Chapter Sixty
Daphne
T he celebrations begin on the pitch and spill into the stadium tunnels like a tidal wave.
Roma’s players lift the trophy high under a storm of gold and crimson confetti, their shouts of joy blending with the deafening roar of the fans. Matteo takes his time with the trophy, kissing it and cradling it like it’s his firstborn child before he turns towards the stands where I sit with the players' families.
Our eyes meet, and he points at me, trophy still aloft, and winks .
The woman sitting beside me, who I think might be the goalkeeper's wife, leans closer.
"Is that your man?" she asks in accented English.
"Uh…" My cheeks flush. " Yeah . I guess he is."
She gives me an approving smile and returns her attention to the field as the celebrations continue.
The moment feels surreal.
I’m here, in Milan, watching Matteo Rossi - a man I once considered insufferable - hoist Roma’s winning trophy. And now I'm sitting among the players' families like I somehow belong.
The thought sits heavily but warmly in my chest as the celebrations shift from the stadium to the team hotel, where the entire top floor has been transformed into a makeshift party zone.
The suite is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Milan’s glittering skyline. The tables are covered in bottles of champagne, spirits and enough food to feed a small army. The music is loud, the mood infectious, and Matteo keeps me tucked tightly against his side as he moves through the crowd.
I recognise most of the players from past interviews. Costa, one of the midfielder’s, gives me a nod and says “ nice prediction, Sinclair, " referencing my 3–1 guess. I laugh, reminding him I was only one goal off, and feel the tension ease from my shoulders.
For the most part, though, I stay close to Matteo.
He seems to relish it.
Whenever someone tries to pull him away - to toast, to joke or to relive one of the match's key moments - his hand never leaves mine. His thumb strokes over my skin, grounding me in the middle of the chaos.
The drinks flow freely, and at some point, Di Marco climbs onto a table - despite his injured hamstring - and starts leading the entire room in a wildly out-of-tune chant.
Matteo joins in, his voice carrying easily over the crowd.
"You’re drunk," I grin.
" Me ?" he gasps, feigning outrage. "I’m an elite athlete. My body is a temple."
I snort. "Your temple smells like tequila. "
He grins and pulls me onto the dance floor.
*
The hours blur together.
At one point, Matteo spins me under his arm while shouting Italian football chants at the top of his lungs.
Someone hands me a glass of prosecco, which I sip as the bass from the music vibrates through the floor.
I lose track of how many people congratulate Matteo, how many photos are taken and how many times the trophy is passed around the room.
The only thing I don’t lose track of is him.
He keeps me close, anchoring me when the crowd becomes overwhelming or when I feel the familiar stirrings of imposter syndrome creeping in.
He squeezes my waist or murmurs something ridiculous in my ear until I relax again, and the hours pass in a haze of music, laughter and endless toasts.
And through it all, I remind myself that I won’t tell him about Mark tonight.
This is his moment. His night.
The scandal will keep until morning. Tonight is about the win.
About him.
About us .
*
By the time the party starts thinning out around four in the morning, my legs ache from dancing and my eyelids weigh a thousand pounds .
Matteo's arm is slung around my shoulders as he leans heavily against me. His hair is a mess, his dress shirt half-untucked, and he’s wearing someone else’s sunglasses for reasons I can't even begin to explain.
"I’m so tired," I mumble as we step into the hotel elevator.
Matteo nuzzles my hair.
" Io anche, bella.” Me too, beautiful. “But worth it."
The elevator glides upward, and Matteo sways slightly beside me. I grip his waist to steady him.
" You're the one who scored three goals tonight," I say, yawning. "How am I more exhausted than you?"
"Emotional exhaustion," Matteo says sagely. "You were worried about me."
"I was," I admit.
He turns his head and kisses my temple.
"But I told you I’d win."
The elevator doors slide open, and we step into the hallway. Matteo fumbles with the keycard twice before getting it right.
The suite smells like cologne and clean linen when we stumble inside, and neither of us bothers to turn on the lights as we strip down to our underwear and collapse into bed without ceremony.
Matteo wraps himself around me immediately, pulling my back firmly against his chest and sighing with contentment. His body is warm and solid behind mine, his breath slow and even against my neck.
As my muscles relax into the mattress, my thoughts drift.
To the stadium. To the penalty .
To Matteo lifting the trophy.
To the look on Richard's face when I tell him I’m accepting the position.
Because I am.
I love this job, and I love it here.
And more than anything else, I love the man currently breathing softly into my hair.
My lips curve into a smile as sleep pulls me under.
I’m staying.
*
The faint hum of Matteo's phone vibrating on the bedside table wakes me.
I blink blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling, momentarily disoriented until the events of last night come rushing back.
The match. The penalty. The celebration.
Matteo’s lips on mine in front of half of Italy.
Beside me, my favourite striker doesn’t so much as stir. His arm remains heavy across my waist, his face buried in the pillow, his hair mussed and his breathing deep and even.
Careful not to wake him, I reach for my own phone on the nightstand.
The screen is flooded with notifications, including several messages from Richard.
Strategic move, Sinclair. Now that’s what I call saving the grand finale for the end of the season.
The board's loving it. Rossi + Roma win + scandal-free romance = engagement gold .
I expect The Tribune to get the exclusive. Get me a draft by noon.
I exhale slowly.
I'd been bracing for Richard to chew me out for the public display with Matteo. Fraternising with a player doesn't exactly scream journalistic integrity - but instead of reprimanding me, he's thrilled .
Because, of course, he only really cares about clicks.
I open my social media, and sure enough, my notifications are a nightmare.
Matteo Rossi scores a hat-trick to win Roma the league… and celebrates with a kiss.
The attached video shows Matteo striding towards me, lifting me into his arms and kissing me like we were the only two people in the world.
The slow-motion edit someone’s applied doesn't help.
I scroll through the comments, heart pounding.
@footballfanatic84: Rossi wins the league AND gets the girl. What a legend. @seriebabe: Okay, but who is she? I need a full biography immediately. @matteoxdaphne4ever: YES! We’ve been waiting for this moment - we are living for this romance.
I snort softly.
An entire account has already been created in our name. Jesus .
The media outlets have picked it up, too.
Roma wins the league – and Rossi wins hearts with surprise sideline kiss.
Roma’s star striker Matteo Rossi leads the team to victory – and introduces his mystery girlfriend.
Rossi's hat-trick secures the title. But who is the British journalist who stole his heart?
Mark's promised exposé clearly never materialised. His so-called friend at an alternative publication must have bailed.
What a shame.
I smile to myself as my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Priya, and her messages come through thick and fast.
BABE. I just saw the video.
I'm dead. You’re famous.
When are you signing autographs?!
I laugh and message her back.
When I stop cringing.
I click back on my socials and scroll through the clips and images of us kissing on the pitch before Priya’s reply comes through just a few minutes later.
Cringing?! You bagged an Italian football god. You are LIVING THE DREAM.
I shake my head, amusement tugging at my lips.
The phone buzzes again, and I glance down, expecting another message from Priya.
But it’s not my best friend. It’s my mother.
Morning, darling! Just saw the news - your father nearly choked on his meal! We can’t believe our daughter is now an Italian celebrity. Well done, love. Dad says to remind you not to get too big-headed.
I snort .
Of course that would be my parents’ response.
Not concern about my professional reputation or surprise at my personal life being splashed across every Italian media outlet - just mild disbelief and a reminder to stay humble.
My dad, who routinely brags about my A-level results to anyone who'll listen, suddenly drawing the line at football fame.
Classic .
I quickly type out a reply.
Tell Dad not to worry. Matteo's ego is big enough for the both of us.
I click back to my socials, scrolling through the endless clips and images of us kissing on the pitch.
It’s still surreal - watching myself in a moment so intimate, yet now so public.
The comments continue to pour in, a mix of curiosity, adoration and the occasional snide remark that I quickly swipe past.
Matteo Rossi and Daphne Sinclair: Italy’s newest power couple.
Bloody hell . How did I get here?
My gaze drifts to Richard’s messages again.
I expect The Tribune to get the exclusive.
The offer - the permanent position as Senior Sports Correspondent - feels heavier now. More real.
More inevitable.
I sit up slowly, untangling myself from Matteo’s grip and sliding out of bed. He murmurs something incoherent but doesn’t wake .
The suite's living area is dimly lit by the soft glow of the city skyline beyond the windows. I reach for a glass from the kitchenette and fill it with water before wandering to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Milan stretches out before me, a glittering maze of lights against the pale blush of the sky as dawn breaks. The streets below are quiet - a stark contrast to the chaos of last night.
I take a sip of water and let it all settle in.
Roma won.
Matteo scored a hat-trick in the league final.
The kiss that I'd worried would cause chaos has, in fact, made us the newest sports media darlings.
And I'm standing here, barefoot in a luxury hotel suite, while the man I’m rapidly falling for sleeps in the next room.
Rome had always been meant as a short-term assignment. Three months to cover football, write some tactical pieces, and then get back to my normal life in London.
Except London doesn't feel like home anymore.
Rome does.
With its chaotic charm, buzzing culture, warm sunshine -
And Matteo.
I set my water down on the windowsill and open my email app, knowing what I need to do. The cursor blinks at me expectantly as I draft my message.
Re: Permanent Contract Offer
Hi Richard,
Thanks for your messages this morning.
I’ve given your offer a lot of thought, and I’m thrilled to accept the position of Senior Sports Correspondent here in Rome.
I'll get you the exclusive on the post-match celebrations later today. Let me know if you'd like a particular angle.
Best,
Daphne Sinclair
I hover my thumb over the send button.
Deep breath.
I press it, and the email disappears into the ether.
That's it.
Decision made.
The relief hits me almost immediately. My shoulders loosen, my chest feels lighter, and a smile stretches across my face.
It’s official: I'm staying.
"What's got you smiling like that?"
I jump slightly as warm, tanned arms snake around my waist from behind, and my pulse spikes.
" Jesus , Matteo," I breathe, relaxing into his embrace as his chin comes to rest on my shoulder. "You scared me."
He nuzzles my neck lazily, his stubble scratching deliciously against my skin.
"Sorry," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep. "Woke up and you were gone. Couldn’t have that."
I turn my head to look at him. His hair is still a mess, his eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion - but he's here, pressed against me, holding me like he has no intention of letting go.
"I was just getting some water," I say softly .
"And thinking," he guesses.
"Yeah."
His lips brush the sensitive spot just below my ear.
"About what?"
I bite my lip and lean my head back against his shoulder.
"About how I'm staying."
His body stills behind me, and I twist slightly to look up at him.
His dark eyes search mine, like he's waiting for me to elaborate.
"I didn’t want to trouble you while you’ve been focusing on the final," I explain, my voice soft but steady. "But… Richard offered me Mark's old job. It’s a permanent position as the Senior Sports Correspondent. And… I just emailed him to accept."
Matteo's eyes widen slightly, like he's not sure he heard me correctly.
"You're… staying?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.
I nod, smiling.
"Yeah. I'm staying. In Rome. For good."
The grin that spreads across his face is pure, unfiltered joy.
“You're serious?"
"Completely. I mean, I still need to figure a few things out - like where I'll live once my short-term lease is up, and what my salary even is - but yeah. I'm staying."
He lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating through my back .
"Thank God."
I glance up at him, smiling.
"Were you really that worried?"
"Of course," he says, lips quirking as he blinks down at me. "I was already calculating the cost of flying to London every week. Or worse, trying to get a transfer to a Premier League team when I’ve just signed a renewal contract."
I burst out laughing.
"That would've been a terrible career move."
"Terrible?" He arches a brow. "Premier League wages are higher, bella ."
"Yeah, but then you'd have to deal with British weather."
"Mmm . Good point." He brushes his lips against the side of my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "This is better. You staying. We’re staying."
"Yeah," I whisper, leaning into him. "It is."
He turns me around so I’m facing him, his hands framing my face. His gaze is soft but intense, the kind of look that steals the air from my lungs.
"You're really staying," he murmurs, almost to himself. "With me."
My heart swells.
"With you," I confirm. "For as long as you’ll have me."
His jaw flexes as something unspoken passes between us. His thumbs sweep gently across my cheeks, and his eyes twinkle with something deeper.
Something heavier.
"I’ll have you for good,” he says. He opens his mouth again, hesitates, then exhales softly. “I love you, Daphne."
The words land like a spark to dry kindling.
Warm. Bright. Immediate.
My breath catches as his dark eyes search mine, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.
Overwhelmed is an understatement, and tears sting the backs of my eyes as I press my forehead to his.
"I…” I start before clearing my throat and trying again. “I love you too, Matteo."
The moment stretches, heavy with the weight of what we've just admitted.
But then he kisses me - deep and unhurried, like he's committing every second of it to memory. His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me to him with a certainty that makes my heart ache.
Because this is certain.
The sun climbs higher outside the window, the city below stirs to life, and here, wrapped in Matteo Rossi’s arms, I know with absolute certainty that this is home.
This is where I’m meant to be.