Chapter Four
Daphne
I hesitate for a second, staring at the door like it might suddenly vanish if I ignore it hard enough.
Maybe if I stay perfectly still, whoever it is will assume I’m out gallivanting through Rome like a glamorous, well-adjusted journalist who wants to be here for reasons other than pizza, pasta and sunshine.
Another knock, louder this time.
No such luck.
With a sigh, I force myself away from the balcony and swing open the front door, coming face-to-face with a man who is exactly what I imagined a seasoned sports journalist living in Italy would look like:
Tanned, slightly wrinkled and exuding the kind of self-assurance that suggests he’s never second-guessed a decision in his life.
Mark Chapman.
I recognise him instantly - not just because Richard told me I’d be working with him, but because his face has been plastered across sports news segments for as long as I can remember .
He’s a big deal in this industry. The kind of journalist who gets exclusive interviews, breaks major stories for The Tribune, and - if the smug look on his face is anything to go by - he knows it .
Mark is, objectively speaking, a good-looking man in that rugged, middle-aged way. His hair - once probably a deep brown - has started to turn silver at the temples, and the lines on his face suggest a lifetime of either intense thinking or intense scowling. His build is solid and broad-shouldered, and I can immediately tell that he’s got that easy, old-school charisma that probably works wonders on rookie journalists desperate to impress him or PR reps who want to stay on his good side.
Me, though?
Yeah, no .
Not my type.
Maybe it’s the slight air of I’ve seen it all, and I know better than you radiating off him, or the way his smirk suggests he’s already decided exactly how competent ( or incompetent) I am before I’ve even said a word.
Either way, this is not the kind of dynamic where I’ll be left swooning.
“Sinclair,” he says, giving me a once-over like he’s assessing a new recruit in some kind of war zone.
I try to straighten up, subtly wiping my slightly sweaty palms against my sides.
After all, whether I like it or not, he is a pretty important man, and I know many of my colleagues working at a junior level would snap up the opportunity to work alongside someone as experienced and knowledgeable as he is .
“Mark. Hi.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Settling in?”
I glance back at the chaos that is my half-unpacked suitcase and cringe internally at the realisation that I haven’t even bothered to set up my laptop yet.
“Sort of.”
“Good,” he says, nodding like he was actually interested in the answer. “Figured I’d swing by and give you the lay of the land. You’ve got about a day to get your bearings before we start.”
“Start what , exactly?”
"What, you don’t know the schedule?"
I stare at him for half a second as he leans against the doorway, debating whether to be honest or just make something up to save face.
"I - uh - I was going to go over it after unpacking," I say, nodding towards my bags like they somehow prove my point.
"Right. Well, you might want to speed that up. Press event’s tomorrow afternoon. You’ll get to meet some of the players, shake some hands, start learning the ropes."
I nod slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral.
"Oh - sure. That sounds… great."
"Don’t sound too excited," he says dryly.
I force a polite smile.
"I’ll try to contain myself."
He smirks, like he finds my attempt at professionalism amusing.
"Just stick close to me. Watch, listen, take notes. And try not to embarrass yourself, yeah?"
I try not to grit my teeth as I respond. “Will do.”
Mark studies me for a second, then gestures vaguely towards my apartment.
“Nice place. Looks like The Tribune are treating you well.”
I glance over my shoulder.
“Yeah. It’s cute,” I admit. “Feels very… authentic .”
“That’s one way to put it,” he says. "Bit of an upgrade from wherever you were slumming it in London, I bet."
I raise an eyebrow, but just about manage to keep a sickeningly sweet smile firmly in place.
"Oh, absolutely. I’ll be sending Richard a thank-you note for the wobbly table.”
"Hey, it’s Rome. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in a shoebox with a view of a back alley."
"Well, I do have a partial view of a gelato shop," I counter.
"Right. Living the dream,” Mark snorts. “Just wait ‘til you’re standing in a press pit for hours, trying to get a decent quote out of a player who barely speaks English and definitely doesn’t give a shit about what you’re asking."
"Sounds like you’ve really mastered the art of selling this job."
"Just managing expectations," he replies smoothly. "Nothing worse than a rookie thinking it’s all glamour and VIP treatment."
I let out a short laugh.
"Trust me, I don’t think that. "
There’s a beat of silence before Mark checks his watch and then finally pushes off the doorframe.
“Alright. I’ll leave you to it. Just be ready by noon tomorrow and meet me at the office. We’ll head over together.”
“Got it,” I say, mentally penciling in ‘panic about football’ somewhere in my schedule before then.
He steps back, giving me one last knowing look.
“Hope you brought comfortable shoes, Sinclair. You’re about to get thrown in the deep end.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in the doorway with a mixture of excitement and impending doom bubbling inside me.
I step back and close the door behind me, exhaling slowly.
Tomorrow, I’ll be at my first press event, trying to convince everyone - including myself - that I belong there.
No big deal.
I glance back out at the Rome skyline, at the golden sunlight spilling over the rooftops, and my shoulders sag as I let out a long breath.
No big deal at all.