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)
“Careful,” I say. “If you keep this up, I might start thinking you actually have a soul.”
Matteo exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Can’t have that.”
I glance back toward the door, my chest still a little tight from before.
“It just… it gets to you, you know?” I admit before I can stop myself. “I knew it would, but I guess I wasn’t expecting it to hit quite so hard.”
For once, he doesn’t mock, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t hit me with some sarcastic remark.
Instead, after a beat, he says, “it should hit hard.”
There’s a rare kind of sincerity in his voice.
Something soft and genuine that catches me off guard, and I blink, looking up at him.
“These kids deserve everything,” he continues. “And most of them have had to fight for scraps their whole lives. If that doesn’t get to you, you’re either heartless or too far removed to care.”
It’s the most honest thing I think I’ve ever heard him say, and the way he says it - like he actually means it -
I simply don’t know what to do with that.
“I guess I just…” I hesitate, shaking my head, trying to push past the emotions still thick in my chest. “I just hate how performative it all is. The cameras, the photos, the ‘look how generous we are’ narrative. They’re children - not props for a good PR moment.”
Matteo lets out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his dark hair.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s bullshit.”
I stare at him.
Again.
Who is this man, and where has he been hiding?
Because this is not the same Matteo Rossi who shut me down in that post-match interview, acting like I was a mosquito buzzing in his ear.
This is not the Matteo Rossi who, by all accounts, should be exactly the kind of person who thrives off the cameras, who soaks up the attention like it’s his birthright.
And yet… here he is.
Casual, thoughtful, and - dare I think it - almost likable.
Fuck. Am I having an existential crisis?!
“You’re being very un-Matteo-Rossi-like right now,” I say. “Should I be concerned?”
Matteo huffs out a laugh.
“Relax, giornalista. It’s not a permanent condition.”
“That’s a relief,” I deadpan. “I was about to check you for a fever.”
Matteo smirks but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying me.
“You care a lot,” he says.
It’s not a question, and I hesitate as I narrow my eyes, unsure as to where he’s going with this or what he’s trying to imply.
“So?”
His gaze lingers on mine for a second longer than is probably necessary.
“It’s not a bad thing.”
And that, more than anything else, leaves me feeling completely off balance.
Because if Matteo Rossi is suddenly capable of saying things that sound dangerously close to nice -
Well. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!
Chapter Thirty-Three
Daphne
I don’t go back into the room right away. Instead, I linger by the doorway as the children move outside, watching the chaos unfold.
Matteo is in the middle of it.
I tell myself I’ll only watch for a second, but then he does something else, and I can’t look away.
At some point, the camera crew shifts their focus to another part of the visit - players handing out gifts, shaking hands, posing for perfectly curated shots that will no doubt make the club look good.
Matteo, however, doesn’t seem to care about any of that.
He’s still outside, a football at his feet, surrounded by a group of kids who seem to absolutely adore him.
At first, it’s just the football. He’s still kicking it around with the boys, letting them dribble past him, pretending - badly - to be a terrible defender as they weave around him and score goal after goal against the imaginary net.
One of the older boys, maybe nine or ten, flicks the ball up with his knee and sends it flying towards Matteo’s chest. Matteo controls it easily, grinning as he flicks it back.
They’re laughing, teasing him.
“Sei troppo lento, Rossi!” You’re too slow, Rossi.
Matteo clutches his chest dramatically, stumbling backward as if he’s been mortally wounded.
“Troppo lento?” he echoes, mock-offended. “Io? Ma io sono il più veloce del mondo!”
Too slow? Me? I’m the fastest in the world!
I snort before I can stop myself.
Because of course Matteo Rossi thinks he’s the fastest in the world.
The kids, however, are not buying it. They shake their heads, grinning, and one of them boldly points at another player on the team - who is standing across the courtyard in full media-friendly mode - and boldly declares, “Gatti è più veloce.” Gatti is faster.
Matteo gasps, scandalised.
“Traditore!” Traitor!
The little boy giggles and takes off running, and Matteo chases him, full sprint. He catches the boy easily and hoists him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
He shrieks with laughter, kicking his feet, and Matteo turns in a slow circle, letting the others take their revenge by pelting him with their tiny footballs.