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)
He doesn’t give me even a second to process his nasty comments before he steps in closer.
“And you just don’t get it, do you?” His voice is laced with something uglier than frustration, now - something bitter. “You’re not here to play journalist, Sinclair. You’re here to learn from people who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“I am a journalist.”
He barks out a laugh.
“No, you’re not. You’re a vanity hire. A pretty face they can put in a press box to make it look like they give a shit about diversity,” he sneers. “At least Karen was half-good at her job, which made up for her face. But you? You don’t know shit about the game, the players, or this world. And, what - you think Richard sent you here because you’re talented? Because your little reports and articles are so insightful?”
The words are cold and harsh, and I feel them settle deep - right into the part of me that does wonder whether I really deserve to be here.
Honestly, this isn’t just nastiness.
This is borderline humiliating.
“Need I remind you that Richard is my boss, and that he has no complaints with any of my pieces?” I bite out, trying to hold my voice steady. “He barely even edits my articles. He pretty much publishes them as they are.”
Mark’s mouth twists into something cruel.
“Yeah? And you think that’s because you’re good?”
He shakes his head.
“No, Sinclair. It’s because no one expects anything from you in the first place. No one reads your articles and thinks, ‘wow, this girl really knows her stuff’. They skim through it, maybe admire the cute little way you put words together, and then move the fuck on.”
My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips.
“Go to hell, Mark.”
He smirks, tilting his head.
“Touched a nerve, did I?”
I glare at him, my throat burning.
But he isn’t done yet.
“You want to know what you actually achieved back there?” he asks.
His tone softens slightly - like he’s doing me a favour by telling me this.
“You made yourself look like a joke. The second Rossi started smirking at you, every single guy in that room knew exactly what was happening. And now? Now, every time you write something about him, they’ll assume it’s biased. That he charmed you, flirted with you a little, and you fell for it. Because that’s how this works, sweetheart.”
My breath catches.
It’s the condescension that finally breaks through the shock - the way he calls me sweetheart like I’m some naïve idiot who wandered into a world I don’t belong in.
I swallow down the lump rising in my throat.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“Don’t get all emotional about it,” Mark sneers. “Welcome to football.”
With that, he turns on his heel and strides off, leaving me standing in the middle of the corridor, chest heaving, fury clawing at my insides.
I should have expected this.
I did expect this.
And yet, somehow, it still stings.
As I watch him walk away, I come to the slow realisation that this isn’t about professionalism.
It’s about control.
And the fact that, for once, I didn’t just sit there and nod along like a good little assistant should.
My skin prickles with the sting of his words as the heavy silence presses in around me, and I exhale slowly, trying to calm myself.
“You know,” an unfortunately familiar voice drawls from behind me, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. “For a guy who clearly isn’t that impressive, he sure likes to act like he is.”
I whirl around, pulse still hammering from the confrontation, only to find him.
Matteo Rossi leans casually against the wall of the corridor.
His damp curls are pushed back from his forehead now, no longer clinging to his skin the way they did on the pitch or in the press room.
He’s evidently showered and cleaned up. Gone is the sweat-soaked kit and grass-stained socks. Now, he’s dressed in a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a pair of light sweatpants sitting perfectly on his hips.
His training jacket is slung over one shoulder and his posture completely relaxed, as if he hasn’t just walked into the aftermath of my worst professional moment yet.
And his mouth - his stupid, unfairly perfect mouth - is curved into something that’s not quite a smirk, but close enough.
It’s impossible to tell how much of the conversation he overheard. But judging by the sharpness in his gaze - the way he watches me like he’s already got me figured out - I’d wager it was enough.
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
Because while part of me wants to snap at him - to demand to know how long he’s been standing there and why the hell he thinks it’s okay to eavesdrop - the other part… well.
The other part burns with shame.