Page 124 of My Italian Love Affair

It’s…jarring.

Because this isn’t the same man who snapped at me in that post-match interview just days ago, who all but sneered at my questions and made me feel like an inconvenience rather than a journalist doing her job.

No,thisMatteo Rossi is laughing, ruffling the hair of a little boy who just nutmegged him with an excited squeal.

This Matteo crouches down to fix a little girl’s untied shoelace before giving her a light tap on the nose and sending her on her way.

This Matteo is speaking in fast, easy Italian, his voice warm in a way that I’m almost convinced I’ve imagined.

And then - because apparently my heart isn’t suffering enough - one of the smaller boys tugs at Matteo’s sleeve.

He’s maybe four or five, with an oversized jersey swallowing his tiny frame and a determined look on his face. He tugs harder when Matteo doesn’t immediately react.

Matteo looks down, and the boy lifts his arms expectantly.

With zero hesitation, Matteo just picks him up, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like it’s instinct.

The little boy nestles into his shoulder, one tiny hand gripping to his collar, and Matteo’s free hand moves to rub soothingly along his back as he smiles - a real,genuinesmile.

Not the cocky smirk I’ve seen in post-match interviews, not the practiced expression I’ve caught on camera after aparticularly impressive goal.

No, this smile is softer, warmer, and pointedly not for an audience.

That’s what messes with me.

Because I don’t know what to do with it.

I don’t know what to do withhim.

He is supposed to be arrogant and rude - the human embodiment of my worst workdays.

He isnotsupposed to be sweet with children.

He isnotsupposed to be cradling a tiny human against his chest like it’s the safest place in the world.

And he isdefinitelynot supposed to look so good while doing it.

But he does. Infuriatingly,devastatinglygood.

Matteo Rossi, it seems, is not just one thing.

He is not just a striker with a god complex. Not just a temperamental, infuriating footballer who, for some reason, has made it his life’s mission to antagonise me.

He is this, too.

And I don’t like what that does to me.

Not one bit.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Matteo

Ilean against the side of the wall, watching as the last of the press and players filter out onto the street.

My focus, however, is locked on only two people.

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