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)
The way he radiates the unshakable confidence of a man who has been adored his entire life and has never once had to question it.
I already know exactly who Matteo Rossi is, and I immediately dislike him.
It’s at that moment that Mark reappears at my side, following my gaze.
“Matteo Rossi,” he says, like I don’t already know. “Excellent player. Bit of a nightmare, though.”
“I can tell.”
“You’ll probably end up interviewing him at some point. I have a good relationship with his manager. Just be prepared. He’s… how do I put this?” He pauses. “Not going to be your biggest fan.”
“What? Why?" I frown, slightly taken aback by that. "He doesn’t even know me.”
“Well,” Mark sighs, “he doesn’t think women belong in football journalism.”
Ah.
So he’s one of those.
“Charming,” I bite out.
“Very.”
Before I can comment further, Matteo moves towards our section of the room, shaking hands like a politician working a campaign.
It’s ridiculous, really - none of the other players have behaved like this. They’ve just gone and sat themselves down at the table without any pomp or fuss.
When he reaches Mark, they exchange brief pleasantries.
Mark gets a polite nod, a firm handshake, a “buongiorno, come stai?”
And then Matteo’s gaze turns to me.
His dark eyes sweep over me quickly - calculating, assessing and dismissing all in the span of a second.
He doesn’t bother with a handshake.
Instead, he smirks and speaks in heavily accented English.
“You must be lost.”
I arch a brow.
“Excuse me?”
His grin widens, like he enjoys my reaction.
“You are not usually here. Are you lost?”
“This is Daphne Sinclair,” Mark explains. “She’s working with us for the next few months.”
Matteo nods slowly, gaze still locked on me.
“Ah. A new journalist.”
“Something like that,” I say coolly.
He tilts his head.
“Do you like football?”
The way he asks it - half-mocking, half-genuine - makes my blood simmer, and I meet his stare, refusing to look away.
“Love it,” I lie. “It’s my favourite thing in the world.”
His smirk deepens, like he sees right through me.
“Bene. Then we will get along perfectly.”
Doubtful.
Matteo gives me one last once-over before stepping past us towards the next group of journalists, already distracted by someone else.
I exhale slowly, unclenching my fists.
“Overgrown man-child with a God complex,” I mutter under my breath.
Mark snorts. “Welcome to football.”
*
After Matteo finally makes his way through the gauntlet of handshakes, smirks and warm greetings, he settles into a chair at the centre of the long table at the front of the room, draping himself over it with the relaxed confidence of someone who has done this a hundred times before.
If he didn’t seem like such an asshole, I might actually think it was kind of nice that he’d taken the time to greet everyone personally instead of strolling in like he had somewhere better to be.
Plenty of athletes - in fact, plenty of celebrities in general - treat press obligations like an inconvenience, barely glancing up from their phones as they mutter half-hearted answers.
But not Matteo.
No, Matteo had well and truly worked the room; not just behaving like a professional, but acting as if he actually cared.
Like he enjoyed this. Like he wanted to be here.
It was calculated, of course.
Everything about him already seems to be.
Still, it was effective. He’s already got everyone eating out of the palm of his hand, and we hadn’t even gotten to the questions yet.
I hate that I can see the charm beneath the arrogance, and I hate even more that it works.
Now that he’s sat down, front and centre, the energy in the room immediately sharpens. Journalists who have been ready and waiting in their seats now lean forward, their voice recorders and notepads at the ready.
The first few questions are standard, predictable - ones I’ve heard versions of before in the hours I spent researching Serie A interviews.
“How’s the squad feeling about the upcoming fixtures?”
“How important has the manager been in shaping the team’s performance this season?”
“What’s the atmosphere like in the dressing room right now?”
Matteo answers easily, his voice smooth and laced with a rich Italian accent that makes everything sound five times more dramatic as he talks about teamwork, strategy and the team’s desire to bring home trophies.
All the usual PR-friendly soundbites that are essentially copy-and-paste answers for every player.
After a few minutes of warming up, the questions start to shift away from football and veer into the territory of headlines and gossip.
“Matteo, there have been rumors about your contract renewal - can you confirm if negotiations are still ongoing?”
“Contracts are business,” he answers, that smirk never wavering. “My job is football. My agent is handling everything else.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd.
It’s a classic deflection, but it works.
He oozes just enough charm that no one seems particularly inclined to push further.
Then, almost predictably, someone brings up his other reputation.
“You had quite the eventful offseason,” one journalist says, his tone just light enough to be cheeky. “Spotted on yachts, in clubs, a few high-profile dates… how do you balance it all?”