Chapter Twenty-Nine
Daphne
B y Monday evening, the internet has its latest obsession.
Photos from the gala have surfaced - courtesy of some anonymous source, of course - and unsurprisingly, they’ve sparked a whirlwind of speculation.
One in particular is causing a stir: a photo of Matteo standing in a dimly lit corner of the ballroom, his head bent close to what the tabloid have dubbed as a mystery woman , the two of them appearing deep in conversation.
All of the local gossip pages are having a field day as a result.
Matteo Rossi’s latest romance?
Who’s the woman spotted with the AS Roma star player at the charity gala?
Sources say the pair spent a considerable amount of time together - could this be the start of something new?
I roll my eyes as I scroll through the article, already knowing exactly who the woman is.
Martina Bianchi, fiancée of Daniyal Ferrara, one of the other journalists who had attended the event .
It’s hardly the scandalous affair that the tabloids are making it out to be, but that won’t stop people from running with it.
The narrative is already set: Matteo Rossi has been pictured with a mystery woman, and now the football world is utterly intrigued.
I huff out a breath, tossing my phone onto the couch.
It shouldn’t bother me.
It doesn’t bother me.
(I hate the way I tell myself that several times).
*
Wednesday evening rolls around soon enough, and the now familiar sight of the Stadio Olimpico looming ahead causes me to sigh.
I park up my rental car and make my way towards the entrance. The bright floodlights cut through the dusky evening sky as the buzz of pre-match anticipation hums around me.
Fans filter in, security yells across at them from where they’re stationed at every entrance, and the faint scent of greasy food carries through the air.
I don’t slow my pace.
With my chin high and shoulders back, I weave through the controlled chaos, my press badge attached securely to the bright lanyard around my neck.
The security guard at the media entrance barely spares me a glance before nodding me through.
Good - I’m getting familiar.
The first few times I walked into this stadium, I’d braced for the usual skepticism, the double-checking and the extra scrutiny; but now, I know exactly where I’m going.
I take the familiar route up to the press box, the stadium pulsing with life around me. A few journalists pass by. Some nod in recognition, but most of them are far too busy tapping away at their phones to notice anyone else.
Slipping into my usual seat, I pull out my laptop, plug in my charger, adjust my notes and start preparing my pre-match observations.
My predictions were already posted earlier this afternoon, and I know they’ve caused a lot of controversy from the comments I’ve received online.
Roma are up against a side that historically hasn’t been a real threat, but this season, they’ve been defying expectations. Their manager has spent the last few years investing heavily in their youth academy, bringing up a crop of hungry, fearless players who have slotted into the first team seamlessly; and while they may still be considered the underdogs, I’ve argued they’re the team to watch tonight.
Some fans think I’m underestimating Roma, while others insist I’m just trying to stir the pot.
But I’ve spent a lot of time researching the sport over the last few weeks, and I’ve come to learn that football is unpredictable, and that momentum only carries a team so far.
I pointedly ignore Mark and his usual crew, who are all gathered around on one of the larger couches a few seats away. They’re all engaged in a loud discussion, and the predictably smug amusement that they’re chattering on with instantly raises my hackles.
“Honestly, what did she think was going to happen?” one of them scoffs, his voice carrying. “She was screwing the boss in his office . Did she think nobody would find out? ”
“Poor thing,” another one mockingly sighs. “So young. So na?ve.”
“It’s not about naivety, it’s about stupidity ,” Mark chuckles. “When you sleep your way to the top, eventually, people notice. Especially when you’re being offered promotions like that. ”
He clicks his fingers to emphasise the last word, and they all laugh, shaking their heads in faux disbelief.
I grit my teeth as I try to turn my attention back to my laptop screen.
Of course this is how they’re talking about her. An unknown female journalist gets caught in a scandal, and suddenly, she’s the punchline.
There’s no real mention of the man involved, though. No doubt he still has his job along with his reputation mostly intact.
Typical .
I take a slow breath and force my attention back to my work, refusing to bite and subsequently give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
*
Roma loses.
And not just by a little.
From the first whistle, it’s clear they’re off their game. Their usual sharpness is missing, their passes lack precision, and their movement feels sluggish compared to the hungry, determined opposition.
The underdogs are playing like they have something to prove, because they do, and Roma just can’t keep up .
I wince as one of their midfielders loses possession of the ball yet again, practically gifting the opposition an easy counterattack that forces Roma’s defense into a desperate scramble.
They barely recover in time, but it’s only a matter of minutes before another mistake costs them.
Even Matteo, usually so composed, isn’t immune to the chaos.
Late in the first half, Roma wins a corner, and as usual he steps up to take it.
It’s the moment where I expect him to turn the tide. He’s taken this exact set piece a thousand times before: he knows how to curl the ball into the perfect spot where a teammate can bury it in the back of the net.
But instead, his kick is mistimed, and the ball swings wildly through the air without much control. It doesn’t carry deep enough into the goal area and ends up being kicked out by one of the opposition while Roma’s players scramble in confusion at what just happened.
I physically cringe.
Matteo’s frustration is evident in the way he runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tightly as he jogs back up the pitch.
It only gets worse from there.
By the time the final whistle blows, Roma has been thoroughly outclassed.
The scoreboard doesn’t lie.
3 - 0. A brutal loss.
I can already picture what the headlines will be like tomorrow -
Roma’s Winning Streak Shattered.
Exposed by the Underdogs.
Rossi’s Worst Performance Yet?
I close my laptop and move to stand, gathering my belongings as quickly as possible.
This is not going to be a fun post-match interview.
*
In reality, I should be relieved. The match was an incredible watch, and a terrible performance from one side along with an underdog win means there’s plenty to write about.
Plus, there’s the added bonus of being about to boast about my own predictions, which are time-stamped for all to see.
But by the time I’m waiting in the designated press area for post-match interviews, my stomach is twisting and turning.
There’s a palpable tension lingering from the brutal defeat. Players are being pulled aside one by one, each journalist focused on their own interviews, too caught up in getting their questions answered to pay attention to anyone else.
When they stop by me, I try my best to be sympathetic to their defeat with the questions I ask, and for the most part, they’re polite.
And then there’s him .
Matteo strides in, still in his dirty kit, streaks of mud smeared across his tanned arms and thighs. His dark hair is damp with sweat after spending the past ninety minutes sprinting around the pitch, and he barely acknowledges the others around him, shoulders taut with barely restrained fury.
His jaw is locked so tightly I’m half surprised it hasn’t cracked under the pressure, and I tighten my grip on my recorder as he steps up for media duties.
He doesn’t so much as glance my way. Instead, his gaze skims over the gathered journalists - myself included - all sharp and dismissive.
His expression is hard and unreadable, but I can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers flex at his sides.
When it’s finally my turn to speak with him, I take a breath and steel myself.
But it’s as if I’m just another obstacle in his path rather than someone he actually has to acknowledge.
He doesn’t make any real effort to hold eye contact with me, though I push my irritation to the side and force my voice to remain even and professional.
“Matteo, a tough loss tonight -”
“Is there a question coming, or are you just narrating the obvious?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.
His precious ego has been bruised a little.
Fine .
If he wants to be a dick, I can handle that.
“What do you think went wrong in the second half?”
“ Everything .”
I wait for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his theatrics .
“Alright,” I say, making a conscious effort to keep my voice level. “Did the formation change at halftime have anything to do with the shift in momentum?”
He exhales sharply, clearly exasperated.
“It was a tactical decision. It didn’t work.”
Jesus Christ .
I try again.
“Looking ahead -”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Matteo snaps, cutting me off entirely.
A muscle in my jaw ticks, and slowly, I lower my recorder.
“It’s kind of my job,” I say, tilting my head. “Although I didn’t realise that sulking was included within your contract.”
His gaze lifts to mine for the first time, and his dark eyes flash with a fury that’s unfamiliar. The air around us turns thick, charged with something I can’t quite place.
His chest rises and falls with restrained breath, and for a long moment, neither of us moves.
It’s a standoff. A dangerous one.
Matteo exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, but he still doesn’t say anything. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back, and the silence stretches between us - a crackling, suffocating thing.
I should move on. I should wrap this up, take my losses, and walk away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I clear my throat, lift the recorder back up between our bodies and attempt to start this interview all over again .
“Matteo, it was a difficult match tonight,” I say, keeping my voice cool and measured.
The last thing I want to do right now is to show any sign of weakness.
“Do you think the team underestimated their opponents?”
His eyes flicker, but the muscle in his jaw doesn’t relax.
“No.”
Bullshit.
I fight the urge to sigh.
“Then what do you think went wrong?”
“What do you think went wrong?” he counters, his tone edged with something bitter. “Since you seem to have all the answers.”
I blink at him, admittedly surprised by his snark.
“I’m asking you, because you were on the pitch.”
“And I’ve been playing this game for years,” he bites out, his gaze narrowing. “Long before you decided you could just waltz in and write about it.”
The words hit like a brutal slap to the face, and I go rigid, my fingers tightening around my recorder.
I don’t even think he realises what he’s just said. Not fully.
But I do. I hear it loud and clear.
Long before you decided you could just waltz in and write about it.
As though I don’t belong here.
As if I’m not fighting every fucking day to find my place in this industry .
“Right,” I say, my voice deceptively calm despite the way my pulse thunders violently in my ears. “I suppose you’d rather I was writing about something a little more fitting. Fashion, maybe? Tourism? Or back to my good old roots of petty celebrity gossip?”
His jaw clenches, then relaxes.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
His dark eyes narrow, his expression completely unreadable.
“You always do this, don’t you?” he mutters, his voice quiet and low. “It’s second nature to you, giornalista. You twist my words and make them into something they’re not.”
I let out a sharp laugh.
“ Right . Because there’s absolutely no history of men in this industry dismissing women’s opinions on the sport.”
Something flickers across his face - something quick, almost imperceptible - but the tension remains. I square my shoulders, refusing to show him the way that he’s got under my skin.
By hell or highwater, I’m going to finish this interview.
“One last question,” I say, not letting him get another word in before I can steer the conversation forwards. “Despite tonight’s result, do you still believe Roma has what it takes to go all the way this season?”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then, finally, he exhales, running a hand through his damp hair.
“Yes,” he says. “We’ll come back stronger.”
It’s the most honest answer I’ve gotten from him all night .
I nod, keeping my expression neutral.
“Good luck with that.”
Then I turn, walking away before he can say anything else.
Fuck you, asshole.