Page 241 of My Italian Love Affair

Not a fucking chance.

I step back, four paces. Hands on hips. Eyes locked on the goal.

The crowd noise swells - screams, whistles, chants - but I push it away and take a breath.

And for some fucking reason, my gaze flicks up.

I still can’t see her properly, but I know she’s there, watching. For now, that’s all the motivation I need.

The ref blows the whistle, and I take my strides.

The keeper dives left.

The ball goes right.

The net ripples, and the worldexplodes.

My teammates pounce on me. Hands pull me in, voices yelling in my ear, but I barely hear them.

All I hear is the roar of the fans.

All I think about isher.

*

The final whistle blows, and I collapse to my knees, head tilted back, exhaling hard.

3 - 2.

We fucking did it.

Wewon the league.

The Roma bench floods the pitch, substitutes and staff sprinting toward us. Ricci tackles me from behind, shouting something in my ear, but my focus is somewhere else.

I push to my feet and glance up one last time.

She’s already gone from the press box.

A slow, knowing smirk pulls at my lips.

I know exactly where she’s going.

And I’ll be waiting.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Daphne

The stadium tunnels hum with chaotic energy as I make my way towards the post-match interview area.

The air is thick with the scent of sweat, grass and adrenaline, and every few seconds, someone rushes past me - different players, staff and journalists all swept up in the euphoric aftermath of Roma's championship win.

I clutch my press pass like a lifeline and weave through the crowd. My plan was simple: head to the designated media zone, grab a few post-match quotes from whoever’s available and file them for my article.

Easy. Straightforward.Professional.

But as I near the tunnel opening, a group of journalists veers left, ducking past a barrier and slipping directly onto the pitch.

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