Chapter Thirty-Nine
Daphne
T he following days blur into something strange and unfamiliar.
It’s hardly as though I expected the world to come to a standstill just because I’d slept with one of Italy’s most famous footballers - again . The sun still rises, the team still trains, and I still have articles to write.
But beneath the routine, beneath the illusion of normalcy, there are shifts.
Small, almost imperceptible, but shifts all the same.
Things are mostly the same as they were before, and yet, some things feel different. Some things feel new .
Matteo still lingers too long in post-match interviews, but now there’s something knowing in his gaze, something almost expectant.
He still finds ways to infuriate me with his smugness, but now his teasing is layered with something else. Something warmer, something charged.
It’s the way he leans in closer than necessary. The way his fingers graze mine when he hands me my recorder.
It’s the way his eyes track me across the room, the way his smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when he catches me watching him first.
It’s the subtle, nearly imperceptible touches - his knee bumping against mine during an interview, his hand brushing my lower back when he passes by in the tunnel.
The way his voice softens sometimes, when he says my name.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That it doesn’t mean anything.
But I’m a writer, and writers live for details.
And there are So. Many. Details .
Like when he shows up to training one morning when I’ve been sent to write a piece on the team’s routine, handing me a coffee without so much as a word.
I blink down at it, confused.
"What’s this?"
Matteo shrugs, expression infuriatingly casual.
"You looked like you needed one."
"Did you put something in it?" I frown.
"Just caffeine," he says, the picture of innocence. "And maybe a little love."
I nearly throw the cup at him.
Then there’s the press conference, where one particularly obnoxious journalist starts taking digs at him, picking apart his performance despite the fact that he’s been one of the best players of the season.
"Some would say that with the money you earn, you should be scoring more goals," the journalist says, voice oily with condescension .
Matteo’s jaw tightens, and before I can think better of it, the words are out of my mouth.
"Pretty sure if Rossi scored any more, we’d have to start renaming stadiums after him."
There’s a beat of silence before Matteo lets out a short, surprised laugh. He glances at me, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
The journalist - apparently annoyed at being upstaged - glares at me before moving on.
Once everything has wrapped up, Matteo hovers behind me, leaning in slightly as people shuffle around us, his voice a low murmur.
"Defending me now, bella ?"
I huff as I pack my notes away.
"Don’t let it go to your head."
There are the moments that feel like old times - the banter, the eye rolls, the insufferable arrogance - but then there are the new ones.
The ones that threaten to throw me completely off balance.
And despite everything - despite how much we supposedly irritate each other - I’ve stopped pretending that I don’t look forward to seeing him.
And I think that maybe - just maybe - he’s stopped pretending, too.
*
It happens during one of those in-between moments, when the team is training and I’m sitting in the small café inside the stadium, half-distracted by my laptop screen.
I have my iced coffee, my notes and an ever-growing sense of frustration with the words refusing to cooperate.
I don’t even notice him at first.
Not until a shadow falls over my screen and a voice murmurs, far too close to my ear.
"Chapter Forty."
I jump slightly, my fingers freezing over the keyboard.
Matteo leans over my shoulder, his damp hair still tousled from training.
He reads the words aloud, his accent wrapping around the syllables in a way that almost distracts me from the fact that he’s blatantly invading my personal space.
I snap the laptop shut, embarrassed.
"Don’t you have anything better to do than coming here and bothering me?"
Matteo ignores my question entirely, straightening up but still standing too close.
"Busy writing," he muses. "But not for an article."
I exhale slowly, already regretting my life choices.
"It’s nothing."
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"You’re a terrible liar, cara. "
I press my lips together, knowing him well enough by now to realise there’s no getting out of this. He’s like a dog with a bone when he wants something, and apparently, that something is my dignity.
"It’s a book," I admit finally, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be. "A novel."
Matteo blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that answer .
"So you write fiction,” he nods. “Explains a lot."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" I glare.
"Journalism, gossip, making things up..?”
I roll my eyes at the sight of his stupid smirk, but before I can fire back, he suddenly moves, placing his hands on either side of my chair and leaning in again to re-open my laptop.
I barely have time to react before his voice turns smug.
"So, what’s it about? A journalist falling for a devastatingly handsome footballer?"
I snap the laptop shut again, harder this time.
"Don’t even think about it, Rossi."
"Why not?" he grins, completely undeterred. "Come on, let me read it."
I let out an exasperated sigh.
"Do you ever respect personal space?"
"Not when I’m interested in something."
I shake my head, but I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me.
"You’re hopeless."
Matteo’s smirk deepens, his gaze flicking to my lips for just a fraction of a second.
"And yet, you like me anyway."
I freeze.
He says it so easily, so confidently, and yet… there’s something almost expectant in the way he watches me.
Like he’s waiting for me to deny it. Waiting for me to fight him on it .
I don’t.
Because I don’t know how to.
Because liking him is the problem, isn’t it?
And neither of us has mentioned the fact that in just a few weeks, the season will end.
And I’ll be leaving.
We haven’t spoken about it, but we both know it’s coming.
Feeling awkward, I clear my throat and try to deter him all over again.
"It’s in English," I say, as if that will be the end of it.
"I’ll manage,” he shrugs.
"Wait, you really mean it?” I gasp, feigning surprise. “ You can read?! "
Matteo places a hand over his heart. "You insult me."
"I state facts."
“You could always read it to me,” he grins, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
I let out a sharp laugh.
"You want me to read out an entire novel just for you?"
“I like the sound of you doing anything that’s just for me, ” he smirks.
I shake my head, turning back to my iced coffee.
“Don’t you have a job to do?”
He simply laughs before he turns on his heel, and my shoulders sag slightly as I let out a long breath.
But even as he finally walks away, I can feel the weight of his attention lingering.
Fuck.