Page 31 of My Italian Love Affair

This isn’t like any red carpet event I’ve covered - there’s no velvet ropes or posed smiles, no PR teams ushering celebrities past flashing cameras or signed walkways for press.

This is raw, unfiltered passion, and as someone who admittedly doesn’t care much for the sport, even I can sense how much it means to these people.

A security guard checks my pass and eyes me carefully before escorting me through a separate entrance and inside the stadium.

My eyes are wide, drinking in everything as we move at a rapid pace. The press boxes are situated high above the pitch, reasonably enough away from the chaos and offering a bird’s-eye view of the stadium.

And as I’m led down a sleek corridor - walking past doors marked with the names of media companies, sponsors and club executives - I just feel… out of place.

The steward guiding me pushes open the heavy glass door to the press box, and I step inside.

It’s spacious, lined with plush seating and a long counter stocked with drinks and snacks. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a perfect view of the pitch below, where mascots arecurrently making their way around the crowd, and there’s a door that leads to an outside seating area, too.

A number of journalists are already scattered around the box. Some are leaning back in their seats, sipping on drinks and exchanging easy conversation, while others look to be very much at work, laptops in front of them and fingers typing away.

I hesitate for a moment before stepping further inside.

The air smells of strong beer and leather, and unsurprisingly, there aren’t many women in here - just one or two seated towards the back, their presence almost an afterthought in a space so dominated by men.

And then, of course, there’s Mark.

I spot him easily enough from where he’s perched on one of the leather seats near the window. His dark suit is slightly rumpled and his tie loosened around his neck, giving him that faux-relaxed look that screamsI’m important enough not to care.

He’s not alone. A couple of other journalists (who are all coincidentally middle-aged men in similar attire and with the same air of smug self-assurance) are seated around him, sharing a private joke.

Their laughter dies down as I approach, but the small glances they exchange have me thinking that they may have been talking about me before I got here.

"Sinclair," Mark greets me flatly, his tone making my surname sound like an inconvenience. "You made it."

I force a polite smile, resisting the urge to fold my arms defensively.

"Of course. I wouldn’t miss it."

One of his friends - a balding man with a ruddy complexion - chuckles deeply.

“This the new girl you’ve been talking about, Chapman?”

"Yeah, this is her,” Mark scoffs. “Newest addition to the team. Fresh out of uni and still figuring out the difference between a football and a basketball, aren’t you, sweetheart?"

The group laughs.

My cheeks burn, but I somehow manage to keep my expression neutral.

"I’m a fast learner."

Another man with silver hair and a roughened voice grins at me from where he sits next to my supposed mentor.

"If that’s true, then I hope you brought your notepad. You might actually learn a thing or two tonight."

"Already prepared," I say with a tight smile.

“That's too bad. I was going to say you could share mine.”

“I bet you’d share something with her, alright,” the balding man pipes up.

The group laughs together as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, and I somehow manage to resist the immediate urge to vomit all over them.

Mark waves a hand, gesturing to the empty seat beside him and distracting me from his vile friends.

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