Page 245 of My Italian Love Affair

The woman sitting beside me, who I think might be the goalkeeper's wife, leans closer.

"Is that your man?" she asks in accented English.

"Uh…" My cheeks flush. "Yeah. I guess he is."

She gives me an approving smile and returns her attention to the field as the celebrations continue.

The moment feels surreal.

I’m here, in Milan, watching Matteo Rossi - a man I once considered insufferable - hoist Roma’s winning trophy. And now I'm sitting among the players' families like I somehowbelong.

The thought sits heavily but warmly in my chest as the celebrations shift from the stadium to the team hotel, where the entire top floor has been transformed into a makeshift party zone.

The suite is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Milan’s glittering skyline. The tables are covered in bottles of champagne, spirits and enough food to feed a small army. The music is loud, the mood infectious, and Matteo keeps me tucked tightly against his side as he moves through the crowd.

I recognise most of the players from past interviews. Costa, one of the midfielder’s, gives me a nod and says “nice prediction, Sinclair," referencing my 3–1 guess. I laugh, reminding him I was only one goal off, and feel the tension ease from my shoulders.

For the most part, though, I stay close to Matteo.

He seems to relish it.

Whenever someone tries to pull him away - to toast, to joke or to relive one of the match's key moments - his hand never leaves mine. His thumb strokes over my skin, grounding me in the middle of the chaos.

The drinks flow freely, and at some point, Di Marco climbs onto a table - despite his injured hamstring - and starts leading the entire room in a wildly out-of-tune chant.

Matteo joins in, his voice carrying easily over the crowd.

"You’re drunk," I grin.

"Me?" he gasps, feigning outrage. "I’m an elite athlete. My body is a temple."

I snort. "Your temple smells like tequila."

He grins and pulls me onto the dance floor.

*

The hours blur together.

At one point, Matteo spins me under his arm while shouting Italian football chants at the top of his lungs.

Someone hands me a glass of prosecco, which I sip as the bass from the music vibrates through the floor.

I lose track of how many people congratulate Matteo, how many photos are taken and how many times the trophy is passed around the room.

The only thing I don’t lose track of is him.

He keeps me close, anchoring me when the crowd becomes overwhelming or when I feel the familiar stirrings of imposter syndrome creeping in.

He squeezes my waist or murmurs something ridiculous in my ear until I relax again, and the hours pass in a haze of music, laughter and endless toasts.

And through it all, I remind myself that I won’t tell him about Mark tonight.

This is his moment. His night.

The scandal will keep until morning. Tonight is about the win.

About him.

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