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)
"Sinclair," Mark greets me flatly, his tone making my surname sound like an inconvenience. "You made it."
I force a polite smile, resisting the urge to fold my arms defensively.
"Of course. I wouldn’t miss it."
One of his friends - a balding man with a ruddy complexion - chuckles deeply.
“This the new girl you’ve been talking about, Chapman?”
"Yeah, this is her,” Mark scoffs. “Newest addition to the team. Fresh out of uni and still figuring out the difference between a football and a basketball, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
The group laughs.
My cheeks burn, but I somehow manage to keep my expression neutral.
"I’m a fast learner."
Another man with silver hair and a roughened voice grins at me from where he sits next to my supposed mentor.
"If that’s true, then I hope you brought your notepad. You might actually learn a thing or two tonight."
"Already prepared," I say with a tight smile.
“That's too bad. I was going to say you could share mine.”
“I bet you’d share something with her, alright,” the balding man pipes up.
The group laughs together as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, and I somehow manage to resist the immediate urge to vomit all over them.
Mark waves a hand, gesturing to the empty seat beside him and distracting me from his vile friends.
"Sit down, Sinclair."
His tone is patronising, dismissive, and all too familiar. He barely even lifts his gaze to look at me as I force myself to take a deep breath and smile politely before doing as I’m told.
I settle into the chair, turning my attention to the scenes unfolding on the pitch below.
The conversation continues around me, the men discussing the upcoming match with a loud confidence that undoubtedly comes from years in the business.
"Rossi’s in fine form at the moment," Mark says, taking a swig from a glass of whisky. "Should be an easy win for Roma."
The silver-haired creep snorts.
"I hope so. Be a shame if your new recruit here didn’t get to see what real talent looks like. Though I’m sure she’s more interested in what’s under the kit, eh?"
Another round of laughter booms around the small group, once again at my expense.
They think I’m here for the eye candy, that I’m some naive girl swept up by the glamour of professional athletes.
Little do they know I couldn’t care less about the sport or the players.
"Actually," I interject, keeping my voice steady, "I’m here to understand the dynamics of the game. There’s a lot to learn from how players interact on the pitch, especially someone as strategic as Rossi."
The laughter falters, just a bit. Mark glances at me, one eyebrow raised.
"Is that so?"
"Yes,” I nod, determined to try and demonstrate what professionalism looks like to this group of ignorant assholes. “His ability to read the game and anticipate plays is impressive. It’s not just about physical skill. It’s mental, too."
There’s a hint of annoyance in Mark’s responding chuckle.
The thought brings me far more joy than it probably should.
"Well, well gentlemen. Maybe she’s got half a brain after all."
The other men chuckle, but their laughter is quieter than before. I don’t miss the way that they now exchange questioning looks - clearly not expecting me to hold my ground.
But I’ve said my piece now, and I don’t want to push my luck too far. After all, I keep reminding myself of how lucky I am to have been given this opportunity in the first place.
So, I turn back to the pitch, my heart pounding but my expression calm.
The stadium is coming to life, the stands filling rapidly as kickoff approaches. The rhythmic chants swell and reverberate through the air, and I let the noise wash over me, grounding myself in the atmosphere.
A few moments later, Mark leans over, his voice a low murmur meant just for me.
"Watch yourself, Sinclair. There’s no need to get defensive when we’re just having a bit of fun. You really killed the mood,” he says. “Just sit back, look pretty, and leave the analysis to the professionals."
Inside, I’m seething.
Outside, I force a tight smile in the name of my career.
"Noted."
I hate this man.
I may not be the most passionate person in the world when it comes to football, and I may be new to the industry, but I’ve worked hard to get here - spending countless hours researching the different rules, teams and players - and I’m not about to let a group of smug, washed-up, balding journalists make me doubt myself.
The players emerge from the entrance tunnel and begin to take to the field, each one walking hand-in-hand with a small child. The stadium is very much alive now, and the noise swells as more fans fill their seats.
The chants are rhythmic, almost hypnotic, blending into a singular roar of anticipation as the players line up.
My gaze flickers to the massive screens hanging above the pitch. The cameras zoom in on the team captains as they move to flip a coin to see which side starts the game off, and I focus on all of the details, determined to write something so impressive that it proves I belong here just as much as anyone else.