Chapter Forty
Daphne
T he press room hums with the usual post-match energy, the away stadium still buzzing even though the match ended over an hour ago. Around me, there are journalists typing frantically, players filtering in and out, PR reps keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.
I should be focused on work. I am focused on work, even.
Until he appears.
Matteo Rossi strides into the press area like he owns the place, still in his match kit, a fresh sheen of sweat along his hairline. His jersey clings to his muscular physique, his collarbones visible beneath the fabric, and I hate that I notice.
I glance down at my notes, pretending to type.
Ignore him. Ignore him.
It doesn’t work.
Matteo spots me immediately, his lips curving into that devastating, self-assured grin that makes my stomach clench. His interview with the local TV networks wraps up, and instead of heading straight to the changing area so that he can get ready to hop on the team bus like a normal person, he detours .
Right. To. Me.
I stiffen, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings.
There are too many eyes here. Too many ears.
And one particular pair that I absolutely do not want listening in.
My senior journalist is somewhere nearby, lurking like an ever-present shadow.
He’s been watching me lately - more than usual. I can practically feel his disapproval burning into me every time I so much as glance in Matteo’s direction, though he hasn’t said anything more about it since my outburst in the office.
Yet .
“Rossi,” I greet, my voice prim and professional.
Matteo doesn’t even flinch. Just tilts his head, grinning like he knows exactly why I’m acting like this.
I hate him.
(We’ve already established that’s a lie.)
“You looked very focused,” he muses, nodding toward my laptop screen. “Writing about my goal?”
I level him with a look.
“You mean the tap-in after a real striker did all the work?”
His brows shoot up.
“ Ouch .”
“Oh, please. You’ll survive.”
Matteo leans in slightly, voice dropping low.
“So, about that date… ”
I freeze for half a second before schooling my expression into one of practiced indifference.
“What date?” I ask, keeping my tone flat.
“The one we’re going on.”
I scoff.
“We’ve never talked about going on a date.”
“We’re talking about it now.”
I open my mouth, then close it again, unwilling to let him see even a flicker of surprise - or worse, excitement .
“You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t even asked properly,” I point out.
Matteo chuckles, tilting his head.
“Do I need to? You’ll say yes anyway.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You don’t know that.”
He leans in just a fraction more, his breath warm against my ear.
“I do, bella. ”
I straighten, brushing him off.
“Shh.”
His grin widens.
“ Shh? ”
“Yes, shh. ” I dart my eyes around the room, paranoid. “I’m working.”
“So am I,” he counters, completely unbothered. “Just finished, actually. Which means now is the perfect time to discuss our plans.”
I exhale sharply.
“We are not discussing this here.”
He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in further, his scent invading my senses.
“A date,” he repeats, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“You know what - no. That’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t date , Matteo,” I tell him. “That’s not what this is.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens.
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
Because damn him , I don’t have a good answer for that.
“It’s…” I fumble, crossing my arms. “Casual.”
His eyes gleam with something unreadable.
“So let’s casually go on a date.”
“ Ugh. That’s not how this works, Rossi.”
“Sure it is,” he counters. “We spend time together, we eat good food, we talk. That’s a date. A casual one.”
I hate how logical he’s making this sound.
“Come on, cara. ” He says, his voice dipping even lower. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Plenty. So much , actually.
But something about the way he looks at me, with that infuriating blend of confidence and something softer - something just for me - makes me exhale in defeat.
I shake my head, already hating myself for the answer that begrudgingly falls from my lips.
“ Fine .”
His grin is instant, cocky and victorious.
“But this doesn’t mean anything,” I warn.
Matteo hums, tilting his head.
“Whatever you say.”
I don’t like the way he says it - like he knows something I don’t.
Like maybe, just maybe… this does mean something.
*
Friday evening comes around before I know it.
I smooth my hands over my dress - a soft pastel yellow sundress that falls just above my knees - the light fabric perfect for the lingering May heat.
Paired with flat brown sandals, it’s a simple choice: effortless, but still pretty.
My auburn hair is half-up, half-down, secured with a matching yellow bow to finish off the look. Not knowing what to prepare for, I’ve kept my makeup natural - just a hint of mascara, a sweep of blush, and a soft pink tint on my lips.
I expect Matteo to take me somewhere predictable.
A restaurant, maybe, or a bar. Somewhere loud and flashy, somewhere he can be seen and I can cringe and hide.
Instead, we’re driving up winding roads, away from the city center, the sun setting in the distance .
The city sprawls beneath us as we climb higher and higher, golden light spilling over rooftops, domes and ruins. When we finally stop, I step out and inhale sharply.
The view is… breathtaking.
From up here, Rome stretches endlessly in front of me, the ancient and the modern woven together under the last streaks of daylight. The Colosseum stands proudly in the distance, the river snaking lazily through the city.
I turn to him, surprised.
“I thought you were taking me to dinner.”
He leans against his car, watching me instead of the view.
“I am.”
At my confused look, he smirks and lifts a paper bag.
“Picnic.”
I blink.
“You?”
“ Si, me,” he says, mock-offended. “I’m capable of romance, darling. ”
He rolls his r and I roll my eyes, but I take a seat on the stone ledge all the same.
He swiftly joins me, pulling out a selection of food - bread, cheese, olives and prosciutto - things he must have grabbed from some small alimentari on the way.
For a while, we just eat, watching the city settle into twilight.
It’s easy. Almost… normal.
Somewhere between bites, the conversation turns.
“My dad brought me here when I was eighteen years old,” Matteo says, staring out at the skyline. “The day I got called up for my first match with the team.”
I glance at him, surprised at the statement.
“He stood right there,” he continues, gesturing to a nearby spot. “Told me to take a good look. He said that this is my city now. That I had to make them love me - that I had to prove myself, too. Show them I was worth it.” A small chuckle. “No pressure, right?”
I smile faintly, but something in his expression makes my chest ache.
“You talk about him a lot,” I say quietly.
“Well, he gave up everything for me. Worked three jobs when I was a kid just so I could keep playing.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“We didn’t have money, but he still made sure I had boots, kits. Drove me to and from training, no matter how exhausted he was.”
I swallow, suddenly feeling worlds apart from him.
“What about your mother?” I ask carefully.
“She… struggled. A lot,” he says, his fingers toying with a loose thread on his light denim jeans. “Drank too much. Yelled too much. But she loved me. Just… not always in the way a kid needs.”
There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken but understood.
I hesitate, then reach over, brushing my fingers over his. He turns his hand, catching mine before I can pull away, holding it against his palm.
And, God help me, I let him .
“My parents weren’t like that,” I admit after a long silence.
Matteo tilts his head. “No?”
I shake my head.
“They were… good. On paper, at least. We didn’t struggle financially. They sent me to a private school, to all of the best clubs, made sure I got into a good university…”
I trail off, letting out a small, humourless laugh.
“They went on nice holidays. Expensive ones. Only, most of the time, they left me behind.”
Matteo shifts beside me, his body angled towards mine, the weight of his gaze pressing into me even before he speaks.
“They just… left you?”
His voice is quieter now, threaded with something I can’t quite place.
I nod, my fingers toying with the edge of my dress.
“They were busy. Still are.” I force out a small, humorless laugh. “I feel like I hardly talk to them at all these days.”
His expression hardens, his brows drawing together.
“That’s -”
He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply.
Then, to my surprise, he reaches for my free hand, his fingers warm and firm as they squeeze mine.
“That’s shit, cara .”
The bluntness of it pulls a soft, breathy laugh from my lips.
“Yeah. It is.”
I glance down at our joined hands, at the contrast of his tanned skin against mine.
“I guess it brought me here, though.”
His grip tightens just slightly.
“Here,” he repeats, voice low. “With me.”
I swallow hard, something unfamiliar twisting in my chest.
We sit there in silence for a long moment, the quiet hum of the city below us filling the space.
The sun is dipping lower now, casting its warm light over his sharp features, making his dark eyes gleam.
And when he finally turns to me, his gaze dark and unreadable, I know what’s coming.
I don’t stop him as he leans in.
His lips brush mine first, testing, teasing.
Then again, firmer this time, like he’s searching for something neither of us knows how to say.
A small sound escapes me, and Matteo takes it as permission, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the nape of my neck, his thumb pressing just beneath my jaw, and heat flares low in my stomach.
It’s slow. Deep. Lingering.
And for the first time, I don’t think about what will happen when I leave.
I just let myself be here.