Page 238 of My Italian Love Affair

She doesn’t push further or ask if I want to talk about it. Instead, she leans back in her chair, reaching into her bag and pulling out her press badge, flipping it over in her hands absently as she watches the stadium with practiced ease.

I force myself to do the same.

Because that’s why I’m here.

For the game. Roma’s final match of the season.

Theonlything I should be focusing on.

I take a slow, deep breath and tuck my phone away as the giant screens above the pitch flicker, the team crests appearing in full display.

A murmur ripples through the stadium as the players emerge from the tunnel, stepping onto the pitch to a deafening roar from the crowd.

My pulse jumps.

Then - like some magnetic force pulling me in - I find him.

Matteo Rossi.

Tall, strong, utterly composed as he strides onto the field, his expression unreadable beneath the stadium lights.

His focus is locked straight ahead, but I know him, and I know he’s aware of exactly where I am.

I watch as he moves, shoulders broad, muscles flexing beneath his jersey, his every step brimming with purpose.

And for the first time since Mark’s disgusting outburst, my heart doesn’t feel like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.

Matteo is here, and he’s going to win tonight.

Iknowit.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Matteo Rossi, it’s that when something belongs to him, when somethingmattersto him, he doesn’t fucking lose.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Matteo

The air is electric.

The roar of the crowd vibrates through my bones, a deafening pulse that wraps around me like a second skin.

I’ve played in big matches before, in finals, in games where the stakes were just as high, but this is something else.

This iswar.

The referee’s whistle pierces the air, and I launch forward, muscles coiling as I close in on Milan’s defense.

The opening minutes are brutal: hard tackles, fast counters, the opposition pressing high to suffocate us.

Every touch of the ball is met with a wave of whistles from their fans, but from the opposite side of the stadium, our supporters are a wall of noise, their voices chanting our names -my name -and willing us forward.

I glance up - just once, just long enough to flick my eyes toward the press box.

I can’t see her from here, not with the glare of the stadium lights, but Iknowshe’s there, watching me.

It shouldn’t matter.

But fuck, it does.

---