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)
Physios rush over, but I wave them off as I push to my feet.
I make my way towards the penalty spot, pick up the ball, and place it down carefully. My ankle’s a little sore still, but this is mine.
The Milan keeper watches me as I line myself up, bouncing lightly on his toes, trying to get inside my head.
I can’t help smirk.
Not a fucking chance.
I step back, four paces. Hands on hips. Eyes locked on the goal.
The crowd noise swells - screams, whistles, chants - but I push it away and take a breath.
And for some fucking reason, my gaze flicks up.
I still can’t see her properly, but I know she’s there, watching. For now, that’s all the motivation I need.
The ref blows the whistle, and I take my strides.
The keeper dives left.
The ball goes right.
The net ripples, and the world explodes.
My teammates pounce on me. Hands pull me in, voices yelling in my ear, but I barely hear them.
All I hear is the roar of the fans.
All I think about is her.
*
The final whistle blows, and I collapse to my knees, head tilted back, exhaling hard.
3 - 2.
We fucking did it.
We won the league.
The Roma bench floods the pitch, substitutes and staff sprinting toward us. Ricci tackles me from behind, shouting something in my ear, but my focus is somewhere else.
I push to my feet and glance up one last time.
She’s already gone from the press box.
A slow, knowing smirk pulls at my lips.
I know exactly where she’s going.
And I’ll be waiting.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Daphne
The stadium tunnels hum with chaotic energy as I make my way towards the post-match interview area.
The air is thick with the scent of sweat, grass and adrenaline, and every few seconds, someone rushes past me - different players, staff and journalists all swept up in the euphoric aftermath of Roma's championship win.
I clutch my press pass like a lifeline and weave through the crowd. My plan was simple: head to the designated media zone, grab a few post-match quotes from whoever’s available and file them for my article.
Easy. Straightforward. Professional.
But as I near the tunnel opening, a group of journalists veers left, ducking past a barrier and slipping directly onto the pitch.
I stop, hesitating.
The field glows beneath the stadium floodlights, the grass torn and scuffed from ninety-seven minutes of brutal competition. Roma's players are still celebrating out there, soaking in the moment.
I know the drill: stick to the tunnel, wait for players to come through. Mark drilled that into me when I first arrived in Rome.
Don't go out there unless you're told.
You're here to report, not play pretend.
But Mark isn't here anymore.
And if I accept the job Richard offered me as Senior Sports Correspondent, this will be my responsibility. My beat. My territory.
I might as well start acting like it.
Fuck it.
I slip through the gap in the barrier and step onto the pitch.
The grass feels soft beneath my feet, the air buzzing with a mixture of relief, joy, and disbelief from the Roma fans still gathered in the stands. The scoreboard overhead still displays the final result.
Full-time
Milan 2 – 3 Roma
Roma: League Champions.
I make my way across the field, and my eyes scan the pitch.
Where is he?
Matteo’s hard to miss in normal circumstances - tall, broad and perpetually magnetic - but tonight, the chaos makes it harder to find him.
I pass by the team's goalkeeper who's laughing with the manager, while one of the midfielders is sitting cross-legged on the grass, FaceTiming someone excitedly and talking in rapid Portuguese.
And then I see him.
Matteo stands near the touchline, talking into a microphone held by a sideline reporter, his face flushed from exertion and hair damp with sweat.
I stop a few meters away, unwilling to interrupt, but he must be able to sense me watching, because his dark eyes lift to find mine mid-answer.
A grin breaks across his face.
He says something to the reporter, then holds up a single finger as if to say one second.
The reporter steps back in surprise as Matteo turns away from the camera and strides directly towards me.
My heart leaps into my throat, and his stride turns into a half-jog.
Before I can react, Matteo reaches me, his hands gripping my waist as he lifts me effortlessly off the ground.
I let out a startled laugh, arms looping instinctively around his neck as he spins me around before lowering me just enough to capture my lips in a hard, possessive kiss.
The noise of the stadium fades. The heat of his mouth, the solid press of his body against mine - it's all I can focus on.
I don't care that I'm supposed to be working. I don't care that there are people watching.
I kiss him back.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against mine. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, and the smile that curves his lips is equal parts exhaustion and triumph.