Chapter Ten
Matteo
T he final training session before a game is always the most important.
The last run-through before war.
We work on set pieces, defensive transitions, and pressing patterns. We work until every movement, every pass, every attack is drilled into our bones.
Tomorrow, we win.
That’s the only outcome I’ll accept.
“Rossi, move your ass!”
I smirk at our coach’s bark, already pivoting on my foot and surging forward. The ball comes to me clean, and in one fluid motion, I take a touch, feint past a defender and rocket a shot into the top corner.
The net ripples.
It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful.
“ Madonna, ” Marco, one of our midfielders, groans dramatically as he jogs over. “You love making us look bad, don’t you?”
I grin.
“It’s not my fault you’re slow.”
“ Merda, ” he mutters, shaking his head. “When you retire, I’ll finally be able to sleep at night.”
I throw an arm around his shoulder.
“When I retire, you won’t have a career left.”
He shoves me off, laughing, and I jog back to position. The rhythm of the game flows through my veins, as natural as breathing.
This - this - is what I live for.
Football isn’t just my job. It’s my religion.
It has been since my father first put a ball at my feet and told me, “Matteo, this is how we get out.”
And he was right.
Football gave us everything. It changed my family’s life. It gave me power, freedom, control.
But it also came with pressure.
Expectations.
So. I can’t afford distractions.
I push harder, weaving between defenders, pressing high and forcing the backline to crumble under my movement. I can already see tomorrow’s game in my mind - every pass, every run, every goal.
Focus. Stay sharp.
No distractions.
And yet.
That damned journalist.
“ Attento! ”
The ball sails towards me, and at the last second, I snap back to reality and control it, knocking a pass out wide before anyone notices I wasn’t paying attention.
I never lose focus.
Except, apparently, when a certain redheaded woman is involved.
I’m not even sure why I asked about her. Curiosity, maybe.
Or maybe something else .
Either way, I know her name now.
A few offhand comments to some of the club’s media staff, a well-placed question here and there, and suddenly, I had more information than I knew what to do with.
Daphne Sinclair.
British.
Twenty-three.
Smart as hell.
Graduated top of her class in London. Landed a job at The Tribune straight out of university.
She’s impressive.
And she makes no sense.
She’s not from football - that much is abundantly clear, from all of the research I’ve managed to squeeze in over the last twenty-four hours.
But if she’s always been interested in the game, why hasn’t she been involved before now? Why jump straight into this world?
Because that’s what it is - a world . A tight-knit, cutthroat one.
You don’t just drop into football journalism. Not unless you’re obsessed with it. Not unless you love it.
And she told me she did.
Love it, she’d said. It’s my favorite thing in the world.
But was that the truth, or was she just another journalist doing the usual trick of saying what she thinks I want to hear?
I’m not sure why I even care about the answer.
I tell myself it’s because she’s an outsider. It’s only natural that I’m interested, that I want to know what she’s doing here.
I shake it off, tightening my focus -
But it doesn’t last long.
I’ve worked with plenty of female journalists before. Some sharp, some talented, and some just doing the job for the money. They have always been polite and professional, well-mannered and pleasant.
None of them have ever looked at me like I was nothing special.
Like I was a nuisance .
Most people - even the ones who don’t like me - at least respect my talent, along with the game. They respect what I’ve done and the name I’ve made for myself, the career I have established.
But she hardly seems impressed by any of it.
I’d go as far as saying it was like I wasn’t even worth her time.
I should find that annoying.
Instead, I find it interesting .
I like women. No, screw that - I love women. I respect them, adore them, and would quite literally die for them if needed.
But the women I’m used to don’t look at me the way she did.
The women I’m used to don’t challenge me like she did.
And that?
That makes her dangerous.
“Rossi!”
I blink as Luca nudges me.
“What?”
He tilts his head, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Where the hell are you today?”
“Here,” I say easily, rolling my shoulders.
“Bullshit," Luca snorts."You’ve been spacing out all morning.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still caught up on the giornalista .”
I almost choke.
“No.”
“ Dio, you are!” he cackles. “This is gold .”
“Shut up.”
“I knew something was up,” he continues, jogging beside me as we take position again. “You’re usually out of those places in a flash, and suddenly you’re lingering around, making eyes across the room at her? You never linger.”
“I was being polite,” I say, deadpan. “And I wasn’t making eyes at anyone.”
“You don’t do polite. And I saw your eyes, with my eyes. Unless you were looking at Chapman… ”
I scowl.
“I hate you.”
“No,” Luca grins. “You hate that she called you out.”
“She didn’t call me out.”
“Oh? Then what was her asking if your ‘ earning your place’ speech applied to journalists too, then?” Luca waggles his eyebrows. “Sounded like a call-out to me.”
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I don’t know why she got so offended.”
“Women, eh?” Luca huffs out a laugh. “I’m telling you, she thought you were talking about her .”
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I wasn’t even thinking about her.”
“Yeah, but you are now.”
I glare at him. “That’s not the point.”
“ No? ” He raises an eyebrow. “Then what is the point?”
I hesitate.
Honestly… I’m not sure.
All I know is that she was pissed .
And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
I didn’t say anything unfair. Or untrue.
Football isn’t just about talent. It’s about instinct. It’s about proving yourself - and that applies to everyone .
Players, coaches, and yes, journalists .
So why did she take it so personally?
“She needs to relax,” I mutter .
Luca barks out a laugh. “Oh, you’re mad mad.”
“Matteo Rossi does not get mad.”
“Matteo Rossi doesn’t explain himself, either,” he grins. “Oh, wait - but you did. You had to, because she made you. In front of a room full of… well, us. ”
I scoff. “That’s not -”
“- and now, because you have the emotional maturity of a breadstick, you can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Go to hell.”
Luca smirks triumphantly.
“See? You’re mad.”
I exhale sharply, trying to ignore him as the ball flies through the air.
Trying to ignore her.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it matters.
I have a game to win, not a journalist to obsess over.
Simple.