Page 46 of My Italian Love Affair

He smirks, tilting his head.

“Touched a nerve, did I?”

I glare at him, my throat burning.

But he isn’t done yet.

“You want to know what you actually achieved back there?” he asks.

His tone softens slightly - like he’s doing me a favour by telling me this.

“You made yourself look like ajoke. The second Rossi started smirking at you, every single guy in that room knewexactlywhat was happening. And now? Now, every time you write something about him, they’ll assume it’s biased. That he charmed you, flirted with you a little, and you fell for it. Becausethat’show this works, sweetheart.”

My breath catches.

It’s the condescension that finally breaks through the shock - the way he calls mesweetheartlike I’m some naïve idiot who wandered into a world I don’t belong in.

I swallow down the lump rising in my throat.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“Don’t get all emotional about it,” Mark sneers. “Welcome to football.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides off, leaving me standing in the middle of the corridor, chest heaving, furyclawing at my insides.

I should have expected this.

Ididexpect this.

And yet, somehow, it still stings.

As I watch him walk away, I come to the slow realisation that this isn’t about professionalism.

It’s aboutcontrol.

And the fact that, for once, I didn’t just sit there and nod along like a good little assistant should.

My skin prickles with the sting of his words as the heavy silence presses in around me, and I exhale slowly, trying to calm myself.

“You know,” an unfortunately familiar voice drawls from behind me, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. “For a guy who clearly isn’t that impressive, he sure likes to act like he is.”

I whirl around, pulse still hammering from the confrontation, only to findhim.

Matteo Rossi leans casually against the wall of the corridor.

His damp curls are pushed back from his forehead now, no longer clinging to his skin the way they did on the pitch or in the press room.

He’s evidently showered and cleaned up. Gone is the sweat-soaked kit and grass-stained socks. Now, he’s dressed in a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a pair of light sweatpants sitting perfectly on his hips.

His training jacket is slung over one shoulder and his posture completely relaxed, as if he hasn’t just walked into theaftermath of my worst professional moment yet.

And his mouth - hisstupid, unfairly perfect mouth - is curved into something that’s not quite a smirk, but close enough.

It’s impossible to tell how much of the conversation he overheard. But judging by the sharpness in his gaze - the way he watches me like he’s already got me figured out - I’d wager it was enough.

I don’t say anything. Ican’t.

Because while part of me wants to snap at him - to demand to know how long he’s been standing there and why the hell he thinks it’s okay to eavesdrop - the other part… well.

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