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 what about the pressure, Matteo? You’re one of the biggest names in the league. The face of the team. How do you handle that?”
“Pressure is normal,” Matteo says, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “You play for a big club, you expect it. I just focus on the game.”
Mark nods approvingly, then - without any word of warning - turns towards me.
“What about you, Sinclair? Got a question for him?”
Every head turns toward me.
What a prick.
He specifically told me to keep quiet, to not say a word - so no, Mark, I don’t have a fucking question prepared.
My heart pounds, but I keep my expression neutral.
Matteo’s gaze meets mine again - all expectant and amused - and I realise in that moment, that yes, actually, I do have a question.
“We’ve touched on the pressure, but do you ever get tired of the attention?” I ask. “The cameras, the constant scrutiny - does it ever get too much, or do you find that you enjoy it?”
There’s a brief flicker of something unreadable in his expression, then, slowly, his smirk returns.
“Ah,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Una domanda interessante.”
An interesting question.
He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice while he keeps his eyes trained onto mine.
For a moment, I feel like we’re the only two people in the room.
“Maybe I enjoy it, maybe I don’t.” A pause, and then a small, knowing smile. “What do you think?”
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.
But I hate that I don’t actually know the answer.
I don’t break eye contact, even as my pulse pounds in my throat. Matteo is watching me with a smug, knowing expression - as though he enjoys seeing me fumble for something to say.
Like hell am I going to give this man the satisfaction of not having an answer.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that you like to keep people guessing.”
“Do I?” Matteo says, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. He leans back slightly, his smirk deepening. “Well, giornalista, if I gave you all the answers, then everyone else would be out of a job.”
The journalists around us chuckle, clearly entertained by our exchange.
Mark, however, does not look impressed.
Oh well. It’s his own fault for being a dick and putting me on the spot. This entire interaction would’ve never happened if he’d just kept his big mouth shut.
“That’s enough of the philosophical musings,” my mentor says, his voice low and his tone notably clipped. “We’ll wrap it up there.”
He clears his throat before speaking at normal volume once again.
“Rossi, congratulations again on the win.”
Matteo doesn’t immediately look away from me.
Instead, his gaze lingers for just a second longer - almost like he’s waiting for something.
Finally, he steps back, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the conversation.
“Grazie,” he says, nodding at the group before turning on his heel and strolling away, disappearing through the double doors leading back to the changing room.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence.
“Well,” one of the journalists mutters from beside me. “That was… interesting.”
Mark is glaring at me like I’ve personally offended him, and he scoffs under his breath.
He exhales sharply through his nose before shaking his head as if I’m some lost cause.
“Jesus, Sinclair. In future, could you try a little harder to sound like you belong here?”
I stiffen.
The earlier satisfaction I’d felt at holding my own vanishes in an instant, deflating like a punctured balloon.
That’s it. I’ve had enough of this condescending, passive-aggressive bullshit.
Especially when he’s the asshole who went and put me on the spot like that.
“Excuse me?”
My voice is sharp, but despite my obvious irritation, Mark doesn’t bother to even look up from his bag as he shoves his notepad inside.
“This isn’t some artsy book club discussion,” he mutters. “He’s a footballer, for fuck’s sake - not some tortured poet. Stick to the basics next time. It’s really not that difficult.”
The words hit harder than they should, stoking a flare of irritation in my chest.
But before I can fire back, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well, that was fun.”
The blonde journalist from earlier saunters over to us, his grin wide and knowing.
He claps a hand on Mark’s shoulder, clearly entertained, before turning his attention to me.
“Enjoyed that little moment with Rossi, did you?”
“I was doing my job,” I say curtly.
The blonde snorts, folding his arms across his chest.
“Looked more like flirting to me.”
A few of the other journalists close by chuckle under their breath, their amusement low but unmistakable.
My jaw tightens, heat prickling at the back of my neck.
Seriously?
I don’t even know this guy’s name - he hasn’t introduced himself or bothered to exchange any pleasantries with me whatsoever - and yet here he is, making snide remarks and insulting my professionalism as though I’m some giggling school girl making eyes at a famous footballer, rather than a journalist doing her fucking job.