Chapter Six
Daphne
I shouldn’t be nervous.
That’s what I tell myself as I stand outside the grand hotel where today’s press event is being held, smoothing down my blouse and resisting the urge to check my reflection in the nearest window.
I’ve covered red carpets before and have literally elbowed my way through paparazzi to ask reality stars about their latest break-ups and social media scandals. This should surely be no different.
And yet, it feels different.
For one, the people walking through the entrance aren’t actors or pop stars.
They’re athletes.
And not just any athletes, either.
These are some of the biggest names in international football, the ones with millions of followers and sponsorship deals with luxury brands.
The ones that actual sports journalists would probably kill to interview .
I exhale slowly, watching as Mark strolls ahead of me, completely at ease. He hasn’t looked back once to check if I’m keeping up, and so I quicken my pace, not wanting to be left behind as he enters the hotel.
With a nod towards the security and a quick flash of my press badge, I step through the revolving doors.
The shift from the sunlit chaos of Rome’s streets to the pristine, air-conditioned calm of the luxury building is almost jarring, with every surface looking as though it’s been polished within an inch of its life.
I glance down at my outfit, brushing an invisible crease from my cream blouse.
The look I’ve gone for is professional yet approachable, with a silky blouse tucked neatly into tailored black high-waisted trousers, delicate gold jewelry, and, despite Mark’s warning, kitten heels.
Sensible shoes, he’d said yesterday.
Well, these are sensible.
They’re barely heels at all.
Mark had given me a once-over when we met outside, eyes flicking down to my shoes and back up again, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t commented, which I assumed meant I’d passed whatever bizarre test he’d been giving me, but the disapproving quirk of his brow had been enough to irritate me.
Not that it mattered.
I looked fine. Professional, even .
And it’s not as if I’m planning on sprinting down a football pitch or anything .
Mark strolls ahead, weaving effortlessly through the crowd of suited men. He doesn’t once glance back in my direction, making it quite clear that he couldn’t care less if I still had him in my sights or not.
Classic.
I take a deep breath, lifting my chin and lengthening my stride, refusing to let the slight click of my heels on the marble make me self-conscious.
I can do this.
Even if I have no idea what ‘this’ actually entails.
*
A sprawling conference room has been transformed into the heart of today’s press event, its entrance guarded by two towering doors propped open to reveal the buzz of activity inside.
Even from where I stand just beyond the threshold, I can hear the steady murmur of voices - deep, confident and animated - mingling with the occasional burst of laughter.
The rhythmic click of cameras going off punctuates the soundscape, accompanied by the shuffle of polished dress shoes and the low hum of conversation layering over itself.
With a quick breath, I step inside, my eyes sharp as I look out for Mark.
The space is grand but not ostentatious, with journalists, photographers and PR teams all moving in carefully choreographed chaos.
Clusters of reporters hover near the long tables set up for interviews, some leaning in eagerly with recorders and notebooks at the ready whilst others chat amongst themselves, no doubt waiting for their turn.
A few camera operators have already staked out the best vantage points, adjusting their equipment with practiced efficiency.
Mark is standing near a group of journalists who seem entirely at ease in this environment; laughing and shaking hands with people whose names they didn’t seem to need to write down to remember.
He’s already settled in and looking perfectly at home, and for a brief moment, I consider turning around and pretending I got lost on the way to the toilet.
No . I’m not going to let him make me feel pushed out here.
From what Richard said, there’s a reason a woman was needed here - why I was needed - and just because he’s older and more experienced than I am doesn’t mean that he gets to just treat me like crap.
We all have to start somewhere.
Besides, this isn’t even my dream job.
If anything, he’s the one that’s lucky I’m here.
Freshly fired up, I square my shoulders and walk towards him, keeping my chin held high and my green eyes locked right onto him.
He finally acknowledges me when I’m just a few feet away, glancing at me with a brief flicker of recognition.
"Sinclair. There you are," he says.
If I didn’t know from following him that he hasn’t been looking for me, then I’d know it from his entirely disinterested tone. In fact, he sounds down-right put out.
Still, I force a polite smile.
“Yep. Here I am. ”
Mark lets out a small huff of amusement, shaking his head slightly.
“Thought you might’ve gotten lost. This isn’t exactly a red carpet, after all.”
Oh, fantastic. Patronising and dismissive.
A truly delightful combination.
I bite down on the first five responses that come to mind. Calling my senior colleague a condescending asshole probably won’t win me any professional points, regardless as to whether it’s true or not.
"No. I managed to find my way just fine, thanks."
“Good. You’ll want to stay close today, Sinclair. You’re here to watch and learn: that’s it ,” he says. “The last thing we need is you asking something embarrassing and making us look bad.”
I grit my teeth behind my smile. I hate the way he makes it sound like we’re some sort of team - like he’s actually concerned about my journalistic integrity and not just his own reputation.
"Don’t worry," I say smoothly. "I wouldn’t dream of making you look bad."
Mark tilts his head slightly, studying me for a moment before nodding.
Apparently, he’s satisfied that I’ve agreed to play the role of obedient protégé for the day.
"Good. Now, let’s get you introduced to some people who actually know what they’re talking about."
I inhale sharply, forcing myself to stay calm as he turns and strides further into the room, expecting me to follow .
I take a second - just one - to compose myself. Then, with a measured breath and my best professional smile, I do exactly that.
*
The press room hums with a chaotic sort of energy - the kind that comes from a crowd of people who are both highly competitive and yet somehow all on first-name terms.
It’s one of the strangest atmospheres.
The journalists move around in tight clusters, interactingwith quick handshakes and polite grins, chatting like old friends and laughing easily.
But after almost one year of working in this industry, I know better. Half of these people are probably waiting for the perfect opportunity to outmaneuver the other.
There’s a fine line between camaraderie and competition in this world, and everyone here knows it.
In this industry, being first is everything - the first to get the best quote, the first to release a breaking story, the first to frame the narrative before anyone else can.
It’s not just about reporting. It’s about winning . About securing exclusives, gaining the trust of the subject you’re interviewing and getting the inside scoop before it leaks to a rival publication.
I can already see the subtle jockeying for position; the way some journalists linger near the front row, staking their claim, while others engage in strategic small talk, casually planting themselves near the media handlers who I can only assume control access to the biggest names.
There’s a rhythm to it all, an unspoken pecking order I haven’t quite figured out yet.
But one thing is clear: no-one is here to play nice.
My so-called mentor included.
At the front of the room, a long table is set up and lined with sleek black microphones. Behind it, there’s a branded backdrop plastered with sponsor logos.
The entire setup is polished and professional, designed for efficiency.
This is routine for the players, a part of the job they’ve done a thousand times before. They’ll come out, give soundbites that are just diplomatic enough to be usable and leave without saying anything too scandalous.
All while getting paid an eye-watering amount of money .
Shaking away that nauseating thought, I scan the room, taking it all in and letting myself absorb the atmosphere.
I keep having to remind myself that I really am lucky to be here, that other graduates my age would do anything to be in my shoes right now; and so I try to learn from everything I’m being exposed to.
But while I’m new to sports journalism, I’m not a complete amateur, and I’ve at least done my research.
I know the key players, the big headlines, the ongoing rivalries. I’ve read up on Serie A - the main football league here - and skimmed through enough articles to understand which teams are having a crisis and which players are making waves.
It’s the culture I’m unfamiliar with. The unspoken rules, the dynamics between journalists, the way everyone here seems to carry themselves with an air of casual authority, like they belong.
I force myself to straighten my shoulders.
After all, I belong here too.
Well - at least for the next three months.
“This is the usual setup,” Mark says as he guides me towards a quieter corner. “Journalists get their turn for interviews based on the companies they’re working with. Since we’re with The Tribune, we get good options. Some interviews are one-on-one, others are in groups, and players come and go. As far as today goes, though, you just need to pay attention, look pretty, and not ask anything stupid.”
Ah, yes.
Because that’s my main concern.
“I’ll manage,” I say dryly.
Mark barely acknowledges my response, too busy scanning the room like a general surveying his troops.
“Good,” he says, distractedly. “Because the last thing I need is you embarrassing yourself - or, by extension, me .”
“I’ll do my best to contain my wild impulses,” I say with a tight smile, reminding myself that he’s much more senior than I am.
Mark smirks.
“See to it that you do.”
He gestures vaguely around the room, as if bestowing upon me some great wisdom.
“Watch how the others handle things. The good ones know when to push and when to back off. The shit ones get left in the dust. And let’s be honest, Sinclair; as a rookie, you can’t really afford that.”
Oh, wonderful - just in case I wasn’t already aware of my apparent incompetence, Mark is here to kindly remind me .
I inhale slowly, counting to three in my head.
This is fine. I can do this.
Three months working under him will fly by.
Hopefully .
Mark scans the room before I spot his eyes landing on a group of well-dressed men near the entrance. He claps his hands and rubs them together, not even bothering to look at me as he begins to walk away.
“Right. I need to go schmooze some people. Try not to look lost.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I take a deep breath, gripping the strap of my bag as I scan the room. It’s no use trying to find a friendly face here - it’s just a sea of tailored blazers, expensive watches and confident smirks.
The journalists here all look like they belong.
I wonder how many of them actually do.