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 make any real effort to hold eye contact with me, though I push my irritation to the side and force my voice to remain even and professional.
“Matteo, a tough loss tonight -”
“Is there a question coming, or are you just narrating the obvious?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.
His precious ego has been bruised a little.
Fine.
If he wants to be a dick, I can handle that.
“What do you think went wrong in the second half?”
“Everything.”
I wait for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his theatrics.
“Alright,” I say, making a conscious effort to keep my voice level. “Did the formation change at halftime have anything to do with the shift in momentum?”
He exhales sharply, clearly exasperated.
“It was a tactical decision. It didn’t work.”
Jesus Christ.
I try again.
“Looking ahead -”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Matteo snaps, cutting me off entirely.
A muscle in my jaw ticks, and slowly, I lower my recorder.
“It’s kind of my job,” I say, tilting my head. “Although I didn’t realise that sulking was included within your contract.”
His gaze lifts to mine for the first time, and his dark eyes flash with a fury that’s unfamiliar. The air around us turns thick, charged with something I can’t quite place.
His chest rises and falls with restrained breath, and for a long moment, neither of us moves.
It’s a standoff. A dangerous one.
Matteo exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, but he still doesn’t say anything. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back, and the silence stretches between us - a crackling, suffocating thing.
I should move on. I should wrap this up, take my losses, and walk away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I clear my throat, lift the recorder back up between our bodies and attempt to start this interview all over again.
“Matteo, it was a difficult match tonight,” I say, keeping my voice cool and measured.
The last thing I want to do right now is to show any sign of weakness.
“Do you think the team underestimated their opponents?”
His eyes flicker, but the muscle in his jaw doesn’t relax.
“No.”
Bullshit.
I fight the urge to sigh.
“Then what do you think went wrong?”
“What do you think went wrong?” he counters, his tone edged with something bitter. “Since you seem to have all the answers.”
I blink at him, admittedly surprised by his snark.
“I’m asking you, because you were on the pitch.”
“And I’ve been playing this game for years,” he bites out, his gaze narrowing. “Long before you decided you could just waltz in and write about it.”
The words hit like a brutal slap to the face, and I go rigid, my fingers tightening around my recorder.
I don’t even think he realises what he’s just said. Not fully.
But I do. I hear it loud and clear.
Long before you decided you could just waltz in and write about it.
As though I don’t belong here.
As if I’m not fighting every fucking day to find my place in this industry.
“Right,” I say, my voice deceptively calm despite the way my pulse thunders violently in my ears. “I suppose you’d rather I was writing about something a little more fitting. Fashion, maybe? Tourism? Or back to my good old roots of petty celebrity gossip?”
His jaw clenches, then relaxes.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
His dark eyes narrow, his expression completely unreadable.
“You always do this, don’t you?” he mutters, his voice quiet and low. “It’s second nature to you, giornalista. You twist my words and make them into something they’re not.”
I let out a sharp laugh.
“Right. Because there’s absolutely no history of men in this industry dismissing women’s opinions on the sport.”
Something flickers across his face - something quick, almost imperceptible - but the tension remains. I square my shoulders, refusing to show him the way that he’s got under my skin.
By hell or highwater, I’m going to finish this interview.
“One last question,” I say, not letting him get another word in before I can steer the conversation forwards. “Despite tonight’s result, do you still believe Roma has what it takes to go all the way this season?”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then, finally, he exhales, running a hand through his damp hair.
“Yes,” he says. “We’ll come back stronger.”
It’s the most honest answer I’ve gotten from him all night.
I nod, keeping my expression neutral.
“Good luck with that.”
Then I turn, walking away before he can say anything else.
Fuck you, asshole.
Chapter Thirty
Matteo
I watch her walk away.
I should turn around towards the rest of the journalists waiting for their turn, should do the usual - shake off the loss, give some practiced answers, and put on a fucking performance. After all, it’s part of the job. It’s what I’m paid to do.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stare after her, my jaw locked so tight I swear I hear my teeth grind.