Chapter Fifteen
Daphne
S afe to say, Mark is pissed.
He walks ahead without waiting for me to catch up, his long strides exuding impatience as we weave through the press area.
He’s not said a word, but he doesn’t need to - the anger is literally radiating from him.
Instead of his usual swagger, his shoulders are rigid. His hands have formed tight fists at his sides, and I can practically see the steam rising from his head as he makes his way over to the exit.
I follow in silence, my own jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.
Every step I take feels like a countdown to the inevitable moment he snaps. The tension in my shoulders is almost unbearable, but I refuse to let myself react.
Not yet.
Not here.
I’m aware of the way people not-so-subtly glance in our direction as we move through the room.
A few of the other journalists - most of them men who Mark’s been laughing and chatting with all evening - shift their gazes towards us, and though it’s not quite enough to be overly obvious, it is enough that I can practically feel their curiosity prickling against my skin.
It’s funny, in a way. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard men in this industry complain about how much women love to gossip.
But right now, they’re the ones watching us intently, and it’s clear how much they’re dying to know what’s going on.
Their conversations slow and their eyes track our movementas they wait for something interesting to happen. The last thing that I want or need is unnecessary attention on me, so I keep my chin high, pretending not to notice their prying eyes.
Mark suddenly veers left, out of the press area and into a quieter corridor away from everyone else.
Away from witnesses .
My stomach tightens as I follow after him, a sense of dread hanging over me as I step over the threshold of the room.
Here goes nothing.
*
It’s slightly anti-climatic in that Mark doesn’t turn on me immediately.
Instead, he continues to make his way through the stadium before he comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a deserted corridor.
Without warning, he turns on his heel - his face set in a scowl - and I barely have time to register where we are.
“What the fuck was that, Sinclair? ”
I freeze.
I’d expected irritation, maybe some of his usual condescending jabs, but not this.
Not actual aggression .
Mark steps closer, his voice low but sharp, like a blade pressed just beneath the surface.
“Do you have any idea how unprofessional that was? How ridiculous you just made me look?”
I blink, caught off guard by the sheer force of his frustration.
“I - what? ”
“What a fucking joke . You sit there, making eyes at Matteo Rossi like some lovesick intern -”
“I was not -”
“- and then you go completely off-script and ask some ridiculous, embarrassing question that just proved to everyone that you don’t belong in that room.” His nostrils flare. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To prove everyone right and show me up in the process.”
I want to fire back, to tell him that’s not what happened at all, that he’s blowing this up out of proportion and completely twisting things in his mind; but I can’t even get the words out past the shock.
“You were the one who invited me to ask a question, Mark.”
“It was a test , Sinclair,” he says, nostrils flaring and voice tight with barely restrained fury. “You weren’t supposed to make a scene. You weren’t supposed to show me up in front of my colleagues. But congratulations - you did just that.”
He doesn’t give me even a second to process his nasty comments before he steps in closer .
“And you just don’t get it , do you?” His voice is laced with something uglier than frustration, now - something bitter . “You’re not here to play journalist , Sinclair. You’re here to learn from people who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“I am a journalist.”
He barks out a laugh.
“No, you’re not. You’re a vanity hire . A pretty face they can put in a press box to make it look like they give a shit about diversity,” he sneers. “At least Karen was half-good at her job, which made up for her face. But you? You don’t know shit about the game, the players, or this world. And, what - you think Richard sent you here because you’re talented ? Because your little reports and articles are so insightful?”
The words are cold and harsh, and I feel them settle deep - right into the part of me that does wonder whether I really deserve to be here.
Honestly, this isn’t just nastiness.
This is borderline humiliating .
“Need I remind you that Richard is my boss, and that he has no complaints with any of my pieces?” I bite out, trying to hold my voice steady. “He barely even edits my articles. He pretty much publishes them as they are.”
Mark’s mouth twists into something cruel.
“Yeah? And you think that’s because you’re good ?”
He shakes his head.
“No, Sinclair. It’s because no one expects anything from you in the first place. No one reads your articles and thinks, ‘ wow, this girl really knows her stuff’ . They skim through it, maybe admire the cute little way you put words together, and then move the fuck on.”
My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips.
“Go to hell, Mark.”
He smirks, tilting his head.
“Touched a nerve, did I?”
I glare at him, my throat burning.
But he isn’t done yet.
“You want to know what you actually achieved back there?” he asks.
His tone softens slightly - like he’s doing me a favour by telling me this.
“You made yourself look like a joke . The second Rossi started smirking at you, every single guy in that room knew exactly what was happening. And now? Now, every time you write something about him, they’ll assume it’s biased. That he charmed you, flirted with you a little, and you fell for it. Because that’s how this works, sweetheart.”
My breath catches.
It’s the condescension that finally breaks through the shock - the way he calls me sweetheart like I’m some na?ve idiot who wandered into a world I don’t belong in.
I swallow down the lump rising in my throat.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“Don’t get all emotional about it,” Mark sneers. “Welcome to football.”
With that, he turns on his heel and strides off, leaving me standing in the middle of the corridor, chest heaving, fury clawing at my insides.
I should have expected this.
I did expect this.
And yet, somehow, it still stings.
As I watch him walk away, I come to the slow realisation that this isn’t about professionalism.
It’s about control .
And the fact that, for once, I didn’t just sit there and nod along like a good little assistant should.
My skin prickles with the sting of his words as the heavy silence presses in around me, and I exhale slowly, trying to calm myself.
“You know,” an unfortunately familiar voice drawls from behind me, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. “For a guy who clearly isn’t that impressive, he sure likes to act like he is.”
I whirl around, pulse still hammering from the confrontation, only to find him .
Matteo Rossi leans casually against the wall of the corridor.
His damp curls are pushed back from his forehead now, no longer clinging to his skin the way they did on the pitch or in the press room.
He’s evidently showered and cleaned up. Gone is the sweat-soaked kit and grass-stained socks. Now, he’s dressed in a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a pair of light sweatpants sitting perfectly on his hips.
His training jacket is slung over one shoulder and his posture completely relaxed, as if he hasn’t just walked into the aftermath of my worst professional moment yet.
And his mouth - his stupid , unfairly perfect mouth - is curved into something that’s not quite a smirk, but close enough.
It’s impossible to tell how much of the conversation he overheard. But judging by the sharpness in his gaze - the way he watches me like he’s already got me figured out - I’d wager it was enough.
I don’t say anything. I can’t .
Because while part of me wants to snap at him - to demand to know how long he’s been standing there and why the hell he thinks it’s okay to eavesdrop - the other part… well.
The other part burns with shame.
Shame that he saw me like that, that he heard Mark laying into me -
That he watched my so-called mentor cut me down like I’m nothing.
And despite everything I know about this man, my traitorous brain takes a second longer than it should to register just how unfairly good he looks.
But then he goes and raises a single brow, clearly waiting for a response, and I snap myself out of it.
“Enjoy the show?” I comment dryly.
Matteo’s mouth twitches like he’s amused. “I was enjoying the silence, actually. But your boyfriend seemed determined to ruin that.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I scoff, crossing my arms and ignoring the way my chest tightens at his assumption.
Matteo hums like he’s unconvinced.
His sharp gaze flickers over me.
Assessing , I think.
Then, pushing off the wall, he takes a slow but purposeful step forward.
“No?” he muses. “He sure as hell talks to you like one of those insecure pricks who can’t stand their girl being smarter than them.”
His words land like a strike to my already bruised pride, but not in the way I expect.
Because for the first time, I don’t hear a hint of mockery in his voice. No teasing lilt, no smirk pulling at his lips like he’s enjoying some private joke at my expense.
Instead, he says it so casually - like it’s a fact. Like he’s just stating the obvious.
That thought - along with his admittedly delicious Italian accent - has something in my stomach tightening.
“I’m not smarter than him,” I say before I can stop myself, my voice hoarse and raw from biting back the emotions I refuse to show. “I just… I just wanted to do my job.”
Matteo stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the faint crease in his brow, the subtle shift in his usual cocky demeanor.
He’s still him - still looks like he was carved by the gods for the sole purpose of scoring goals and breaking hearts - but there’s something different now.
Something quieter.
“You did do your job,” he says simply. “That guy’s just pissed because you did it better than he expected you to.”
I let out a sharp breath, part disbelief, part exhaustion.
“You don’t even know me. ”
“I don’t need to,” Matteo shrugs unapologetically. “I know his type. And I know bullshit when I hear it.”
His words settle heavily between us, pressing against something tender in my chest.
I swallow and shake my head before I let out a bitter, humourless laugh.
“You don’t get it,” I murmur. “You don’t know how hard it is for someone like me to be taken seriously in this industry. If I slip up even once - if I do one thing wrong - it’s not just a mistake. It’s proof that I don’t belong here at all.”
Matteo doesn’t look away.
Instead, he watches me for a long, quiet moment before tilting his head slightly.
“So don’t slip up.”
He says it so simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Like all I have to do is decide to be better, and suddenly the odds won’t be stacked against me anymore.
“You really think it’s that simple?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but no less sharp.
Matteo tilts his head, watching me.
“I think people like him want you to believe it’s impossible.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
His dark brows lift slightly, but I don’t give him a chance to cut in.
“You don’t know what it’s like to constantly be questioned. To walk into a room and feel like everyone’s already made up their mind about you before you even open your mouth. You -”
I shake my head.
“You’re Matteo Rossi . You could turn up to a press conference in your underwear and they’d still call you a genius.”
Matteo’s lips twitch.
“Depends on the underwear.”
I glare at him.
“I’m being serious.”
For a second, I think I see amusement flash in his dark eyes, but it’s gone in an instant as his jaw tightens.
“You think you know me?”
I’m taken aback by the immediate change.
His voice isn’t teasing anymore. It’s edged with something sharper, something colder.
Matteo steps closer, his presence suddenly suffocating in the narrow corridor.
“You think I’ve never had people doubt me?”
His words are quiet, but they cut through the air like a blade.
“That I don’t know what it’s like to have a room full of people decide who I am before I even say a fucking word?”
“You -” I falter, because I don’t know what to say.
Because I had assumed.
I’d thought that for someone like Matteo Rossi, life was just… well, easy .
He scoffs, shaking his head as though he’s just read my mind.
“You look at me and see some arrogant asshole who’s had everything handed to him, right?”
His eyes darken, his accent sharpening around the edges.
“You have no idea what I’ve had to put up with. The shit people have said about me since I was a kid. The way they pick me apart, build me up just to try and tear me down the second I slip.”
His gaze is unwavering, locked onto mine as he continues.
“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?”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his long, wavy hair.
“Don’t stand there and act like you know me, giornalista . Because you don’t.”
The silence between us is thick, charged.
I should say something. Should push back.
But for once, I don’t know how to argue with him.
And for the first time, I don’t know if I want to.
Matteo lets out a low breath - almost like he’s shaking something off.
And just like that, the moment snaps.
His smirk slides back into place, his posture loosening.
“Anyway,” he says, rolling his shoulders like the last thirty seconds didn’t just happen - like I’m not still standing here trying to piece together what the hell just happened. “If you ever need more advice, I charge by the hour.”
I let out a breath, half annoyed, half something else entirely.
“I think I’ll survive without it.”
He grins, but there’s still something unreadable in his eyes .
“We’ll see.”
Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there - heart racing, cheeks flushed, and completely, utterly off balance.