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)
“Nah, Mark’s got a point. You can always tell the ones who are serious about this job and the ones who just fancy a bit of glamour.”
His eyes rake up and down my body from head to toe, and it takes everything in me not to look at him in pure and utter disgust.
“Exactly,” Mark hums. “And let’s be honest, Sinclair - this isn’t exactly your dream gig, is it?”
“I never said that,” I say, a little too snappy. I try and maintain my composure, not wanting to cause a scene or be ridiculed even further by these ignorant pricks. “Regardless, it’s an opportunity.”
“An opportunity,” he repeats, like he finds the word funny. The others snicker along with him. “Right. Well, hopefully, you make something of it.”
“You better,” his friend with the glasses smirks. “There aren’t many women in this field for a reason.”
Another journalist - a younger man with floppy blonde hair - snorts.
“Be fair, will you? She’s got more of a shot than most,” he says as he gestures vaguely towards me. “That face alone probably gets more views on her articles than the actual content.”
Laughter ripples through the group, and my nails dig into my palm.
I glance at Mark, waiting for him to shut it down, but he just smirks and takes another sip of his drink.
I let out a slow breath and school my expression into something neutral.
“If you gentlemen are quite finished, I’d like to get back to actually working.”
The blonde prick grins.
“Hey, don’t get all worked up, sweetheart. We’re just saying - know your strengths.”
I offer him the coldest smile I can muster.
“Oh, trust me - I do.”
Mark shakes his head, apparently amused, before turning his attention back to the field as the players return to the pitch, ready for the beginning of the second half.
The conversation shifts around me - their focus already moving on - but the irritation lingers beneath my skin like an itch I can’t scratch.
I press my pen to my notepad, forcing my attention back to the game.
Because if I don’t, I might actually throw it at someone’s head.
*
As if he wants to hammer in the point that he’s the best player out there, Matteo scores again within the first eight minutes of the second half.
This time, it’s even more ridiculous.
He picks up the ball on the edge of the box, shifts it onto his right foot, and curls a shot past the goalkeeper like he’s just messing around in training.
It’s effortless. Almost too easy.
The resulting cheers around the stadium are deafening.
Matteo doesn’t celebrate wildly. Instead, he smirks as he approaches the stands, running a hand through his dark hair as he waves to the crowd. They continue to cheer - to scream and clap and chant for him - as he jogs back towards the centre circle, looking as though he’s truly soaking in the applause.
Of course he’s this good.
Of course he’s the star of the match, the one everyone can’t stop talking about.
By the time the final whistle blows, his team has won 3-0. A clean sheet along with a display of total domination.
And Matteo Rossi is the undisputed man of the match.
I exhale slowly, pressing my lips together as I look down at my notepad, now filled with scribbled observations about a man I don’t even like.
Because no matter how frustrating he is, I can’t deny it - he’s brilliant.
Chapter Thirteen
Matteo
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in my ears as I jog towards the sideline, my pulse thrumming with the aftershocks of victory.
3-0.
We dominated them, and this was exactly the kind of statement win we needed.
My teammates swarm around me, clapping my back, ruffling my hair and shouting in rapid-fire Italian about how we dismantled them.
"Che partita, cazzo!" What a fucking game.
Luca grins as he slaps my shoulder. "You were on fire, Rossi."
I smirk, rolling my shoulders as the coaching staff make their way onto the pitch.
"Sempre." Always.
Our manager, old and wise, with deep lines etched into his face from years in the game, pulls me into a brief embrace, gripping the back of my neck.
"Benissimo, ragazzo." Very good, boy. His voice is gruff but warm. "This is what I expect from you. Keep it going."
I nod, my breath still coming fast, sweat slicking my skin.
"Non abbiamo ancora finito." We're not done yet.
Because we haven’t won the league yet.
And I won’t be satisfied until we do.
The celebrations are short-lived. After all, we’re professionals: we enjoy the win, but we know there’s work to do.
Still, I let myself soak in the moment - the deafening applause, the electric energy pulsing through the stadium, the way the fans chant our names like we’re gods among men.
This is what it’s all about.
The game, the passion, the loyalty of thousands of people who bleed for this club just as much as we do.