Page 32 of My Italian Love Affair

"Sit down, Sinclair."

His tone is patronising, dismissive, and all too familiar. He barely even lifts his gaze to look at me as I force myself to take a deep breath and smile politely before doing as I’m told.

I settle into the chair, turning my attention to the scenesunfolding on the pitch below.

The conversation continues around me, the men discussing the upcoming match with a loud confidence that undoubtedly comes from years in the business.

"Rossi’s in fine form at the moment," Mark says, taking a swig from a glass of whisky. "Should be an easy win for Roma."

The silver-haired creep snorts.

"I hope so. Be a shame if your new recruit here didn’t get to see what real talent looks like. Though I’m sure she’s more interested in what’s under the kit, eh?"

Another round of laughter booms around the small group, once again at my expense.

They think I’m here for the eye candy, that I’m some naive girl swept up by the glamour of professional athletes.

Little do they know I couldn’t care less about the sportorthe players.

"Actually," I interject, keeping my voice steady, "I’m here to understand the dynamics of the game. There’s a lot to learn from how players interact on the pitch, especially someone as strategic as Rossi."

The laughter falters, just a bit. Mark glances at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Is that so?"

"Yes,” I nod, determined to try and demonstrate what professionalism looks like to this group of ignorant assholes. “His ability to read the game and anticipate plays is impressive. It’s not just about physical skill. It’s mental, too."

There’s a hint of annoyance in Mark’s responding chuckle.

The thought brings me far more joy than it probably should.

"Well, well gentlemen. Maybe she’s got half a brain after all."

The other men chuckle, but their laughter is quieter than before. I don’t miss the way that they now exchange questioning looks - clearly not expecting me to hold my ground.

But I’ve said my piece now, and I don’t want to push my luck too far. After all, I keep reminding myself of how lucky I am to have been given this opportunity in the first place.

So, I turn back to the pitch, my heart pounding but my expression calm.

The stadium is coming to life, the stands filling rapidly as kickoff approaches. The rhythmic chants swell and reverberate through the air, and I let the noise wash over me, grounding myself in the atmosphere.

A few moments later, Mark leans over, his voice a low murmur meant just for me.

"Watch yourself, Sinclair. There’s no need to get defensive when we’re just having a bit of fun. You really killed the mood,” he says. “Just sit back, look pretty, and leave the analysis to the professionals."

Inside, I’m seething.

Outside, I force a tight smile in the name of my career.

"Noted."

Ihatethis man.

I may not be the most passionate person in the world when it comes to football, and I may be new to the industry, but I’ve worked hard to get here - spending countless hours researching the different rules, teams and players - and I’m not about to let a group of smug, washed-up,baldingjournalists make me doubt myself.

The players emerge from the entrance tunnel and begin to take to the field, each one walking hand-in-hand with a small child. The stadium is very much alive now, and the noise swells as more fans fill their seats.

The chants are rhythmic, almost hypnotic, blending into a singular roar of anticipation as the players line up.

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