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)
Banners with the Roma and Milan logos hang from lamp posts. Fans are already congregating near the gates, their jerseys a blur of red, gold, and black as they sing and chant despite the heat.
The taxi drops me at the hotel where the press conferences are being held. I collect my credentials from the media desk and slip the lanyard over my head, adjusting the laminated card until it rests flat against my chest.
Daphne Sinclair
The Tribune
Accredited Journalist – Serie A League Final
I can’t help but grin.
This is it. The big leagues.
*
The pre-match press conference is a tense, polished affair, with reporters from all over Europe squeezed into the hotel ballroom.
Milan’s manager speaks first, deflecting questions about their recent inconsistent performances with a strained smile.
And when Roma’s manager, Carlo Ricci, steps up to the podium, the mood in the room shifts.
Ricci is a legend in Italian football - stoic, sharp-witted and with a tactical mind that has earned him a reputation as one of the most respected figures in the sport. He answers the first few questions with practiced patience, occasionally glancing toward the media coordinator at his side for the odd translation.
I sit near the middle of the room, my notepad balanced on my knee.
When the media coordinator finally nods in my direction, signaling that it’s my turn, I feel my pulse spike.
"Mr. Ricci," I begin, voice clear despite the nervous flutter in my stomach, "how do you think your team’s ability to maintain possession will fare against Milan's high press?"
Ricci's gaze lands on me.
His expression remains unreadable for a moment, but then his lips twitch into the faintest of smiles.
"Good question," he says, leaning forward slightly. "Possession has been one of our strengths this season, but Milan presses aggressively, and we are in their city now. But we've worked on our transition play this week, and if we can stay composed under pressure, I think we'll be able to dictate the tempo."
He pauses, then adds with a wry smile, "hopefully, anyway. Otherwise, we'll just have to rely on Rossi to score a hat-trick."
Laughter ripples through the room, and I grin and jot down his answer.
When the press conference ends, Ricci steps down from the podium.
As he passes me, he gives me a small nod of acknowledgment, and I sit there for a moment, stunned.
Was that… approval?
A journalist from another outlet leans over.
"Nice question," he says. "Ricci usually shuts down anything tactical. Must've liked you."
I mumble a quick thanks, heat creeping up my neck.
Okay. Maybe I do belong here.
*
By the time I arrive at the stadium later that afternoon, the sun is high and relentless, turning the concrete concourse into a furnace.
I tug at the neckline of my black tee, the thin straps digging slightly into my shoulders. The fitted material is tucked into my beige high-waisted trousers that flare at the bottom, paired with dark pumps that are already pinching my toes.
I swipe a hand across my forehead and adjust my press lanyard, hoping that my setting spray has worked its magic and that I don’t look like a melted candle as a result of the heat.
The crowd noise is already building as I make my way towards the press entrance.
The atmosphere is electric - fans waving flags, drums echoing through the air, the distant crack of flares being set off beyond the barriers.
I weave through the stadium corridors toward the press box. The unfamiliar layout forces me to pause every few turns, squinting at the signs that point toward the media area.
Just as I pass a dimly lit side corridor, a hand clamps around my wrist and yanks me backward.
"What the -" I yelp, heart leaping into my throat as I'm pulled into the shadows.
The cool concrete presses against my back as a familiar body pins me in place.
"Cazzo, bella," Matteo says with a low laugh. "You're jumpy."
"Bloody hell, Matteo!" I swat his chest with my free hand, pulse racing. "Can you blame me?! You can't just grab me like that!"
He grins unapologetically as his eyes flicker over me.
"Merda. You look good."
I roll my eyes.
"You're supposed to be preparing for the biggest game of the season, not lurking around dark corridors like a creep."
"I was waiting for you," he says as he steps impossibly closer, bracing his hands against the wall on either side of my head. "Didn't want to risk missing you."
I drink him in for a moment - my eyes dancing over his handsome face - and my expression softens.
"I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever," I say, my voice quieter than I intended it to be.
It’s only been a few days, but honestly, it feels like a lifetime.
"I know,” he says as his thumb grazes my jaw. "Training has been brutal. The coaches locked us down - they didn’t want any distractions."
I arch a brow. "I'm a distraction now?"