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)
“Noticed something?”
“Yes. The tension.”
I look at him with a deadpan expression.
“You’re joking.”
“Don’t act all shy about it,” he says. “The comment section is full of it.”
He glances at another screen, reading something off.
“Listen to this: ‘Are we sure this is an interview and not some kind of foreplay?’”
I nearly choke on my own breath.
“Here’s another - ‘I’ve never seen two people so obviously into each other while pretending they don’t even like each other.’”
Heat crawls up my neck.
I can’t believe people are actually thinking these things, let alone commenting about it.
“That is not - Richard, I was just trying to do my job!”
“Of course you were,” he says easily. “And I don’t care why it’s happening. I just care that it’s working.”
“You… what?”
“Like I said, the numbers are good,” he says simply. “The video is getting engagement, shares, views. That’s what pays. That’s what matters.”
Oh.
Oh no.
I suddenly have a terrible, sinking feeling in my stomach.
“So,” Richard continues, clasping his hands together. “I’ve told Mark to set up more opportunities for you and Rossi to do on-camera work together.”
I gape at him.
“No.”
“Ease up, Sinclair,” he says, sounding amused. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Keep asking good questions, keep getting reactions. And hey - if the audience just so happens to love the weird little dynamic that you two have going on - even better.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue, but what can I even say?
That there isn’t tension?
That the viewers are imagining it?
Even I’m not sure that I believe that anymore.
And after what he said when he cornered me after the interview, I know Matteo feels the same.
“Anyway, I’ve got to run. Keep up the good work, Sinclair. And whatever you’re doing - don’t change.”
The call ends abruptly, and I just sit there, staring at the now-empty screen with my heart pounding in my chest.
More interviews.
More time on camera with Matteo.
I drop my head into my hands.
I am so screwed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Matteo
"This is all your fault."
I barely have time to process the words before Daphne Sinclair appears in front of me, green eyes flashing, her auburn hair catching in the late afternoon light as she marches straight onto the training pitch.
I glance around. Some of my teammates are still hanging back after training, stretching and chatting, but the moment they spot us, they know better than to linger.
A few throw curious glances our way - because, let’s be honest, this hot little redhead storming onto the pitch to confront me isn’t exactly subtle - but they don’t stick around to watch.
They know better than to get involved.
Daphne, however, doesn’t seem to care either way.
"Giornalista, I’m flattered,” I smirk, dragging my towel over my face to wipe away the sweat before tossing it over my shoulder. “But usually, when a woman says those words to me, she’s talking about something a little more… personal."
"You’re unbelievable, and insufferable, and -"
"And here you are," I interrupt as I widen my stance, looking her over with curiosity. "Have you finally come to confess that you’ve fallen for my good looks, my irresistible charm?"
"Not even close," she glares.
I raise a brow.
"Then to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Daphne exhales sharply, like she’s holding back from strangling me.
I’d love to see her try.
Apparently, so would my cock, which is hardening by the second.
"The Tribune wants more interviews," she grits out.
I nod, unsurprised as I attempt to discreetly adjust my shorts.
My agent already filled me in this morning. Apparently, The Tribune is eager to set up more features with me.
No surprise there, of course - why wouldn’t they?
What is surprising is that they don’t just want me.
They want me and Daphne together on camera.
It’s not a request, either.
It’s an expectation.
My agent has a long-standing relationship with The Tribune - his wife is one of the senior executives on the board, which means there’s been an unspoken rule for years now that they get all my exclusives.
It’s never been an issue before. If anything, it’s been convenient. A mutually beneficial agreement that keeps everyone happy.
But now, they’re making it clear that my exclusives aren’t just about me anymore. They want Daphne involved.
Not Mark.
Good.
I’d made a point to tell my agent I was happy with that arrangement - less time with that asshole was a win in itself - but I’d also instructed him to dig up every piece of information he could find on the prick.
So far, the results have been… interesting.
Mark Chapman has worked with a lot of junior journalists over the years while here in Rome. More than a few of them have been women.
And yet, in the last five years, every single one of them has left sports journalism entirely.
Some have even left the profession altogether.
No official complaints, no allegations - but there is a definite pattern of promising young women abandoning a career they all seemed passionate about before working with him.