Chapter Twelve
Daphne
I t’s impossible not to watch him.
Maybe it’s the way he moves; all effortless power and control, the ball seeming to obey his every whim.
Or maybe it’s the sharp, almost arrogant way he surveys the pitch; like a king inspecting his kingdom.
Either way, every time the ball reaches his feet, the energy in the stadium shifts - like everyone here is holding their breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next.
His movements are infuriatingly effortless, weaving through defenders with almost arrogant ease as if he was born to be on this field.
And he scores the first goal in the twentieth minute.
A perfectly timed run, slipping through the backline at just the right moment to receive a through ball, and then - one touch, two touches, and he fires it into the back of the net.
The stadium erupts .
I glance at Mark and his cronies who are all nodding approvingly. They’re already making notes, although they barely react - as though this is just business as usual .
On the contrary, I can feel my pulse hammering as I quickly scribble down observations.
Rossi: sharp movement, exceptional positioning, makes it look easy. Reads the game like a second language.
Ugh . I hate that I sound impressed.
For the rest of the first half, Matteo plays with the kind of casual confidence that borders on cockiness; flicking passes to teammates with the outside of his boot and orchestrating attacks like a conductor in front of an orchestra.
The opposition can barely keep up, constantly scrambling to close him down, but it doesn’t matter.
He’s always one step ahead.
And right before the end of the first half of the match, he assists with his team’s second goal.
It’s ridiculous, really. He collects the ball near the halfway line, spins past one defender like it’s nothing at all and then lifts a perfectly weighted pass over the top of the defensive line.
His teammate barely has to do anything - just lets the ball drop at his feet and slots it into the bottom corner of the net.
The crowd roars again, and Matteo barely reacts. He simply jogs back to his position, exchanging a few words with the goal scorer like it was inevitable.
I chew the end of my pen, trying not to scowl as I jot down more notes.
Control. Precision. Knows exactly where his teammates are.
Arrogant as hell but backs it up.
When the referee blows the whistle to signal the half-time break, Mark clears his throat and peers over my shoulder at my notes.
There are pages upon pages filled with my scribbled comments, but he doesn’t exactly look impressed.
"Learning something, Sinclair?"
I shrug.
"I’m trying.”
He chuckles, clearly entertained by my restraint as he leans back in his seat, swirling the half-melted ice in his glass.
“Good,” he says lazily. “Maybe you’ll actually write something worth reading.”
His words land heavier than they should, and I feel my grip tighten around my pen as I snap my notebook to a close.
Across from him, the man with the greying hair and a voice that carries lets out a low whistle.
“Bit harsh, don’t you think?” he muses, though there’s not a sniff of genuine concern in his tone. “She’s only just started. You’ve got to give her a chance to warm up, Chapman.”
Another man - this one thinner, with large brown eyes and wearing a pair of thick glasses - smirks as he taps his pen against his own notebook.
“Nah, Mark’s got a point. You can always tell the ones who are serious about this job and the ones who just fancy a bit of glamour.”
His eyes rake up and down my body from head to toe, and it takes everything in me not to look at him in pure and utter disgust.
“Exactly,” Mark hums. “And let’s be honest, Sinclair - this isn’t exactly your dream gig, is it?”
“I never said that,” I say, a little too snappy. I try and maintain my composure, not wanting to cause a scene or be ridiculed even further by these ignorant pricks. “Regardless, it’s an opportunity.”
“An opportunity ,” he repeats, like he finds the word funny. The others snicker along with him. “ Right . Well, hopefully, you make something of it.”
“You better,” his friend with the glasses smirks. “There aren’t many women in this field for a reason.”
Another journalist - a younger man with floppy blonde hair - snorts.
“Be fair, will you? She’s got more of a shot than most,” he says as he gestures vaguely towards me. “That face alone probably gets more views on her articles than the actual content.”
Laughter ripples through the group, and my nails dig into my palm.
I glance at Mark, waiting for him to shut it down, but he just smirks and takes another sip of his drink.
I let out a slow breath and school my expression into something neutral.
“If you gentlemen are quite finished, I’d like to get back to actually working .”
The blonde prick grins.
“Hey, don’t get all worked up, sweetheart. We’re just saying - know your strengths.”
I offer him the coldest smile I can muster.
“Oh, trust me - I do .”
Mark shakes his head, apparently amused, before turning his attention back to the field as the players return to the pitch, ready for the beginning of the second half .
The conversation shifts around me - their focus already moving on - but the irritation lingers beneath my skin like an itch I can’t scratch.
I press my pen to my notepad, forcing my attention back to the game.
Because if I don’t, I might actually throw it at someone’s head.
*
As if he wants to hammer in the point that he’s the best player out there, Matteo scores again within the first eight minutes of the second half.
This time, it’s even more ridiculous.
He picks up the ball on the edge of the box, shifts it onto his right foot, and curls a shot past the goalkeeper like he’s just messing around in training.
It’s effortless. Almost too easy.
The resulting cheers around the stadium are deafening.
Matteo doesn’t celebrate wildly. Instead, he smirks as he approaches the stands, running a hand through his dark hair as he waves to the crowd. They continue to cheer - to scream and clap and chant for him - as he jogs back towards the centre circle, looking as though he’s truly soaking in the applause.
Of course he’s this good.
Of course he’s the star of the match, the one everyone can’t stop talking about.
By the time the final whistle blows, his team has won 3-0. A clean sheet along with a display of total domination.
And Matteo Rossi is the undisputed man of the match .
I exhale slowly, pressing my lips together as I look down at my notepad, now filled with scribbled observations about a man I don’t even like .
Because no matter how frustrating he is, I can’t deny it - he’s brilliant .