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)
She just stood there, her breathing uneven, her eyes locked on mine, like she didn’t know what the fuck to do with me.
My eyes close, but all I can picture is her face; her furrowed brow and scrunched nose, her bright green eyes and her perfect, plump, pouty lips…
I wanted to kiss her.
I wanted to taste that frustration on her lips, to drag my mouth over hers until she stopped trying to pretend like she isn’t just as drawn to this as I am.
And fuck, fuck, fuck.
I slam my fist against the locker again, breathing heavy, my whole body wired too tight.
I need to get out of here.
I need to see her again.
And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Mark Chapman is going to regret ever speaking to her like that.
That asshole is a problem I can fix. A problem I can take care of.
Daphne Sinclair, though?
She’s a problem I have no idea how to handle.
Chapter Seventeen
Daphne
It’s late by the time that I get home.
The city has settled into that quiet lull between night and morning, where the streets are mostly empty and the air feels thick with exhaustion, and though all is peaceful, it does nothing to quiet the storm still raging inside me.
I drop my bag by the door and toe off my shoes, sighing as I take in my tiny apartment.
It might not be much, but it’s mine; and right now, it feels like the only place in the world where I can actually let my guard down and breathe.
I set the McDonald’s bag down on the kitchen counter, ignoring the way my stomach twists at the sight of it.
I’m not even hungry.
The press box had been fully stocked with snacks, sandwiches, and an unlimited supply of drinks, but that hadn’t stopped me from swinging by the nearest fast-food place and grabbing a takeaway on my walk home.
It’s a bad habit. An old one.
But somehow, it’s the one thing I know will make me feel something.
I don’t even know if it’s comforting or punishing. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
All I know is that sometimes, when the weight of the day is too much, when my thoughts are too loud and my emotions are too raw, I need something to keep my body busy, to keep my mind occupied.
And right now, this is all I have.
I unwrap my cheeseburger and take a slow bite, barely tasting it as my mind replays the night’s events in a relentless loop.
Sitting in the press box, enduring Mark and his friends’ passive-aggressive jabs.
Being thrown into the spotlight during Matteo’s interview after Mark had explicitly told me to stay quiet and watch.
My mentor’s subsequent outburst, his voice laced with barely restrained fury as he tore into me.
And then… Matteo.
I shake my head sharply, as if I can physically push the thought of him away.
Work. I need to focus on work.
With a sigh, I grab my laptop and notes from my bag and head to the couch, determined to focus on anything but the infuriating, impossible man still lingering in my thoughts.
I plug my audio recorder into my laptop and begin to scan through the file that contains tonight’s interviews as I continue to munch on my burger. I hit play, letting the low murmur of voices fill the silence as I unwrap a few fries.
First come the post-match interviews, starting with a few of the other players. It’s all the usual routine of polished responses and generic questions - nothing particularly groundbreaking. I half-listen, twirling my pen between my fingers and jotting down a few notes out of habit.
But my mind is elsewhere, my focus fractured.
Because then there’s him.
I sit up slightly as Matteo’s voice fills my apartment, deep and self-assured even through the slightly tinny playback.
He speaks with that same unwavering confidence he carries on the pitch, each word smooth and deliberate as though he knows how much people hang onto his every word.
He sounds exactly the way he looks: effortlessly in control, like nothing in the world could ever faze him.
I listen carefully, letting the interview play out. Even after almost a year in journalism, I still instinctively cringe at the sound of my own voice when I hear myself ask him the question that caused so much trouble.
But there’s that teasing lilt in his voice. The slight pause before he answered - like he was sizing me up.
And as I listen to his answer, I remember the way his lips had curved into that insufferable smirk, his dark eyes locking onto mine like he could see everything I was thinking.
I swallow, shifting slightly on the couch.
It’s annoying. He’s annoying.
And yet, I find myself replaying that clip again, listening a little closer. Analysing his tone and the way he’d spoken to me, how different it had felt compared to the way he addressed all of the other journalists in the room.