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)
"He's been like this since I got here," I say, starting again, from the beginning. "From day one, he’s been rude. Dismissive and condescending and just - horrible. Always talking down to me, making snide comments about women in journalism with his yes-men who all just laugh along with his unfunny jokes and tell him how great he is. He… even warned me about you."
Matteo's brows knit together.
"Me?"
"Yeah. He told me that you don't believe women should be in this industry. That you think we don’t understand football the same way men do,” I say with a bitter laugh. “He said that you wouldn’t like me asking you questions because of it. That you wouldn’t like me because of it."
I swear, Matteo's jaw actually drops.
"He said that I said that?"
I nod, swiping at my wet cheeks.
"Yeah. And I… well, I believed him. I took his word for it and just assumed that you were an arrogant asshole who didn't, and wouldn’t ever, respect me."
He flinches like I've slapped him, and I hate it.
Still, he doesn't say a word, staying quiet and letting me continue.
"And then at the gala," I go on, "he cornered me when he was drunk. Made these gross, creepy comments and… and tried to touch me. You know the rest - you interrupted before it got worse. But that didn’t make it better. If anything, it was after that when he changed. He's been… nastier than ever, to be honest. Making comments. Watching me."
"Watching you?"
"Yeah," I say, swallowing thickly. "I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like he's just - on me. All the time. But Richard..."
I pause to catch my breath.
"He’s my editor, back in London. Richard told me that Mark's been taking credit for my work. That he's been telling everyone the reason my articles are performing so well is because he’s having to take time away from his own work to help me draft mine, since I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about."
Matteo's eyes blaze with fury.
“And then, today, Mark said that there’s only one reason he can think of why my articles are doing well.”
“And what was that reason?” Matteo asks, sounding as though he’s talking through gritted teeth.
I clear my throat before I answer, willing my voice not to tremble.
“He said I must be sleeping with either you, or Richard.”
He surges to his feet - apparently no longer comfortable in the chair - and I watch as he begins pacing my small living room like a predator trapped in a cage.
"That fuck," he mutters, voice low and lethal. "That pathetic, lying, cowardly piece of shit."
"Matteo -"
"Let me just - make sure I’m getting this right.” he says. “He threatened you, harassed you, tried to humiliate you, and now he's taking credit for your work?”
I nod.
“He warned you off me just to mess with your head, and then he said -"
His nostrils flare as he remembers the final part.
"He said you were sleeping with me or your editor?"
I nod again, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks.
"Yeah."
Matteo runs both hands through his dark hair before he pulls his phone from his back pocket. His chest heaves as he scrolls through his contacts, thumb moving with rapid intent.
"Che cazzo," he growls under his breath. "Figlio di puttana..."
"What are you doing?" I ask, voice shaky as I watch him type furiously on his phone.
"Figuring out who I need to call to destroy this prick," Matteo spits out. "Believe me, he won't get another job in this industry when I'm done."
"Matteo, you can't -"
"Watch me."
His thumb stops, and he stares at a contact name with cold, hard eyes.
"Nobody gets to intimidate my girl."
Despite myself, my breath catches at those words.
His girl.
"Nobody gets to humiliate you, make you cry like this. Not while I’m here. Not while I can do something about it."
He dials a number, pacing the room as the call rings.
"Who are you calling?"
He frowns at his phone as it cuts off.
"I was calling my agent, but he’s not answering. So. I’ll call an old contact at La Gazzetta dello Sport. If Chapman wants to play dirty, I'll bury him in truth."
I feel an overwhelming sense of dread at the thought, and I surge to my feet and reach out towards his arm. My hand wraps around his forearm, though my grip is soft as I blink up at him.
"Matteo, stop. Please."
His thumb hovers over the call button, and his jaw ticks.
"Why?"
"Because..." I swallow hard. "Because if you go after him like this, it makes me look weak. Like I can't fight my own battles."
His eyes soften for the briefest second before the fury returns.
"You shouldn't have to fight them alone."
"But I need to,” I tell him, hating the way that my voice breaks and my eyes brim with tears. “Don’t you see?"
His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, and he hesitates for a few moments longer before he lets out a huff of hot air and pockets the phone.