Chapter Thirty-One
Daphne
I slouch on the edge of my bed, fingers still hovering over my keyboard after hitting submit on my post-match article.
Richard’s going to get it in a hurry. I’m sure that fact will earn me a mental gold star in his eyes, but honestly, I don’t care.
The whole thing’s been a blur of frustration and grit, and I just want it off my desk.
And I want him off my brain, too.
I know there will be hundreds of comments waiting for me since I last checked on my pre-match article and predictions. At least I’ll get to see all the people who doubted me scurrying back like little mice, tails between their legs.
My predictions are typically met with an eye-roll and a barrage of “what does she know?” responses, so I lean back and grab my phone, already bracing myself for the usual rhetoric.
But instead, a grin spreads across my face.
As I scroll through the comment section of my prediction article, there’s a satisfaction that settles in my chest.
It’s not just about being right - though I have to admit that is nice.
It’s the beautiful, sweet symphony of all the bitter little men who’d dismissed my analysis now suddenly rushing in to admit they were wrong.
“She called it,” one comments, the typed words barely able to hide the sense of begrudging admiration.
“I’ll admit it, maybe she has an idea of what she’s talking about,” another chimes in - with a dose of defensiveness sprinkled in for good measure.
There’s one who’s still trying to save face, commenting, “ I didn’t expect that kind of performance from Roma, but yeah... you were right. Just luck of the draw. ”
Right.
Because luck had anything to do with it .
Still, I can’t help the smug smile that curls on my lips.
They were wrong, I was right, and now they're eating their words.
I feel like I should go back and throw in a couple of sassy emoji responses just to drive the point home, but that’s probably crossing the line. Plus, I’m better than that.
Way better.
I chuckle to myself and set my phone aside, finally leaning back and stretching my arms above my head.
It’s a little too late for a celebratory drink, so I figure I’ll just bask in my moment of triumph while it lasts, and pointedly not think of a certain, infuriating footballer.
But then the rush of inspiration hits me like a jolt of electricity.
That creative itch I’ve been ignoring for weeks suddenly sparks, and I know exactly what I need to do.
I glance at my own laptop, which has been open to my novel draft for days now - weeks , even - and I’ve hardly touched it.
The poor thing’s collecting digital dust.
But something has clicked. I can’t explain it, it’s just…
Well, something just clicked .
The love interest I thought was my ‘guy’?
Yeah. He’s not .
No, no - I was totally wrong about him.
The guy I pegged as the villain, though?
He’s the one.
He’s the guy who’ll sweep my heroine off her feet.
I mean, he’ll definitely do a little heart-breaking along the way, but in a good way. I think.
I slap my hand down onto my notebook, pulling it toward me. The page is almost too pristine. Too much white space.
Not for long, though.
I start jotting things down - character names, possible plot twists and story arcs - as ideas flood my brain.
The dam has finally burst, and I smile at the slight ache in my hand as I scribble down as much as I possibly can before the ideas slip away.
It’s funny how inspiration hits. I’ve been walking around in a fog for weeks, thinking my story was just stalled out, like a car engine that refuses to start; and now, it’s like I’ve got a turbo boost.
I glance at the time, noting the late hour, but honestly - I don’t care. I can’t care .
The words are flowing, the story’s unfolding, and I’m officially lost in it.
I glance back down at the page, tapping my pen against the paper.
It’s kind of funny - how book boyfriends are so much better than real-life ones.
In fact, it’s borderline unfair .
They’re everything you could possibly want, and more: reliable, charming, effortlessly funny and oh-so interesting. They’re the perfect kind of morally grey; and even when they’re bad, they’re redeemable enough to make it all alright. They seem to always know exactly what to say, consistently nail the perfect timing and somehow look ridiculously hot no matter what they're wearing (or not wearing).
Real men, though? Real- life men?
They can’t even compare.
No wonder I’ve been single forever.
To some, it might be a sad thought; but for me, it’s a relief more than anything else. After all, it’s not as if my book boyfriends would roll their eyes when I talk about stats or try to make me feel bad for having opinions.
No, they just get me. Always.
And though I know that it’s ridiculously late and I should really try to get some sleep, I push those logical thoughts away and relish in this addictive feeling.
This is it. This is the breakthrough I needed.
I’m moving forwards. My characters are moving forwards.
And best of all, I don’t have to deal with real men to make any of it happen .
With an excited laugh, I turn my attention away from my notepad and dive into my laptop instead, already lost in the new direction I’ve found for the story. The plot twists are coming fast and furious, and I can’t wait to see where this takes me.
*
Two days later, I find myself hunched over my laptop again, fingers flying across the keys as the words pour out in a frenzy of excitement.
I’ve hit a groove with my novel. Something I haven’t felt in ages .
All previous thoughts about my main character’s love interest? Ha , forget him. He’s nothing but a distant memory.
The revelation that my villain - the brooding, angry guy with a tendency to be morally grey - is actually the perfect match for my heroine has zapped a whole load of new energy into me and the story.
Who knew I’d have a thing for bad boys who are occasionally good?
I lean back in my chair and give myself a mental high-five for finally making some progress in my book. My word count has practically doubled, the plot’s picking up, and the ideas are constantly flowing.
Not bad for a woman who spends most of her time drowning in football stats and gossip from men who think it’s cute to underestimate her.
I glance at my phone, and the screen lights up with a voice message from Richard. I swipe it open, expecting some sort of lecture or task that’s going to require all my patience and restraint .
Sinclair! he greets, sounding uncharacteristically chirpy. I’ve got a new assignment for you.
I roll my eyes, even though no one’s around to see it.
“Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s a recovery press piece after Roma’s defeat , he continues, as if I didn’t already know how terribly they played. You’ll be covering the players’ visit to a local children’s home. Charity work, community service - you know the drill. Get those good vibes flowing after the loss.
I can practically hear Richard’s self-satisfied smile.
Because if there’s one thing I know about my editor, it’s that he loves making me do fluff pieces.
I pause for a moment, considering how much of my soul I’m willing to sell for this job.
You’ll be going with Mark , Richard adds, his tone still way too chipper for my liking. He’ll handle the photo ops. You just get some quotes from the players and write something inspirational. I know you’re good at that.
Sure. I’m fantastic at writing articles that are 80% fluff and 20% actual football knowledge.
“Great,” I mutter, already picturing the day’s events.
No doubt it will play out with Mark smiling like a robot in front of cameras while pretending to care about the kids and me trying not to gag on the forced positivity while thinking about how much I’d rather be here, working on the next chapter of my book.
But the worst part?
I already know who’s going to be there.
The one person I absolutely do not want to see again .
Matteo .
Of course he’ll be there, recovered from his defeat and grinning like the cocky asshole he is. I can picture it now: the messy hair, the sharp jawline and the smirk that says he knows exactly how irresistible he is while he takes one photo with the kids and then disappears.
Just thinking about it makes me want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
It’s time to face the inevitable, though.
So I shove my laptop shut, quickly get dressed into something slightly more casual, grab my things and move to leave.
But not before I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath as I brush through my auburn hair and pull it up into a tight, high-ponytail. “Just smile, nod, ask the right questions, and pretend like you’re completely over the fact that Matteo Rossi is a literal human god walking among mere mortals.”
I let out a dry laugh before I step out of the front door.