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)
Still, the feeling lingers like an uninvited guest.
“After you,” he says, voice smooth and low, a playful gleam in his eyes.
I try my best to act like his proximity doesn’t affect me, and before I know it, Matteo’s walking slightly ahead of me, his gait casual, like he owns the entire place.
Which, in his defense, I suppose he might.
I follow him down the hallway, and he glances over his shoulder, catching my gaze.
"Well, giornalista - you’ve been here long enough without having a real look around. How about I give you a little tour of the stadium?"
“Oh. I’m not sure I should…”
"Come on," he interrupts. "I’m just offering to show you around."
He leans in closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper.
“You’re welcome, of course.”
I can’t help but laugh at how effortlessly he turns everything into a challenge.
"Fine," I say with a playful roll of my eyes, "but if you try to make me run laps on the pitch, I’ll be out of here so fast that you won’t even see me leave."
Matteo scoffs. “I’m pretty sure I could outrun you even with a ten-second head start, but I’m not here to make you sweat... yet."
He laughs heartily at my responding groan, the sound light and easy, and it’s... surprisingly pleasant.
I hate to think it, but maybe I’ve been wrong about him all this time.
“Follow me, then. We’ll start with the trophy room.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Matteo
The stadium is ours tonight.
The halls are quiet, the usual chaos of match day long gone, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I can breathe.
The air is thick with the familiar scent of sweat, turf, and something unnameable - something that lingers in the bones of this place.
I like it like this. When the noise fades, when the world outside doesn’t exist, when it’s just myself and the walls that have seen every version of me - triumph, defeat, blood, sweat, exhaustion.
And now, her.
Daphne walks beside me, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying to pretend she’s not impressed.
She is. I can tell.
The way her eyes flick around, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to jot down every little detail. She’s absorbing everything, filing it away like it might be useful later.
Giornalista. Always working.
I smirk, tilting my head toward her.
“You’re quiet, Sinclair. Taking notes?”
She scoffs.
“Please. I could give this tour myself with the amount of research I’ve done.”
“Then I suppose I should be honoured that you let me do the talking.”
She shoots me a flat look.
“Don’t get used to it.”
I grin, leading her down another corridor, pointing out landmarks - the family boxes, the best views, the hidden spots where players sneak off to avoid the press.
“You seem comfortable here,” she teases, glancing up at me. “A little too comfortable. You’ve spent just as much time hiding as you have actually playing, haven’t you?”
I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense.
“I’ll have you know, bella, I run more in one match than most people do in a month.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
I smirk.
“Maybe I’ve had my fair share of dodging reporters. But hey, it’s a skill.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile.
We keep moving, the weight of the stadium pressing down on us in the best way. It’s a feeling I know well - the quiet hum of something sacred, something bigger than me.
I push open the door to the changing room, stepping inside like I own the place.
Because, well -
I do.
Daphne hesitates just a fraction too long before following.
I notice.
Her eyes flicker around, scanning the room like she’s expecting to be caught in some forbidden place. She shouldn’t be here, not really, but it’s fine - she’s with me.
And in my space, that means she belongs.
Still, I narrow my eyes.
“Don’t touch anything.”
She lifts her hands in mock surrender, her lips curving.
“I wouldn’t dream of touching anything.”
A pause, just long enough to make me look at her properly, and then -
“Except maybe you.”
My smirk falters.
What the fuck?!
I was not expecting that.
I blink at her, processing, and - dio, is she blushing?
A slow grin spreads across my face as I step towards her.
“Well that, you can always try,” I say, my voice dropping. “But I should warn you, I’m not that easy to touch.”
She scoffs, shaking off whatever moment of weakness made her say that out loud.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve had enough practice.”
I hum, watching her closely.
“You sound jealous, giornalista.”
Her laugh is sharp.
“Jealous? Please. I was just making an observation.”
“An observation, huh?” I prod, tilting my head as I step closer.
She nods, crossing her arms over her chest like a shield.
“That you like attention. That you think you’re irresistible. That you -”
I move again, closing the space between us, and she falters.
Got her.
“That I what?”
Her lips press together, her eyes flickering down to my mouth before she catches herself.