Page 36 of My Italian Love Affair

Luca grins as he slaps my shoulder. "You wereon fire, Rossi."

I smirk, rolling my shoulders as the coaching staff make their way onto the pitch.

"Sempre."Always.

Our manager, old and wise, with deep lines etched into his face from years in the game, pulls me into a brief embrace, gripping the back of my neck.

"Benissimo, ragazzo."Very good, boy.His voice is gruff but warm. "This is what I expect from you. Keep it going."

I nod, my breath still coming fast, sweat slicking my skin.

"Non abbiamo ancora finito."We're not done yet.

Because wehaven’twon the league yet.

And I won’t be satisfied until we do.

The celebrations are short-lived. After all, we’re professionals: we enjoy the win, but we know there’s work to do.

Still, I let myself soak in the moment - the deafening applause, the electric energy pulsing through the stadium, the way the fans chant our names like we’re gods among men.

This is what it’s all about.

The game, the passion, the loyalty of thousands of people who bleed for this club just as much as we do.

Right now, the entire stadium feels like it belongs to us.

And maybe -just maybe- I put on a bit more of a show tonight than usual.

Because I felthereyes on me.

I caught a glimpse of her earlier in the press box, that auburn hair standing out even from a distance, her body angled towards the pitch as she scribbled furiously in that little notebook of hers. I couldn’t see her expression fully, but I could almost imagine it in my mind - her chewing on the inside of her cheek, brows furrowed, trying not to look impressed.

But she was watching me. She had to be - she was literally getting paid to.

And I’d bet money that she hated every second of how much she enjoyed it.

The thought fuels something deep in my chest, a smugness I can’t shake.

I might not know much about her yet, but I do know this: she doesn’t want to like me. She doesn’t want to admire the way I play, doesn’t want to be one of the millions who can’t help but be drawn to the way I move on the pitch.

Which means it’s going to piss her off when she realises that it's inevitable.

Unfortunately, the night isn’t over yet. No matter how much I’d love to, I can’t just go home, collapse into bed, and replay every second of that performance in my head.

I can’t evenshower.

I have media obligations. The part I usually hate the most.

The routine of it grates on me. Answering the same generic questions, nodding along while reporters try to bait me into soundbites. It’s tedious, and I usually spend the whole time thinking about how much more productive I could be. A recovery session, an ice bath, a review of the match footage - literallyanythingelse.

But tonight?

Tonight, I don’t mind as much.

Because there’s a chance she’ll be there.

Daphne Sinclair.

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