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)
Journalists adjust their microphones and cameras, shifting in place as they prepare to snatch their quick soundbites from tonight’s heroes. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, freshly cut grass and cologne, the remnants of the ninety minutes of pure adrenaline still lingering in the narrow hallway leading to the interview zone.
I grip my notepad a little tighter as I hover near the back, observing how this all works.
The seasoned journalists are quick and efficient, their questions sharp and rehearsed. They know exactly what to ask, how to phrase things in a way that gets the best possible answer in the shortest amount of time.
I, on the other hand, feel like an imposter.
Just then, like my body can sense it before my brain catches up, I glance up -
And immediately regret it.
Standing just outside the tunnel, shaking hands and exchanging words, Matteo Rossi moves through his post-match routine like he was born for this.
Each movement is effortless and smooth, like the world exists solely to orbit around him.
His damp curls fall messily over his forehead, sweat still clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, and his socks are slouched lazily around his ankles - because of course he even manages to make exhaustion look good.
His kit is streaked with sweat and grass stains, evidence of ninety relentless minutes of dominance on the pitch.
But instead of looking tired, he looks like he could go another ninety without breaking much more of a sweat.
Which, frankly, is unfair.
No man should ever look that good after running around for an hour and a half, and yet, here he is.
And to make matters even worse, he’s looking right at me.
Shit.
My stomach clenches as I immediately avert my gaze, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
Why is he looking at me like that?!
Does he hate women in football journalism that much?
I swallow, keeping my expression as neutral as possible as I stare hard at the notepad in my hands, as if suddenly fascinated by my own scribbled notes.
But I can feel him getting closer.
Not immediately, but steadily, as he works his way through the small crowd of reporters, pausing for quick interviews and side comments, answering questions with that same smug confidence.
He’s taking his time, making his way towards Mark and I at an excruciatingly slow pace, stopping to chat with the journalists ahead of us like he’s savouring the process.
I don’t know if it’s intentional, or if it’s just my imagination running wild, but I swear, I can feel him coming closer with every second.
A few players cycle through before him, giving me something else to focus on, and for a while, I force myself to be professional.
I nod, I take notes and hold my recorder steady.
“Great performance tonight,” Mark comments to one of them. “How did it feel controlling the midfield in such a dominant win?”
The player nods as he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead.
“Felt good. We knew we had to press high, keep them under pressure, and I think we did that well.”
The next player is the goalkeeper, who barely broke a sweat thanks to the team’s dominance. He gives some pretty standard answers about how keeping a clean sheet is always important and how the defense did their job perfectly, but I can hardly blame him - there’s not really much for him to say other than to hype up his teammates for their performance.
A few more players cycle through, and as I grow in confidence, Mark starts to slip away, leaving me to ask questions of my own, away from him.
I’m careful to keep my voice steady and professional, and I’m pleasantly surprised by how receptive the players are to my presence here.
The interviews continue - players coming and going, answering questions with varying levels of enthusiasm - and Mark continues to shuffle further away, very much doing his own thing.
Until his voice cuts through, sharp and self-assured as he turns to me from a slight distance.
“We’ve got Rossi next.”
My stomach tightens, but I exhale slowly, pushing my shoulders back.
It’s fine. It’s just another interview.
But the moment Matteo’s name is spoken, the dynamic shifts.
There’s a ripple of energy, a subtle but noticeable shift in the atmosphere as more journalists press in, drawn by the star of the night.
The once comfortably spread-out space is now rapidly filling, voices overlapping, recorders being lifted, and elbows subtly jostling for the best positioning.
The crowd thickens around me, the bodies shifting closer, pressing forward, cramming into every available inch of space.
Mark’s gaze scans the group, then, to my surprise, he lifts a hand - beckoning me forwards.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second.
Is he actually giving me the lead on this?
Maybe this is an olive branch. Maybe after all his patronising and dismissiveness, he’s finally acknowledging that I’ve been handling myself well today.