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)
So, I step towards him - only to feel the bodies closing in further as more journalists push forwards, eager to get in on this.
But just as I reach his side, Mark leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only I can hear.
“I’ll do the talking,” he mutters. “You just watch and learn.”
Ah.
Of course.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck, a mix of irritation and embarrassment burning through me.
Stupid.
I should have known.
He wasn’t calling me over to let me take part.
He was calling me over to keep me in my place.
To make sure I didn’t try to take part.
The crowd of reporters thickens even more, voices murmuring, and before I can even dwell on it, the press area stirs again.
A shift.
A buzz.
And then, I glance up just in time to see Matteo Rossi striding towards us.
And fuck - he’s every inch the golden boy fresh off a victory.
His smirk is already in place, dark eyes flicking lazily over the crowd, cataloguing the journalists like he’s deciding exactly how much effort they’re worth.
And then, his gaze lands on me.
Shit.
For a second - just a second - he slows, his focus sharp and unmistakable as he sweeps his eyes over me in a slow, deliberate once-over.
Top to bottom.
And back up again.
Despite myself, my pulse jumps and my throat tightens, and I loathe the way my stomach flips when his smirk tilts slightly, like he’s enjoying my reaction.
Like he remembers exactly how our last conversation went.
I steel myself, gripping my notepad tighter, ignoring the creeping heat threatening to rise to my cheeks.
I don’t care how good he is. I don’t care how good he looks.
I will hold my own.
(Even if Mark won’t let me get a single word in.)
Matteo finally stops in front of us, his stance relaxed, his presence overwhelming in the suddenly too-cramped space.
The other journalists edge forward, but Matteo isn’t in a rush.
“Buona sera,” he greets, voice smooth, almost lazy.
His dark eyes flick between the crowd before settling - unsurprisingly - on Mark.
“I assume you want a quote?”
Mark chuckles, shaking his head.
“I want more than that, Rossi.”
Matteo cocks a brow, clearly unphased.
But then his gaze shifts, scanning the group, and it’s obvious - painfully obvious - who he’s looking for.
“There’s a different face here today,” he comments, his eyes landing directly on me.
The words are casual, but there’s something pointed about them. His expression doesn’t shift much, but I see the subtle flicker of something in his gaze.
Interest? Amusement? Mild irritation?
He wanted an introduction. Expected one, probably.
Huh. Who would have thought.
“Ah - yes,” Mark clears his throat, his tone clipped like he’s only just remembered I exist. “This is Daphne Sinclair. She’s covering the team for the next few months.”
Matteo turns his attention to me fully now.
Our gazes lock, and I swear the air between us changes - tightens, like the elastic pull of a rubber band.
I will myself to stay calm, collected and unbothered.
I repeat it like a mantra in my head, even as my pulse betrays me, hammering hard against my ribs.
His smirk deepens, slow and knowing, like he sees something I don’t want him to see.
“Ah - la giornalista nuova,” he says smoothly. The new journalist.
The words roll off his tongue like a challenge.
Like he’s testing the weight of them.
Testing me.
“You like stating the obvious, don’t you?”
Oh my god.
I didn’t mean to say that. I only meant to think it.
I hear a muffled laugh from one of the nearby journalists, but Matteo just tilts his head.
His expression is unreadable, as if he’s deciding whether to be amused or irritated by me.
Mark clears his throat, cutting through the tension and intervening before I can dig myself any deeper - although not without throwing a furious glance in my direction first.
“Right, well, let’s keep this professional,” he says. “Matteo: that was one hell of a performance tonight. Walk us through that second goal.”
Matteo’s attention lingers on me for half a second longer before he finally looks away, seeming to shift into autopilot mode.
“What can I say about it? The team did most of the work,” he answers smoothly. “I was just in the right place.”
I exhale quietly, forcing myself to focus.
This is just another interview.
Just another arrogant footballer.
Just another night on the job.
So why the hell does it feel like something else entirely?
One of the other journalists jumps in.
“You say that, but that finish was pure instinct. Do you even think before you take a shot, or is it all automatic at this point?”
“Sometimes you think,” Matteo says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sometimes you just… feel it.”
I scrawl notes as the questions keep coming - his thoughts on the title race, his relationship with the manager and the expectations from the fans. He answers all of them with practiced ease, charming and composed.
Then Mark speaks up again, his voice carrying just a hint of something smug.