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)
“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “Then what is the point?”
I hesitate.
Honestly… I’m not sure.
All I know is that she was pissed.
And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
I didn’t say anything unfair. Or untrue.
Football isn’t just about talent. It’s about instinct. It’s about proving yourself - and that applies to everyone.
Players, coaches, and yes, journalists.
So why did she take it so personally?
“She needs to relax,” I mutter.
Luca barks out a laugh. “Oh, you’re mad mad.”
“Matteo Rossi does not get mad.”
“Matteo Rossi doesn’t explain himself, either,” he grins. “Oh, wait - but you did. You had to, because she made you. In front of a room full of… well, us.”
I scoff. “That’s not -”
“- and now, because you have the emotional maturity of a breadstick, you can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Go to hell.”
Luca smirks triumphantly.
“See? You’re mad.”
I exhale sharply, trying to ignore him as the ball flies through the air.
Trying to ignore her.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it matters.
I have a game to win, not a journalist to obsess over.
Simple.
Chapter Eleven
Daphne
Tonight marks a few firsts for me.
Not only is it my first time attending a professional football match, but it’s also my first real opportunity to meet players one-on-one for post-match interviews.
The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist with nerves.
I know the routine now. At least in theory, anyway.
Watch the game, take notes, and then head down to the mixed zone, where journalists get a few rushed minutes to grab quick quotes from the players as they leave the pitch.
It all seems simple enough.
And yet as I step into the stadium, surrounded by thousands of fans who live and breathe this sport, I can’t help but feel like an outsider.
I arrive just as the sun begins to dip below the skyline. I’ve now hired a car so that I’m not having to rely on public transport into the late hours, and the culture shock of driving on the right-side of the road is almost enough to send me packing.
I don’t quit that easily, of course - although the sight of the stadium is equally as daunting as the driving.
The sheer scale of it is staggering: towering stands, massive floodlights and thousands upon thousands of fans streaming through. Even from outside, I can hear the hum of the crowd, the occasional burst of chanting echoing off the concrete walls.
I tighten my grip on my press pass, feeling an odd sense of displacement as I lock my car and make my way through the throngs of supporters.
This isn’t like any red carpet event I’ve covered - there’s no velvet ropes or posed smiles, no PR teams ushering celebrities past flashing cameras or signed walkways for press.
This is raw, unfiltered passion, and as someone who admittedly doesn’t care much for the sport, even I can sense how much it means to these people.
A security guard checks my pass and eyes me carefully before escorting me through a separate entrance and inside the stadium.
My eyes are wide, drinking in everything as we move at a rapid pace. The press boxes are situated high above the pitch, reasonably enough away from the chaos and offering a bird’s-eye view of the stadium.
And as I’m led down a sleek corridor - walking past doors marked with the names of media companies, sponsors and club executives - I just feel… out of place.
The steward guiding me pushes open the heavy glass door to the press box, and I step inside.
It’s spacious, lined with plush seating and a long counter stocked with drinks and snacks. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a perfect view of the pitch below, where mascots are currently making their way around the crowd, and there’s a door that leads to an outside seating area, too.
A number of journalists are already scattered around the box. Some are leaning back in their seats, sipping on drinks and exchanging easy conversation, while others look to be very much at work, laptops in front of them and fingers typing away.
I hesitate for a moment before stepping further inside.
The air smells of strong beer and leather, and unsurprisingly, there aren’t many women in here - just one or two seated towards the back, their presence almost an afterthought in a space so dominated by men.
And then, of course, there’s Mark.
I spot him easily enough from where he’s perched on one of the leather seats near the window. His dark suit is slightly rumpled and his tie loosened around his neck, giving him that faux-relaxed look that screams I’m important enough not to care.
He’s not alone. A couple of other journalists (who are all coincidentally middle-aged men in similar attire and with the same air of smug self-assurance) are seated around him, sharing a private joke.
Their laughter dies down as I approach, but the small glances they exchange have me thinking that they may have been talking about me before I got here.