Chapter Fifty-Nine
Daphne
T he stadium tunnels hum with chaotic energy as I make my way towards the post-match interview area.
The air is thick with the scent of sweat, grass and adrenaline, and every few seconds, someone rushes past me - different players, staff and journalists all swept up in the euphoric aftermath of Roma's championship win.
I clutch my press pass like a lifeline and weave through the crowd. My plan was simple: head to the designated media zone, grab a few post-match quotes from whoever’s available and file them for my article.
Easy. Straightforward. Professional .
But as I near the tunnel opening, a group of journalists veers left, ducking past a barrier and slipping directly onto the pitch.
I stop, hesitating.
The field glows beneath the stadium floodlights, the grass torn and scuffed from ninety-seven minutes of brutal competition. Roma's players are still celebrating out there, soaking in the moment .
I know the drill: stick to the tunnel, wait for players to come through. Mark drilled that into me when I first arrived in Rome.
Don't go out there unless you're told.
You're here to report, not play pretend.
But Mark isn't here anymore.
And if I accept the job Richard offered me as Senior Sports Correspondent, this will be my responsibility. My beat. My territory.
I might as well start acting like it.
Fuck it.
I slip through the gap in the barrier and step onto the pitch.
The grass feels soft beneath my feet, the air buzzing with a mixture of relief, joy, and disbelief from the Roma fans still gathered in the stands. The scoreboard overhead still displays the final result.
Full-time
Milan 2 – 3 Roma
Roma: League Champions.
I make my way across the field, and my eyes scan the pitch.
Where is he?
Matteo’s hard to miss in normal circumstances - tall, broad and perpetually magnetic - but tonight, the chaos makes it harder to find him.
I pass by the team's goalkeeper who's laughing with the manager, while one of the midfielders is sitting cross-legged on the grass, FaceTiming someone excitedly and talking in rapid Portuguese .
And then I see him.
Matteo stands near the touchline, talking into a microphone held by a sideline reporter, his face flushed from exertion and hair damp with sweat.
I stop a few meters away, unwilling to interrupt, but he must be able to sense me watching, because his dark eyes lift to find mine mid-answer.
A grin breaks across his face.
He says something to the reporter, then holds up a single finger as if to say one second .
The reporter steps back in surprise as Matteo turns away from the camera and strides directly towards me.
My heart leaps into my throat, and his stride turns into a half-jog.
Before I can react, Matteo reaches me, his hands gripping my waist as he lifts me effortlessly off the ground.
I let out a startled laugh, arms looping instinctively around his neck as he spins me around before lowering me just enough to capture my lips in a hard, possessive kiss.
The noise of the stadium fades. The heat of his mouth, the solid press of his body against mine - it's all I can focus on.
I don't care that I'm supposed to be working. I don't care that there are people watching.
I kiss him back.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against mine. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, and the smile that curves his lips is equal parts exhaustion and triumph.
"Impressed?" he asks, voice low.
" Beyond ," I say, brushing damp hair from his temple. "God, Matteo. You did it!"
"You doubted me?"
" Never ," I whisper, grinning.
He kisses me again - slower this time, like he's savouring the moment.
It's only when I hear the faint whir of a camera shutter that reality slams back into me.
Over Matteo's shoulder, the sideline reporter who'd been interviewing him now stands with his cameraman, both of them staring at us.
The red recording light on the camera blinks steadily, and I stiffen slightly.
Mark's voice echoes in my mind.
Tomorrow morning, the pictures will be everywhere.
For weeks, I've tried to keep this thing between Matteo and I low-key. I’ve tried to be as professional as possible despite the tension that’s thrummed between us, and I’ve done everything in my power to keep our developing relationship separate from my job.
But Mark said the photos were coming. He said the scandal would break anyway.
So why let him control the narrative?
Why not get ahead of it? Own it?
Monetise it for The Tribune before anyone else can twist it into something ugly?
I lift my chin slightly and smile at the camera. Matteo notices the shift, his brow lifting, but when I give him the slightest nod, he grins and tightens his arm around my waist .
If the world’s going to find out, we may as well give them a show.
The camera zooms in, and the reporter hesitates before stepping forward, clearing his throat.
"Matteo - can we get a quick reaction after that performance?"
Matteo doesn’t let go of me as he turns toward him, his arm still anchored protectively around my waist.
"Sure," he says, his voice still rough from exertion. "It was a tough match. Milan made us fight for every inch."
"And that penalty?" the reporter asks. "How did you stay so composed?"
"Practice. And maybe a bit of stubbornness,” Matteo chuckles. “I told myself we weren’t leaving here without that trophy."
The cameraman zooms in slightly, and I stand beside Matteo, conscious of the heat of his palm resting at my hip.
"And," the reporter says, glancing between us with barely concealed curiosity, "this moment right now… is this an official confirmation?"
Matteo turns his head toward me slightly. The faintest smirk tugs at his lips.
"Vuoi rispondere tu, bella?" he murmurs.
Want to answer, beautiful?
My pulse flutters, and I meet the reporter’s gaze and offer a calm, professional smile.
"I'd say it's a pretty clear confirmation," I say. "Wouldn't you?"
The reporter’s eyebrows shoot up, and I don’t miss the way that the cameraman’s grin widens as he captures the shot .
Matteo squeezes my waist and kisses my temple.
"There you go," he says. "Public now."
And all on our terms.
*
Eventually, the media scrum intensifies, and Matteo is swept up in more interviews.
He keeps me close, his hand finding mine every time he can, until one of the staff members waves him towards the stage area where the team will receive their medals.
"Stay," he says, gripping my hand.
"Of course I’ll stay," I reply.
"No, not here." He nods toward the far side of the stadium, where family members are being escorted toward a section of empty seats. "There. With them."
My stomach flips.
"Matteo, I…"
"You belong there," he says in encouragement as his thumb strokes my wrist. "With me."
The significance of the gesture isn’t lost on me.
Family .
I hesitate for only a moment, but then I nod.
He kisses me one last time before jogging off to join his teammates. With my heart pounding in my chest, I follow the security guard toward the reserved seating area.
The unfamiliarity of it all presses down on me as I pass women dressed in designer clothes and children waving small Roma scarves. My feet falter for a second, but then Matteo’s words echo in my mind .
You belong there. With me.
I straighten my spine, remove my press pass, and climb the steps toward the family section.
Tonight, I'm not just a journalist. I'm part of this moment.
And if Mark Chapman wants to throw a tantrum about it - then let him.
Because Matteo Rossi just won the league.
And I’ll be right here, watching him lift that trophy.