Chapter Eleven
Daphne
T onight marks a few firsts for me.
Not only is it my first time attending a professional football match, but it’s also my first real opportunity to meet players one-on-one for post-match interviews.
The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist with nerves.
I know the routine now. At least in theory, anyway.
Watch the game, take notes, and then head down to the mixed zone, where journalists get a few rushed minutes to grab quick quotes from the players as they leave the pitch.
It all seems simple enough.
And yet as I step into the stadium, surrounded by thousands of fans who live and breathe this sport, I can’t help but feel like an outsider.
I arrive just as the sun begins to dip below the skyline. I’ve now hired a car so that I’m not having to rely on public transport into the late hours, and the culture shock of driving on the right-side of the road is almost enough to send me packing.
I don’t quit that easily, of course - although the sight of the stadium is equally as daunting as the driving.
The sheer scale of it is staggering: towering stands, massive floodlights and thousands upon thousands of fans streaming through. Even from outside, I can hear the hum of the crowd, the occasional burst of chanting echoing off the concrete walls.
I tighten my grip on my press pass, feeling an odd sense of displacement as I lock my car and make my way through the throngs of supporters.
This isn’t like any red carpet event I’ve covered - there’s no velvet ropes or posed smiles, no PR teams ushering celebrities past flashing cameras or signed walkways for press.
This is raw, unfiltered passion, and as someone who admittedly doesn’t care much for the sport, even I can sense how much it means to these people.
A security guard checks my pass and eyes me carefully before escorting me through a separate entrance and inside the stadium.
My eyes are wide, drinking in everything as we move at a rapid pace. The press boxes are situated high above the pitch, reasonably enough away from the chaos and offering a bird’s-eye view of the stadium.
And as I’m led down a sleek corridor - walking past doors marked with the names of media companies, sponsors and club executives - I just feel… out of place.
The steward guiding me pushes open the heavy glass door to the press box, and I step inside.
It’s spacious, lined with plush seating and a long counter stocked with drinks and snacks. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a perfect view of the pitch below, where mascots are currently making their way around the crowd, and there’s a door that leads to an outside seating area, too.
A number of journalists are already scattered around the box. Some are leaning back in their seats, sipping on drinks and exchanging easy conversation, while others look to be very much at work, laptops in front of them and fingers typing away.
I hesitate for a moment before stepping further inside.
The air smells of strong beer and leather, and unsurprisingly, there aren’t many women in here - just one or two seated towards the back, their presence almost an afterthought in a space so dominated by men.
And then, of course, there’s Mark.
I spot him easily enough from where he’s perched on one of the leather seats near the window. His dark suit is slightly rumpled and his tie loosened around his neck, giving him that faux-relaxed look that screams I’m important enough not to care.
He’s not alone. A couple of other journalists (who are all coincidentally middle-aged men in similar attire and with the same air of smug self-assurance) are seated around him, sharing a private joke.
Their laughter dies down as I approach, but the small glances they exchange have me thinking that they may have been talking about me before I got here.
"Sinclair," Mark greets me flatly, his tone making my surname sound like an inconvenience. "You made it."
I force a polite smile, resisting the urge to fold my arms defensively.
"Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. "
One of his friends - a balding man with a ruddy complexion - chuckles deeply.
“This the new girl you’ve been talking about, Chapman?”
"Yeah, this is her,” Mark scoffs. “Newest addition to the team. Fresh out of uni and still figuring out the difference between a football and a basketball, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
The group laughs.
My cheeks burn, but I somehow manage to keep my expression neutral.
"I’m a fast learner."
Another man with silver hair and a roughened voice grins at me from where he sits next to my supposed mentor.
"If that’s true, then I hope you brought your notepad. You might actually learn a thing or two tonight."
"Already prepared," I say with a tight smile.
“That's too bad. I was going to say you could share mine.”
“I bet you’d share something with her, alright,” the balding man pipes up.
The group laughs together as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, and I somehow manage to resist the immediate urge to vomit all over them.
Mark waves a hand, gesturing to the empty seat beside him and distracting me from his vile friends.
"Sit down, Sinclair."
His tone is patronising, dismissive, and all too familiar. He barely even lifts his gaze to look at me as I force myself to take a deep breath and smile politely before doing as I’m told.
I settle into the chair, turning my attention to the scenes unfolding on the pitch below.
The conversation continues around me, the men discussing the upcoming match with a loud confidence that undoubtedly comes from years in the business.
"Rossi’s in fine form at the moment," Mark says, taking a swig from a glass of whisky. "Should be an easy win for Roma."
The silver-haired creep snorts.
"I hope so. Be a shame if your new recruit here didn’t get to see what real talent looks like. Though I’m sure she’s more interested in what’s under the kit, eh?"
Another round of laughter booms around the small group, once again at my expense.
They think I’m here for the eye candy, that I’m some naive girl swept up by the glamour of professional athletes.
Little do they know I couldn’t care less about the sport or the players.
"Actually," I interject, keeping my voice steady, "I’m here to understand the dynamics of the game. There’s a lot to learn from how players interact on the pitch, especially someone as strategic as Rossi."
The laughter falters, just a bit. Mark glances at me, one eyebrow raised.
"Is that so?"
"Yes,” I nod, determined to try and demonstrate what professionalism looks like to this group of ignorant assholes. “His ability to read the game and anticipate plays is impressive. It’s not just about physical skill. It’s mental, too."
There’s a hint of annoyance in Mark’s responding chuckle.
The thought brings me far more joy than it probably should.
"Well, well gentlemen. Maybe she’s got half a brain after all."
The other men chuckle, but their laughter is quieter than before. I don’t miss the way that they now exchange questioning looks - clearly not expecting me to hold my ground.
But I’ve said my piece now, and I don’t want to push my luck too far. After all, I keep reminding myself of how lucky I am to have been given this opportunity in the first place.
So, I turn back to the pitch, my heart pounding but my expression calm.
The stadium is coming to life, the stands filling rapidly as kickoff approaches. The rhythmic chants swell and reverberate through the air, and I let the noise wash over me, grounding myself in the atmosphere.
A few moments later, Mark leans over, his voice a low murmur meant just for me.
"Watch yourself, Sinclair. There’s no need to get defensive when we’re just having a bit of fun. You really killed the mood,” he says. “Just sit back, look pretty, and leave the analysis to the professionals."
Inside, I’m seething.
Outside, I force a tight smile in the name of my career.
" Noted ."
I hate this man.
I may not be the most passionate person in the world when it comes to football, and I may be new to the industry, but I’ve worked hard to get here - spending countless hours researching the different rules, teams and players - and I’m not about to let a group of smug, washed-up, balding journalists make me doubt myself .
The players emerge from the entrance tunnel and begin to take to the field, each one walking hand-in-hand with a small child. The stadium is very much alive now, and the noise swells as more fans fill their seats.
The chants are rhythmic, almost hypnotic, blending into a singular roar of anticipation as the players line up.
My gaze flickers to the massive screens hanging above the pitch. The cameras zoom in on the team captains as they move to flip a coin to see which side starts the game off, and I focus on all of the details, determined to write something so impressive that it proves I belong here just as much as anyone else.
And then, I spot him.
He might not be the team’s captain, but Matteo Rossi is front and centre.
He’s unmistakable. Even from this distance, there’s something about him that commands attention.
The camera lingers on him as he stretches and rolls his shoulders, his shirt clinging to the definition of his torso. The crowd erupts into cheers as he jogs towards the centre circle. He looks up towards the huge screens, and I spot the moment that his face lights up when he realises the camera is on him.
He lifts a hand in casual acknowledgement, his smirk as cocky as ever as the crowd roars even louder than before, and I manage to resist the urge to roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.
They’re worshipping him like he’s some kind of hero, and he’s lapping it up.
“I think this is the most interested you’ve looked in football since you got here. ”
The sound of Mark’s voice is like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard.
Somehow, I don’t shudder, though I realise that the disgust on my face must be showing, and so I force a neutral expression, tearing my gaze away from the screen.
“Just taking in the atmosphere,” I comment.
My mentor scoffs, though he doesn’t press any further. Instead, he turns his own attention back to the match as the players continue to take their positions.
The referee blows the whistle and the roar of the crowd reaches a fever pitch.
And as the game kicks off, I brace myself for ninety minutes of watching Matteo Rossi do exactly what he does best.
Dominate .