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)
"Look, just take it as a learning experience. Next time, stick to the basics, yeah? No need to overcomplicate things."
I don’t reply. I don’t trust myself not to start a tit-for-tat war about how he was the one that started it.
Instead, I turn to leave and sit down at one of the free desks.
I pull out my laptop, pretending to be engrossed in my notes from last night, but it doesn’t take long for Mark to re-appear.
I try my best not to act bothered by his presence, but it’s impossible to concentrate when he’s standing directly behind me.
"By the way," he says, leaning over slightly. "Be careful with Rossi."
My fingers pause over my keyboard, tension curling through my shoulders as I glance up at him, frowning.
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Don’t play coy, Sinclair. You know what guys like him are like," he says. "He probably just wanted to look good in front of you. A little chivalry to impress the new girl."
I exhale slowly, ignoring the strange twinge in my stomach.
"I don’t think that’s what happened."
Mark tilts his head, studying me.
"You really think he gave you that whole speech out of the kindness of his heart?"
I can’t help the way that my eyes widen.
I’d watched Mark storm down the corridor with my own eyes.
He had definitely left after our argument.
Or at least, it had looked that way.
But if he heard what Matteo said to me afterwards - his ‘whole speech’ - then that must mean he stayed lurking around afterwards.
Watching. Waiting.
But why?
"Look, I’m just saying - don’t let it get to your head,” Mark continues. “Matteo Rossi isn’t on your side, Sinclair. He’s just playing a different game."
With one final pitying look, Mark turns to walk away, the conversation over - at least for him.
But for me?
For the first time, I’m not so sure I believe him.
Chapter Nineteen
Daphne
Rome is a city of endless contradictions.
It’s grand and historic, but chaotic and unpredictable.
It’s ancient ruins sitting beside buzzing cafés, tourists crowding the streets while locals weave through them effortlessly.
It’s the warm, golden light that hits the cobbled streets at just the right angle in the early morning, making everything look cinematic.
I’ve been here for a couple of weeks now, and yet every time I step outside, I feel like I’m discovering something new.
This morning, I decided to take a detour through one of my favourite piazzas before heading into the office. The early spring air is cool - the city not yet fully awake - and for a few moments, I let myself enjoy the quiet.
But that sense of peace doesn’t last long.
“You’re going in front of the camera.”
Just like that, my brief moment of serenity shatters.
"What?"
Mark sighs, like my reaction is somehow inconveniencing him.
"You heard me, Sinclair. Moving forwards, you’re going to be doing player interviews. In front of the camera."
"But - I thought you wanted me to stay shadowing you for a bit longer?"
He shrugs.
"Change of plan."
Just like that.
No warning.
No discussion.
I clench my jaw, inhaling slowly through my nose.
I should be excited. After all, this is a step up, another opportunity to continue prove myself.
But I can’t ignore the nagging suspicion that Mark’s doing this to test me, to see if I’ll crack under the pressure.
Still, if this is a test, I’m going to pass it with flying colours.
I always do.
So, I school my features into something neutral and nod.
"Okay. When do I start?"
"Today," he says, already turning away like the conversation is over. "Luca Moretti. Should be an easy one - he’s smart. A good talker. I’ll meet you at the stadium, and the crew will set you up after training."
And just like that, my fate is sealed.
*
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I’ve spent the entire morning preparing for this interview, and yet, somehow - despite my hours of research - I find myself staring at Matteo Rossi.
Who is very much not the player I was supposed to be interviewing.
My eyes widen as he strolls leisurely into the room we have set up.
He looks effortlessly sharp, even in something as simple as a team-issued hoodie and joggers. The soft fabric stretches over his broad shoulders, the light grey colour contrasting stunningly against his olive skin and dark hair.
I swear that his now clean-shaven jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, and when his deep brown eyes flick toward me, there’s an intensity there that makes my stomach tighten against my will.
Behind me, the small camera crew shifts slightly, waiting for direction.
I glance at my notes, at the name printed neatly at the top of the page.
Luca Moretti.
That’s who I was scheduled to interview today - one of the quieter, more thoughtful members of the squad. A dream for a journalist like me who actually enjoys getting full, considered answers instead of grunts and clichés.
Matteo, however, is not known for his introspection.