Page 33 of My Italian Love Affair

My gaze flickers to the massive screens hanging above the pitch. The cameras zoom in on the team captains as they move to flip a coin to see which side starts the game off, and I focus on all of the details, determined to write something so impressive that it proves I belong here just as much as anyone else.

And then, I spothim.

He might not be the team’s captain, but Matteo Rossi is front and centre.

He’s unmistakable. Even from this distance, there’s something about him that commands attention.

The camera lingers on him as he stretches and rolls his shoulders, his shirt clinging to the definition of his torso. The crowd erupts into cheers as he jogs towards the centre circle. He looks up towards the huge screens, and I spot the moment that his face lights up when he realises the camera is on him.

He lifts a hand in casual acknowledgement, his smirk as cocky as ever as the crowd roars even louder than before, and I manage to resist the urge to roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.

They’re worshipping him like he’s some kind of hero, and he’s lapping it up.

“I think this is the most interested you’ve looked in football since you got here.”

The sound of Mark’s voice is like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard.

Somehow, I don’t shudder, though I realise that the disgust on my face must be showing, and so I force a neutral expression, tearing my gaze away from the screen.

“Just taking in the atmosphere,” I comment.

My mentor scoffs, though he doesn’t press any further. Instead, he turns his own attention back to the match as the players continue to take their positions.

The referee blows the whistle and the roar of the crowd reaches a fever pitch.

And as the game kicks off, I brace myself for ninety minutes of watching Matteo Rossi do exactly what he does best.

Dominate.

Chapter Twelve

Daphne

It’s impossible not to watch him.

Maybe it’s the way he moves; all effortless power and control, the ball seeming to obey his every whim.

Or maybe it’s the sharp, almost arrogant way he surveys the pitch; like a king inspecting his kingdom.

Either way, every time the ball reaches his feet, the energy in the stadium shifts - like everyone here is holding their breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

His movements are infuriatingly effortless, weaving through defenders with almost arrogant ease as if he was born to be on this field.

And he scores the first goal in the twentieth minute.

A perfectly timed run, slipping through the backline at just the right moment to receive a through ball, and then - one touch, two touches, and he fires it into the back of the net.

The stadiumerupts.

I glance at Mark and his cronies who are all nodding approvingly. They’re already making notes, although they barely react - as though this is just business as usual.

On the contrary, I can feel my pulse hammering as I quickly scribble down observations.

Rossi: sharp movement, exceptional positioning, makes it look easy. Reads the game like a second language.

Ugh. Ihatethat I sound impressed.

For the rest of the first half, Matteo plays with the kind of casual confidence that borders on cockiness; flicking passes to teammates with the outside of his boot and orchestrating attacks like a conductor in front of an orchestra.

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