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)
The ones that actual sports journalists would probably kill to interview.
I exhale slowly, watching as Mark strolls ahead of me, completely at ease. He hasn’t looked back once to check if I’m keeping up, and so I quicken my pace, not wanting to be left behind as he enters the hotel.
With a nod towards the security and a quick flash of my press badge, I step through the revolving doors.
The shift from the sunlit chaos of Rome’s streets to the pristine, air-conditioned calm of the luxury building is almost jarring, with every surface looking as though it’s been polished within an inch of its life.
I glance down at my outfit, brushing an invisible crease from my cream blouse.
The look I’ve gone for is professional yet approachable, with a silky blouse tucked neatly into tailored black high-waisted trousers, delicate gold jewelry, and, despite Mark’s warning, kitten heels.
Sensible shoes, he’d said yesterday.
Well, these are sensible.
They’re barely heels at all.
Mark had given me a once-over when we met outside, eyes flicking down to my shoes and back up again, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t commented, which I assumed meant I’d passed whatever bizarre test he’d been giving me, but the disapproving quirk of his brow had been enough to irritate me.
Not that it mattered.
I looked fine. Professional, even.
And it’s not as if I’m planning on sprinting down a football pitch or anything.
Mark strolls ahead, weaving effortlessly through the crowd of suited men. He doesn’t once glance back in my direction, making it quite clear that he couldn’t care less if I still had him in my sights or not.
Classic.
I take a deep breath, lifting my chin and lengthening my stride, refusing to let the slight click of my heels on the marble make me self-conscious.
I can do this.
Even if I have no idea what ‘this’ actually entails.
*
A sprawling conference room has been transformed into the heart of today’s press event, its entrance guarded by two towering doors propped open to reveal the buzz of activity inside.
Even from where I stand just beyond the threshold, I can hear the steady murmur of voices - deep, confident and animated - mingling with the occasional burst of laughter.
The rhythmic click of cameras going off punctuates the soundscape, accompanied by the shuffle of polished dress shoes and the low hum of conversation layering over itself.
With a quick breath, I step inside, my eyes sharp as I look out for Mark.
The space is grand but not ostentatious, with journalists, photographers and PR teams all moving in carefully choreographed chaos.
Clusters of reporters hover near the long tables set up for interviews, some leaning in eagerly with recorders and notebooks at the ready whilst others chat amongst themselves, no doubt waiting for their turn.
A few camera operators have already staked out the best vantage points, adjusting their equipment with practiced efficiency.
Mark is standing near a group of journalists who seem entirely at ease in this environment; laughing and shaking hands with people whose names they didn’t seem to need to write down to remember.
He’s already settled in and looking perfectly at home, and for a brief moment, I consider turning around and pretending I got lost on the way to the toilet.
No. I’m not going to let him make me feel pushed out here.
From what Richard said, there’s a reason a woman was needed here - why I was needed - and just because he’s older and more experienced than I am doesn’t mean that he gets to just treat me like crap.
We all have to start somewhere.
Besides, this isn’t even my dream job.
If anything, he’s the one that’s lucky I’m here.
Freshly fired up, I square my shoulders and walk towards him, keeping my chin held high and my green eyes locked right onto him.
He finally acknowledges me when I’m just a few feet away, glancing at me with a brief flicker of recognition.
"Sinclair. There you are," he says.
If I didn’t know from following him that he hasn’t been looking for me, then I’d know it from his entirely disinterested tone. In fact, he sounds down-right put out.
Still, I force a polite smile.
“Yep. Here I am.”
Mark lets out a small huff of amusement, shaking his head slightly.
“Thought you might’ve gotten lost. This isn’t exactly a red carpet, after all.”
Oh, fantastic. Patronising and dismissive.
A truly delightful combination.
I bite down on the first five responses that come to mind. Calling my senior colleague a condescending asshole probably won’t win me any professional points, regardless as to whether it’s true or not.
"No. I managed to find my way just fine, thanks."
“Good. You’ll want to stay close today, Sinclair. You’re here to watch and learn: that’s it,” he says. “The last thing we need is you asking something embarrassing and making us look bad.”
I grit my teeth behind my smile. I hate the way he makes it sound like we’re some sort of team - like he’s actually concerned about my journalistic integrity and not just his own reputation.