Chapter Twenty-Three
Daphne
I f there is a hell, I am living in it.
For the past two weeks, I have been forced to spend more time around Matteo Rossi than any one person should ever have to endure.
And the worst part?
People are loving it.
The viewers are eating it up.
Every single infuriating interaction, every snarky back-and-forth - I can barely look at social media without stumbling upon clips from our interviews, captioned with things like "these two have chemistry and they HATE it" or "this is just flirting disguised as an interview" .
People don’t seem to realise that Matteo is not flirting.
He’s tormenting me. There’s a difference.
I’ve even seen a compilation video, of all things - a whole minute and a half of Matteo being an absolute menace, set to some stupidly romantic pop song.
And the comments.
Oh, god, the comments -
You can see Daphne’s soul physically leaves her body every time he speaks.
Matteo’s got that ‘annoying boy who pulls your pigtails on the playground’ energy.
She wants to throw hands but she also kinda wants to kiss him.
I am mortified .
The worst part is that I remember every ridiculous thing he’s said to me.
Like the time I asked him about what it is that keeps him motivated, and he responded with - and I quote:
"I wake up and I remember… I’m Matteo Rossi. That’s usually enough motivation."
Or when I asked about his pre-match rituals and he had the audacity to say -
"I wink at myself in the mirror. Works every time."
Or - my personal favourite - when I tried to have a serious discussion about leadership in the squad, and he just grinned and said:
"I’m more of a ‘ lead by example ’ guy. And since I’m incredible, everyone just follows my lead."
And somehow , the internet thinks this is charming.
I, however, am suffering.
Which is why when Mark swings by my desk and casually drops yet another bombshell, I barely have the energy to react.
“Oh, by the way,” he says, leaning against my desk. “The charity gala this weekend? We’re going.”
I blink at him.
“ We ?”
“Yes. We. It’s good exposure. You’ll get a chance to network, maybe grab some interview material.”
A sinking feeling forms in my stomach.
“Will all of the players be there?”
“Obviously.”
“Right. And…” I exhale slowly, “will I be expected to -?”
Mark shoots me a knowing look.
“You’re the one with the magic touch, Sinclair.”
Once I’m sure he’s left, I let out a long, tired groan, dropping my head onto my desk.
A charity gala. Surrounded by footballers.
Even worse: surrounded by Matteo bloody Rossi.
I am so screwed.
*
I swipe through the racks of dresses with increasing frustration.
Everything seems either too much or not enough.
Too formal, too casual; too sparkly, too expensive.
The charity gala is this weekend, and I still have no idea what I’m going to wear.
The invitation from the team had been clear: “ Dress to impress .”
Considering the kind of people who will be there, it feels like an impossible expectation to live up to.
I sigh, stepping back and glancing around the boutique.
Normally, shopping is something I enjoy. Something I’d do with friends back home, a glass of wine waiting for us after an afternoon of trying on cute outfits.
Back in London, it has always been something to look forward to, an opportunity to unwind.
But here, I’m on my own.
It’s not that I’m lonely. At least, I try not to think about it that way.
But there’s admittedly a certain weight to being in a city where you don’t know anyone, and where most of your prime time in evenings and weekends is spent either watching football matches, conducting interviews or writing up articles.
Sure, the office is filled with people, but they’re colleagues, not friends. The only people I’ve really been spending time with have all been… well, footballers - one of them in particular, and he’s annoying as fuck.
It’s exhausting.
Modern journalism is a machine that never stops, and I’m running just to keep up. When do I get a chance to breathe?
There’s also the novel I’ve barely touched since I arrived here. The one I promised myself I’d finish.
I had so many ideas swirling around in my head when I moved to Rome, imagining quiet evenings spent in charming cafés where I could lose myself in my characters and finally bring that story to life. But since I got here, it’s been one thing after another.
Work has consumed me, and the worst part about it all is that I don’t even like football. I never even wanted to be a sports journalist .
But the overwhelming need to prove myself in this new world has dominated everything else.
Maybe after the gala…
I stop, pulling a sleek black dress off the rack.
It’s perfect - simple, elegant and the kind of thing that could work for almost any fancy event.
It’s not too much, but it feels professional enough to blend in with the crowd of high-profile millionaire athletes that I’ll be surrounded by.
I slip into the dressing room with the new selection of dresses, grabbing one and then another, draping them over my arm.
Maybe I need to make more of an effort.
Maybe I need to stop hiding behind my work and let myself breathe, let myself live .
The truth is, even though I’m standing in the heart of one of the world’s most beautiful cities, I feel more disconnected than I ever have before.
And not just from the people around me - but from myself.