Chapter 17: Press Conference
The slam of the heavy door echoed through the corridor, a final, percussive period to his sentence. The stunned silence from the press room seeped through the walls, a tangible vacuum. Then came the eruption—a distorted cacophony of shouted questions, chairs scraping, the chaos he’d left behind.
You stood waiting in the sterile, linoleum-lined hallway, leaning against the cool concrete wall. The air smelled of lemon disinfectant and old coffee. You’d watched the whole thing on a monitor, your heart a trapped bird in your throat.
Matteo strode toward you, the sharp lines of his suit silhouetted against the fluorescent lights. The cold steel had vanished from his eyes, replaced by something darker, more simmering. Up close, you could see a faint tremor in his hands, the adrenaline draining, leaving raw nerve.
He didn’t stop. He walked right past you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Move,” he said, the word clipped.
You pushed off the wall and followed him around a corner, away from the noise, into a quieter service corridor lined with stacked plastic chairs. He stopped abruptly, placing both hands flat against a closed fire door, his head bowed. The muscles in his back were taut through the fine wool of his jacket.
“That was…” you began, voice low.
“Necessary.” He pushed off the door and turned, leaning back against it. He tugged at his tie, loosening the knot with a rough jerk. “They print that story, they call you a ‘hideout,’ they imply the blackmail is about something shameful. They use your image to sell their lies.” He shook his head, a short, sharp motion. “No. Not anymore.”
“Your lawyers can’t really make them print a retraction.”
“They can make the process so expensive and public it becomes easier for them to do it.” He finally looked at you. The performance was gone. This was just him, tired and angry. “It is not about the retraction. It is about drawing a line. Everyone saw where it is now.”
Footsteps clicked down the hall. Izzy appeared, her heels sounding like gunshots on the hard floor. She held her phone aloft like a prosecutor with evidence.
“Well, you certainly drew a line,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “In gasoline. And lit it. The club’s legal team is on my other line. The sponsors are ‘concerned.’ That word means they are one blog post away from panic.” She shoved the phone into her blazer pocket. “What was the point, Matteo? To look tough? You looked furious. Uncontrolled.”
“I am furious,” he said, his voice dropping.
“And that is a luxury you cannot afford!” Izzy shot back, stepping closer. “You think this scares the blackmailer? This emboldens them! You just told the world their threat is real and it got to you. You played their game on their field.”
“It is not a game,” you said quietly.
Both of them turned to you. The silence stretched, filled only with the distant hum of a vending machine.
“No,” Izzy conceded, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s not. Which is why we need strategy, not theatrics. We need to find out who they are. We need to take the wind out of this, not billow the sails.” She looked at Matteo, her professional mask slipping to show genuine worry. “The narrative is slipping. We’re going from ‘mysterious romance’ to ‘damage control.’ The second one sells fewer jerseys.”
Matteo pushed himself off the door. “Then give them a new narrative.”
“And what is that?” Izzy threw her hands up. “The loved-up striker? People will say it’s a deflection. The wronged hero? It makes you look vulnerable. You have eliminated all the clean options.”
A slow, unfamiliar smile touched Matteo’s lips. It wasn’t charming. It was calculating. “Not all of them.”
He glanced at you, and you saw the idea form in his eyes. It was the same look he’d had in the café, but refined, sharper. “Marco is having a party tonight. At his new flat. Half the team will be there. WAGs. A few select press—the friendly ones.”
Izzy’s eyes narrowed. “A party. Now. You cannot be serious.”
“I am completely serious.” He straightened his cuffs, a man coming back online. “We will go. We will be seen. Together. Not hiding in cafés or snarling in press rooms. We will be… normal. Boring, even. Having a drink with friends. Laughing. The blackmail? The threats?” He shrugged, a masterpiece of casual dismissal. “Clearly, they do not matter to us. We are too busy living.”
The audacity of it stole your breath. It was a feint, a grand, public misdirection. He was proposing they out-perform the performance.
Izzy was silent, processing. The strategist in her warred with the crisis manager. “It’s a risk. If you look forced, it backfires. If you ignore the obvious tension, you look like robots.”
“It will not be forced,” Matteo said, his gaze settling on you again, heavy with intent. “We will have a good time.”
The way he said it felt like a challenge, and a promise. You thought of the kiss in the car, a private truth in a week of lies. A party, with its noise and chaos and watching eyes, was the last place you wanted to be. But you understood the move. It was taking the ‘problem’ he’d described and turning it into a prop.
“Okay,” you said.
Izzy exhaled, long and slow. “Fine. I’ll talk to the friendly list. Keep it tight. No gossip columnists. Just the photojournalists who like steady paychecks from the club.” She pointed a finger at Matteo. “You smile. You laugh. You look unbothered. You do not, under any circumstances, mention lawyers, blackmail, or retractions. You talk about football. The weather. The decor. Nothing with an edge.”
“Si, capo,” Matteo said, the ghost of his usual charm returning.
Izzy left, her clicks fading back toward the storm. The service corridor was quiet again, just the two of you and the hum of electricity.
“A party,” you said.
“You do not like parties.”
“I don’t like being watched.”
“Then tonight,” he said, stepping closer, closing the distance Izzy had occupied. He didn’t touch you. He just stood there, an arm’s length away, his presence a solid wall against the surreal day. “We give them nothing real to see. We give them only a show. Behind the eyes, that is for us.” He paused. “Unless you are tired of shows.”
You remembered his hand over yours on the marble table, a shield and a claim. You remembered his lips in the quiet dark of the car, a pact. This was another layer, another move in a game you were now fully committed to playing.
“What’s Marco’s flat like?” you asked, leaning your head back against the wall.
Matteo’s smile finally reached his eyes, warming them. “Tacky. Very big. A waterfall wall in the living room. He will try to get me drunk and make me sing.”
“Do you sing?”
“Like a cat in a rainstorm,” he said, and the laugh that followed was real, a crack in the tension. It echoed softly in the empty hall. “But for you, maybe I will suffer this humiliation.”
You pushed off the wall. “Then we should go. I’ll need to change.”
He nodded, falling into step beside you as you walked toward the player’s exit. His shoulder brushed yours again, but this time it was deliberate, a point of contact in the shifting ground. The night awaited, another stage. But for now, in the quiet underbelly of the stadium, there was just the sound of your footsteps, walking in sync, moving toward the next inevitable flash.
But for now, in the quiet underbelly of the stadium, there was just the sound of your footsteps, walking in sync, moving toward the next inevitable flash. The player’s exit door groaned open onto the players' lot, a stark rectangle of asphalt lit by sulfurous yellow lights. A different SUV waited, engine idling with a softer purr.
Matteo’s phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket, a trapped insect. He ignored it, holding the car door for you. “The quiet will not last long,” he said, sliding in beside you.
“It never does.”
The partition was down this time. The driver, an older man with a kind face, nodded once in the rearview mirror. “Where to, Mr. Rossi?”
“Home first. Then to Bianchi’s.” Matteo leaned his head back, eyes closed. The drive began in silence, weaving through London’s evening glow. You watched the city blur past, a stream of light and shadow.
Then your own phone chimed. A news alert. Then another. And another.
You looked at the screen. The headlines were already shifting. 'ROSSI'S FIERY DEFENSE: "MY PRIVATE LIFE IS NOT YOUR HEADLINE"’. 'Football Star Draws Line in the Sand for New Love.' ‘Who’s the Mystery Woman? All We Know Is Rossi’s Willing to Fight for Her.’
The tone was different. Not scandalized. Almost admiring.
“Matteo.”
“I do not want to know.”
“You should see this.” You held your phone out. He opened one eye, then took the device. He scrolled slowly, his expression unreadable. He stopped on a video clip, thumb hovering over the play button. It was his exit from the press room, shot from the back. His shoulders were rigid, his walk a controlled storm.
The top comment, with thousands of likes, read: ‘Honestly? Good for him. They’d try to crucify anyone.’
He handed the phone back, a faint crease between his brows. “This is not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“More sharks.” He gestured vaguely at the window. “More ‘what is he hiding.’ Not… this.” He sounded almost suspicious, as if the public’s support was a new, more clever trap. Izzy’s voice, tinny through the car speakers, broke the moment. He put her on speaker.
“Are you seeing this?” she asked, her voice stripped of its earlier fury, replaced by sheer bafflement.
“We are seeing.”
“It’s a complete one-eighty. The narrative flipped while you were walking to the car.” You could hear the rapid click of a keyboard. “Talk shows are picking it up. Social is wildfire. The ‘romantic icon’ angle is... it’s cementing. Fast. Don’t check your mentions. It’s all heart emojis and ‘king’ comments.”
Matteo rubbed a hand over his mouth. “What does this mean for tonight?”
“It means,” Izzy said, a new, strategic energy crackling in her tone, “that the party isn’t just damage control anymore. It’s a victory lap you didn’t know you won. The photographers there will sell shots of a happy couple, not a besieged one. The price just doubled. Smile. Be normal. But maybe… let the hand-holding linger a bit longer.”
The call ended. Matteo stared at his own reflection in the dark window. The hard line of his jaw had softened into something contemplative. “A romantic icon,” he repeated, testing the words. They sounded foreign in his accented voice.
“It’s better than ‘beleaguered star,’” you offered.
He gave a short, genuine laugh. “This is true.” He turned to you, the city lights washing over his profile. “They are defending me for defending you. This is a strange world.”
The car pulled up to his modern, discreet apartment building. “Give me ten minutes,” he said, already moving. He paused, one foot on the curb. “Will you come up?”
The question was simple, but the space around it hummed. It wasn’t about logistics. It was an invitation into a private space that existed outside of any strategy. You’d only seen the rooftop, the edge of his world. This was the center.
“Yes.”
The apartment was nothing like Marco’s purported waterfall wall. It was spacious, clean, and almost austere. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, silent panorama of the Thames and the city’s glittering spine. A single, long sofa faced the view. A state-of-the-art kitchen stood unused. It felt like a beautifully designed hotel suite, lived in but not personalized.
“Make yourself… anywhere,” he said, disappearing down a hall.
You wandered to the windows. Down there, somewhere in that tapestry of light, people were talking about him. About you. Creating a story of a sweet romantic hero from the raw material of his genuine anger. The irony was thick enough to taste.
He returned quickly, changed into dark jeans and a simple grey sweater that made him look younger, less like a corporate asset. He’d washed the gel from his hair; it fell softly over his forehead. He saw you looking at the view.
“It is just a view,” he said, joining you. He stood close, not touching. “Sometimes it is peaceful. Sometimes it feels like they are all out there, waiting. Tonight,” he sighed, “it feels like they are cheering. Which is worse, in a way.”
“Because it’s based on a performance?”
“Because it is based on a real feeling,” he corrected quietly, looking at you. “I was angry. For you. They have taken that anger and made it… cute. Palatable. A商品.” The word was a soft sneer. “They do not understand the anger. They only see the shape of it and call it romance.”
A car horn blared far below. The moment broke. “We should go,” he said. “Marco will be impatient.”
Marco’s new flat was, as promised, spectacularly tacky. The waterfall wall was real, a sheet of glimmering blue water backlit by purple LEDs, dominating a vast living room packed with bodies. The bass from the sound system vibrated up through your feet. It was a blur of familiar faces from television, gleaming watches, bright laughter, and the sharp, sweet smell of cocktails.
The reaction when you walked in was immediate, but entirely different from the café. No whispers. No calculating stares.
A young midfielder from the team whistled, raising his bottle. “The man of the hour!”
Marco bounded over, engulfing Matteo in a back-slapping hug. “Look! The romantic hero arrives!” he shouted over the music. He grinned at you. “You must be a witch. You turned Grumpy Rossi into Prince Charming in one day. I need your secrets.”
Matteo shoved him off lightly, but he was smiling. “The only secret is a good lawyer.”
“No, no,” a woman interjected, sliding her arm through Marco’s. She was a well-known sports presenter, her eyes sharp and friendly. “The secret is that it was real. People can smell authenticity, Matteo. Even when you’re throwing a tantrum at the press.” She winked at you. “He’s lucky to have you. Honestly, we were all getting tired of the mysterious loner bit.”
The sentiment echoed around you, in claps on Matteo’s shoulder, in warm, approving smiles directed your way. Izzy’s “friendly” photographers circled, capturing it all: Matteo getting you a drink, his hand resting casually on the small of your back as he introduced you to a veteran defender and his wife, the way he threw his head back and laughed at something Marco said. Every touch, every look, was now framed by this new, overwhelming public consensus. He was right. You were right. Love was worth defending.
It was utterly disorienting.
You found yourself on a balcony, gripping the cool railing for anchor. The roar of the party was muffled by glass. The night air was a relief.
The door slid open. Matteo stepped out, letting the noise spill and then fade again. He held two glasses of water. “You disappeared.”
“It’s a lot,” you said, taking the glass. “They all…” You gestured back inside. “They’re on your side.”
“They are on the story’s side,” he corrected, leaning next to you. His shoulder pressed against yours. “The story is better now. It has a clear hero and a clear villain. The press are the villains. I am the hero. You are the… prize.” He said the last word with distaste. “I do not like that part.”
“It’s not true, though.”
“What part?”
“That it was a performance. Your anger was real. My choice to stay was real. The ‘real feeling.’” You quoted him back, watching the city. “They might be packaging it wrong, but the source material isn’t fake.”
He was quiet for a long moment. He turned, his back against the railing, facing the bright party behind the glass. Inside, Marco was attempting karaoke, surrounded by cheering teammates. The image was a perfect, happy vignette.
“This changes the pressure,” he said, his voice low. “Before, the pressure was to explain, to hide, to control a scandal. Now the pressure is to be perfect. To be this ‘sweet romantic icon’ they have built overnight.” He shook his head, a wry, almost helpless gesture. “I am not that. I am possessive. I am strategic. I hold grudges. The ‘icon’ they love would forgive and forget. I want to find who did this and break their knees.”
The raw admission hung in the cool air. It was the antithesis of the curated image now being celebrated inside. It was the truth beneath the waterfall wall and the headlines.
You turned to face him, mirroring his stance. “I don’t want the icon. I want the man who breaks knees.”
A slow, deep smile spread across his face, one you had never seen before. It wasn't charming or calculated. It was pure, unadulterated relief. He reached out, his fingers brushing yours on the railing.
“Then we have a problem,” he said, his thumb tracing your knuckle, a callback to the first, public touch at the café. “Because the world is watching the icon. And the icon is expected to be gentle.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you, a secret in the midst of the roaring celebration. “But later, when all these people go home… the man can show you exactly what he’s thinking.”
The door burst open again. Marco stumbled out, clutching a microphone. “There you are! No hiding! The people demand a duet!”
Matteo didn’t move his hand from yours. He just looked from Marco to you, the private smile still playing on his lips. The world was on his side now, cheering for a fairy tale. He gave your fingers a final, firm squeeze, a promise of something grittier, more real, waiting in the wings.
“Alright, Bianchi,” he said, pushing off the railing. He kept hold of your hand, leading you back toward the light and the noise. “But you carry the tune. I still sing like a cat in the rain.”