Page 27 of My Italian Love Affair

I grin.

“It’s not my fault you’re slow.”

“Merda,” he mutters, shaking his head. “When you retire, I’ll finally be able to sleep at night.”

I throw an arm around his shoulder.

“When I retire,youwon’t have a career left.”

He shoves me off, laughing, and I jog back to position. The rhythm of the game flows through my veins, as natural as breathing.

This -this- is what I live for.

Football isn’t just my job. It’s my religion.

It has been since my father first put a ball at my feet and told me,“Matteo, this is how we get out.”

And he was right.

Football gave us everything. It changed my family’s life. It gave me power, freedom, control.

But it also came with pressure.

Expectations.

So. I can’t afford distractions.

I push harder, weaving between defenders, pressing high and forcing the backline to crumble under my movement. I can already see tomorrow’s game in my mind - every pass, every run, every goal.

Focus. Stay sharp.

No distractions.

And yet.

That damned journalist.

“Attento!”

The ball sails towards me, and at the last second, I snap back to reality and control it, knocking a pass out wide before anyone notices I wasn’t paying attention.

Ineverlose focus.

Except, apparently, when a certain redheaded woman is involved.

I’m not even sure why I asked about her. Curiosity, maybe.

Or maybe something else.

Either way, I know her name now.

A few offhand comments to some of the club’s media staff, a well-placed question here and there, and suddenly, I had more information than I knew what to do with.

Daphne Sinclair.

British.

Twenty-three.

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