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)
I thought that it had finished there, that it was all over -
But then the recording shifts, and I realise that I never actually clicked the device off.
"What the fuck was that, Sinclair?"
The sharp, cutting tone of Mark’s voice in that empty corridor comes through.
I don’t even realise I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache. I listen to the entire thing - every biting remark, every condescending jab, every word designed to make me feel small.
I knew it had been bad at the time, but hearing it back like this…
Ugh. It makes my skin crawl.
I should delete it. I don’t need a reminder of that conversation, of the way Mark had spoken to me like I was nothing.
And yet, my finger hesitates over the delete button.
The recording hasn’t finished, and Matteo’s voice filters through the speaker again.
"You think I don’t know what it’s like to have to prove myself? To have to fight for respect, over and over again, just to get people to shut the fuck up?"
I close my eyes, the sound of his voice curling around me.
I can still picture him standing there; his damp curls pushed back from his forehead, his dark eyes flashing with intensity, his scent lingering in the air between us…
I exhale sharply, shaking my head.
This is ridiculous.
I should hate him. After all, this is the man who literally looks down on me just for existing.
Mark made it clear that Matteo doesn’t believe that women should have a place within football journalism - that it was something for men only. And despite how furious I am with the man who’s supposed to be helping me here, not causing a hindrance, Mark knows him. He’s worked closely with Matteo’s manager for years and has spoken to him countless times for interviews and the like, so if anyone’s going to know how Rossi thinks and feels towards things like this, it’s him.
And yet as I listen to the recording again - to the way Matteo had spoken to me, to the way he’d defended me without hesitation - I can’t help but feel like it doesn’t make sense.
If Matteo Rossi really thought I didn’t belong in his world, then why would he say all of that?
Why would he look at me like that?
A frustrated noise escapes my throat as I slam my laptop shut, stopping the recording from playing in its tracks and shoving the device away.
I am not doing this.
I refuse to waste another second thinking about Matteo Rossi.
He is not my problem.
Feeling more than just slightly defeated, I toss the half-eaten McDonald’s into the bin and head to my bedroom, peeling off my clothes and yanking on an oversized t-shirt before crawling into bed.
*
Sleep does not come easily.
No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I toss and turn, I can’t stop thinking about him.
About warm brown eyes, sharp and focused, watching me like he’s trying to figure me out.
About tanned skin and dark, wavy hair pushed back from his face in a way that made him look even more infuriatingly handsome.
About the faint crease in his brow when he’d spoken to me in that hallway, when - just for a moment - he hadn’t been something other than the cocky footballer, the arrogant golden boy.
I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow.
This is ridiculous.
I should hate him. I should be focusing on how irritating he is.
And yet his voice echoes in my mind, all soft and sweet.
So don’t slip up.
It wasn’t said as a dismissal, nor as mockery. He’d said it as a challenge.
I just don’t understand why.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No. I refuse to let Matteo Rossi take up space in my head.
I have bigger things to worry about. The post-match article I need to write, proving that I do belong in this industry -
And figuring out how to deal with Mark after that nightmare conversation.
I exhale sharply and flip onto my other side, but it’s impossible.
Try as I might, my mind keeps circling back to him.
I press my face into the pillow, groaning in frustration.
This is stupid. I barely know him. I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, much less like this.
And yet the memory of him lingers.
The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the toned muscles of his arms flexing as he moved.
The way his voice had dropped just a little when he spoke to me, smooth and self-assured.
I shift against the sheets, suddenly too warm as my skin prickles with restless energy. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, a pulse of heat settling low in my stomach.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is him.
Matteo, standing in front of me, his gaze dark and knowing. The way his mouth twitches in amusement as he steps forward, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.