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)
My eyes narrow as they land on my charger. I can feel the heat of his gaze on me as I make my way across the room and bend at the waist in order to unplug it, his eyes practically burning into the back of my head.
I wrap the cord tightly in my hands, trying to ignore the way Matteo’s presence fills the space around me.
It’s like he’s a magnet, and I’m just caught in his pull, even though I know I should be focused on anything else.
I stand up, pretending to be absorbed in the process of getting my things together, but I can’t quite shake the feeling of his dark eyes still on me.
He steps further into the press box, the door falling to a close behind him as he places his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit and gazes out at the pitch from the glass viewpoint.
I watch as he leans against the glass, looking at the field below with a distant expression.
“You know, I’ve been playing here for a long time now, but this place always feels different after a win.”
“How so?”
He turns his head slightly, catching my eye.
For once, there’s no smug smirk, no cocky retort.
It’s as though the layers of bravado have fallen away, and he’s showing me something else.
Something new.
“It feels like everything is right in the world,” he says, the words almost hesitant, like he's not used to admitting something so vulnerable. "My father used to say that about every game I played, but especially the big ones. That feeling of pride, of happiness, it’s… indescribable."
My heart does something strange, a soft twist I can't quite explain.
"Your father," I say.
His gaze softens, and for the briefest moment, I swear I see something fragile flicker in his eyes.
He stands up straighter, but it’s not the usual posture of someone putting on a show. It's more like he’s remembering something important.
"Yeah. He was the first person I saw in the stands when I made my debut for the first team ten years ago. I was just eighteen years old. You should have seen the way his face lit up. He was so proud."
I nod, though I can’t relate. I swallow against the unexpected lump in my throat.
“That must have been... a big moment for you. For him.”
Matteo’s gaze returns to the field.
“It was. More than I could ever put into words. Football means everything to me. It’s not just the wins or the goals or the glory. It’s about moments like that. The people you’re playing for. It’s family, tradition... all of it.”
I watch him carefully, feeling as though I’m seeing him for what he is for the very first time.
A real person.
“I still enjoy making you squirm during our interviews, though,” he smirks. “It keeps things interesting."
I roll my eyes, but I can't fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what your fans are most proud of.”
“They’ll forgive me for the flirting,” he says, his eyes glinting mischievously. “When you're this good at it, they don’t mind.”
“Good at it, huh?" I raise an eyebrow. “Someone thinks very highly of themselves.”
“Well, I have you laughing, don’t I? That’s half the battle won.”
“You're insufferable,” I sigh.
He winks.
“And you like it.”
I shake my head, but there's a warmth blooming inside me I can't ignore.
"I think you’re just full of yourself, Rossi."
“I’m also right.”
"Perhaps," I admit softly, before adding with a touch of playfulness, "but don’t get too used to me agreeing with you."
He grins, leaning back slightly.
“We’ll see about that.”
And just like that, the walls go back up.
The flirtation’s back, along with the usual teasing and cockiness.
But beneath it all, there’s that little crack where I saw the real Matteo. And as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help but feel intrigued.
"Alright, well, I’ve got my charger," I say, the weight of the moment lingering. I lift my charger to show him before placing it in my bag. "Guess I’ll leave you to your post-match celebration, Rossi."
“Celebration?” he says with mock indignation, eyes twinkling. “You act like I’ve got a party waiting for me. I’m just here, hanging out, making sure that a pretty young woman like yourself doesn’t get lost in the big, scary stadium.”
“Right,” I say, trying to keep a straight face as I head toward the door. “Well, you’re doing an excellent job of that.”
“Of course I am. I’m a man of many talents.”
I hum knowingly.
“I’m sure you are.”
I feel the press of his body close behind me, and before I can even register it, Matteo leans over my shoulder to push the door to the hallway back open.
His hand brushes against mine as he moves it aside, and his sudden closeness catches me off guard.
I feel a strange flutter in my stomach, though I quickly shake it off - after all, there’s no need to over analyse every little thing he does.