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)
“Start what, exactly?”
"What, you don’t know the schedule?"
I stare at him for half a second as he leans against the doorway, debating whether to be honest or just make something up to save face.
"I - uh - I was going to go over it after unpacking," I say, nodding towards my bags like they somehow prove my point.
"Right. Well, you might want to speed that up. Press event’s tomorrow afternoon. You’ll get to meet some of the players, shake some hands, start learning the ropes."
I nod slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral.
"Oh - sure. That sounds… great."
"Don’t sound too excited," he says dryly.
I force a polite smile.
"I’ll try to contain myself."
He smirks, like he finds my attempt at professionalism amusing.
"Just stick close to me. Watch, listen, take notes. And try not to embarrass yourself, yeah?"
I try not to grit my teeth as I respond. “Will do.”
Mark studies me for a second, then gestures vaguely towards my apartment.
“Nice place. Looks like The Tribune are treating you well.”
I glance over my shoulder.
“Yeah. It’s cute,” I admit. “Feels very… authentic.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he says. "Bit of an upgrade from wherever you were slumming it in London, I bet."
I raise an eyebrow, but just about manage to keep a sickeningly sweet smile firmly in place.
"Oh, absolutely. I’ll be sending Richard a thank-you note for the wobbly table.”
"Hey, it’s Rome. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in a shoebox with a view of a back alley."
"Well, I do have a partial view of a gelato shop," I counter.
"Right. Living the dream,” Mark snorts. “Just wait ‘til you’re standing in a press pit for hours, trying to get a decent quote out of a player who barely speaks English and definitely doesn’t give a shit about what you’re asking."
"Sounds like you’ve really mastered the art of selling this job."
"Just managing expectations," he replies smoothly. "Nothing worse than a rookie thinking it’s all glamour and VIP treatment."
I let out a short laugh.
"Trust me, I don’t think that."
There’s a beat of silence before Mark checks his watch and then finally pushes off the doorframe.
“Alright. I’ll leave you to it. Just be ready by noon tomorrow and meet me at the office. We’ll head over together.”
“Got it,” I say, mentally penciling in ‘panic about football’ somewhere in my schedule before then.
He steps back, giving me one last knowing look.
“Hope you brought comfortable shoes, Sinclair. You’re about to get thrown in the deep end.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in the doorway with a mixture of excitement and impending doom bubbling inside me.
I step back and close the door behind me, exhaling slowly.
Tomorrow, I’ll be at my first press event, trying to convince everyone - including myself - that I belong there.
No big deal.
I glance back out at the Rome skyline, at the golden sunlight spilling over the rooftops, and my shoulders sag as I let out a long breath.
No big deal at all.
Chapter Five
Daphne
By the time I finish unpacking, the sun has shifted lower in the sky, casting a golden glow through the window and bathing the room in soft amber light.
My suitcase now sits empty in the corner of my bedroom, looking oddly deflated. My clothes are neatly folded into the tiny wooden wardrobe that creaks slightly every time I open it as if protesting the weight of my impulsive overpacking.
Meanwhile, my work laptop is now out of my cabin bag and sits dead centre on the oak desk, looking both important and slightly judgmental.
Beside it, my notebooks are stacked in a satisfyingly organised and colour-coded pile. Some are for work, while others are for my own chaotic ideas - a few of which are already half-filled with the scribbles of thoughts that might one day become something worthwhile.
And, most importantly, my emergency stash of chocolate that I brought with me from London has taken up residence in the top drawer.
Priorities.
Being unpacked is a small victory, but it’s a victory nonetheless. My first tiny step towards making this place feel like mine - even if only for the next three months.
At the very least, I’ve carved out a little sense of order in the chaos of this massive career upheaval, and now, there’s only one thing left to do.
Go outside.
*
This city hums around me in a way that London never quite does.
London is loud - deafening, even - but it’s a different kind of noise.
It’s the sound of hurried footsteps pounding against pavements, of aggressive keyboard clacking in overfilled coffee shops, of taxis honking at pedestrians who dare to hesitate for even a second at a crossing.
It’s packed trains and sighing commuters, people glued to their phones as they rush from one place to the next, convinced that whatever they’re doing is of the utmost importance.
London is efficient, relentless, and always in a hurry.