Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
"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.
Chapter Sixty
Daphne
The 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.