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)
Unfortunately, Luca doesn’t take the hint.
“Did you piss her off?” he muses. “Because she looked… How do I put this? One second away from punching you in the throat.”
I exhale sharply.
“I’m not in the mood, Luca.”
He chuckles, but he doesn’t push.
“Calmati, Rossi,” he grins. Calm down. “I’m just saying, the only thing scarier than a pissed-off coach is a pissed-off woman.”
He’s not wrong.
And Daphne Sinclair? She’s scarier than most.
I shake my head, shoving my shirt on and grabbing my bag.
“I’m heading out.”
Luca lifts a brow.
“No team debrief?”
“I’ll read the fucking notes.”
He lets out a low whistle but doesn’t argue.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the exit.
I need space.
I need to clear my head.
And I need to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get back in Daphne Sinclair’s good books.
Chapter Thirty-One
Daphne
I slouch on the edge of my bed, fingers still hovering over my keyboard after hitting submit on my post-match article.
Richard’s going to get it in a hurry. I’m sure that fact will earn me a mental gold star in his eyes, but honestly, I don’t care.
The whole thing’s been a blur of frustration and grit, and I just want it off my desk.
And I want him off my brain, too.
I know there will be hundreds of comments waiting for me since I last checked on my pre-match article and predictions. At least I’ll get to see all the people who doubted me scurrying back like little mice, tails between their legs.
My predictions are typically met with an eye-roll and a barrage of “what does she know?” responses, so I lean back and grab my phone, already bracing myself for the usual rhetoric.
But instead, a grin spreads across my face.
As I scroll through the comment section of my prediction article, there’s a satisfaction that settles in my chest.
It’s not just about being right - though I have to admit that is nice.
It’s the beautiful, sweet symphony of all the bitter little men who’d dismissed my analysis now suddenly rushing in to admit they were wrong.
“She called it,” one comments, the typed words barely able to hide the sense of begrudging admiration.
“I’ll admit it, maybe she has an idea of what she’s talking about,” another chimes in - with a dose of defensiveness sprinkled in for good measure.
There’s one who’s still trying to save face, commenting, “I didn’t expect that kind of performance from Roma, but yeah... you were right. Just luck of the draw.”
Right.
Because luck had anything to do with it.
Still, I can’t help the smug smile that curls on my lips.
They were wrong, I was right, and now they're eating their words.
I feel like I should go back and throw in a couple of sassy emoji responses just to drive the point home, but that’s probably crossing the line. Plus, I’m better than that.
Way better.
I chuckle to myself and set my phone aside, finally leaning back and stretching my arms above my head.
It’s a little too late for a celebratory drink, so I figure I’ll just bask in my moment of triumph while it lasts, and pointedly not think of a certain, infuriating footballer.
But then the rush of inspiration hits me like a jolt of electricity.
That creative itch I’ve been ignoring for weeks suddenly sparks, and I know exactly what I need to do.
I glance at my own laptop, which has been open to my novel draft for days now - weeks, even - and I’ve hardly touched it.
The poor thing’s collecting digital dust.
But something has clicked. I can’t explain it, it’s just…
Well, something just clicked.
The love interest I thought was my ‘guy’?
Yeah. He’s not.
No, no - I was totally wrong about him.
The guy I pegged as the villain, though?
He’s the one.
He’s the guy who’ll sweep my heroine off her feet.
I mean, he’ll definitely do a little heart-breaking along the way, but in a good way. I think.
I slap my hand down onto my notebook, pulling it toward me. The page is almost too pristine. Too much white space.
Not for long, though.
I start jotting things down - character names, possible plot twists and story arcs - as ideas flood my brain.
The dam has finally burst, and I smile at the slight ache in my hand as I scribble down as much as I possibly can before the ideas slip away.
It’s funny how inspiration hits. I’ve been walking around in a fog for weeks, thinking my story was just stalled out, like a car engine that refuses to start; and now, it’s like I’ve got a turbo boost.
I glance at the time, noting the late hour, but honestly - I don’t care. I can’t care.
The words are flowing, the story’s unfolding, and I’m officially lost in it.
I glance back down at the page, tapping my pen against the paper.
It’s kind of funny - how book boyfriends are so much better than real-life ones.