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)
"Absolutely," Matteo says without hesitation, his eyes darkening slightly. "All I can think about is you."
His warm hands drop to my waist as he holds me completely still.
"Hmm. I suppose you are supposed to be thinking about football…"
"It’s okay. I can multitask," he murmurs, dipping his head to press a quick kiss to my lips.
The heat of his mouth is enough to make my knees go weak, and Matteo must notice because his grip on my waist tightens.
For a few seconds, I forget where we are. The noise of the crowd fades, and the hot air, the concrete beneath my back, the game itself - all of it disappears beneath the intensity of his kiss.
Eventually, though, he pulls back with a groan.
"We shouldn’t be doing this here."
"Definitely not."
He smirks. "One more?"
I narrow my eyes. "You're impossible."
But I let him kiss me again anyway.
When he finally steps away, his pupils are blown wide, and his breathing is slightly uneven. I resist the urge to gloat about how easily he comes undone.
"I should go," I say reluctantly.
"I know," he says, catching my wrist as I turn. "But you'll come find me after the game?"
"Of course."
"After my win," Matteo corrects, eyes glinting.
"Confidence looks good on you, Rossi," I grin. "Just don't get cocky."
"Too late for that."
I laugh, squeeze his hand, and step away.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Daphne
The press box is already buzzing when I arrive.
The elevated section offers a sweeping view of the pitch below, where the players are warming up under the blistering afternoon sun. The stands are already filling with fans dressed in their team colours, their loud chants echoing through the concrete stadium corridors.
I adjust my press lanyard and scan the room.
A few familiar faces nod in acknowledgment as I pass - journalists I’ve bumped into during post-match interviews or press conferences over the last few months.
"Sinclair," an older reporter greets me with a lazy nod.
"Morning, Paolo," I reply, forcing a casual smile.
My heart is still racing from the encounter with Matteo, but I tuck that away for now.
Work mode, Daphne.
Focus.
I find a seat near the middle of the box and set my bag down. The press box has been stocked with refreshments - a fridge filled with water, cans of fizzy drinks and fresh juices, along with a side table stacked with plates of small sandwiches and pastries.
Grabbing a chilled bottle of water, I twist off the cap and sit down. My laptop hums to life as I settle in and open my notes from the pre-match press conference.
Before I dive into editing the draft for my halftime report, I open my phone and scroll through the comments on my pre-match predictions. I’d published the piece late last night from my hotel room: Roma to win 2 - 1.
The responses are a mixed bag, as always.
@rossifangirl99: Hell yeah! But I think we’ve got a Rossi hat-trick incoming.
@milanmadman: You're clueless. Milan’s gonna eat Roma alive.
@danwritesfooty: Good tactical analysis. The point about Roma’s transition game was spot-on.
I smile faintly at the last one, just about to reply when a commotion near the door interrupts my thoughts.
There’s a sharp thud, followed by a muttered curse and the sound of raised voices.
I turn in my seat, frowning, just as the press box door bursts open.
Mark Chapman.
The unexpected sight of him hits me hard, like a punch to the stomach.
He's dishevelled, hair sticking to his forehead and his shirt wrinkled and half-untucked. His cheeks are flushed red, and his eyes gleam with a clear combination of alcohol and rage.
The young security guard who'd been standing at the door looks panicked as he holds his radio close to his mouth, mumbling urgently into it in Italian. Mark shoves past him with a snarl, his gait unsteady as he scans the room.
His gaze locks on me, and for a moment, I hold my breath.
And then he's storming toward me, his finger raised like an accusation of its own.
"You," he spits. "You lying little bitch."
The hum of pre-match analysis from the televisions on the wall cuts to white noise as every journalist within earshot turns towards us. My pulse spikes, but I force myself to sit up straighter.
"Chapman," I say, trying desperately to keep my voice even. "You shouldn’t be here."
He laughs bitterly, swaying slightly.
"Yeah? Well, neither should you. Should've been me sitting in this box today. Should've been me with the contract. But no." He points at me, his finger trembling with fury. "You stole it."
I grip the edge of my desk, heart hammering.
"You did this," he continues, voice rising with each word. "You got me fired. And you didn't even have to work for it, did you? Just had to spread your legs for the right people."
A collective murmur ripples through the room as people shift uncomfortably in their seats - some pretend to focus on their laptops while sneaking glances while others stare openly, mouths agape.