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)
I should not be smiling.
And yet.
The cameras are elsewhere, capturing some staged moment with another player handing over a cheque made out to the owner of the home, but Matteo doesn’t seem to notice - or care.
He’s here, really here, his focus completely on these kids who are absolutely eating up every moment that they get with him.
It’s… jarring.
Because this isn’t the same man who snapped at me in that post-match interview just days ago, who all but sneered at my questions and made me feel like an inconvenience rather than a journalist doing her job.
No, this Matteo Rossi is laughing, ruffling the hair of a little boy who just nutmegged him with an excited squeal.
This Matteo crouches down to fix a little girl’s untied shoelace before giving her a light tap on the nose and sending her on her way.
This Matteo is speaking in fast, easy Italian, his voice warm in a way that I’m almost convinced I’ve imagined.
And then - because apparently my heart isn’t suffering enough - one of the smaller boys tugs at Matteo’s sleeve.
He’s maybe four or five, with an oversized jersey swallowing his tiny frame and a determined look on his face. He tugs harder when Matteo doesn’t immediately react.
Matteo looks down, and the boy lifts his arms expectantly.
With zero hesitation, Matteo just picks him up, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like it’s instinct.
The little boy nestles into his shoulder, one tiny hand gripping to his collar, and Matteo’s free hand moves to rub soothingly along his back as he smiles - a real, genuine smile.
Not the cocky smirk I’ve seen in post-match interviews, not the practiced expression I’ve caught on camera after a particularly impressive goal.
No, this smile is softer, warmer, and pointedly not for an audience.
That’s what messes with me.
Because I don’t know what to do with it.
I don’t know what to do with him.
He is supposed to be arrogant and rude - the human embodiment of my worst workdays.
He is not supposed to be sweet with children.
He is not supposed to be cradling a tiny human against his chest like it’s the safest place in the world.
And he is definitely not supposed to look so good while doing it.
But he does. Infuriatingly, devastatingly good.
Matteo Rossi, it seems, is not just one thing.
He is not just a striker with a god complex. Not just a temperamental, infuriating footballer who, for some reason, has made it his life’s mission to antagonise me.
He is this, too.
And I don’t like what that does to me.
Not one bit.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Matteo
I lean against the side of the wall, watching as the last of the press and players filter out onto the street.
My focus, however, is locked on only two people.
Daphne and Mark.
My jaw tightens as I watch the fucker linger beside her, his stance just a little too close, his body angled toward hers in a way that makes my stomach churn.
His voice is low, his head tilting slightly as he speaks, like they’re sharing some private conversation - like he has any fucking right to be that close to her.
I know they have to work together, and I’ve hated the idea of it from the moment I realised what kind of man he is. The thought of it - of her being stuck in his orbit, having to tolerate his condescending bullshit day in and day out - is bad enough.
But seeing it?
Seeing him stand there, right next to her, speaking to her like they’re anything close to equals?
Watching her glance away, her fingers nervously toying with her keys, her shoulders just the slightest bit tense?
No. That’s something else entirely.
That’s fucking unbearable.
Deciding I’ve seen enough, I push away from the wall and make my way over, taking my time, making sure my steps are deliberate and unhurried.
Let him see me coming.
Let him feel it.
Mark clocks me when I’m a few steps away, and his expression flickers with irritation before he schools it back into something more neutral.
Daphne, on the other hand, lets out a long sigh the second she notices me.
“Perfect,” she mutters under her breath.
I grin.
“Happy to see me again, giornalista?”
Mark shifts slightly, squaring his shoulders like he thinks he needs to make himself look bigger.
Which is funny, really, because he could stand on his fucking toes and I’d still be bigger than him.
“What do you want, Rossi?” he asks, his tone clipped.
I ignore him completely, turning my attention to Daphne instead.
“You heading out?” I ask.
She lifts her car keys as an answer.
Mark clears his throat, stepping closer.
“I was just about to walk her to her car.”
I smile.
Shake my head.
“No, you weren’t.”
Mark stiffens.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The irritation on his face is delicious, and for a moment, I think he might actually say something.
Maybe argue.
Maybe insist that he’ll walk her.
I cock my brow, silently daring him to.