Page 54 of My Italian Love Affair

I drop my bag by the door and toe off my shoes, sighing as I take in my tiny apartment.

It might not be much, but it’s mine; and right now, it feels like the only place in the world where I can actually let my guard down and breathe.

I set the McDonald’s bag down on the kitchen counter, ignoring the way my stomach twists at the sight of it.

I’m not even hungry.

The press box had been fully stocked with snacks, sandwiches, and an unlimited supply of drinks, but that hadn’t stopped me from swinging by the nearest fast-food place and grabbing a takeaway on my walk home.

It’s a bad habit. An old one.

But somehow, it’s the one thing I know will make me feelsomething.

I don’t even know if it’s comforting or punishing. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

All I know is that sometimes, when the weight of the day is too much, when my thoughts are too loud and my emotions are too raw, I need something to keep my body busy, to keep my mind occupied.

And right now,thisis all I have.

I unwrap my cheeseburger and take a slow bite, barely tasting it as my mind replays the night’s events in a relentless loop.

Sitting in the press box, enduring Mark and his friends’ passive-aggressive jabs.

Being thrown into the spotlight during Matteo’s interview after Mark had explicitly told me to stay quiet and watch.

My mentor’s subsequent outburst, his voice laced with barely restrained fury as he tore into me.

And then…Matteo.

I shake my head sharply, as if I can physically push the thought of him away.

Work. I need to focus on work.

With a sigh, I grab my laptop and notes from my bag and head to the couch, determined to focus on anything but the infuriating, impossible man still lingering in my thoughts.

I plug my audio recorder into my laptop and begin to scan through the file that contains tonight’s interviews as I continue to munch on my burger. I hitplay, letting the low murmur of voices fill the silence as I unwrap a few fries.

First come the post-match interviews, starting with a few of the other players. It’s all the usual routine of polishedresponses and generic questions - nothing particularly groundbreaking. I half-listen, twirling my pen between my fingers and jotting down a few notes out of habit.

But my mind is elsewhere, my focus fractured.

Because then there’shim.

I sit up slightly as Matteo’s voice fills my apartment, deep and self-assured even through the slightly tinny playback.

He speaks with that same unwavering confidence he carries on the pitch, each word smooth and deliberate as though he knows how much people hang onto his every word.

He soundsexactlythe way he looks: effortlessly in control, like nothing in the world could ever faze him.

I listen carefully, letting the interview play out. Even after almost a year in journalism, I still instinctively cringe at the sound of my own voice when I hear myself ask him the question that caused so much trouble.

But there’s that teasing lilt in his voice. The slight pause before he answered - like he was sizing me up.

And as I listen to his answer, I remember the way his lips had curved into that insufferable smirk, his dark eyes locking onto mine like he could see everything I was thinking.

I swallow, shifting slightly on the couch.

It’s annoying.He’sannoying.

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