Page 38 of My Italian Love Affair

Daphne

The press area beneath the stadium is a stark contrast to the roaring energy of the pitch above.

Journalists adjust their microphones and cameras, shifting in place as they prepare to snatch their quick soundbites from tonight’s heroes. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, freshly cut grass and cologne, the remnants of the ninety minutes of pure adrenaline still lingering in the narrow hallway leading to the interview zone.

I grip my notepad a little tighter as I hover near the back, observing how this all works.

The seasoned journalists are quick and efficient, their questions sharp and rehearsed. They know exactly what to ask, how to phrase things in a way that gets the best possible answer in the shortest amount of time.

I, on the other hand, feel like an imposter.

Just then, like my body can sense it before my brain catches up, I glance up -

And immediately regret it.

Standing just outside the tunnel, shaking hands andexchanging words, Matteo Rossi moves through his post-match routine like he was born for this.

Each movement is effortless and smooth, like the world exists solely to orbit around him.

His damp curls fall messily over his forehead, sweat still clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, and his socks are slouched lazily around his ankles - because ofcoursehe even manages to make exhaustion look good.

His kit is streaked with sweat and grass stains, evidence of ninety relentless minutes of dominance on the pitch.

But instead of lookingtired, he looks like he could go another ninety without breaking much more of a sweat.

Which, frankly, is unfair.

No man shouldeverlook that good after running around for an hour and a half, and yet, here he is.

And to make matters even worse, he’s looking right at me.

Shit.

My stomach clenches as I immediately avert my gaze, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

Why is he looking at me like that?!

Does he hate women in football journalismthatmuch?

I swallow, keeping my expression as neutral as possible as I stare hard at the notepad in my hands, as if suddenly fascinated by my own scribbled notes.

But I canfeelhim getting closer.

Not immediately, but steadily, as he works his way through the small crowd of reporters, pausing for quick interviews and side comments, answering questions with that same smug confidence.

He’s taking his time, making his way towards Mark and I at an excruciatingly slow pace, stopping to chat with the journalists ahead of us like he’s savouring the process.

I don’t know if it’s intentional, or if it’s just my imagination running wild, but I swear, I canfeelhim coming closer with every second.

A few players cycle through before him, giving me something else to focus on, and for a while, I force myself to be professional.

I nod, I take notes and hold my recorder steady.

“Great performance tonight,” Mark comments to one of them. “How did it feel controlling the midfield in such a dominant win?”

The player nods as he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead.

“Felt good. We knew we had to press high, keep them under pressure, and I think we did that well.”

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