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)
Three months working under him will fly by.
Hopefully.
Mark scans the room before I spot his eyes landing on a group of well-dressed men near the entrance. He claps his hands and rubs them together, not even bothering to look at me as he begins to walk away.
“Right. I need to go schmooze some people. Try not to look lost.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I take a deep breath, gripping the strap of my bag as I scan the room. It’s no use trying to find a friendly face here - it’s just a sea of tailored blazers, expensive watches and confident smirks.
The journalists here all look like they belong.
I wonder how many of them actually do.
Chapter Seven
Daphne
Over the next hour or so, I watch and listen to the sound of cameras clicking, questions firing and the occasional burst of laughter when a player says something unexpectedly charming.
The players themselves vary in their enthusiasm. Some lean forwards, engaging easily with the reporters and flashing PR-trained smiles. Others sit back, arms crossed and offering clipped responses that make it obvious they’d rather be anywhere else.
It’s exactly like Mark explained, though he conveniently left out how much of this process is just a waiting game.
Some interviews are quick, snappy affairs - five minutes, a few generic answers and then the player moves on. Others stretch longer, usually when a more seasoned journalist manages to crack through the polished veneer of media-trained responses and get something more interesting.
I keep to the edges of the room, notebook in hand, my pen tapping idly against the page. I watch the others attentively, trying to pick up on their rhythms, the way they keep a player engaged and how they pivot smoothly when they sense a topic isn’t getting them anywhere.
Mark, of course, is nowhere to be seen. Not that I expected him to hold my hand through this, but it’s painfully clear that I’m on my own.
Just as the energy in the room starts to lull, a shift ripples through the crowd.
It’s subtle at first. A few journalists glancing towards the entrance, a couple of hushed murmurs.
Then, like a wave rolling through the room, conversations start dying down, attention redirecting towards the doorway.
Something’s about to happen.
Or rather, someone’s about to arrive.
Someone important.
I straighten instinctively, my fingers tightening around my pen.
And that’s when I glance towards the entrance and spot him.
Matteo Rossi.
I know his name because it’s impossible not to. He’s one of Italy’s biggest football stars - a striker for Roma, a national team regular, and the subject of far too many tabloid stories.
Matteo Rossi is, without a doubt, the most handsome man I have ever seen in real life.
In fact, he’s probably the most handsome man anyone in this room has seen in real life.
And, unfortunately, he knows it.
He strides into the room like he owns it, with an air of effortless arrogance that makes it painfully clear he expects the world to revolve around him.
Heads turn, eyes follow, and the collective energy tilts in his direction, as if he carries his own gravitational pull.
He’s taller than I expected, with the kind of lean, powerful build that makes it obvious he was born to be an athlete. His olive skin is smooth, his dark hair cut neatly but still with just enough of a tousled edge to suggest he doesn't try too hard.
And then there’s his face - his ridiculously symmetrical face. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose that looks to have somehow survived years of professional sport without a single break.
His mouth is curved in a lazy, knowing smirk - like he’s in on a joke the rest of us haven’t heard yet - and he’s dressed in a way that makes him look casually put together.
He’s wearing a navy suit that’s tailored within an inch of its life, but with the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone and no tie around his neck; reminding us all that he’s relaxed and cool, not just another boring athlete in a stiff, corporate setting.
The obnoxiously large watch on his wrist catches the light as he moves, flashing like a beacon of wealth and status, and I wonder how many of those he owns.
Five? Ten? An entire drawer full, all perfectly suited to whatever level of effortless charm he’s trying to exude that day?
As he starts making his way towards the front of the room, shaking hands and flashing grins with the kind of smooth charm that has undoubtedly saved him from many scandals, I feel my irritation flare.
It’s not the face or the suit. It’s not even the way everyone around him seems to unconsciously straighten up, eager for his attention.
It’s the attitude.
It’s the way he walks, like he expects everyone to move for him.
The way he acknowledges people with a brief glance, like their presence is noted but not necessarily important.