Chapter 1: The Disaster Edit
Bolzano, Italy
Sofia
“Signor Messina,” the reporter smirks, leaning into the microphone, her eyes glinting with the promise of a viral soundbite. “Are you even remotely aware that there is a world outside of the football pitch?”
Messina’s dark eyes narrow, his features distorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated disdain. “Of course I am. I am not some maniac.”
“Because from what you say,” the reporter continues, her smug smile widening, “it seems you believe all the problems of the Italian nation will be solved the moment you win the World Cup.”
Messina runs a hand through his raven hair, a frantic, jagged motion. “I am a football coach,” he says, his gravelly baritone dropping to a level that silences the room. “And for the moment, I do believe so, yes.”
The reporter’s perfectly groomed eyebrows arch, her golden earrings jingling as she shakes her head in performative disbelief. “Signor Messina, you are aware that there are people in Italy who do not care for football, aren’t you?”
“I am aware that such people exist,” he replies, raising his hands in a gesture of weary, fatalistic resignation. “And I fully respect their right...”
The reporter nods, looking visibly relieved.
“...I fully respect their right to remain ignorant.”
“Ignorant of football, you mean?” she asks, her smile faltering as the room goes stone-cold.
“Yes,” he concludes with a sharp, dismissive shrug. “That, too.”
I click the remote and switch the television off with a sharp exhale. Monica is silent for a moment, chewing her apple and watching me with raised brows.
“Did he just call people who don’t watch football ignorant?” she asks.
“He did,” I sigh, my posture stiffening as I stand. “And what’s worse, I think he means every word.”
I open my laptop, staring at the screen where a headline, one of many I researched these past few days, blares back at me. I read it aloud, the words tasting like copper in my mouth.
“The Italian manager’s relationship with the press hits a new low today. Messina brands the assembled media ‘bloodsucking hyenas,’ warning that if they don’t keep their distance from his squad, he will handle them exactly like his grandmother handled a swarm of summer pests: with an antique method of extermination that leaves absolutely no survivors.”
Monica laughs out loud, the sound jarring against the tension in the room. “You have to admit, he is kind of funny.”
I don’t laugh. I can’t. I have accepted this prestigious, career-making job, and this clown’s public image is now officially my problem to fix.
“The press isn’t the problem,” I say, pacing the small apartment. “They love him no matter what he calls them.”
“Of course they do,” Monica nods, popping another slice of apple. “First, he’s the national hero who pulled us from the abyss of our lowest football shame. Second, he gives them such delicious pieces. He’s the gift that keeps on giving.”
“But the Armani officials aren’t so pleased,” I sigh, scrolling through my mobile as I hunt for another article. I read the first paragraph of a breaking piece.
“The Armani sponsorship with the Italian Football Federation hangs by a thread today after Head Coach Vincenzo Messina reportedly staged a volatile confrontation in the stadium tunnel. Witnesses claim Messina physically barred the 92-year-old Giorgio Armani from entering the locker room moments before the France match, shouting, ‘My boys are not here to sell your trinkets, they are here to play football,’ before forcing the fashion icon to retreat.”
“To be honest,” Monica says, unbothered, “Armani is supposed to treat people no better when he has the chance.”
“Armani owns the company that earns billions of dollars and happens to fund the Italian team,” I counter, my voice sharp. “He remained loyal to them through all those six dark years when Italy failed to qualify for both the Euro and the World Cup. Now they want us to give something back as we enter the World Cup as favorites.”
“So what?” Monica smiles, shrugging. “Is that not why they hired you? The PR witch who turned an Italian alpine scandal into the best brand asset the Italian skiers had in years?”
“Most certainly,” I smirk, though it feels like a grimace. “I just wanted to show you what I’m dealing with.”
“You’re used to arrogant athletes who see themselves beyond the laws of both men and nature; you can handle one Sicilian who sees himself as some dark god of football.”
“But you know what the problem is?” I ask, leaning back in my chair, my head already spinning with crisis-management plans. “That, for some reason, the whole damned country sees him as a god, too.”
“And you don’t get it,” Monica adds.
“No, I don’t,” I shake my head. “I never got this Italian obsession with football. Here in Bolzano, we like football, but we go on with our lives if our team loses. South of Rome, they don’t. They literally cry after losing matches—can you imagine that?”
Monica says nothing, and I shut my laptop, sliding it into my bag. I have a plane to catch.
“You’ll be fine,” my roommate says, hugging me at the door and handing me my purse.
“Thanks. See you in a month,” I smile, though the uncertainty gnaws at me.
Before I even leave Italy, the obsession with this team is already blindingly apparent. As I navigate the terminal, I spot a young boy, no older than ten, sprinting through the departure lounge. He is wearing the iconic Azzurri blue kit, the number ten, and the name MORETTI emblazoned on the back in bold white letters. He is chaotic, darting between commuters, clearly riding an adrenaline high of his own.
His father, a harried-looking man struggling with two heavy suitcases, finally lunges and grabs the boy by the shoulder, hauling him to a stop.
“If you don’t behave right now,” the father snaps, his voice echoing with genuine exasperation, “I swear I will treat you exactly like Signor Messina treats his players!”
The boy freezes, but instead of the expected look of terror, his face lights up with a wide, incredulous grin.
“Hell, yes, Papa!” the kid shouts, beaming up at his bewildered father. “Please!”
I shake my head, feeling a mix of amusement and genuine dread. Even children are idolizing Messina’s brand of iron-fisted discipline.
On the flight, I close my eyes and try to steady my racing mind. The national football team is a massive step up in my career, especially with the high-stakes pressure of the World Cup tournament hosted by the USA looming ahead. But I cannot help the gnawing fear that I am completely out of my depth.
I try to refocus on my past successes. I pulled a magic trick during my last assignment; when the national slalom star, Luca Costner, had his wild affair with the rising skiing prodigy Chiara D’Lorenzo, I saved them from the scandal. I repaired their image, and now everyone sees them as a power couple whom the Italian ski federation parades as their strongest PR asset. I handled many scandals on the Alpine World Cup circuit, and those skiers are not exactly meek or gentle. I made a name for myself there, a name big enough to land me the chance of a lifetime.
But this chance includes dealing with Vincenzo Messina, and I have no idea how to make this man likable enough to keep Armani happy. He wants to lock the team in a bunker, threatens journalists, and makes every press event a tactical struggle. And on top of that, I am supposed to manage not just the press events during the World Cup, but also the documentary crew that Armani brought to film their “Italy Risen from the Ashes” document.
My phone buzzes with a text. It is Luca Dorento, my predecessor at the Italian national team’s PR post. I asked him for some advice. His answer is explicit.
“One piece of advice: run away while you can.”
I don’t answer, though some snide remark hangs on my tongue. He isn’t the first to give me similar advice. I asked an Armani press official, whose responsibilities I also handle during the tournament, for help.
He only wrote: “Screw the bastard.”
As I step off the plane into the sweltering American summer, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just walked into a warzone disguised as a football tournament.
But if Messina is a dark god of football, then I’m about to become the storm that challenges him. Whether he likes it or not.
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