Chapter Fourteen
Daphne
T he press area beneath the stadium is a stark contrast to the roaring energy of the pitch above.
Journalists adjust their microphones and cameras, shifting in place as they prepare to snatch their quick soundbites from tonight’s heroes. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, freshly cut grass and cologne, the remnants of the ninety minutes of pure adrenaline still lingering in the narrow hallway leading to the interview zone.
I grip my notepad a little tighter as I hover near the back, observing how this all works.
The seasoned journalists are quick and efficient, their questions sharp and rehearsed. They know exactly what to ask, how to phrase things in a way that gets the best possible answer in the shortest amount of time.
I, on the other hand, feel like an imposter.
Just then, like my body can sense it before my brain catches up, I glance up -
And immediately regret it.
Standing just outside the tunnel, shaking hands and exchanging words, Matteo Rossi moves through his post-match routine like he was born for this.
Each movement is effortless and smooth, like the world exists solely to orbit around him.
His damp curls fall messily over his forehead, sweat still clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, and his socks are slouched lazily around his ankles - because of course he even manages to make exhaustion look good.
His kit is streaked with sweat and grass stains, evidence of ninety relentless minutes of dominance on the pitch.
But instead of looking tired , he looks like he could go another ninety without breaking much more of a sweat.
Which, frankly, is unfair.
No man should ever look that good after running around for an hour and a half, and yet, here he is.
And to make matters even worse, he’s looking right at me.
Shit .
My stomach clenches as I immediately avert my gaze, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
Why is he looking at me like that?!
Does he hate women in football journalism that much?
I swallow, keeping my expression as neutral as possible as I stare hard at the notepad in my hands, as if suddenly fascinated by my own scribbled notes.
But I can feel him getting closer.
Not immediately, but steadily, as he works his way through the small crowd of reporters, pausing for quick interviews and side comments, answering questions with that same smug confidence .
He’s taking his time, making his way towards Mark and I at an excruciatingly slow pace, stopping to chat with the journalists ahead of us like he’s savouring the process.
I don’t know if it’s intentional, or if it’s just my imagination running wild, but I swear, I can feel him coming closer with every second.
A few players cycle through before him, giving me something else to focus on, and for a while, I force myself to be professional.
I nod, I take notes and hold my recorder steady.
“Great performance tonight,” Mark comments to one of them. “How did it feel controlling the midfield in such a dominant win?”
The player nods as he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead.
“Felt good. We knew we had to press high, keep them under pressure, and I think we did that well.”
The next player is the goalkeeper, who barely broke a sweat thanks to the team’s dominance. He gives some pretty standard answers about how keeping a clean sheet is always important and how the defense did their job perfectly, but I can hardly blame him - there’s not really much for him to say other than to hype up his teammates for their performance.
A few more players cycle through, and as I grow in confidence, Mark starts to slip away, leaving me to ask questions of my own, away from him.
I’m careful to keep my voice steady and professional, and I’m pleasantly surprised by how receptive the players are to my presence here.
The interviews continue - players coming and going, answering questions with varying levels of enthusiasm - and Mark continues to shuffle further away, very much doing his own thing.
Until his voice cuts through, sharp and self-assured as he turns to me from a slight distance.
“We’ve got Rossi next.”
My stomach tightens, but I exhale slowly, pushing my shoulders back.
It’s fine. It’s just another interview.
But the moment Matteo’s name is spoken, the dynamic shifts.
There’s a ripple of energy, a subtle but noticeable shift in the atmosphere as more journalists press in, drawn by the star of the night.
The once comfortably spread-out space is now rapidly filling, voices overlapping, recorders being lifted, and elbows subtly jostling for the best positioning.
The crowd thickens around me, the bodies shifting closer, pressing forward, cramming into every available inch of space.
Mark’s gaze scans the group, then, to my surprise, he lifts a hand - beckoning me forwards.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second.
Is he actually giving me the lead on this?
Maybe this is an olive branch. Maybe after all his patronising and dismissiveness, he’s finally acknowledging that I’ve been handling myself well today.
So, I step towards him - only to feel the bodies closing in further as more journalists push forwards, eager to get in on this.
But just as I reach his side, Mark leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only I can hear.
“I’ll do the talking,” he mutters. “You just watch and learn.”
Ah.
Of course.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck, a mix of irritation and embarrassment burning through me.
Stupid.
I should have known.
He wasn’t calling me over to let me take part.
He was calling me over to keep me in my place.
To make sure I didn’t try to take part.
The crowd of reporters thickens even more, voices murmuring, and before I can even dwell on it, the press area stirs again.
A shift.
A buzz.
And then, I glance up just in time to see Matteo Rossi striding towards us.
And fuck - he’s every inch the golden boy fresh off a victory.
His smirk is already in place, dark eyes flicking lazily over the crowd, cataloguing the journalists like he’s deciding exactly how much effort they’re worth.
And then, his gaze lands on me.
Shit.
For a second - just a second - he slows, his focus sharp and unmistakable as he sweeps his eyes over me in a slow, deliberate once-over.
Top to bottom.
And back up again.
Despite myself, my pulse jumps and my throat tightens, and I loathe the way my stomach flips when his smirk tilts slightly, like he’s enjoying my reaction.
Like he remembers exactly how our last conversation went.
I steel myself, gripping my notepad tighter, ignoring the creeping heat threatening to rise to my cheeks.
I don’t care how good he is. I don’t care how good he looks.
I will hold my own.
( Even if Mark won’t let me get a single word in. )
Matteo finally stops in front of us, his stance relaxed, his presence overwhelming in the suddenly too-cramped space.
The other journalists edge forward, but Matteo isn’t in a rush.
“ Buona sera ,” he greets, voice smooth, almost lazy.
His dark eyes flick between the crowd before settling - unsurprisingly - on Mark.
“I assume you want a quote?”
Mark chuckles, shaking his head.
“I want more than that, Rossi.”
Matteo cocks a brow, clearly unphased.
But then his gaze shifts, scanning the group, and it’s obvious - painfully obvious - who he’s looking for.
“There’s a different face here today,” he comments, his eyes landing directly on me.
The words are casual, but there’s something pointed about them. His expression doesn’t shift much, but I see the subtle flicker of something in his gaze.
Interest? Amusement? Mild irritation?
He wanted an introduction. Expected one, probably.
Huh . Who would have thought.
“Ah - yes,” Mark clears his throat, his tone clipped like he’s only just remembered I exist. “This is Daphne Sinclair. She’s covering the team for the next few months.”
Matteo turns his attention to me fully now.
Our gazes lock, and I swear the air between us changes - tightens, like the elastic pull of a rubber band.
I will myself to stay calm, collected and unbothered.
I repeat it like a mantra in my head, even as my pulse betrays me, hammering hard against my ribs.
His smirk deepens, slow and knowing, like he sees something I don’t want him to see.
“Ah - la giornalista nuova,” he says smoothly. The new journalist.
The words roll off his tongue like a challenge.
Like he’s testing the weight of them.
Testing me.
“You like stating the obvious, don’t you?”
Oh my god .
I didn’t mean to say that. I only meant to think it.
I hear a muffled laugh from one of the nearby journalists, but Matteo just tilts his head.
His expression is unreadable, as if he’s deciding whether to be amused or irritated by me.
Mark clears his throat, cutting through the tension and intervening before I can dig myself any deeper - although not without throwing a furious glance in my direction first.
“Right, well, let’s keep this professional,” he says. “Matteo: that was one hell of a performance tonight. Walk us through that second goal.”
Matteo’s attention lingers on me for half a second longer before he finally looks away, seeming to shift into autopilot mode.
“What can I say about it? The team did most of the work,” he answers smoothly. “I was just in the right place.”
I exhale quietly, forcing myself to focus.
This is just another interview.
Just another arrogant footballer.
Just another night on the job.
So why the hell does it feel like something else entirely?
One of the other journalists jumps in.
“You say that, but that finish was pure instinct. Do you even think before you take a shot, or is it all automatic at this point?”
“Sometimes you think,” Matteo says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sometimes you just… feel it .”
I scrawl notes as the questions keep coming - his thoughts on the title race, his relationship with the manager and the expectations from the fans. He answers all of them with practiced ease, charming and composed .
Then Mark speaks up again, his voice carrying just a hint of something smug.
“And what about the pressure, Matteo? You’re one of the biggest names in the league. The face of the team. How do you handle that?”
“Pressure is normal,” Matteo says, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “You play for a big club, you expect it. I just focus on the game.”
Mark nods approvingly, then - without any word of warning - turns towards me.
“What about you, Sinclair? Got a question for him?”
Every head turns toward me.
What a prick .
He specifically told me to keep quiet, to not say a word - so no, Mark, I don’t have a fucking question prepared.
My heart pounds, but I keep my expression neutral.
Matteo’s gaze meets mine again - all expectant and amused - and I realise in that moment, that yes, actually, I do have a question.
“We’ve touched on the pressure, but do you ever get tired of the attention?” I ask. “The cameras, the constant scrutiny - does it ever get too much, or do you find that you enjoy it?”
There’s a brief flicker of something unreadable in his expression, then, slowly , his smirk returns.
“ Ah ,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Una domanda interessante.”
An interesting question.
He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice while he keeps his eyes trained onto mine.
For a moment, I feel like we’re the only two people in the room.
“Maybe I enjoy it, maybe I don’t.” A pause, and then a small, knowing smile. “What do you think?”
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.
But I hate that I don’t actually know the answer.
I don’t break eye contact, even as my pulse pounds in my throat. Matteo is watching me with a smug, knowing expression - as though he enjoys seeing me fumble for something to say.
Like hell am I going to give this man the satisfaction of not having an answer.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that you like to keep people guessing.”
“Do I?” Matteo says, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. He leans back slightly, his smirk deepening. “Well, giornalista, if I gave you all the answers, then everyone else would be out of a job.”
The journalists around us chuckle, clearly entertained by our exchange.
Mark, however, does not look impressed.
Oh well. It’s his own fault for being a dick and putting me on the spot. This entire interaction would’ve never happened if he’d just kept his big mouth shut.
“That’s enough of the philosophical musings,” my mentor says, his voice low and his tone notably clipped. “We’ll wrap it up there.”
He clears his throat before speaking at normal volume once again.
“Rossi, congratulations again on the win. ”
Matteo doesn’t immediately look away from me.
Instead, his gaze lingers for just a second longer - almost like he’s waiting for something.
Finally, he steps back, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the conversation.
“Grazie,” he says, nodding at the group before turning on his heel and strolling away, disappearing through the double doors leading back to the changing room.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence.
“Well,” one of the journalists mutters from beside me. “That was… interesting .”
Mark is glaring at me like I’ve personally offended him, and he scoffs under his breath.
He exhales sharply through his nose before shaking his head as if I’m some lost cause.
“Jesus, Sinclair. In future, could you try a little harder to sound like you belong here?”
I stiffen.
The earlier satisfaction I’d felt at holding my own vanishes in an instant, deflating like a punctured balloon.
That’s it . I’ve had enough of this condescending, passive-aggressive bullshit.
Especially when he’s the asshole who went and put me on the spot like that.
“Excuse me?”
My voice is sharp, but despite my obvious irritation, Mark doesn’t bother to even look up from his bag as he shoves his notepad inside .
“This isn’t some artsy book club discussion,” he mutters. “He’s a footballer , for fuck’s sake - not some tortured poet. Stick to the basics next time. It’s really not that difficult.”
The words hit harder than they should, stoking a flare of irritation in my chest.
But before I can fire back, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well, that was fun.”
The blonde journalist from earlier saunters over to us, his grin wide and knowing.
He claps a hand on Mark’s shoulder, clearly entertained, before turning his attention to me.
“Enjoyed that little moment with Rossi, did you?”
“I was doing my job,” I say curtly.
The blonde snorts, folding his arms across his chest.
“Looked more like flirting to me.”
A few of the other journalists close by chuckle under their breath, their amusement low but unmistakable.
My jaw tightens, heat prickling at the back of my neck.
Seriously?
I don’t even know this guy’s name - he hasn’t introduced himself or bothered to exchange any pleasantries with me whatsoever - and yet here he is, making snide remarks and insulting my professionalism as though I’m some giggling school girl making eyes at a famous footballer, rather than a journalist doing her fucking job .
“Oh, come on,” the blonde continues.
Apparently, he’s not prepared to take my silence for an answer.
“You must at least appreciate that he’s easy on the eyes. That’s probably why you got a question in.”
A few more laughs echo around us, and I will myself to stay composed, to bite back the hundred cutting responses sitting on my tongue.
Because the reality is that no matter how unfair or ridiculous it is - and no matter how much I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his opinion - it wouldn’t make a difference.
To them, I’m still an outsider. I’m still the woman in a room full of men.
And I’m convinced that the only thing worse than being dismissed in this world is proving them right by losing my temper.
Still, I have to say something.
“That’s funny,” I respond flatly. “I didn’t see him paying much attention to any of you.”
The smirk on the blonde’s face falters just slightly, and before I can feel too triumphant, Mark sighs, rubbing his temples like I’m giving him a headache.
“Fucking hell , Sinclair. Just - let’s go. I don’t have the patience for this today.”
I’m not prepared to let them see that they’ve gotten under my skin, so I nod, schooling my features into something indifferent.
“Of course, Mark. Lead the way.”