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)
Matteo exhales a laugh, shaking his head.
“Ah, yes. The scandal.” He spreads his hands in mock innocence. “What can I say? I have friends. Sometimes I go outside. Dio mio, call the police.”
Laughter ripples through the room, but I just cross my arms, unimpressed.
Oh, he loves this. Loves playing into his reputation, loves that people hang on his every word like he’s some kind of international man of mystery instead of just a very talented guy who kicks a ball around a field for a living.
The questioning continues, bouncing from journalist to journalist, but it’s one particular answer that makes my blood simmer.
“There’s been a lot of talk about young players coming through the ranks. Do you think the next generation has what it takes to carry on after the established names retire?”
Matteo tilts his head, considering. Then he shrugs.
“Some do. Some don’t. Football is not just about talent. It’s about instinct. Mentality. Understanding the game.” He leans forward slightly, fingers tapping the table. “It’s why experience is important. You cannot just walk in one day and think you know football. You must prove yourself. Earn your place.”
It’s an innocent enough comment. In fact, to anyone else, it’s a good answer, and probably sounds very much like a seasoned player talking about the natural progression of the sport.
But to me, sitting there with Mark’s words from earlier echoing in my mind - he doesn’t think women belong in football journalism - it feels like something else.
A pointed remark. A passive-aggressive jab.
A reminder that I don’t belong here.
Before I can think better of it, my hand goes up.
Mark, who had been more than happy to leave me on my own up until this moment, suddenly stiffens beside me.
“Sinclair -”
But it’s too late.
One of the event coordinators glances in my direction and gives me a nod.
“Go ahead.”
Matteo turns his gaze back to me, and for the first time since our earlier exchange, his interest notably piques.
He leans back in his chair, watching me, waiting. I clear my throat, steadying my voice.
“Matteo, you mentioned that football isn’t just about talent, that players need to understand the game.” I keep my tone as light and even as possible. “Would you say that applies to journalists as well? That we need to prove ourselves, earn our place?”
For a fraction of a second, something flashes in his expression. Not irritation, not amusement. Just… curiosity.
Like he hadn’t expected me to speak.
Then, that damned smirk returns.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Anyone who talks about football should know football. Otherwise, what is the point?”
There it is.
A direct hit.
The implied you don’t know football.
The subtle what are you even doing here?
“Right,” I say. “Just good to know the expectations.”
Matteo watches me for a moment longer before flashing a slow, knowing smile.
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my expression pleasant.
Mark seems to have been stunned into silence by my question, not so much as looking in my direction as the press event continues.
I barely hear the next few questions, though. My pulse is still pounding, and my fingers are curled into fists beneath the table.
Three months of this.
Three months of Mark’s condescension.
Three months of arrogance from players like Matteo.
Three months of trying to prove I belong.
I swallow down my irritation, grab my notepad and start writing.
Matteo Rossi wants me to prove myself? Fine.
Challenge accepted.
Chapter Eight
Matteo
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders to shake off the stiffness that’s settled in.
Another day, another press obligation.
I know it’s part of the job - smiling, answering the same recycled questions and dodging the ones I don’t like.
It’s second nature by now, but I still hate wasting time sitting in a stuffy room when I could be training.
Could be doing something useful.
We’re having one of our best seasons in years, and I refuse to be the reason that momentum slows.
I spot my agent across the room, deep in conversation with one of the team’s PR gurus. He’ll give me the all-clear when I can leave, but for now, I have to wait.
With a sigh, I make my way over to some of the guys lingering near the drinks table. A few of them already have champagne flutes in their hands, looking far more relaxed than I feel.
"Where’s the afterparty, Rossi?" Diego, one of our midfielders, grins at me.
"Not interested," I reply, reaching for a water instead of the alcohol being passed around.
"Liar," he laughs. "You always say that, and then we find out you were out at some exclusive place we couldn’t even get into."
I smirk but don’t confirm or deny.
Let them think whatever they want.
One of the younger guys, Nico, is scrolling through his phone and snickers before flipping his screen in my direction.
"Have you seen this? There’s already pictures of you from today.”
Sure enough, there’s an article with a blurry shot of me entering the hotel, paired with some nonsense headline speculating about my contract situation.