Page 34 of My Italian Love Affair

The opposition can barely keep up, constantly scrambling to close him down, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s always one step ahead.

And right before the end of the first half of the match, he assists with his team’s second goal.

It’s ridiculous, really. He collects the ball near the halfway line, spins past one defender like it’s nothing at all and then lifts a perfectly weighted pass over the top of the defensive line.

His teammate barely has to do anything - just lets the ball drop at his feet and slots it into the bottom corner of the net.

The crowd roars again, and Matteo barely reacts. He simply jogs back to his position, exchanging a few words with the goal scorer like it was inevitable.

I chew the end of my pen, trying not to scowl as I jot down more notes.

Control. Precision. Knows exactly where his teammates are.

Arrogant as hell but backs it up.

When the referee blows the whistle to signal the half-time break, Mark clears his throat and peers over my shoulder atmy notes.

There are pages upon pages filled with my scribbled comments, but he doesn’t exactly look impressed.

"Learning something, Sinclair?"

I shrug.

"I’m trying.”

He chuckles, clearly entertained by my restraint as he leans back in his seat, swirling the half-melted ice in his glass.

“Good,” he says lazily. “Maybe you’ll actually write something worth reading.”

His words land heavier than they should, and I feel my grip tighten around my pen as I snap my notebook to a close.

Across from him, the man with the greying hair and a voice that carries lets out a low whistle.

“Bit harsh, don’t you think?” he muses, though there’s not a sniff of genuine concern in his tone. “She’s only just started. You’ve got to give her a chance to warm up, Chapman.”

Another man - this one thinner, with large brown eyes and wearing a pair of thick glasses - smirks as he taps his pen against his own notebook.

“Nah, Mark’s got a point. You can always tell the ones who are serious about this job and the ones who just fancy a bit of glamour.”

His eyes rake up and down my body from head to toe, and it takes everything in me not to look at him in pure and utter disgust.

“Exactly,” Mark hums. “And let’s be honest, Sinclair - this isn’t exactly your dream gig, is it?”

“I never said that,” I say, a little too snappy. I try and maintainmy composure, not wanting to cause a scene or be ridiculed even further by these ignorant pricks. “Regardless, it’s an opportunity.”

“Anopportunity,” he repeats, like he finds the word funny. The others snicker along with him. “Right. Well, hopefully, you make something of it.”

“You better,” his friend with the glasses smirks. “There aren’t many women in this field for a reason.”

Another journalist - a younger man with floppy blonde hair - snorts.

“Be fair, will you? She’s got more of a shot than most,” he says as he gestures vaguely towards me. “That face alone probably gets more views on her articles than the actual content.”

Laughter ripples through the group, and my nails dig into my palm.

I glance at Mark, waiting for him to shut it down, but he just smirks and takes another sip of his drink.

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