Page 239 of My Italian Love Affair

A long ball comes over the top. I react instinctively, body moving before my brain even registers the pass. I sprint forward, their defender on my heels.

He tries to muscle me off it, shoving hard into my side, but I’m faster.Stronger.

And I break free.

The keeper rushes out, arms wide, but I know exactly what I’m doing. One last touch, shifting the ball slightly, and then I slot it clean into the bottom corner.

The stadiumerupts.

My fist clenches as I turn, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping. Our supporters lose their fucking minds as my teammates swarm towards me, hands slapping my back as voices ring loud in my ears.

"Che gol, fratello!" Ricci yells, grinning as he ruffles my hair.

What a goal, brother.

"Perfect ball from you," I shoot back, smirking as I shove him off.

As I jog back to midfield, I glance up again.

This time, I don’t just flick my eyes towards the press box. Isearchfor her.

I can’t see her clearly, but I catch a glimpse of auburn hair right there at the glass - and more than that, I canfeelher watching.

My jaw tightens, my chest expanding with something unnameable.

*

The moment we step back onto the pitch after half-time, Milan throws everything at us.

I don’t let myself relax, not even for a second.

But they’rerelentless, pushing us deeper and deeper, suffocating our passing lanes. I move back into midfield, trying to help control the game, but in the fifty-fifth minute, they break through.

A long-range strike curls into the top fucking corner.

"Merda," I curse under my breath, hands on my hips as the Milan players celebrate.

Ricci comes up beside me, his jaw clenched. "We need to fucking reset."

I nod, exhaling sharply. "We get the next one."

And we do.

A perfect cross comes into the box, and I don’t hesitate. I take it on the first touch, hammering it into the back of the net with my left foot.

2 - 1.

I barely register the celebration. I just turn, pointing to the Roma fans in the stands, letting them know we’re not done yet.

But then,disaster.

Di Marco goes down, clutching his hamstring, and the second he doesn’t get back up, I know we’re fucked.

He’s our anchor. The guy who holds the backline together.

The medics stretcher him off, and the second he disappears down the tunnel, Milan pounces.

A miscommunication in our defense. A looping cross. Aheader that sails into the net.

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