Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I snort.
"The Caribbean, actually."
"Exactly. Your flat’s empty, it rains constantly, and you’ll go back to writing clickbait articles about WAGs and which reality star bought the most expensive car this month." She gestures wildly. "Meanwhile, there? In Rome? You have sun. You have football. You have Matteo Rossi. And you have an actual, proper job. Not just some glorified gossip column."
"I mean… when you put it like that -"
"That is how it is, babe. I'm not even exaggerating. London was fine for a while, but you outgrew that place years ago, same as me. Now you've got the chance to stay here, covering sport for a major publication. It’s the dream."
I exhale slowly.
She's right, though I’m hardly surprised - she usually is.
"And, I mean…" Priya leans closer to the camera, smirking. "It doesn't hurt that you’ll get to stay close to Mr. Hot Italian Footballer. Who, by the way, still hasn’t graced me with a FaceTime introduction."
"You act like I can just prop my phone up during dinner and say, 'Hey Matteo, wave at my best friend who's been stalking your Instagram for the past three weeks.'"
"Okay, I was doing research," she corrects. "I had to make sure he wasn't a fuckboy."
"Priya."
"What? He had all the classic signs! A mansion, fast cars, a smile that looks like it belongs on a Dolce & Gabbana billboard…"
"And?"
She sighs dramatically.
"And... fine. I admit it. He seems decent. And hot. Very hot."
I laugh despite the knot still sitting low in my stomach.
"Listen," Priya says, sobering slightly. "Jokes aside, you've got it all here. A job most people would kill for. A gorgeous city. A hot Italian boyfriend who’s apparently obsessed with you. What exactly is stopping you?"
"He’s not my boyfriend,” I tell her. “And my plan was always to go home.”
Priya gives me a look.
"Plans change. The only thing waiting for you in London is overpriced coffee and a shitty commute on the Northern line."
I bite my lip. "I guess."
"You guess?" She groans dramatically. "Daphne. It’s Rome. You’re literally living in a Pinterest board. Say yes, stop overthinking, and live your best life."
Live in the moment.
The exact thing Matteo keeps saying to me.
"Okay," I say softly. "Okay. I’ll think about it."
"Good," Priya beams. "And while you think about it, go try on those clothes you bought this weekend and send me pictures. Especially the dress you said made Matteo speechless."
"He wasn't speechless. He just…" I trail off when Priya gives me a knowing look. "Fine. He was quiet for several seconds, which is basically a Matteo version of speechless."
"Exactly. So go model it for me. And then say yes to the job, because you'd be insane not to."
"Yeah," I whisper as we end the call. "Insane."
I drop the phone beside me and lean back into the sofa.
The logical part of me knows Priya's right.
But the emotional part of me can’t help wondering whether staying in Rome is the right move, or whether I’m just getting swept up in everything around me -
Matteo included.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Either way, I need to decide.
And soon.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Daphne
The train to Milan hums beneath me as I stare at the passing countryside, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels a steady backdrop to my spiraling thoughts.
Yesterday, while Matteo and the Roma squad were already settled in the city for their final preparations, I'd been stuck in Rome, piecing together a match preview from afar. I'd spent hours glued to livestreams, scrolling through clips posted by other outlets and compiling statistics from the league database.
It wasn’t ideal. I hate relying on secondhand footage when I could have been there myself - but The Tribune had left it until the last minute to book my travel, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue when I wasn’t paying for my own tickets.
Still, now that I'm finally here, racing toward the city and the biggest game of the year, the excitement bubbles up, pushing aside the frustration.
Roma. The league final. The potential for their third consecutive championship win.
And I get to cover it all firsthand.
My phone buzzes beside me, and I glance down to see Matteo’s name.
You better be on that train. I'm not playing this match without you.
I smile to myself as I type out a quick response.
On my way. Don't panic, Rossi - I'll be there to watch you lift the trophy.
I don’t have to wait long for his response.
Damn right you will.
I smile to myself, cheeks warming as I tuck my phone into my bag.
God, I’ve got it bad.
*
The train pulls into Milan Centrale just after 11 a.m., and I navigate the chaotic station with practiced efficiency. A taxi whisks me through the city streets, weaving past tourists and stylish locals who barely blink as the car darts through intersections.
When we pass the towering San Siro Stadium, my heart rate kicks up. The sheer size of the structure is imposing enough, but the energy crackling in the air is even more palpable.