Chapter Twenty-One
Daphne
“O h, you definitely have a crush on Matteo Rossi.”
“Not you too,” I groan, letting my head fall back against the couch. “Aren’t best friends supposed to be supportive?”
Priya just grins through the screen, her dark eyes twinkling with far too much amusement for my liking.
She’s propped up in bed, wrapped in her favorite oversized hoodie, a face mask smeared over her skin like she’s settling in for a front-row seat to my misery.
“I am being supportive,” she says, still smirking. “I’m supporting the fact that you clearly have a thing for a certain ridiculously attractive Italian footballer.”
I dramatically flop onto my side, burying half my face into a cushion.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” she says in a sing-song voice.
“Did you even listen to what I just said? He was impossible , Priya. Impossible ! He acted like I was wasting his time, even though he was the one who crashed my interview! He was smug and lazy and - ”
“ - and so, so hot.”
“ Priya !”
“What? I’m just saying!”
She leans closer to the camera, grinning.
“Come on, Daph. We both know that you’ve had your fair share of difficult interviews before, but I don’t remember you ever getting this worked up about any of them.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That’s because none of them ended with the interviewee following me outside and accusing me of having a crush on them, again .”
Priya gasps, looking way too delighted by this information.
“Oh my God, he did what ?!”
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” I groan again. “Forget I mentioned that part. Look, all you need to know is that this man is insufferable.”
“But here you are, talking about him,” she hums, sounding amused.
“I have to talk about him! He’s a major player, and I have to cover his games every week,” I insist. “It’s not like I want to do this, or speak to him. I literally don’t have a choice .”
“Mm-hmm.” Priya arches an eyebrow. “Did you have to talk about how good he smells?”
I bolt upright. “I never said that!”
“You implied it.”
I drag a hand down my face, already regretting calling her in the first place.
Priya just cackles, like this is all the best entertainment she’s had in months.
“Look, I’m just saying,” she continues, propping her chin in her hands. “You’ve been in Rome for almost a month, and this is the first time you’ve called me ranting about a guy. That has to mean something.”
“Yeah, it means he’s annoying as hell,” I mutter.
“ Or, it means that he has gotten under your skin in a very specific way.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might actually fall out of my head.
“I cannot wait to see how this unfolds,” Priya beams.
“Believe me,” I sigh. “ I definitely can.”
*
I’m halfway through re-reading the article I’ve been drafting about tomorrow’s highly anticipated game when my laptop screen fills with an incoming video call.
Straightening in my chair, I quickly tuck my hair behind my ears before clicking accept .
“Richard! Hi.”
“Sinclair,” he greets. “I won’t keep you long - just wanted to check in. You’ve been doing fantastic work lately.”
My eyes widen and my back straightens immediately.
What in the -
Is this really happening? Is Richard seriously complimenting me?
“Oh. Ah - thank you. I… really appreciate that.”
“Course. The articles you’re submitting are great - they’re getting us a lot of traction. People seem to really like the questions you’re asking in post-match interviews, too. Your style is… different. But it’s been well-received.”
A small swell of pride rises in my chest. This might be one of the longest, and most pleasant, conversations I’ve had with my editor.
“That’s great to hear,” I smile.
“But,” he says, with a knowing look, “that’s not the only reason I’m calling.”
I hesitate, somewhat wary.
“Oh?”
Shit - has Mark said something? Commented on how unprofessional and inexperienced he thinks I am? Complained that I shouldn’t be here?
“I wanted to talk about your interview with Matteo Rossi.”
Well . Talk about anti-climatic.
“What about it?”
“ Relax, Sinclair!” he laughs - as though any of this is a laughing matter. “It’s not a bad thing. It was published last night and is performing very well.” He smirks. “In fact, our commenters seem to have… noticed something.”
“Noticed something?”
“Yes. The tension.”
I look at him with a deadpan expression.
“You’re joking.”
“Don’t act all shy about it,” he says. “The comment section is full of it.”
He glances at another screen, reading something off.
“Listen to this: ‘ Are we sure this is an interview and not some kind of foreplay? ’ ”
I nearly choke on my own breath.
“Here’s another - ‘ I’ve never seen two people so obviously into each other while pretending they don’t even like each other .’”
Heat crawls up my neck.
I can’t believe people are actually thinking these things, let alone commenting about it.
“That is not - Richard, I was just trying to do my job!”
“Of course you were,” he says easily. “And I don’t care why it’s happening. I just care that it’s working.”
“You… what ?”
“Like I said, the numbers are good,” he says simply. “The video is getting engagement, shares, views . That’s what pays. That’s what matters.”
Oh.
Oh no .
I suddenly have a terrible, sinking feeling in my stomach.
“So,” Richard continues, clasping his hands together. “I’ve told Mark to set up more opportunities for you and Rossi to do on-camera work together.”
I gape at him.
“No.”
“Ease up, Sinclair,” he says, sounding amused. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Keep asking good questions, keep getting reactions. And hey - if the audience just so happens to love the weird little dynamic that you two have going on - even better.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue, but what can I even say?
That there isn’t tension?
That the viewers are imagining it?
Even I’m not sure that I believe that anymore.
And after what he said when he cornered me after the interview, I know Matteo feels the same.
“Anyway, I’ve got to run. Keep up the good work, Sinclair. And whatever you’re doing - don’t change. ”
The call ends abruptly, and I just sit there, staring at the now-empty screen with my heart pounding in my chest.
More interviews.
More time on camera with Matteo.
I drop my head into my hands.
I am so screwed.