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)
She doesn’t look back. Not once.
Her posture is stiff, her steps clipped, her back straight.
She’s furious.
I know that about her now.
She doesn’t hide her emotions well - especially not when she’s angry. Her body always betrays her.
And I was a dick. A massive dick.
I exhale sharply and turn toward the changing rooms, moving past the gathered press without so much as a glance in their direction. Some journalists shift, their expressions expectant, while others exchange looks - probably questioning the fact that I’m walking away from interviews completely.
But I don’t care.
I’m not in the fucking mood.
The moment I step into the changing room, I head straight for the showers, peeling my sweat-soaked jersey over my head and tossing it somewhere behind me.
The changing room is eerily quiet. Most of the guys are still caught up in post-match duties, being forced to stand in front of cameras and microphones, explaining why we just got humiliated on our own turf.
I should be there too. I should be answering those questions, leading from the front.
Instead, I’m here, seething.
Not just at the loss. Not just at the team’s shit performance.
At myself.
I turn the shower on, stepping under the scalding spray and letting it burn away the frustration buzzing beneath my skin.
Fuck. I was an asshole to her.
All she did was do her fucking job, was do her research, and I couldn’t handle it.
Her pre-match predictions had been all over social media, and she hadn’t just pointed out the risks.
No, she’d nailed them.
Every. Single. One.
The opposition was better prepared, sharper, hungrier. And we - me, my team - had underestimated them.
She’d known.
But not only had she known, she’d put it out there for all of the fucking world to see.
And on top of that, she all but confirmed how she didn’t believe in me.
That had pissed me off the most. More than I cared to admit.
And then, just to top it off, she’d walked into that press room all professional and poised. That sharp, clever mouth of hers had framed questions that had felt more like fucking daggers to my ego, and instead of composing myself, instead of accepting defeat and taking it on the chin, instead of learning - what had I done?
Taken it out on her.
Like an idiot.
Like a petulant fucking child.
I brace my hands against the cool tile, my head bowing as the water runs down my spine.
Last time I saw her, I’d had her moaning my name against a marble countertop. Had her legs wrapped tight around my waist, her body trembling beneath me as I drove her over the edge.
And now I can’t even look at her without acting like a complete fucking idiot.
Pathetic.
I should have just played it cool. Should have shrugged off her questions, taken my loss like a man.
Instead, I let my bruised ego do the talking.
The thing is, I had actually wanted her there tonight.
Even after she’d ignored me all fucking week. After she hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction since the gala.
After I’d spent every single night touching myself like a fucking teenager, coming undone repeatedly to the memory of the way she tasted, the way she felt wrapped around me.
Tonight, I wanted to prove something. To show off, remind her who I am.
And all I've done is prove her right.
I straighten, dragging a hand through my wet hair, my chest rising and falling in frustration.
I’ve fucked up. And now, she probably thinks - no, she definitely thinks - that I’m a temperamental, egotistical, sore loser who has no respect for her or her profession.
Which, for the record, isn’t fucking true.
I respect her and her job. More than I probably should, given the kind of bullshit I’ve had to put up with over the years from intrusive reporters.
But she’s not like anyone else. She’s actually good at her job.
Infuriatingly good.
And now, she’s going to think I’m just like the rest of them - just like Mark fucking Chapman and his misogynistic cronies.
It couldn’t be further from the truth, but I can’t exactly blame her for thinking it. It’s only as a result of my own stupidity.
Eventually, I cut the water off and step out, grabbing a towel and scrubbing it over my face.
By the time I tie it around my waist and step back into the changing room, some of the guys have returned. A few of them are getting dressed, pulling on their tracksuits and muttering about the loss.
Luca Moretti is one of them.
He spots me immediately, his brows knitting together as he pulls his shirt over his head.
“That bad, huh?”
I simply grunt in response, walking towards my locker.
Luca smirks, leaning against one of the benches with his arms crossed.
“That interview with Sinclair looked intense.”
My shoulders tense despite myself.
Of course he saw it. Everyone saw it.
I don’t answer. Instead, I yank my sweatpants from my bag and pull them on, my movements stiff.