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’m here, in Milan, watching Matteo Rossi - a man I once considered insufferable - hoist Roma’s winning trophy. And now I'm sitting among the players' families like I somehow belong.
The thought sits heavily but warmly in my chest as the celebrations shift from the stadium to the team hotel, where the entire top floor has been transformed into a makeshift party zone.
The suite is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Milan’s glittering skyline. The tables are covered in bottles of champagne, spirits and enough food to feed a small army. The music is loud, the mood infectious, and Matteo keeps me tucked tightly against his side as he moves through the crowd.
I recognise most of the players from past interviews. Costa, one of the midfielder’s, gives me a nod and says “nice prediction, Sinclair," referencing my 3–1 guess. I laugh, reminding him I was only one goal off, and feel the tension ease from my shoulders.
For the most part, though, I stay close to Matteo.
He seems to relish it.
Whenever someone tries to pull him away - to toast, to joke or to relive one of the match's key moments - his hand never leaves mine. His thumb strokes over my skin, grounding me in the middle of the chaos.
The drinks flow freely, and at some point, Di Marco climbs onto a table - despite his injured hamstring - and starts leading the entire room in a wildly out-of-tune chant.
Matteo joins in, his voice carrying easily over the crowd.
"You’re drunk," I grin.
"Me?" he gasps, feigning outrage. "I’m an elite athlete. My body is a temple."
I snort. "Your temple smells like tequila."
He grins and pulls me onto the dance floor.
*
The hours blur together.
At one point, Matteo spins me under his arm while shouting Italian football chants at the top of his lungs.
Someone hands me a glass of prosecco, which I sip as the bass from the music vibrates through the floor.
I lose track of how many people congratulate Matteo, how many photos are taken and how many times the trophy is passed around the room.
The only thing I don’t lose track of is him.
He keeps me close, anchoring me when the crowd becomes overwhelming or when I feel the familiar stirrings of imposter syndrome creeping in.
He squeezes my waist or murmurs something ridiculous in my ear until I relax again, and the hours pass in a haze of music, laughter and endless toasts.
And through it all, I remind myself that I won’t tell him about Mark tonight.
This is his moment. His night.
The scandal will keep until morning. Tonight is about the win.
About him.
About us.
*
By the time the party starts thinning out around four in the morning, my legs ache from dancing and my eyelids weigh a thousand pounds.
Matteo's arm is slung around my shoulders as he leans heavily against me. His hair is a mess, his dress shirt half-untucked, and he’s wearing someone else’s sunglasses for reasons I can't even begin to explain.
"I’m so tired," I mumble as we step into the hotel elevator.
Matteo nuzzles my hair.
"Io anche, bella.” Me too, beautiful. “But worth it."
The elevator glides upward, and Matteo sways slightly beside me. I grip his waist to steady him.
"You're the one who scored three goals tonight," I say, yawning. "How am I more exhausted than you?"
"Emotional exhaustion," Matteo says sagely. "You were worried about me."
"I was," I admit.
He turns his head and kisses my temple.
"But I told you I’d win."
The elevator doors slide open, and we step into the hallway. Matteo fumbles with the keycard twice before getting it right.
The suite smells like cologne and clean linen when we stumble inside, and neither of us bothers to turn on the lights as we strip down to our underwear and collapse into bed without ceremony.
Matteo wraps himself around me immediately, pulling my back firmly against his chest and sighing with contentment. His body is warm and solid behind mine, his breath slow and even against my neck.
As my muscles relax into the mattress, my thoughts drift.
To the stadium. To the penalty.
To Matteo lifting the trophy.
To the look on Richard's face when I tell him I’m accepting the position.
Because I am.
I love this job, and I love it here.
And more than anything else, I love the man currently breathing softly into my hair.
My lips curve into a smile as sleep pulls me under.
I’m staying.
*
The faint hum of Matteo's phone vibrating on the bedside table wakes me.
I blink blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling, momentarily disoriented until the events of last night come rushing back.
The match. The penalty. The celebration.
Matteo’s lips on mine in front of half of Italy.
Beside me, my favourite striker doesn’t so much as stir. His arm remains heavy across my waist, his face buried in the pillow, his hair mussed and his breathing deep and even.
Careful not to wake him, I reach for my own phone on the nightstand.