Chapter Thirty-Three
Daphne
I don’t go back into the room right away. Instead, I linger by the doorway as the children move outside, watching the chaos unfold.
Matteo is in the middle of it.
I tell myself I’ll only watch for a second, but then he does something else, and I can’t look away.
At some point, the camera crew shifts their focus to another part of the visit - players handing out gifts, shaking hands, posing for perfectly curated shots that will no doubt make the club look good.
Matteo, however, doesn’t seem to care about any of that.
He’s still outside, a football at his feet, surrounded by a group of kids who seem to absolutely adore him.
At first, it’s just the football. He’s still kicking it around with the boys, letting them dribble past him, pretending - badly - to be a terrible defender as they weave around him and score goal after goal against the imaginary net.
One of the older boys, maybe nine or ten, flicks the ball up with his knee and sends it flying towards Matteo’s chest. Matteo controls it easily, grinning as he flicks it back .
They’re laughing, teasing him.
“Sei troppo lento, Rossi!” You’re too slow, Rossi.
Matteo clutches his chest dramatically, stumbling backward as if he’s been mortally wounded.
“Troppo lento?” he echoes, mock-offended. “Io? Ma io sono il più veloce del mondo!”
Too slow? Me? I’m the fastest in the world!
I snort before I can stop myself.
Because of course Matteo Rossi thinks he’s the fastest in the world.
The kids, however, are not buying it. They shake their heads, grinning, and one of them boldly points at another player on the team - who is standing across the courtyard in full media-friendly mode - and boldly declares, “Gatti è più veloce.” Gatti is faster.
Matteo gasps, scandalised.
“Traditore!” Traitor!
The little boy giggles and takes off running, and Matteo chases him, full sprint. He catches the boy easily and hoists him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
He shrieks with laughter, kicking his feet, and Matteo turns in a slow circle, letting the others take their revenge by pelting him with their tiny footballs.
I should not be smiling.
And yet.
The cameras are elsewhere, capturing some staged moment with another player handing over a cheque made out to the owner of the home, but Matteo doesn’t seem to notice - or care .
He’s here, really here, his focus completely on these kids who are absolutely eating up every moment that they get with him.
It’s… jarring .
Because this isn’t the same man who snapped at me in that post-match interview just days ago, who all but sneered at my questions and made me feel like an inconvenience rather than a journalist doing her job.
No, this Matteo Rossi is laughing, ruffling the hair of a little boy who just nutmegged him with an excited squeal.
This Matteo crouches down to fix a little girl’s untied shoelace before giving her a light tap on the nose and sending her on her way.
This Matteo is speaking in fast, easy Italian, his voice warm in a way that I’m almost convinced I’ve imagined.
And then - because apparently my heart isn’t suffering enough - one of the smaller boys tugs at Matteo’s sleeve.
He’s maybe four or five, with an oversized jersey swallowing his tiny frame and a determined look on his face. He tugs harder when Matteo doesn’t immediately react.
Matteo looks down, and the boy lifts his arms expectantly.
With zero hesitation, Matteo just picks him up, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like it’s instinct.
The little boy nestles into his shoulder, one tiny hand gripping to his collar, and Matteo’s free hand moves to rub soothingly along his back as he smiles - a real, genuine smile.
Not the cocky smirk I’ve seen in post-match interviews, not the practiced expression I’ve caught on camera after a particularly impressive goal.
No, this smile is softer, warmer, and pointedly not for an audience.
That’s what messes with me.
Because I don’t know what to do with it.
I don’t know what to do with him .
He is supposed to be arrogant and rude - the human embodiment of my worst workdays.
He is not supposed to be sweet with children.
He is not supposed to be cradling a tiny human against his chest like it’s the safest place in the world.
And he is definitely not supposed to look so good while doing it.
But he does. Infuriatingly, devastatingly good.
Matteo Rossi, it seems, is not just one thing.
He is not just a striker with a god complex. Not just a temperamental, infuriating footballer who, for some reason, has made it his life’s mission to antagonise me.
He is this, too.
And I don’t like what that does to me.
Not one bit.