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)
"Wrong room, Rossi?" I ask, arching a brow.
"Nope."
I glance toward the door, half-expecting Luca to follow in behind him.
"I was supposed to be interviewing Moretti."
"He’s not feeling great," Matteo says, dropping into the chair across from mine. "I told him I’d step in."
"You?” I narrow my eyes. “Volunteering for media duties?"
"What can I say?” Matteo shrugs. “I’m a team player."
I highly doubt that.
I want to question him further - want to call him out, tell him that I don’t buy it - but the camera crew are patiently waiting, and the last thing I need is to make a scene over this in front of people.
So I force a tight smile, push down the irritation curling in my stomach, and turn to the crew.
"Alright," I say, forcing a polite smile. "Change of plan, I suppose. Let’s get started."
The cameraman gives me a nod before starting the recording, while the crew moves around us, adjusting equipment, checking levels, and clipping Matteo’s mic securely into place.
One of them mutters something about a quick sound test, tapping his earpiece as Matteo absently rubs a hand over the small mic attached to his shirt.
I straighten in my chair, adjusting my posture like that might somehow make up for the fact that I’m already mentally strangling Matteo Rossi.
"Okay," I begin, glancing at my notes and willing myself to stay professional. "So, Matteo. Thank you for joining us this afternoon. We really appreciate it.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Ugh.
“With the team’s current winning streak, how are you and the squad staying motivated?"
Matteo leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs obnoxiously wide like he’s settling in for a nap rather than an interview.
"We train. We play. We win."
I wait for him to elaborate.
He does not.
"Okay,” I say, dragging out the word. “Very insightful."
Matteo just lifts a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug.
Behind the camera, one of the crew members suppresses a snort. I clear my throat, plastering on another polite smile.
"Well, let’s dig a little deeper. What would you say has been the biggest factor in the team’s success lately?"
Matteo tilts his head, thinking.
Then, with a completely straight face, he says -
"Scoring more goals than the other team."
I blink.
"Right," I inswardly seethe. "And what would you say has been the biggest challenge so far this season?"
"No challenges.”
A muscle twitches in my jaw.
"None?"
"Nope."
I resist the urge to throw my notepad at his face.
"Okay," I say, forcing a pleasant tone. "Then let’s talk about your own performance -"
He pulls out his phone.
I freeze.
Is he seriously checking his phone during our interview?!
A quick glance at the camera crew confirms that, yes, he absolutely is.
One of them shifts awkwardly, and I can feel the secondhand embarrassment radiating from them.
I look back at Matteo, who is now casually scrolling, completely ignoring me.
Something inside me snaps.
"Are you serious right now?"
Matteo doesn’t even look up.
"Hmm?"
"We're in the middle of an interview."
He nods, completely unbothered.
"Yes, of course. But I can multitask. I am a man of many talents."
Behind the camera, someone coughs - probably to cover a laugh - and I squeeze tightly to my notepad.
I’m incredibly close to snapping, and it takes everything within me to remain calm.
"You're being unbelievably rude."
Matteo finally lifts his head, his dark brows raised like he’s genuinely surprised by my comment.
"You’re wasting my time," I press on, my frustration bubbling over before I can stop it. "If you didn’t want to do this interview, you could’ve just said so instead of sitting here and acting like this is some huge inconvenience for you."
For a second, he just stares at me.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Wow," he murmurs. "You’ve got bite, don’t you, giornalista?"
My cheeks burn, but I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.
He sighs, tossing his phone onto the table.
"Fine. I was only checking that nobody needed anything urgent from me,” he says. “Go ahead. Ask me another question."
I hesitate.
"You’re actually going to answer it?"
"Maybe," he says, his smirk deepening. "Depends if I like it."
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to channel every ounce of professionalism I have left.
"Alright. Then let’s talk about your own performance this season. You’ve been in incredible form - arguably some of the best of your career so far. What do you think has contributed to that?"
"Well," he says, voice smooth as he leans forward in his chair. "I wake up every morning. I go to training. I do my job. And then…" he pauses for dramatic effect, "I go home."
I stare at him.
"You go home."
He nods.
I close my eyes for half a second, summoning patience from the depths of my soul.
"Matteo, with all due respect, you’re not giving me much to work with here."
"I thought you were supposed to be a good journalist," he muses, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk.
I grit my teeth.
"I am."
"Then work with it," he says simply, leaning back again, looking so smug that I genuinely consider throwing my notepad at his perfect, irritating face.