Chapter Seven
Daphne
O ver the next hour or so, I watch and listen to the sound of cameras clicking, questions firing and the occasional burst of laughter when a player says something unexpectedly charming.
The players themselves vary in their enthusiasm. Some lean forwards, engaging easily with the reporters and flashing PR-trained smiles. Others sit back, arms crossed and offering clipped responses that make it obvious they’d rather be anywhere else.
It’s exactly like Mark explained, though he conveniently left out how much of this process is just a waiting game.
Some interviews are quick, snappy affairs - five minutes, a few generic answers and then the player moves on. Others stretch longer, usually when a more seasoned journalist manages to crack through the polished veneer of media-trained responses and get something more interesting.
I keep to the edges of the room, notebook in hand, my pen tapping idly against the page. I watch the others attentively, trying to pick up on their rhythms, the way they keep a player engaged and how they pivot smoothly when they sense a topic isn’t getting them anywhere.
Mark, of course, is nowhere to be seen. Not that I expected him to hold my hand through this, but it’s painfully clear that I’m on my own.
Just as the energy in the room starts to lull, a shift ripples through the crowd.
It’s subtle at first. A few journalists glancing towards the entrance, a couple of hushed murmurs.
Then, like a wave rolling through the room, conversations start dying down, attention redirecting towards the doorway.
Something’s about to happen.
Or rather, someone’s about to arrive.
Someone important .
I straighten instinctively, my fingers tightening around my pen.
And that’s when I glance towards the entrance and spot him .
Matteo Rossi.
I know his name because it’s impossible not to. He’s one of Italy’s biggest football stars - a striker for Roma, a national team regular, and the subject of far too many tabloid stories.
Matteo Rossi is, without a doubt, the most handsome man I have ever seen in real life.
In fact, he’s probably the most handsome man anyone in this room has seen in real life.
And, unfortunately, he knows it.
He strides into the room like he owns it, with an air of effortless arrogance that makes it painfully clear he expects the world to revolve around him.
Heads turn, eyes follow, and the collective energy tilts in his direction, as if he carries his own gravitational pull .
He’s taller than I expected, with the kind of lean, powerful build that makes it obvious he was born to be an athlete. His olive skin is smooth, his dark hair cut neatly but still with just enough of a tousled edge to suggest he doesn't try too hard.
And then there’s his face - his ridiculously symmetrical face. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose that looks to have somehow survived years of professional sport without a single break.
His mouth is curved in a lazy, knowing smirk - like he’s in on a joke the rest of us haven’t heard yet - and he’s dressed in a way that makes him look casually put together.
He’s wearing a navy suit that’s tailored within an inch of its life, but with the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone and no tie around his neck; reminding us all that he’s relaxed and cool, not just another boring athlete in a stiff, corporate setting.
The obnoxiously large watch on his wrist catches the light as he moves, flashing like a beacon of wealth and status, and I wonder how many of those he owns.
Five? Ten? An entire drawer full, all perfectly suited to whatever level of effortless charm he’s trying to exude that day?
As he starts making his way towards the front of the room, shaking hands and flashing grins with the kind of smooth charm that has undoubtedly saved him from many scandals, I feel my irritation flare.
It’s not the face or the suit. It’s not even the way everyone around him seems to unconsciously straighten up, eager for his attention.
It’s the attitude .
It’s the way he walks, like he expects everyone to move for him.
The way he acknowledges people with a brief glance, like their presence is noted but not necessarily important.
The way he radiates the unshakable confidence of a man who has been adored his entire life and has never once had to question it.
I already know exactly who Matteo Rossi is, and I immediately dislike him.
It’s at that moment that Mark reappears at my side, following my gaze.
“Matteo Rossi,” he says, like I don’t already know. “Excellent player. Bit of a nightmare, though.”
“I can tell.”
“You’ll probably end up interviewing him at some point. I have a good relationship with his manager. Just be prepared. He’s… how do I put this?” He pauses. “Not going to be your biggest fan.”
“What? Why?" I frown, slightly taken aback by that. "He doesn’t even know me.”
“Well,” Mark sighs, “he doesn’t think women belong in football journalism.”
Ah .
So he’s one of those .
“Charming,” I bite out.
“Very.”
Before I can comment further, Matteo moves towards our section of the room, shaking hands like a politician working a campaign.
It’s ridiculous, really - none of the other players have behaved like this. They’ve just gone and sat themselves down at the table without any pomp or fuss.
When he reaches Mark, they exchange brief pleasantries.
Mark gets a polite nod, a firm handshake, a “ buongiorno, come stai? ”
And then Matteo’s gaze turns to me.
His dark eyes sweep over me quickly - calculating, assessing and dismissing all in the span of a second.
He doesn’t bother with a handshake.
Instead, he smirks and speaks in heavily accented English.
“You must be lost.”
I arch a brow.
“Excuse me?”
His grin widens, like he enjoys my reaction.
“You are not usually here. Are you lost?”
“This is Daphne Sinclair,” Mark explains. “She’s working with us for the next few months.”
Matteo nods slowly, gaze still locked on me.
“ Ah . A new journalist.”
“Something like that,” I say coolly.
He tilts his head.
“Do you like football?”
The way he asks it - half-mocking, half-genuine - makes my blood simmer, and I meet his stare, refusing to look away.
“Love it,” I lie. “It’s my favourite thing in the world. ”
His smirk deepens, like he sees right through me.
“ Bene. Then we will get along perfectly.”
Doubtful .
Matteo gives me one last once-over before stepping past us towards the next group of journalists, already distracted by someone else.
I exhale slowly, unclenching my fists.
“Overgrown man-child with a God complex,” I mutter under my breath.
Mark snorts. “Welcome to football.”
*
After Matteo finally makes his way through the gauntlet of handshakes, smirks and warm greetings, he settles into a chair at the centre of the long table at the front of the room, draping himself over it with the relaxed confidence of someone who has done this a hundred times before.
If he didn’t seem like such an asshole, I might actually think it was kind of nice that he’d taken the time to greet everyone personally instead of strolling in like he had somewhere better to be.
Plenty of athletes - in fact, plenty of celebrities in general - treat press obligations like an inconvenience, barely glancing up from their phones as they mutter half-hearted answers.
But not Matteo.
No, Matteo had well and truly worked the room; not just behaving like a professional, but acting as if he actually cared.
Like he enjoyed this. Like he wanted to be here.
It was calculated, of course.
Everything about him already seems to be.
Still, it was effective. He’s already got everyone eating out of the palm of his hand, and we hadn’t even gotten to the questions yet.
I hate that I can see the charm beneath the arrogance, and I hate even more that it works .
Now that he’s sat down, front and centre, the energy in the room immediately sharpens. Journalists who have been ready and waiting in their seats now lean forward, their voice recorders and notepads at the ready.
The first few questions are standard, predictable - ones I’ve heard versions of before in the hours I spent researching Serie A interviews.
“How’s the squad feeling about the upcoming fixtures?”
“How important has the manager been in shaping the team’s performance this season?”
“What’s the atmosphere like in the dressing room right now?”
Matteo answers easily, his voice smooth and laced with a rich Italian accent that makes everything sound five times more dramatic as he talks about teamwork, strategy and the team’s desire to bring home trophies.
All the usual PR-friendly soundbites that are essentially copy-and-paste answers for every player.
After a few minutes of warming up, the questions start to shift away from football and veer into the territory of headlines and gossip.
“Matteo, there have been rumors about your contract renewal - can you confirm if negotiations are still ongoing? ”
“Contracts are business,” he answers, that smirk never wavering. “My job is football. My agent is handling everything else.”
A few chuckles ripple through the crowd.
It’s a classic deflection, but it works.
He oozes just enough charm that no one seems particularly inclined to push further.
Then, almost predictably, someone brings up his other reputation.
“You had quite the eventful offseason,” one journalist says, his tone just light enough to be cheeky. “Spotted on yachts, in clubs, a few high-profile dates… how do you balance it all?”
Matteo exhales a laugh, shaking his head.
“Ah, yes. The scandal .” He spreads his hands in mock innocence. “What can I say? I have friends. Sometimes I go outside. Dio mio , call the police.”
Laughter ripples through the room, but I just cross my arms, unimpressed.
Oh, he loves this. Loves playing into his reputation, loves that people hang on his every word like he’s some kind of international man of mystery instead of just a very talented guy who kicks a ball around a field for a living.
The questioning continues, bouncing from journalist to journalist, but it’s one particular answer that makes my blood simmer.
“There’s been a lot of talk about young players coming through the ranks. Do you think the next generation has what it takes to carry on after the established names retire?”
Matteo tilts his head, considering. Then he shrugs .
“Some do. Some don’t. Football is not just about talent. It’s about instinct. Mentality. Understanding the game.” He leans forward slightly, fingers tapping the table. “It’s why experience is important. You cannot just walk in one day and think you know football. You must prove yourself. Earn your place.”
It’s an innocent enough comment. In fact, to anyone else, it’s a good answer, and probably sounds very much like a seasoned player talking about the natural progression of the sport.
But to me, sitting there with Mark’s words from earlier echoing in my mind - he doesn’t think women belong in football journalism - it feels like something else.
A pointed remark. A passive-aggressive jab.
A reminder that I don’t belong here.
Before I can think better of it, my hand goes up.
Mark, who had been more than happy to leave me on my own up until this moment, suddenly stiffens beside me.
“Sinclair -”
But it’s too late.
One of the event coordinators glances in my direction and gives me a nod.
“Go ahead.”
Matteo turns his gaze back to me, and for the first time since our earlier exchange, his interest notably piques.
He leans back in his chair, watching me, waiting. I clear my throat, steadying my voice.
“Matteo, you mentioned that football isn’t just about talent, that players need to understand the game.” I keep my tone as light and even as possible. “Would you say that applies to journalists as well? That we need to prove ourselves, earn our place?”
For a fraction of a second, something flashes in his expression. Not irritation, not amusement. Just… curiosity .
Like he hadn’t expected me to speak.
Then, that damned smirk returns.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Anyone who talks about football should know football. Otherwise, what is the point?”
There it is.
A direct hit.
The implied you don’t know football .
The subtle what are you even doing here?
“Right,” I say. “Just good to know the expectations.”
Matteo watches me for a moment longer before flashing a slow, knowing smile.
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my expression pleasant.
Mark seems to have been stunned into silence by my question, not so much as looking in my direction as the press event continues.
I barely hear the next few questions, though. My pulse is still pounding, and my fingers are curled into fists beneath the table.
Three months of this.
Three months of Mark’s condescension.
Three months of arrogance from players like Matteo.
Three months of trying to prove I belong .
I swallow down my irritation, grab my notepad and start writing.
Matteo Rossi wants me to prove myself? Fine .
Challenge accepted.