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)
It’s Richard.
I click on it to answer and his face appears on the screen, framed by the familiar clutter of his London office.
"Sinclair," he greets, direct as always. "How's life in Rome treating you?"
"Morning. Can’t complain," I reply, forcing a casual tone. "Just trying to soak up as much of the city as I can before I have to come home."
"That’s right - it’s your last month," he muses. "Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, you've actually done a cracking job so far. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but our readers are still loving the dynamic between you and Rossi."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he continues on.
"Engagement stats are through the roof. Your latest interview got more comments than we’ve ever had."
"Well, what can I say? He certainly knows how to wind me up."
"Just make sure that whatever you're doing, you keep it up," Richard says.
He glances off-screen for a moment before continuing.
"And, look, I know Mark's been helping you along the way, but I was kind of hoping you’d be writing your own pieces by now. Especially the match predictions - they seem to be the other thing that brings us the most engagement."
My brow furrows.
"Mark? Helping me?"
"Yes. Mark. Your supervisor…?” he says, like I’m stupid and don’t know which Mark he’s referring to. “He's mentioned how much time he's been dedicating to helping you out. Said that’s why he's had to cut back so much on his own pieces to help get yours across the line."
I sit up straighter, heat rushing to my face.
“I - what?”
“Now, Sinclair, don’t go and get your knickers in a twist. I know you didn’t need this level of help when you were here, but that was different, wasn’t it? You were just doing the fluffy gossip stuff back then - easy work, really. But this? This is proper journalism. Stats, tactics, real analysis. It’s only natural you’d need a bit of guidance.”
I sit there, stunned, the words washing over me like icy water as my brain scrambles to process what Richard is saying.
Mark’s been telling him he’s been helping me?
Writing my articles?
The same Mark who dismisses my ideas in meetings and barely acknowledges me unless it's to make a condescending remark about football being too complicated for me?
My initial disbelief morphs into simmering anger.
How long has this been going on?
How many times has he smiled to my face while taking credit for my words behind my back?
“Just maybe try and let Mark get back to his own work, yeah?" Richard, oblivious to my spiraling thoughts, ploughs on. "Poor bloke’s been run off his feet trying to keep up with it all.”
"Richard," I say sharply. "Mark hasn't helped me with anything."
He frowns, tilting his head slightly.
"Look, Sinclair - it’s fine. I mean, I know it's all a bit technical with the stats and analysis and whatnot. Easy to lose track of who’s done what when you’re still getting the hang of it."
"No, I’m - honestly, I mean it,” I tell him. “Every word, every article, I've written them myself. I’ve not had any help. Especially not from him."
Richard exhales and leans back in his chair, scratching his chin.
"Well, that's... odd. Mark and I meet pretty regularly, and he’s said how it's been a real team effort. Isn’t that why you’ve been copying him into all your emails? Because you’ve been writing them together?"
My heart pounds, heat spreading through my chest.
"No, I didn’t - he specifically told me to do that. I was just following instructions! Are you - has he seriously been taking credit for all of my work?"
Richard's mouth pulls into a half-grimace.
"I mean, that's not exactly what he said. But, well... he did mention having to step in quite a bit to support you. And to be fair, Sinclair, this isn't your usual territory, is it? Football's a bit of a lad’s game. Bit dry for someone more used to red carpet gossip."
I grip the edge of my desk so tightly my knuckles turn white.
"He hasn't helped me. Not once," I snap, anger simmering beneath the surface. "If anything, he's been trying to undermine me since day one. He’s made it very clear that he thinks I don’t belong here."
Richard sighs, rubbing his temples.
"Right, Sinclair - look, I get it, you’re frustrated. But Chapman is a highly respected journalist. He’s been in the game for years, and people here trust him. That’s a pretty bold accusation you’re throwing around. Are you absolutely sure you’re not just getting a bit overwhelmed with all the football jargon?"
"I’m absolutely sure that he's lying," I say.
"Alright, alright," Richard says, raising his hands like he's calming a hysterical child. "No need to get emotional about it, Sinclair. Just - leave this with me. I'll look into it."
"Thanks," I say, voice tight.