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)
Right now, the entire stadium feels like it belongs to us.
And maybe - just maybe - I put on a bit more of a show tonight than usual.
Because I felt her eyes on me.
I caught a glimpse of her earlier in the press box, that auburn hair standing out even from a distance, her body angled towards the pitch as she scribbled furiously in that little notebook of hers. I couldn’t see her expression fully, but I could almost imagine it in my mind - her chewing on the inside of her cheek, brows furrowed, trying not to look impressed.
But she was watching me. She had to be - she was literally getting paid to.
And I’d bet money that she hated every second of how much she enjoyed it.
The thought fuels something deep in my chest, a smugness I can’t shake.
I might not know much about her yet, but I do know this: she doesn’t want to like me. She doesn’t want to admire the way I play, doesn’t want to be one of the millions who can’t help but be drawn to the way I move on the pitch.
Which means it’s going to piss her off when she realises that it's inevitable.
Unfortunately, the night isn’t over yet. No matter how much I’d love to, I can’t just go home, collapse into bed, and replay every second of that performance in my head.
I can’t even shower.
I have media obligations. The part I usually hate the most.
The routine of it grates on me. Answering the same generic questions, nodding along while reporters try to bait me into soundbites. It’s tedious, and I usually spend the whole time thinking about how much more productive I could be. A recovery session, an ice bath, a review of the match footage - literally anything else.
But tonight?
Tonight, I don’t mind as much.
Because there’s a chance she’ll be there.
Daphne Sinclair.
And if she is, I know exactly who I’ll be making a beeline for.
Mark Chapman - legendary journalist, self-important prick - might keep her tucked away, but with any luck, she’ll be standing in that row of reporters, waiting, recorder in hand, ready to challenge me again.
I step through the tunnel, the floodlights overhead casting long shadows against the walls. Sweat still clings to my skin, my muscles hum with residual energy, and the buzz of victory thrums beneath it all.
The press area is packed - journalists shifting, adjusting their microphones and cameras, murmuring to each other as they prepare to ask the same tired questions they always do. The ones they could probably answer themselves by now.
But I don’t care about any of them.
Because then, I see her.
She’s standing towards the back, slightly to the side with her arms crossed, her weight shifted onto one hip like she’s bracing herself.
Like she doesn’t particularly want to be here.
She’s wearing high-waisted linen trousers, the kind that cinch at her waist and flow effortlessly down her legs, making her look both effortlessly put-together and maddeningly unattainable. The soft fabric hugs her hips in a way that has my fingers twitching at my sides, and the black cropped tee she’s paired it with exposes just the slightest sliver of smooth, pale skin beneath it.
It’s maddening, really.
Because of course she has the perfect body to match that sharp tongue of hers.
Toned but soft in all the right places, those curves demanding to be touched, to be held.
I can already picture my hands spanning her waist, fingers pressing into her hips, pulling her against me the way I know she’d fit so fucking well.
Her red hair catches the artificial light, and her lips - plump, pink, and absolutely fucking distracting - are slightly parted as she watches the players filter in.
Dio.
I snap myself out of it, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
Not the time. Not the place.
But my gaze remains locked onto her, and I spot it.
The slight movement of her eyes, the smallest shift of her gaze towards me -
And just like that, I know I’m not the only one paying attention.
She stiffens slightly, like she can feel my eyes on her, and I struggle to fight against the smirk pulling at the corners of my lips.
Yeah. She fucking knows.
But, of course, she won’t look back at me again. No, she’s stubborn, and she keeps her gaze fixed on a player who’s approaching.
She’s pretending she’s just here to do her job, pretending she’s not at all affected.
Like hell she isn’t.
I smirk, stretching out my shoulders as I glance at the row of journalists lined up before her.
If I want to get to her, I’ll have to go through them first.
Which means, for the first time in my entire career, I’m about to willingly - enthusiastically, even - answer post-match questions.
Yeah. Things are about to get interesting.
Chapter Fourteen
Daphne
The press area beneath the stadium is a stark contrast to the roaring energy of the pitch above.