Paolo had gotten off to only a fair start–a couple of crosses into the Fenerbahce box, but only one that looked dangerous, that Chicetti was almost able to turn into a goal, had it not been for a swift punch from the Turkish keeper. Her attention was so focused on the screen that she hardly realized anything going on around her, and almost screamed when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I startled you,” the man said as she whipped around to look at him. It was the Turk.
“Selim!” The impossible was happening. Her jaw dropped as she stared at him bug-eyed, disbelieving. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I was just trying so hard to follow. How did you–” she began asking confusedly.
“I saw you from my box,” he said, pointing to one of the luxury boxes several rows above her. He had sat down behind her and was leaning forward, close to her face, so close she could feel his breath on her ear. “I keep a suite here to entertain clients. But I’m more curious about what you’re doing here.”
“My boyfriend is playing for Juventus,” she replied.
“Which one is he,” the Turk asked, smiling.
“Number four, Romaldo.”
“Ah, Romaldo!” The Turk exclaimed. “He’s fantastic. Now I know why he’s playing so well this year,” he said, nudging her.