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)
“Oh?”
“Yeah. It’s not just about football, it’s about how we cover it. Karen Atkinson was supposed to go, but, well - between us, she’s gone and gotten herself pregnant.”
Did he...
Did he really just say that?
“Karen’s pregnant?” I manage. “That’s… that’s a harsh reason to miss out on a job opportunity, don’t you think?”
“Yeah," he shrugs, utterly unbothered. "Don’t tell anyone, though - it’s a super high risk pregnancy, or something."
I open my mouth to respond, but the words just refuse to come.
My brain has officially crashed.
"Anyway, forget about that," he says, waving a dismissive hand like Karen’s uterus is a minor inconvenience to him. "You’re up now, Sinclair. Time to pack your bags. And remember: it’s a big deal.”
Great.
Pregnant senior colleague + company needing a token female voice = ground-breaking opportunity for me.
“Right," I force a smile, resisting the urge to scream. "Football. Diversity. And… all that.”
“Exactly. And you’ll be working closely with Mark Chapman,” he adds, his grin widening. “Big name in the industry. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
I nod slowly. Of course, I’ve heard of him. Everyone has. He’s a legend in sports journalism - and also old enough to be my father.
“Okay…” I drag the word out. “But… football? What exactly am I covering?”
“The matches. The players. The stuff that matters.”
“Right. But… am I writing about their kick numbers or something?”
Richard chuckles a bit too loudly.
“You’ll learn," he says, tone patronising as ever. "It’s a great opportunity for you, Sinclair.”
I let out a long breath through my nose.
Rome.
Football.
Three months.
“Okay,” I say, a little too brightly. “And when do I leave?”
“Three days,” he grins, like he’s personally changed my life. “Plenty of time to get yourself sorted. But most importantly of all - I cannot emphasise this enough - don’t screw this up.”
And just like that, my life has changed.
The possibility of turning my entire career around is so close I can almost taste it.
I’m finally going to be working on something that could lead to real opportunities.
And who knows? Maybe being in Rome will spark some much-needed inspiration for my fantasy novel, too.
I’ve been stuck in a creative rut for so long - mostly fuelled by the fact I’ve been spending my days writing about cheating reality stars while my own dreams gather dust - and this could be the perfect chance to turn things around.
There’s only one small problem:
How exactly does one pretend to care about football?
Chapter Two
Daphne
My suitcase is open, half-packed and sitting precariously on my bed as I toss in the last few items like a disorganised whirlwind.
I can already tell that no matter how much I cram into this thing, I’m going to forget something important.
So far, I’ve added an extra pair of heels ( in the unlikely event I’m invited to a black-tie gala), another stack of notebooks and pens (because how else will I look professionally unprepared?), my charger (though I fully expect it to disappear halfway through my trip), and, naturally, my favourite bottle of dry shampoo.
You know, for those days when I inevitably don’t prioritise washing my hair and need to fake looking presentable.
A deep sigh escapes me as I zip up the hard-shell case, watching it bulge ominously under the pressure of all the clothes, mismatched shoes and half-hearted optimism I’m cramming into it.
It’s like playing Tetris with my sanity. One wrong move and this thing’s going to explode all over the floor, and I’ll be left standing in my underwear in the middle of my bedroom, wondering how I’ve managed to reach adult life without learning how to properly pack a case.
I take a step back and eye the suitcase like it’s a stubborn toddler.
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter under my breath, poking at the top with my finger to try and flatten it out. "I swear, if I have to sit on you, you’ll regret it."
I’ve been packing for hours - or at least it feels that way.
Between organising the correct number of socks (who doesn’t need 14 pairs for a three-month trip?), double-checking my toiletries bag for the hundredth time and mentally rehearsing how I’m going to pretend to be professional around a bunch of football players in Rome, I’m about ready to just throw it all out and call it a day.
But then I think about Italy.
Rome. The food. The wine.
The sunshine.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I mentally picture myself strolling through the cobbled streets with an espresso in hand, the backdrop of centuries-old ruins in the distance.
I can already taste the soft pasta, the crisp wine - and of course, sense the beautiful men lurking just around the corner, ready to distract me from my unending imposter syndrome.
“Okay, Daphne,” I say to myself, turning to look at my reflection and taking a deep breath. “You’ve got this. You’re going to Rome, not a press conference for toxic influencers. You’re a professional. Just... don’t get overwhelmed by the whole football thing. You’ll learn. Probably.”