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)
And then, I spot him.
He might not be the team’s captain, but Matteo Rossi is front and centre.
He’s unmistakable. Even from this distance, there’s something about him that commands attention.
The camera lingers on him as he stretches and rolls his shoulders, his shirt clinging to the definition of his torso. The crowd erupts into cheers as he jogs towards the centre circle. He looks up towards the huge screens, and I spot the moment that his face lights up when he realises the camera is on him.
He lifts a hand in casual acknowledgement, his smirk as cocky as ever as the crowd roars even louder than before, and I manage to resist the urge to roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.
They’re worshipping him like he’s some kind of hero, and he’s lapping it up.
“I think this is the most interested you’ve looked in football since you got here.”
The sound of Mark’s voice is like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard.
Somehow, I don’t shudder, though I realise that the disgust on my face must be showing, and so I force a neutral expression, tearing my gaze away from the screen.
“Just taking in the atmosphere,” I comment.
My mentor scoffs, though he doesn’t press any further. Instead, he turns his own attention back to the match as the players continue to take their positions.
The referee blows the whistle and the roar of the crowd reaches a fever pitch.
And as the game kicks off, I brace myself for ninety minutes of watching Matteo Rossi do exactly what he does best.
Dominate.
Chapter Twelve
Daphne
It’s impossible not to watch him.
Maybe it’s the way he moves; all effortless power and control, the ball seeming to obey his every whim.
Or maybe it’s the sharp, almost arrogant way he surveys the pitch; like a king inspecting his kingdom.
Either way, every time the ball reaches his feet, the energy in the stadium shifts - like everyone here is holding their breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next.
His movements are infuriatingly effortless, weaving through defenders with almost arrogant ease as if he was born to be on this field.
And he scores the first goal in the twentieth minute.
A perfectly timed run, slipping through the backline at just the right moment to receive a through ball, and then - one touch, two touches, and he fires it into the back of the net.
The stadium erupts.
I glance at Mark and his cronies who are all nodding approvingly. They’re already making notes, although they barely react - as though this is just business as usual.
On the contrary, I can feel my pulse hammering as I quickly scribble down observations.
Rossi: sharp movement, exceptional positioning, makes it look easy. Reads the game like a second language.
Ugh. I hate that I sound impressed.
For the rest of the first half, Matteo plays with the kind of casual confidence that borders on cockiness; flicking passes to teammates with the outside of his boot and orchestrating attacks like a conductor in front of an orchestra.
The opposition can barely keep up, constantly scrambling to close him down, but it doesn’t matter.
He’s always one step ahead.
And right before the end of the first half of the match, he assists with his team’s second goal.
It’s ridiculous, really. He collects the ball near the halfway line, spins past one defender like it’s nothing at all and then lifts a perfectly weighted pass over the top of the defensive line.
His teammate barely has to do anything - just lets the ball drop at his feet and slots it into the bottom corner of the net.
The crowd roars again, and Matteo barely reacts. He simply jogs back to his position, exchanging a few words with the goal scorer like it was inevitable.
I chew the end of my pen, trying not to scowl as I jot down more notes.
Control. Precision. Knows exactly where his teammates are.
Arrogant as hell but backs it up.
When the referee blows the whistle to signal the half-time break, Mark clears his throat and peers over my shoulder at my notes.
There are pages upon pages filled with my scribbled comments, but he doesn’t exactly look impressed.
"Learning something, Sinclair?"
I shrug.
"I’m trying.”
He chuckles, clearly entertained by my restraint as he leans back in his seat, swirling the half-melted ice in his glass.
“Good,” he says lazily. “Maybe you’ll actually write something worth reading.”
His words land heavier than they should, and I feel my grip tighten around my pen as I snap my notebook to a close.
Across from him, the man with the greying hair and a voice that carries lets out a low whistle.
“Bit harsh, don’t you think?” he muses, though there’s not a sniff of genuine concern in his tone. “She’s only just started. You’ve got to give her a chance to warm up, Chapman.”
Another man - this one thinner, with large brown eyes and wearing a pair of thick glasses - smirks as he taps his pen against his own notebook.