Page 236 of My Italian Love Affair

Grabbing a chilled bottle of water, I twist off the cap and sit down. My laptop hums to life as I settle in and open my notes from the pre-match press conference.

Before I dive into editing the draft for my halftime report, I open my phone and scroll through the comments on my pre-match predictions. I’d published the piece late last night from my hotel room:Roma to win 2 - 1.

The responses are a mixed bag, as always.

@rossifangirl99:Hell yeah! But I think we’ve got a Rossi hat-trick incoming.

@milanmadman:You're clueless. Milan’s gonna eat Roma alive.

@danwritesfooty:Good tactical analysis. The point about Roma’s transition game was spot-on.

I smile faintly at the last one, just about to reply when a commotion near the door interrupts my thoughts.

There’s a sharpthud, followed by a muttered curse and the sound of raised voices.

I turn in my seat, frowning, just as the press box door bursts open.

Mark Chapman.

The unexpected sight of him hits me hard, like a punch to the stomach.

He's dishevelled, hair sticking to his forehead and his shirt wrinkled and half-untucked. His cheeks are flushed red, and his eyes gleam with a clear combination of alcohol and rage.

The young security guard who'd been standing at the door looks panicked as he holds his radio close to his mouth, mumbling urgently into it in Italian. Mark shoves past himwith a snarl, his gait unsteady as he scans the room.

His gaze locks on me, and for a moment, I hold my breath.

And then he's storming toward me, his finger raised like an accusation of its own.

"You," he spits. "You lying littlebitch."

The hum of pre-match analysis from the televisions on the wall cuts to white noise as every journalist within earshot turns towards us. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to sit up straighter.

"Chapman," I say, trying desperately to keep my voice even. "You shouldn’t be here."

He laughs bitterly, swaying slightly.

"Yeah? Well, neither should you. Should've beenmesitting in this box today. Should've beenmewith the contract. But no." He points at me, his finger trembling with fury. "Youstole it."

I grip the edge of my desk, heart hammering.

"You did this," he continues, voice rising with each word. "Yougot me fired. And you didn't even have to work for it, did you? Just had to spread your legs for the right people."

A collective murmur ripples through the room as people shift uncomfortably in their seats - some pretend to focus on their laptops while sneaking glances while others stare openly, mouths agape.

"Mark," I say, standing now, trying to project calm despite the tremor in my hands. "You're drunk. You need to leave."

"Why? So you can keep playing innocent?" he sneers, stepping closer.

I instinctively move back, bumping into the desk behind me.

"You're not some genius reporter, Sinclair. An you’re sure ashell not some fucking prodigy. You're afraud. A nobody who only got ahead because you’re screwing the star player."

The words ring out through the silent press box.

"Yeah," he continues, voice slurring as his expression twists with disgust. "That’s right. She's been shagging Matteo Rossi. I've got the proof. Pictures. Videos. All of it. And tomorrow morning, my mate atFootball Pulseis going to publish the lot."

My skin prickles with mortification as the world around me blurs, the weight of a hundred curious eyes pressing down on me like lead.

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