Page 55 of My Italian Love Affair

And yet, I find myself replaying that clip again, listening a little closer. Analysing his tone and the way he’d spoken to me, how different it had felt compared to the way he addressed all of the other journalists in the room.

I thought that it had finished there, that it was all over -

But then the recording shifts, and I realise that I neveractually clicked the device off.

"What the fuck was that, Sinclair?"

The sharp, cutting tone of Mark’s voice in that empty corridor comes through.

I don’t even realise I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache. I listen to the entire thing - every biting remark, every condescending jab, every word designed to make me feel small.

I knew it had been bad at the time, but hearing it back like this…

Ugh. It makes my skin crawl.

I should delete it. I don’t need a reminder of that conversation, of the way Mark had spoken to me like I was nothing.

And yet, my finger hesitates over the delete button.

The recording hasn’t finished, and Matteo’s voice filters through the speaker again.

"You think I don’t know what it’s like to have to prove myself? To have to fight for respect, over and over again, just to get people to shut the fuck up?"

I close my eyes, the sound of his voice curling around me.

I can still picture him standing there; his damp curls pushed back from his forehead, his dark eyes flashing with intensity, his scent lingering in the air between us…

I exhale sharply, shaking my head.

This isridiculous.

I should hate him. After all, this is the man who literally looks down on me just for existing.

Mark made it clear that Matteo doesn’t believe that womenshould have a place within football journalism - that it was something for men only. And despite how furious I am with the man who’s supposed to be helping me here, not causing a hindrance, Markknowshim. He’s worked closely with Matteo’s manager for years and has spoken to him countless times for interviews and the like, so if anyone’s going to know how Rossi thinks and feels towards things like this, it’s him.

And yet as I listen to the recording again - to the way Matteo had spoken to me, to the way he’d defended me without hesitation - I can’t help but feel like it doesn’t make sense.

If Matteo Rossi really thought I didn’t belong in his world, then why would he say all of that?

Why would helook at melike that?

A frustrated noise escapes my throat as I slam my laptop shut, stopping the recording from playing in its tracks and shoving the device away.

I amnotdoing this.

I refuse to waste another second thinking about Matteo Rossi.

He isnotmy problem.

Feeling more than just slightly defeated, I toss the half-eaten McDonald’s into the bin and head to my bedroom, peeling off my clothes and yanking on an oversized t-shirt before crawling into bed.

*

Sleep does not come easily.

No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I toss and turn, I can’t stop thinking abouthim.

About warm brown eyes, sharp and focused, watching melike he’s trying to figure me out.

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