Chapter Seventeen
Daphne
I t’s late by the time that I get home.
The city has settled into that quiet lull between night and morning, where the streets are mostly empty and the air feels thick with exhaustion, and though all is peaceful, it does nothing to quiet the storm still raging inside me.
I drop my bag by the door and toe off my shoes, sighing as I take in my tiny apartment.
It might not be much, but it’s mine; and right now, it feels like the only place in the world where I can actually let my guard down and breathe .
I set the McDonald’s bag down on the kitchen counter, ignoring the way my stomach twists at the sight of it.
I’m not even hungry.
The press box had been fully stocked with snacks, sandwiches, and an unlimited supply of drinks, but that hadn’t stopped me from swinging by the nearest fast-food place and grabbing a takeaway on my walk home.
It’s a bad habit. An old one.
But somehow, it’s the one thing I know will make me feel something .
I don’t even know if it’s comforting or punishing. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
All I know is that sometimes, when the weight of the day is too much, when my thoughts are too loud and my emotions are too raw, I need something to keep my body busy, to keep my mind occupied.
And right now, this is all I have.
I unwrap my cheeseburger and take a slow bite, barely tasting it as my mind replays the night’s events in a relentless loop.
Sitting in the press box, enduring Mark and his friends’ passive-aggressive jabs.
Being thrown into the spotlight during Matteo’s interview after Mark had explicitly told me to stay quiet and watch.
My mentor’s subsequent outburst, his voice laced with barely restrained fury as he tore into me.
And then… Matteo.
I shake my head sharply, as if I can physically push the thought of him away.
Work. I need to focus on work.
With a sigh, I grab my laptop and notes from my bag and head to the couch, determined to focus on anything but the infuriating, impossible man still lingering in my thoughts.
I plug my audio recorder into my laptop and begin to scan through the file that contains tonight’s interviews as I continue to munch on my burger. I hit play , letting the low murmur of voices fill the silence as I unwrap a few fries.
First come the post-match interviews, starting with a few of the other players. It’s all the usual routine of polished responses and generic questions - nothing particularly groundbreaking. I half-listen, twirling my pen between my fingers and jotting down a few notes out of habit.
But my mind is elsewhere, my focus fractured.
Because then there’s him .
I sit up slightly as Matteo’s voice fills my apartment, deep and self-assured even through the slightly tinny playback.
He speaks with that same unwavering confidence he carries on the pitch, each word smooth and deliberate as though he knows how much people hang onto his every word.
He sounds exactly the way he looks: effortlessly in control, like nothing in the world could ever faze him.
I listen carefully, letting the interview play out. Even after almost a year in journalism, I still instinctively cringe at the sound of my own voice when I hear myself ask him the question that caused so much trouble.
But there’s that teasing lilt in his voice. The slight pause before he answered - like he was sizing me up.
And as I listen to his answer, I remember the way his lips had curved into that insufferable smirk, his dark eyes locking onto mine like he could see everything I was thinking.
I swallow, shifting slightly on the couch.
It’s annoying. He’s annoying.
And yet, I find myself replaying that clip again, listening a little closer. Analysing his tone and the way he’d spoken to me, how different it had felt compared to the way he addressed all of the other journalists in the room.
I thought that it had finished there, that it was all over -
But then the recording shifts, and I realise that I never actually clicked the device off.
"What the fuck was that, Sinclair?"
The sharp, cutting tone of Mark’s voice in that empty corridor comes through.
I don’t even realise I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache. I listen to the entire thing - every biting remark, every condescending jab, every word designed to make me feel small.
I knew it had been bad at the time, but hearing it back like this…
Ugh . It makes my skin crawl.
I should delete it. I don’t need a reminder of that conversation, of the way Mark had spoken to me like I was nothing.
And yet, my finger hesitates over the delete button.
The recording hasn’t finished, and Matteo’s voice filters through the speaker again.
"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?"
I close my eyes, the sound of his voice curling around me.
I can still picture him standing there; his damp curls pushed back from his forehead, his dark eyes flashing with intensity, his scent lingering in the air between us…
I exhale sharply, shaking my head.
This is ridiculous .
I should hate him. After all, this is the man who literally looks down on me just for existing.
Mark made it clear that Matteo doesn’t believe that women should have a place within football journalism - that it was something for men only. And despite how furious I am with the man who’s supposed to be helping me here, not causing a hindrance, Mark knows him. He’s worked closely with Matteo’s manager for years and has spoken to him countless times for interviews and the like, so if anyone’s going to know how Rossi thinks and feels towards things like this, it’s him.
And yet as I listen to the recording again - to the way Matteo had spoken to me, to the way he’d defended me without hesitation - I can’t help but feel like it doesn’t make sense.
If Matteo Rossi really thought I didn’t belong in his world, then why would he say all of that?
Why would he look at me like that?
A frustrated noise escapes my throat as I slam my laptop shut, stopping the recording from playing in its tracks and shoving the device away.
I am not doing this.
I refuse to waste another second thinking about Matteo Rossi.
He is not my problem.
Feeling more than just slightly defeated, I toss the half-eaten McDonald’s into the bin and head to my bedroom, peeling off my clothes and yanking on an oversized t-shirt before crawling into bed.
*
Sleep does not come easily.
No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I toss and turn, I can’t stop thinking about him .
About warm brown eyes, sharp and focused, watching me like he’s trying to figure me out.
About tanned skin and dark, wavy hair pushed back from his face in a way that made him look even more infuriatingly handsome.
About the faint crease in his brow when he’d spoken to me in that hallway, when - just for a moment - he hadn’t been something other than the cocky footballer, the arrogant golden boy.
I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow.
This is ridiculous .
I should hate him. I should be focusing on how irritating he is.
And yet his voice echoes in my mind, all soft and sweet.
So don’t slip up .
It wasn’t said as a dismissal, nor as mockery. He’d said it as a challenge .
I just don’t understand why.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No. I refuse to let Matteo Rossi take up space in my head.
I have bigger things to worry about. The post-match article I need to write, proving that I do belong in this industry -
And figuring out how to deal with Mark after that nightmare conversation.
I exhale sharply and flip onto my other side, but it’s impossible.
Try as I might, my mind keeps circling back to him.
I press my face into the pillow, groaning in frustration.
This is stupid. I barely know him. I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, much less like this .
And yet the memory of him lingers.
The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the toned muscles of his arms flexing as he moved.
The way his voice had dropped just a little when he spoke to me, smooth and self-assured.
I shift against the sheets, suddenly too warm as my skin prickles with restless energy. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, a pulse of heat settling low in my stomach.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t .
But when I close my eyes, all I see is him.
Matteo, standing in front of me, his gaze dark and knowing. The way his mouth twitches in amusement as he steps forward, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
My traitorous mind wanders as I imagine him stepping even closer, giving me no choice but to step back. He pins me against the wall, caging me in with his big, powerful body, and I gasp as his lips move to my ear. His voice drops even lower as he whispers - all teasing and wicked - with that rich Italian accent making everything sound both sinful and unbelievably sexy.
Before I can stop myself, my hand drifts lower.
My fingertips trail across my stomach and over the waistband of my underwear, and my breath catches.
Oh, but I should stop. I should think about something - anything - else.
It’s bad. Wrong, even.
But as my hand dips beneath the waistband of my panties and moves lower still, I imagine that it isn’t mine at all.
I imagine that it’s his .
His hands brush over my skin as he moves lower, his mouth hot against the skin of my neck as he litters hot, burning kisses against my sensitive flesh.
My breathing grows uneven, pleasure building as I chase the fantasy.
I haven’t even touched myself yet and my thighs are already trembling as I imagine his weight pressing me back against the wall, his strong arms pinning me to it, his voice rasping in my ear…
I sigh in delight as my fingers slide between my thighs, the image of him burning into my eyelids.
I wouldn’t be able to escape it even if I tried.
I’m much too far gone now.
If only he knew how wet I am just from the thought of him alone.
If only he knew how I so desperately wish that he was here right now.
If only he knew how I’m thinking of him as I touch myself.
He had been so close to me today, and it had been the first time I’d really been able to appreciate his tall height and strong, athletic build. His proximity and the way that he towered over me is all that I can think of as I move my fingers towards my clit.
I sigh in delight as I delicately trace light, little circles over it, marvelling in the way it’s already pulsing and throbbing in excitement.
I picture his hands - all big and rough - sliding and grabbing and squeezing my flesh, and a shudder rolls through my body as my own fingers trace over the place I want him the most.
My head tilts back, elongating my neck.
All I can hear is the husk of his voice, low and smooth and breathing right in my ear, and it’s almost embarrassing how absolutely ruined I am just from his phantom whisper.
As my hands moves lower, I imagine his fingers stretching me out, so much thicker and longer than mine.
It’s good, of course - so, so good.
But it isn’t enough.
My hand simply cannot compare to the imagined feel of his. My walls tighten with each squeeze of my fingers and each swipe of my thumb, and it’s just about enough to pretend that it’s him, to pretend that he’s the one touching me, encouraging me -
But it’s not the same.
God, I’m desperate for him. So eager that it almost hurts.
If he knew, would he give me what I craved?
Open your legs for me, giornalista.
Let me in.
I gasp out loud, my thighs parting wider just at the thought of his low voice and commanding tone.
My fingers graze over my clit as I think of the teasing words he’d say as he worked me up, edging me closer and closer to release.
You need it, don’t you?
I knew it.
I’ve known it all along .
His thumb swipes over my throbbing clit in a firm yet teasing stroke. My hips buck upwards at the sudden sensation before he returns, dragging it over my sensitive nub in a slow, purposeful roll.
It’s enough to have me groaning in pleasure before he finally pinches it between two fingers, and my knees tremble as heat pulses through my body.
He presses me firmly against the wall as he works over my sensitive, swollen clit with his fingers until all I can do is babble his name, begging and pleading for more. His thick fingers are now soaking wet as they slide down to my core, and I whimper in pleasure when he finally cups my pussy in the molten palm of his hand.
So wet for me, Daphne.
So ready.
I imagine how blissful it would be to feel the sting of myself stretching around his fingers as he pushes them inside, fucking me as deep and as hard as he can.
My hips raise up and down from my mattress as I thrust my own fingers in and out of my drenched pussy in a sick, fucked-up parody of what I so desperately want him to do with his cock.
I need it so badly - need him so badly - and the desperate want is so overwhelming that it has me seeing stars as I squeeze my eyes tightly to a close.
He’s big . I just know it. Can tell by his cocky demeanor, by his casual, confident swagger and arrogant smirk.
There’s an ache inside me that can only be quenched by the deep, brutal way he’d fill me up, and I imagine now that it’s his cock stretching me out wide as opposed to his fingers, picturing him gripping tightly to my hips as he makes sure that I take every. single. inch.
My spare hand grips tightly around the bedsheets as my fingers slide out of my dripping pussy and slide back up to my clit once more, moving over it at a relentless pace.
I imagine him pounding into me, fucking me hard and filling me to the hilt as I run tight, hot circles over my pulsating bundle; and as blinding heat floods through my body from head to toe when I pinch my clit between my forefinger and middle finger, one word escapes my lips in a desperate pant.
“ Matteo .”
My eyes practically fly open wide and an uncontrollable shriek falls from my mouth as I finally cum, hard.
A slow, shuddering breath leaves my lips as warmth licks through my entire body, pleasure rolling over me in waves.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, my skin flushed and my pulse thrumming beneath the surface.
It takes a good thirty seconds before the ringing in my ears begins to fade and I become aware of my own heavy breathing filling the quiet of my bedroom.
Another minute passes as I stare up at the ceiling. My body sinks into the mattress, still tingling with the remnants of release.
My limbs feel loose, my mind momentarily hazy; but then clarity slams into me all at once.
Fuck.
What the hell am I doing?!
Heat floods my cheeks, mortification creeping in fast.
I squeeze my eyes shut, rolling onto my side and yanking the blankets up over me as if I can somehow hide from myself .
As if I can erase the last ten minutes and pretend that I wasn’t just lying here, touching myself, thinking about the one man I know I shouldn’t be thinking about - especially not like that .
And yet even as exhaustion tugs at me, even as sleep starts to creep in at the edges of my consciousness, one infuriating thought refuses to let me go.
I don’t even like Matteo Rossi.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him?