Chapter Thirty-Two
Daphne
T he children's home is tucked away on a quiet street, a worn-out but well-loved building with bright murals painted along the outer walls.
There’s a massive, colourful sun with cartoonish rays stretching out over a patch of flowers, and just below it, a group of smiling children holding hands.
Someone - a very ambitious artist, clearly - has attempted to paint a footballer mid-bicycle kick. His proportions are slightly off, and his face looks alarmingly like an owl, but the effort is there.
I let out a slow breath as I take it all in. The window sills are lined with tiny potted plants, no doubt messily tended to by little hands, and even from the entrance I can hear the faint sound of laughter and shouts from inside.
It’s the kind of sound that’s both comforting and a little chaotic, like the place is constantly alive with energy.
Mark clears his throat from where he appears beside me, and my lips curve into a polite smile as I turn to face him.
For some bizarre reason, he has decided to dress as if we’re attending a shareholders’ meeting rather than visiting children .
A pristine navy-blue suit. Tailored , and not a wrinkle in sight. A crisp white dress shirt tucked in so tightly it could be vacuum-sealed to his body, a designer watch gleaming obnoxiously on his wrist along with an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses perched on his nose.
Oh, and his shoes are shiny, black, and polished to within an inch of their life.
He looks like he should be negotiating a multi-million-dollar deal, not walking into a place where at least one child will inevitably wipe their nose on him.
I stare at him for a long second, genuinely wondering if he’s lost his mind.
“Bit underdressed, aren’t you?” Mark comments, looking me up and down.
I glance down at myself. I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted, flared black trousers, a short-sleeved dark blouse and a pair of flat shoes. My hair is tied up into a ponytail, and I’ve opted for minimal makeup.
My entire look is practical - something Mark clearly doesn’t understand.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I forgot this was a black-tie event.”
“Just saying,” he smirks. “You could’ve put in a little more effort.”
“I’m dressed for the occasion,” I tell him before motioning vaguely at his watch. “Meanwhile, that thing alone is probably worth more than this entire building.”
Mark checks his watch like he’s genuinely contemplating whether or not that’s true.
“I like to look presentable. ”
“You like to look rich ,” I correct. “Which is… your choice. I just hope you’re prepared for one of these kids to throw up on you.”
He laughs like I’m joking.
I am absolutely not joking.
With a dismissive wave, he strides toward the entrance.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I follow after him, shaking my head.
“Mark, we’re about to enter a building filled with tiny, chaotic human beings. This isn’t ridiculous , it’s inevitable .”
He doesn’t respond, and I let out a sigh.
Fine . Let him learn the hard way.
If I’m lucky, I’ll get a front-row seat to some jam-covered toddler absolutely ruining that suit.
It’s the least he deserves for making me listen to him and his cronies whine on about women in journalism sleeping their way to the top.
We step inside, and the warmth of this place is immediate. The air smells like a mixture of crayons, baby wipes, and something sweet.
A little girl with curly pigtails runs past us, giggling as another child chases after her. The walls are covered in drawings, some more abstract than others, and at the end of the hall, I spot a bulletin board pinned with pictures of past events and visits.
We’ve literally just stepped through the door, and it’s already clear that the staff here do everything they can to make this place feel like home.
For a moment, I push aside my irritation at Mark and just take it in.
In the end, this is what really matters.
Not the players showing up for PR.
Not Mark’s ridiculous outfit.
The kids.
The ones who live here, who don’t have families waiting for them at home.
They don’t care about press, about cameras, about football careers - they just want someone to play with them, to listen to their stories, to treat them like they matter.
Something tugs in my chest, but I shake it off before it can settle too deep.
A staff member approaches, all smiles. She greets us in Italian and we all share quick kisses on cheeks.
As she moves to lead us over towards a private room where we’ll wait for the others to arrive, I square my shoulders and mentally prepare myself.
I already know that one of those people is Matteo Rossi, and since I’m going to have to deal with him today on top of everything else, then I’m going to need a lot more patience than I currently have -
And to hope that he’s in a better mood than he was the last time we spoke.
*
The front room of the children’s home is alive with movement.
The camera crew has arrived, setting up their tripods and checking sound levels, their voices a low murmur as they discuss the best angles for the shoot. The players are here too, dressed down in team-branded polos and joggers and standing in a loose circle with a few of the staff as they go over the logistics of the day.
I’ve managed to avoid Matteo so far, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful.
I’ve attached myself to a man named Giuseppe; an older Italian gentleman with silver-streaked hair and warm, expressive eyes. He introduced himself the moment I walked into the room, his handshake firm but kind, and within minutes, he had launched into his life story.
“I grew up here, you know,” he tells me, gesturing to the walls around us. His English is excellent, though accented, his voice rich with nostalgia. “Came here when I was seven. My parents -” he pauses, corrects himself - “my first parents. They were not good people. This place saved me.”
I listen intently as Giuseppe explains how, at thirteen, he was adopted by a couple who had no children of their own. His voice grows softer as he speaks of them, his expression touched with both fondness and grief.
“They were good people,” he says, his thick fingers curling together like he’s holding onto the memory itself. “Strict, but kind. They taught me how to work hard, how to be honest, how to be good.” He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Mamma used to say that blood means nothing if the heart is true.”
I smile at that, but there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite shake.
“They gave me everything. A home. An education. Love .” He clears his throat, his voice turning gruff. “They’re gone now.”
There’s a beat of silence as he stares off into the distance. His weathered face is almost unreadable, but his misting eyes say enough .
I open my mouth, but what can I even say to that?
I’m sorry feels cheap.
That must be hard feels insufficient.
“But I had them for a long time,” he adds finally, with a small, firm nod.
Almost as if it’s something he reminds himself of often. As if it’s somehow enough.
And now, in his retirement, he spends his days here, giving his time to the home that once gave him everything. He doesn’t have children of his own, but he has this.
He has them .
I swallow down the lump in my throat.
This is real charity work.
Not showing up for an hour or two, handing over a few toys that cost less than one percent of a footballer’s weekly salary and posing for some carefully curated photos.
Not shaking a few hands, tousling a kid’s hair and then disappearing back into their million-euro lifestyles, patting themselves on the back for their generosity.
The thought disgusts me, makes my stomach twist with something ugly.
Giuseppe is the one who deserves a camera in his face - not these idiots.
I push it all down as the children start filtering into the main room, and the frustration I feel momentarily dissolves.
They are adorable .
Most of them are hesitant at first, clinging to the edges of the group, their dark eyes flitting between the unfamiliar faces. Some look up at the players with open admiration, wide-eyed at the real-life footballers standing in front of them while others remain skeptical, unconvinced that these men will be worth their time.
They speak mostly in Italian, their voices soft and uncertain. Giuseppe explains that some are learning English, but it isn’t a priority.
“They have more important things to worry about,” he says.
I nod, understanding completely.
I crouch down, offering a smile, and slowly, a few of them warm up.
One little girl in particular catches my attention. She can’t be older than five or six, with tight curls framing her round face and a gap in her smile where her front tooth used to be. Her tiny hands clutch a well-loved stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin in patches, its ears slightly frayed.
She doesn’t say a word. She just watches me.
Big, dark eyes fixed on mine, her expression unreadable, but filled with something that tugs deep in my chest.
Curiosity? Caution?
Hope ?
I tilt my head at her.
She tilts hers back.
A smile tugs at my lips. I arch a brow, playing along, and widen my eyes dramatically. She mimics me, her own brows furrowing in exaggerated concentration.
And then, she grins.
It’s a shy little thing - quick and fleeting - but it’s there .
And as if she’s just made the most important decision of her life, she steps forward with great determination, clutching her rabbit just a little tighter. Then, without a single word, she plops it directly into my lap.
Something in my chest squeezes, and I blink down at the rabbit, slightly stunned.
I’ve never been the best with children. Hardly the most experienced.
Still, I suppose I can’t go too wrong here, and I pick the rabbit up gently, handling it with the kind of reverence it deserves, brushing my fingers over its worn ears and sagging body.
After a long, very serious moment, I nod with what I hope appears to be great importance.
“This,” I say solemnly, “is a very good rabbit.”
I know she won’t understand the words, but I hope - god, I hope - she understands the meaning behind them.
For a second, there’s silence.
And then her entire face lights up.
She beams so wide and so bright that it physically hurts something inside me. The kind of smile that could knock the wind right out of your lungs if you weren’t prepared for it.
(Heaven knows I am not at all prepared for it.)
Tears prick hot at the back of my eyes, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed.
More than I expected to. More than I know what to do with.
I need a moment.
I need air .
I stand abruptly, handing the rabbit back to her with careful hands .
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter, though I don’t even know if I’m saying it to her, to myself, or to no one at all.
And then, before I embarrass myself, I head out of the room and step into the hallway, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
The cool air outside the room is a relief, but it does nothing to quiet the storm brewing in my chest.
My emotions feel tangled. Too big. Too raw.
Too much .
The little girl’s smile, the weight of the stuffed rabbit in my hands, the sheer unfairness of it all - how some children are born into love, while others have to wait and hope for it…
I exhale sharply, pressing my fingers against my eyes, willing myself to get it together.
You cannot cry in the middle of a press event, Daphne.
Mark would never let me live it down.
I’m not thinking straight, not paying attention to my surroundings, and in my heightened state, I end up walking straight into a wall.
Except that it’s not a wall.
It’s Matteo Rossi.
Because, of course it is.
I stumble back, but his large hands come up swiftly, gripping the tops of my arms to steady me. His hold is firm and steady, and the heat of his skin sears straight through the fabric of my blouse.
I freeze, though my stomach flips violently at the unexpected contact .
He’s warm. Too warm.
I look up, lips parted slightly and still trying to gather my bearings. His dark eyes flicker as he takes me in, his brows knitting together ever so slightly.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The hallway feels too quiet, the air too heavy.
It’s been days since I last saw him, and our post-match encounter had been nothing short of disastrous. He’d been rude and short and snappy and had given me practically nothing to work with.
Somehow, I’d still managed to pull together an article that Richard adored - though I suspect the article views combined with the flood of commenters demanding to see actual footage of our exchange had more to do with that than my writing.
More than that, it has also been an entire week since Matteo’s hands were last on my skin, and I hate the way my heart reacts to his touch.
As though he can read my mind, he releases me, stepping back like he’s been burned - like he’s just realised how close we actually are. His hands drop to his sides and he tilts his head, assessing me with those sharp, dark eyes.
“You okay?”
It’s not exactly gentle. He doesn’t soften his tone or offer any kind of reassurance.
But there’s something there - something that almost, almost resembles concern.
I swallow, straightening my spine.
“I’m fine. ”
He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little.
His gaze lingers, studying me like he’s trying to piece something together.
He leans his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You’re crying.”
“I am not crying.”
One dark brow lifts, radiating skepticism, and I huff out a breath.
“I was moved . There’s a difference.”
Matteo’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a smirk, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze flickers briefly toward the door I just fled from.
“The kids?” he asks.
I nod.
“They’re incredible.”
There’s a small pause before he nods too, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Yeah. They are.”
I blink up at him, caught off guard.
Matteo Rossi, agreeing with me? Expressing a human emotion that isn’t arrogance or irritation?
I half expect the sky to crack open and lightning to strike us both down.
For just a moment - for one fleeting, unguarded second - he doesn’t look like the cocky, insufferable footballer who irritates me at every turn. He looks… Well .
Tired .
I hesitate, caught somewhere between confusion and something else - something I don’t want to name.
Because this?
Matteo being agreeable ?
It’s throwing me for a loop.
“Careful,” I say. “If you keep this up, I might start thinking you actually have a soul.”
Matteo exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Can’t have that.”
I glance back toward the door, my chest still a little tight from before.
“It just… it gets to you, you know?” I admit before I can stop myself. “I knew it would, but I guess I wasn’t expecting it to hit quite so hard.”
For once, he doesn’t mock, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t hit me with some sarcastic remark.
Instead, after a beat, he says, “it should hit hard.”
There’s a rare kind of sincerity in his voice.
Something soft and genuine that catches me off guard, and I blink, looking up at him.
“These kids deserve everything,” he continues. “And most of them have had to fight for scraps their whole lives. If that doesn’t get to you, you’re either heartless or too far removed to care.”
It’s the most honest thing I think I’ve ever heard him say, and the way he says it - like he actually means it -
I simply don’t know what to do with that .
“I guess I just…” I hesitate, shaking my head, trying to push past the emotions still thick in my chest. “I just hate how performative it all is. The cameras, the photos, the ‘ look how generous we are ’ narrative. They’re children - not props for a good PR moment.”
Matteo lets out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his dark hair.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s bullshit.”
I stare at him.
Again .
Who is this man, and where has he been hiding?
Because this is not the same Matteo Rossi who shut me down in that post-match interview, acting like I was a mosquito buzzing in his ear.
This is not the Matteo Rossi who, by all accounts, should be exactly the kind of person who thrives off the cameras, who soaks up the attention like it’s his birthright.
And yet… here he is.
Casual, thoughtful, and - dare I think it - almost likable .
Fuck . Am I having an existential crisis?!
“You’re being very un-Matteo-Rossi-like right now,” I say. “Should I be concerned?”
Matteo huffs out a laugh.
“Relax, giornalista. It’s not a permanent condition.”
“That’s a relief,” I deadpan. “I was about to check you for a fever.”
Matteo smirks but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying me .
“You care a lot,” he says.
It’s not a question, and I hesitate as I narrow my eyes, unsure as to where he’s going with this or what he’s trying to imply.
“So?”
His gaze lingers on mine for a second longer than is probably necessary.
“It’s not a bad thing.”
And that , more than anything else, leaves me feeling completely off balance.
Because if Matteo Rossi is suddenly capable of saying things that sound dangerously close to nice -
Well. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!