Chapter Twenty-Two
Matteo
"T his is all your fault."
I barely have time to process the words before Daphne Sinclair appears in front of me, green eyes flashing, her auburn hair catching in the late afternoon light as she marches straight onto the training pitch.
I glance around. Some of my teammates are still hanging back after training, stretching and chatting, but the moment they spot us, they know better than to linger.
A few throw curious glances our way - because, let’s be honest, this hot little redhead storming onto the pitch to confront me isn’t exactly subtle - but they don’t stick around to watch.
They know better than to get involved.
Daphne, however, doesn’t seem to care either way.
" Giornalista , I’m flattered,” I smirk, dragging my towel over my face to wipe away the sweat before tossing it over my shoulder. “But usually, when a woman says those words to me, she’s talking about something a little more… personal ."
"You’re unbelievable, and insufferable, and -"
"And here you are ," I interrupt as I widen my stance, looking her over with curiosity. "Have you finally come to confess that you’ve fallen for my good looks, my irresistible charm?"
"Not even close ," she glares.
I raise a brow.
"Then to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Daphne exhales sharply, like she’s holding back from strangling me.
I’d love to see her try.
Apparently, so would my cock, which is hardening by the second.
"The Tribune wants more interviews," she grits out.
I nod, unsurprised as I attempt to discreetly adjust my shorts.
My agent already filled me in this morning. Apparently, The Tribune is eager to set up more features with me.
No surprise there, of course - why wouldn’t they?
What is surprising is that they don’t just want me.
They want me and Daphne together on camera.
It’s not a request, either.
It’s an expectation.
My agent has a long-standing relationship with The Tribune - his wife is one of the senior executives on the board, which means there’s been an unspoken rule for years now that they get all my exclusives.
It’s never been an issue before. If anything, it’s been convenient. A mutually beneficial agreement that keeps everyone happy.
But now, they’re making it clear that my exclusives aren’t just about me anymore. They want Daphne involved.
Not Mark.
Good .
I’d made a point to tell my agent I was happy with that arrangement - less time with that asshole was a win in itself - but I’d also instructed him to dig up every piece of information he could find on the prick.
So far, the results have been… interesting .
Mark Chapman has worked with a lot of junior journalists over the years while here in Rome. More than a few of them have been women.
And yet, in the last five years, every single one of them has left sports journalism entirely.
Some have even left the profession altogether.
No official complaints, no allegations - but there is a definite pattern of promising young women abandoning a career they all seemed passionate about before working with him.
I know what that means.
And I fucking hate him.
What I hate even more is the knowledge that Daphne has to work with him. I can’t even think about the fact that I didn’t confront him the other day against my better judgement - not know that I know this.
But I can’t go back in time, and stepping in back then would have only made things worse for her.
Mark would have twisted it, made her look weak - like she needed rescuing, like she needed saving, when that’s not the case at all.
That doesn’t mean I’m letting it go, though .
For now, this is the best I can do - giving her another way forwards, one that doesn’t involve taking orders from a man who has built his career on breaking people down.
And in the meantime, I’ll be doing my own digging.
She doesn’t need to know. I don’t want her anywhere near this - don’t want her in a position where she has to risk her career or her reputation just to prove what an asshole Mark Chapman really is.
So. I’ll do it for her.
I’ll pull whatever strings I can behind the scenes, but it’s slow work.
Mark’s been in this game too long, and he knows better than to leave any obvious trails.
But I’ve been around long enough to know that men like him always slip up eventually.
And when he does, I’ll make sure he’s caught.
I just hadn’t expected her to be this pissed about it.
"And why exactly is this my fault?" I ask, pulling myself back into the moment as I lazily stretch my arms above my head, letting the last of the afternoon sun warm my skin.
"Because you -"
She gestures wildly, looking momentarily lost for words before glaring.
"You exist the way you do - all smug and cocky and… ugh ! The viewers apparently love our dynamic, which is ridiculous, because one, there is no dynamic, and two, you’re absolutely impossible to work with. And now I’m the one that has to be stuck doing even more interviews with you."
"Sounds like they have excellent taste,” I grin .
Daphne groans, tipping her head back to the sky like she’s asking the universe for patience.
"Let me get this straight, though," I continue, stepping in a little closer. "You’re upset because you have to spend more time with me?"
"Yes!"
"And you don’t secretly love that?"
Her eyes narrow.
" No ."
I hum softly.
Yeah. I don’t believe her.
"That’s disappointing."
She exhales sharply.
"You infuriate me."
"Your readers apparently think otherwise."
She scowls at that before spinning on her heel and storming towards the tunnel leading back to the stadium. I can’t help but grin at the knowledge that she’s irritated as I jog towards her, catching up quickly until I can fall into step beside her.
"Why are you following me?" she huffs.
"I like the sound of your voice when you’re mad," I say easily. "It’s cute."
She throws me an exasperated look.
"You have to stop calling me cute."
"Can’t," I shrug. "It’s the truth, and I don’t lie."
Her hands tighten into fists at her sides, and I have to bite back a laugh .
This is too easy.
We push through the doors into the stadium, the air cooling instantly in the shaded corridor. Daphne doesn’t even pause, just keeps storming forward, muttering under her breath about my stupid face and smug attitude and annoying voice .
I reach for her wrist.
She barely has time to react before I press her back against the wall, stepping in close and caging her in, just like I did the other day.
She sucks in a sharp breath, her spine straightening against the cool surface.
"Are you insane ?"
“No,” I smirk, leaning in until my lips are just a breath away from her skin. "I’m testing a theory."
"Yeah, well, you’re getting predictable," she glares.
"Then why do you let me do it?"
Her throat bobs with a swallow.
"Maybe I just haven’t found a way to stop you yet."
"Or maybe ," I murmur, dragging my nose along the curve of her jaw, "you don’t actually want to."
She exhales, her breath hitching just slightly.
I grin, knowing I’ve got her.
"You stink of sweat," she mutters, her voice frustratingly breathless.
I hum, amused, letting my fingers trail lightly down her arm as I pull back slightly.
"It’s called putting in work, bella . Maybe if you got a little physical yourself, you’d understand. "
Her eyes flash, and I can tell she’s about to fire something back - something cutting, something sharp - when I catch her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up to mine.
Her green eyes are bright and wide, her lips parted slightly, and for a split second, we just stare at each other.
A long, heavy moment where neither of us move.
Where the tension stretches between us, tight like a wire about to snap.
Where her chest rises and falls just a little too quickly, and I can practically hear her thoughts screaming at her to pull away even as she stays perfectly still.
“I can show you,” I murmur, my voice lower now, rougher. “If you like.”
Her pulse hammers beneath my fingers, her breathing shallow.
I watch as her pretty pink tongue slips out to wet her lips, and that does something to me.
I swear she’s about to close the distance - her fingers tightening slightly against my wrist, her body leaning in just the smallest fraction - when suddenly, something shifts.
A flicker of awareness flashes across her face, like she’s just remembered herself.
Just remembered what this is.
She blinks, and then pulls away.
Her hands press against my chest, not forceful, but firm enough to put space between us; and just like that, the moment is gone.
Daphne exhales sharply, as if trying to physically push the moment away along with me. I watch as she squares her shoulders, tilts her chin up, and fixes me with the kind of look that tells me I’m about to get a dressing down.
Heaven knows how much I love it when she does that.
“Listen to me, Rossi,” she says, her voice tight, controlled. “I might have to tolerate you. I might have to work with you. But don’t mistake that for anything more.”
“ Tolerate me ? That’s a bit harsh,” I smirk.
She ignores me, which is disappointing.
I love getting under her skin.
“And just so we’re crystal clear, I do not have a crush on you. I don’t even like you. In fact, I find you incredibly annoying -”
“Annoying?” I interrupt, feigning offense.
“Yes. You’re smug, you’re arrogant, you have an ego the size of this entire stadium.”
“Careful, giornalista ,” I murmur. “You’re starting to sound obsessed.”
She splutters as her hands clench into fists at her sides.
“You. Are. Unbearable .”
I tilt my head as my eyes flicker over her pretty face.
“You know, you seem to notice a lot about me. My ego, my attitude, my habits. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s almost like you pay very, very close attention.”
“I’m paid to be here,” she tells me. “I’m paid to tolerate you - to notice you, to pay attention.”
I grin, loving every second of this.
“Are you sure you don’t have a little crush, bella ?” I tease.
“Absolutely positive. ”
“That’s a shame. Because I think about you a lot.”
I let my gaze drag lazily down her body before flicking back up to meet hers.
“And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the feeling is mutual.”
Her breath hitches slightly before she catches herself.
“ No ,” she says firmly, stabbing a finger at my chest. “You are not charming, Rossi. I know your type - you think the world revolves around you. That you can just smirk and flirt and everyone will fall at your feet. But I’m not impressed.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not. Even. A little."
I chuckle, crossing my arms.
“Alright, giornalista . If you say so.”
“I do say so,” she snaps, sounding close to childish as she pushes away from the wall. “And I mean it, Rossi - I am only around, only noticing, because I have to.”
And with that, she turns on her heel, storming off down the hall without so much as a glimpse back at me.
I watch her go, smirking to myself as she disappears around the corner.
Oh, this is going to be fun .
It’s going to be a very, very interesting few weeks.