripples through the room, but I just cross my arms, unimpressed.

Oh, helovesthis. Loves playing into his reputation, loves that people hang on his every word like he’s some kind of international man of mystery instead of just a very talented guy who kicks a ball around a field for a living.

The questioning continues, bouncing from journalist to journalist, but it’s one particular answer that makes my blood simmer.

“There’s been a lot of talk about young players coming through the ranks. Do you think the next generation has what it takes to carry on after the established names retire?”

Matteo tilts his head, considering. Then he shrugs.

“Some do. Some don’t. Football is not just about talent. It’s about instinct. Mentality. Understanding the game.” He leans forward slightly, fingers tapping the table. “It’s why experience is important. You cannot just walk in one day and think you know football. You must prove yourself. Earn your place.”

It’s an innocent enough comment. In fact, to anyone else, it’s a good answer, and probably sounds very much like a seasoned player talking about the natural progression of the sport.

But to me, sitting there with Mark’s words from earlier echoing in my mind -he doesn’t think women belong in football journalism- it feels like something else.

A pointed remark. A passive-aggressive jab.

A reminder that I don’t belong here.

Before I can think better of it, my hand goes up.

Mark, who had been more than happy to leave me on my own up until this moment, suddenly stiffens beside me.

“Sinclair -”

But it’s too late.

One of the event coordinators glances in my direction and gives me a nod.

“Go ahead.”

Matteo turns his gaze back to me, and for the first time since our earlier exchange, his interest notably piques.

He leans back in his chair, watching me, waiting. I clear my throat, steadying my voice.

“Matteo, you mentioned that football isn’t just about talent, that players need tounderstandthe game.” I keep my toneas light and even as possible. “Would you say that applies to journalists as well? That we need to prove ourselves, earn our place?”

For a fraction of a second, something flashes in his expression. Not irritation, not amusement. Just…curiosity.

Like he hadn’t expected me to speak.

Then, that damned smirk returns.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Anyone who talks about football shouldknowfootball. Otherwise, what is the point?”

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