Chapter Sixteen
Matteo
I should have gone home.
Should have gone home. Should have gotten in my car, turned the music up loud enough to drown out the rage clawing at my insides, and let it go.
But I can’t.
And instead of driving home, instead of letting myself breathe, I’m here.
Back in the empty changing room.
Back where it all fucking started - where I became the player I am.
Where I built a career on being better, stronger, faster - on making sure I was the one who couldn’t be ignored.
And yet, despite our win, despite my performance, tonight wasn’t about me.
It was about her .
The room is empty.
My fists clench at my sides as I pace the length of the floor, every muscle in my body wound tight, strung together by the one thing I can’t shake .
Fury.
Undiluted. Unrelenting. Unstoppable.
I’m still gearing up for a fight. I wanted to hit him. Not just hit him - end him.
Destroy him.
And my body refuses to believe that I walked away before I could do precisely that.
Mark fucking Chapman.
The condescending, gutless piece of shit who stood there, looking down at her like he had some god-given right to humiliate her.
Like she wasn’t worth his respect, wasn’t worth her own space in this fucking industry.
Like she was nothing .
"You’re a vanity hire."
"That’s how this works, sweetheart."
My jaw locks so hard I feel it crack.
My vision blurs red, my blood burning, my pulse a steady, dangerous beat in my ears.
Sweetheart .
That one fucking word makes my fingers twitch, the knuckles on my right hand aching with the need to connect with his fucking face.
It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t even teasing.
It was meant to humiliate her. Meant to cut her down.
Meant to remind her that in his eyes, she’s just some young, pretty woman taking up space in his world .
And fuck, I should have stepped in sooner.
I wanted to. I wanted to rip him apart, slowly .
Wanted to grab him by the collar, slam him up against the wall and introduce him to the consequences of running his fucking mouth, to what real humiliation feels like.
But I didn’t.
Because Daphne Sinclair isn’t weak. She isn’t some helpless girl who needs a hero to save her.
She’s fire and sharp edges, built from something stronger than steel, and fuck if I don’t respect the hell out of her for it.
But respect doesn’t erase this fury. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like I could put my fist through a wall and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Doesn’t stop me from wanting to break something.
Correction - to break some one .
I slam my palm against the bench, the sharp crack of impact echoing through the empty room.
Not enough.
I throw a punch to the locker, the metal denting under the force. My knuckles sting, the pain sharp and instant -
But it’s still not enough.
I want to do more.
I want to break his fucking face. I want to feel his bones break beneath my hands and have his blood stain my knuckles.
Want to make sure that the next time he even thinks about speaking to her like that, he fucking remembers who the hell he’s dealing with.
I exhale sharply, my breath ragged, my chest heaving .
I try to shake it off. Try to push the rage down, down, down .
But it won’t leave me.
Not when I can still hear his voice, sneering, patronising, cruel.
“ You made yourself look like a joke. ”
“The second Rossi started smirking at you, every single guy in that room knew exactly what was happening.”
“Now, every time you write something about him, they’ll assume it’s biased. That he charmed you, flirted with you a little, and you fell for it.”
I see red.
My fists clench, my jaw locks, and rage coils hot and tight in my gut.
How fucking dare he.
How dare he drag me into his bullshit.
How dare he use me as some kind of weapon to torment her with.
Like she’s just some stupid girl who can’t possibly be taken seriously because a man looked at her for more than two fucking seconds.
Like I was the reason he thought he could tear her down.
Like I gave him the right to do that.
I can’t fucking stand it.
I wanted to shut him up right there, right then. I wanted to rip his throat out.
Fuck - I still do .
I don’t care if it could get me fined, suspended, even thrown out of the fucking league - I want to wreck him for even thinking he could talk to her like that.
My stomach twists.
I know she’s thinking about it too. That it got under her skin.
I’d watched as she stood there all defiant with her hands clenched into fists, her breath unsteady, but she still didn’t let him see her break.
And fuck , if I didn’t already hate him for how he had spoken to her, then that would have done it.
Knowing that I stood back and did nothing is going to haunt me, but stepping in at that moment wouldn’t have helped her.
Because this wasn’t about Daphne's work. Not really.
It wasn’t about her talent - not even about her career.
It was about me.
My attention. My fucking smirk.
Like I’d done something wrong just by looking at her.
It makes me fucking sick.
Daphne Sinclair shouldn’t have to prove herself to a worthless fuck like him.
I can’t figure out why he hates her so much, either.
Is it because she’s young?
Because she’s a woman?
Because she’s good and he knows it?
Or - and this is what makes me really want to destroy him - is it because she doesn’t worship him?
Because she isn’t hanging onto his every word like he’s some kind of fucking legend?
Because he’s seen something that’s told him she’s more interested in me ?
The thought makes my blood boil.
I meant what I said to her: Mark Chapman wasn’t acting like a boss. He was acting like a jealous boyfriend.
And that makes me want to put him in the fucking ground.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
I have to calm down. I have to get this under control.
Because if I don’t - if I let this fester, if I let this rage dictate what happens next - then I will find Mark Chapman, and I will end his fucking career myself.
And I don’t even mean in football. I mean in life .
I close my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath through my nose.
But when I open them, all I see is her .
Daphne, standing there in that fucking perfect outfit that hugged her hips and made my mouth dry, narrowing her green eyes at me like I was a problem she couldn’t figure out.
Beautiful. Sharp.
Fucking untouchable .
I scrub a hand down my face.
I was trying to play it cool. Trying to tease her, trying to check if she was okay without making it obvious that I was two seconds away from hunting that bastard down.
But then she’d looked at me with eyes full of fire, telling me that I didn’t get it - that I had no idea what it’s like to be questioned, to have people decide who you are before you even say a word.
And something inside me just snapped.
She doesn’t know me. She has no idea what the fuck I’ve been through, no idea what it’s like to have to constantly fight for respect in this game.
But oh, I had wanted to tell her everything . Wanted to drag her into my world and make her understand that I’ve been fighting to prove myself since I was a fucking kid.
The way she looked at me, though - like she didn’t believe me, like she thought I was just some spoiled, arrogant asshole who’s had everything handed to him -
It fucking wrecked me.
I let out a rough, humorless laugh and run a shaking hand through my damp hair, forcing myself to breathe.
Dio .
She’s under my skin.
She’s so fucking under my skin, and I don’t know how to get her out.
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to regain some control.
I can’t be this reckless. I can’t afford to let myself lose focus right now.
Not when we’re this close to something bigger than me. Not when the title race is in full swing, when we’re weeks away from everything we’ve worked for.
And yet…
She’s the only thing in my head.
Her fire, her fury, the way she stood there and took it, even when I could tell she wanted to tear him apart .
And maybe I let my frustration bleed through too much. Maybe I got too intense.
Because when I stepped closer, when I threw her assumptions back in her face, she didn’t have a comeback. Didn’t push back like I expected.
She just stood there, her breathing uneven, her eyes locked on mine, like she didn’t know what the fuck to do with me.
My eyes close, but all I can picture is her face; her furrowed brow and scrunched nose, her bright green eyes and her perfect, plump, pouty lips…
I wanted to kiss her.
I wanted to taste that frustration on her lips, to drag my mouth over hers until she stopped trying to pretend like she isn’t just as drawn to this as I am.
And fuck, fuck, fuck .
I slam my fist against the locker again, breathing heavy, my whole body wired too tight.
I need to get out of here.
I need to see her again.
And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Mark Chapman is going to regret ever speaking to her like that.
That asshole is a problem I can fix. A problem I can take care of.
Daphne Sinclair, though?
She’s a problem I have no idea how to handle.