Page 39 of My Italian Love Affair

The next player is the goalkeeper, who barely broke a sweat thanks to the team’s dominance. He gives some pretty standard answers about how keeping a clean sheet is always important and how the defense did their job perfectly, but I can hardly blame him - there’s not really much for him to say other than to hype up his teammates for their performance.

A few more players cycle through, and as I grow in confidence, Mark starts to slip away, leaving me to ask questions of my own, away from him.

I’m careful to keep my voice steady and professional, and I’m pleasantly surprised by how receptive the players are to my presence here.

The interviews continue - players coming and going,answering questions with varying levels of enthusiasm - and Mark continues to shuffle further away, very much doing his own thing.

Until his voice cuts through, sharp and self-assured as he turns to me from a slight distance.

“We’ve got Rossi next.”

My stomach tightens, but I exhale slowly, pushing my shoulders back.

It’s fine. It’s just another interview.

But the moment Matteo’s name is spoken, the dynamic shifts.

There’s a ripple of energy, a subtle but noticeable shift in the atmosphere as more journalists press in, drawn by the star of the night.

The once comfortably spread-out space is now rapidly filling, voices overlapping, recorders being lifted, and elbows subtly jostling for the best positioning.

The crowd thickens around me, the bodies shifting closer, pressing forward, cramming into every available inch of space.

Mark’s gaze scans the group, then, to my surprise, he lifts a hand - beckoning me forwards.

I hesitate for a fraction of a second.

Is he actually giving me the lead on this?

Maybe this is an olive branch. Maybe after all his patronising and dismissiveness, he’s finally acknowledging that I’ve been handling myself well today.

So, I step towards him - only to feel the bodies closing in further as more journalists push forwards, eager to get in onthis.

But just as I reach his side, Mark leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only I can hear.

“I’ll do the talking,” he mutters. “You just watch and learn.”

Ah.

Of course.

Heat prickles at the back of my neck, a mix of irritation and embarrassment burning through me.

Stupid.

I should have known.

He wasn’t calling me over to let me take part.

He was calling me over to keep me in my place.

To make sure I didn’ttryto take part.

The crowd of reporters thickens even more, voices murmuring, and before I can even dwell on it, the press area stirs again.

A shift.

A buzz.

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