Chapter Nineteen
Daphne
R ome is a city of endless contradictions.
It’s grand and historic, but chaotic and unpredictable.
It’s ancient ruins sitting beside buzzing cafés, tourists crowding the streets while locals weave through them effortlessly.
It’s the warm, golden light that hits the cobbled streets at just the right angle in the early morning, making everything look cinematic.
I’ve been here for a couple of weeks now, and yet every time I step outside, I feel like I’m discovering something new.
This morning, I decided to take a detour through one of my favourite piazzas before heading into the office. The early spring air is cool - the city not yet fully awake - and for a few moments, I let myself enjoy the quiet.
But that sense of peace doesn’t last long.
“You’re going in front of the camera.”
Just like that, my brief moment of serenity shatters.
" What ? "
Mark sighs, like my reaction is somehow inconveniencing him.
"You heard me, Sinclair. Moving forwards, you’re going to be doing player interviews. In front of the camera."
"But - I thought you wanted me to stay shadowing you for a bit longer?"
He shrugs.
"Change of plan."
Just like that.
No warning.
No discussion.
I clench my jaw, inhaling slowly through my nose.
I should be excited. After all, this is a step up, another opportunity to continue prove myself.
But I can’t ignore the nagging suspicion that Mark’s doing this to test me, to see if I’ll crack under the pressure.
Still, if this is a test, I’m going to pass it with flying colours.
I always do.
So, I school my features into something neutral and nod.
"Okay. When do I start?"
"Today," he says, already turning away like the conversation is over. "Luca Moretti. Should be an easy one - he’s smart. A good talker. I’ll meet you at the stadium, and the crew will set you up after training."
And just like that, my fate is sealed.
*
The irony isn’t lost on me .
I’ve spent the entire morning preparing for this interview, and yet, somehow - despite my hours of research - I find myself staring at Matteo Rossi.
Who is very much not the player I was supposed to be interviewing.
My eyes widen as he strolls leisurely into the room we have set up.
He looks effortlessly sharp, even in something as simple as a team-issued hoodie and joggers. The soft fabric stretches over his broad shoulders, the light grey colour contrasting stunningly against his olive skin and dark hair.
I swear that his now clean-shaven jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, and when his deep brown eyes flick toward me, there’s an intensity there that makes my stomach tighten against my will.
Behind me, the small camera crew shifts slightly, waiting for direction.
I glance at my notes, at the name printed neatly at the top of the page.
Luca Moretti.
That’s who I was scheduled to interview today - one of the quieter, more thoughtful members of the squad. A dream for a journalist like me who actually enjoys getting full, considered answers instead of grunts and clichés.
Matteo, however, is not known for his introspection.
"Wrong room, Rossi?" I ask, arching a brow.
" Nope ."
I glance toward the door, half-expecting Luca to follow in behind him .
"I was supposed to be interviewing Moretti."
"He’s not feeling great," Matteo says, dropping into the chair across from mine. "I told him I’d step in."
" You ?” I narrow my eyes. “Volunteering for media duties ?"
"What can I say?” Matteo shrugs. “I’m a team player."
I highly doubt that.
I want to question him further - want to call him out, tell him that I don’t buy it - but the camera crew are patiently waiting, and the last thing I need is to make a scene over this in front of people.
So I force a tight smile, push down the irritation curling in my stomach, and turn to the crew.
"Alright," I say, forcing a polite smile. "Change of plan, I suppose. Let’s get started."
The cameraman gives me a nod before starting the recording, while the crew moves around us, adjusting equipment, checking levels, and clipping Matteo’s mic securely into place.
One of them mutters something about a quick sound test, tapping his earpiece as Matteo absently rubs a hand over the small mic attached to his shirt.
I straighten in my chair, adjusting my posture like that might somehow make up for the fact that I’m already mentally strangling Matteo Rossi.
"Okay," I begin, glancing at my notes and willing myself to stay professional. "So, Matteo . Thank you for joining us this afternoon. We really appreciate it.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Ugh .
“With the team’s current winning streak, how are you and the squad staying motivated?"
Matteo leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs obnoxiously wide like he’s settling in for a nap rather than an interview.
"We train. We play. We win."
I wait for him to elaborate.
He does not.
"Ok ay ,” I say, dragging out the word. “Very insightful."
Matteo just lifts a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug.
Behind the camera, one of the crew members suppresses a snort. I clear my throat, plastering on another polite smile.
"Well, let’s dig a little deeper. What would you say has been the biggest factor in the team’s success lately?"
Matteo tilts his head, thinking.
Then, with a completely straight face, he says -
"Scoring more goals than the other team."
I blink.
" Right ," I inswardly seethe. "And what would you say has been the biggest challenge so far this season?"
"No challenges.”
A muscle twitches in my jaw.
" None ?"
"Nope."
I resist the urge to throw my notepad at his face.
"Okay," I say, forcing a pleasant tone. "Then let’s talk about your own performance -"
He pulls out his phone.
I freeze.
Is he seriously checking his phone during our interview?!
A quick glance at the camera crew confirms that, yes, he absolutely is.
One of them shifts awkwardly, and I can feel the secondhand embarrassment radiating from them.
I look back at Matteo, who is now casually scrolling, completely ignoring me.
Something inside me snaps.
"Are you serious right now?"
Matteo doesn’t even look up.
"Hmm?"
"We're in the middle of an interview."
He nods, completely unbothered.
"Yes, of course. But I can multitask. I am a man of many talents."
Behind the camera, someone coughs - probably to cover a laugh - and I squeeze tightly to my notepad.
I’m incredibly close to snapping, and it takes everything within me to remain calm.
"You're being unbelievably rude."
Matteo finally lifts his head, his dark brows raised like he’s genuinely surprised by my comment.
"You’re wasting my time," I press on, my frustration bubbling over before I can stop it. "If you didn’t want to do this interview, you could’ve just said so instead of sitting here and acting like this is some huge inconvenience for you."
For a second, he just stares at me.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Wow," he murmurs. "You’ve got bite, don’t you, giornalista ?"
My cheeks burn, but I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.
He sighs, tossing his phone onto the table.
"Fine. I was only checking that nobody needed anything urgent from me,” he says. “Go ahead. Ask me another question."
I hesitate.
"You’re actually going to answer it?"
"Maybe," he says, his smirk deepening. "Depends if I like it."
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to channel every ounce of professionalism I have left.
"Alright. Then let’s talk about your own performance this season. You’ve been in incredible form - arguably some of the best of your career so far. What do you think has contributed to that?"
"Well," he says, voice smooth as he leans forward in his chair. "I wake up every morning. I go to training. I do my job. And then…" he pauses for dramatic effect, "I go home."
I stare at him.
"You go home."
He nods.
I close my eyes for half a second, summoning patience from the depths of my soul.
"Matteo, with all due respect, you’re not giving me much to work with here."
"I thought you were supposed to be a good journalist," he muses, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk.
I grit my teeth.
"I am ."
"Then work with it," he says simply, leaning back again, looking so smug that I genuinely consider throwing my notepad at his perfect, irritating face.
"Fine," I bite out, plastering on a saccharine smile. "Let’s talk tactics. The team’s attack has been particularly aggressive in the last few matches -"
Matteo grins.
"That’s what happens when you try to score goals."
Oh my fucking -
" Right . And what about your chemistry with your teammates?” I press on. “How have you been working on strengthening that?"
"Mostly by passing the ball to each other."
I huff out a quick breath through my nostrils and close my eyes for a second before turning to face the small crew.
“I think that’s enough for now,” I say. “Should we take a breather for a few minutes and then re-group?”
“Sure thing, Daphne,” the camera man says, shooting me a sympathetic smile.
The moment the camera stops rolling, I let out a long breath, rubbing at my temples like it might somehow erase the last ten minutes of my life.
The crew shuffles out of the room, some of them murmuring something about grabbing a coffee.
I nod absently, too busy mentally replaying every obnoxious, infuriating answer Matteo Rossi has just given me.
The door clicks shut behind them, and then it’s just the two of us.
I exhale slowly, turning back to face him.
"Okay. What the hell is your problem?"
Matteo blinks at me, all faux innocence.
"Problem? Me?” he says, those big brown eyes wider than ever. “No problem."
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
" No problem?" I gesture wildly. "That might have officially been the worst interview I have ever conducted. And I’ve interviewed players who barely speak English!"
"Well, I did answer all your questions."
"With absolutely zero effort!"
"Maybe you just need to ask better questions."
I gape at him.
"You’re getting worked up again," he comments.
"Because you’re acting like a child."
"I think it’s because of that crush."
My brows shoot up.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says, his accent deliciously thick. "Don’t worry about it. It’s perfectly natural to feel this way towards me. I don’t mind it. Actually, it’s… cute ."
I stare at him, utterly floored by his audacity.
" I - you think I -" I let out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, you wish , Rossi."
"Hmm." He raises a brow, clearly amused. "I think you’re protesting a little too much."
I clench my jaw.
"I am a professional journalist."
"Uh-huh."
"I take my job seriously ."
"Sure you do."
"And I do not -" I jab a finger towards him for emphasis, " not - have a crush on you."
Matteo just watches me, clearly enjoying every second of my fury.
He grins lazily.
"Whatever you say, Daphne ."
Oh, I could actually kill him.
“You know what - why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Rossi. Is this what you think - that a female journalist can’t interview you without falling head over heels?”
"What can I say? A lot of people find me irresistible,” Matteo shrugs. “You aren’t the first journalist to get a little flustered around me."
My entire body is stiff with indignation.
" Flustered ?"
"Yeah," he says, smug as ever. "You get all pink when you're mad. It’s adorable."
I feel my face heat, and the worst part is - he’s right .
Fuck.
The thought only makes me angrier.
I snap my notepad shut and stand abruptly, forcing a tight smile as I move to stand.
"You know what? I think we actually got everything we need. Thanks, Matteo."
Matteo just grins up at me, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Anytime, cara mia ."
I grit my teeth.
As I turn on my heel and storm out of the room, ready to tell the camera crew that we’re finished after all, one thought is glaringly, infuriatingly clear:
I definitely do not have a crush on Matteo Rossi.