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)
"In the meantime, just keep doing what you're doing," he adds with a patronising smile. "Don't let this crap get in your head and mess things up. I’ve got to present to the executive board at the end of the month, and they’re obsessed with the engagement numbers. Your work speaks for itself... well, with a little help, obviously."
My jaw practically drops.
“Look, I -”
“I’m joking,” Richard interrupts, laughing heartily as though he’s actually funny. “You should see the look on your face, Sinclair. Priceless. Anyway - lighten up a little. I’ll look into this, and you keep that content with Rossi coming. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
The call ends, and I sit motionless for a moment, my mind racing.
I can’t quite believe it.
Mark Chapman has been stealing credit for my work this entire time.
Every late night, every carefully crafted article - he's claimed as his own contribution.
The same Mark who has done nothing but belittle me from day one, making sly, snide comments about how women don’t understand football, how I’m only here to get close to players like Rossi.
The same man who had the audacity to corner me at the gala, reeking of whiskey as he propositioned me, only to try and twist it all to look as though I had been the one who was drunkenly coming on to him.
The same Mark who laughed along with the others when I suggested doing a tactical analysis piece, brushing it off as too technical for a so-called lifestyle writer like me -
And yet he’s been feeding Richard this story that he’s the mastermind behind my work.
That he's been guiding me through every step of the process while I flounder like some clueless rookie.
He’s been included on every email under the guise of supervising my work when in reality, he’s been passing it off as his own.
The fury bubbling inside me solidifies into pure, unrelenting determination.
Mark Chapman thinks he can take me down from the shadows, that he can discredit me, make me question my abilities and steal my work to boost his own reputation whilst I sit back and say nothing, do nothing.
Yeah.
Not a fucking chance.
This man is about to learn just how wrong he is about me.
Chapter Forty-Four
Matteo
I don’t fucking get it.
I don’t understand her.
I took her out, and then - fuck, I took her home.
Not an apartment. Not a hotel room.
My home.
I’ve never taken a woman back there before. Not once.
Apartments? Sure.
A penthouse, a discreet hotel when I wanted privacy? Of course.
But never my actual house.
My space. My bed.
And yet, I took her there.
And the sex?
Dio. It wasn’t just good. It wasn’t just the kind of sex you think about the next morning and feel smug about.
No, it was the kind of sex that leaves a man wrecked.
The kind that gets under your fucking skin. The kind that imprints itself so deep in your mind that you can still feel it long after it’s over.
The kind that keeps me awake at night, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other wrapped around my cock, cursing the fact that she’s not in my bed.
And what’s worse? What’s most infuriating?
I know she wants me.
I know it.
I see it when she looks at me, in the way her eyes flicker down to my mouth even when she’s pretending she’s not thinking about kissing me.
I sense it in the way she argues with me, how she throws herself into every snarky comment like she needs the tension as much as I do.
I hear it in her breath - how it hitches just before I kiss her, how it comes out in shaky little exhales when my hands are on her skin.
I feel it in the way her body moves against mine, in the way she melts into my touch no matter how much she tries to pretend she doesn’t.
She wants this. She wants me.
But she’s fighting it.
It makes no sense, though.
She makes no sense.
Women chase me. They always have.
I don’t wait around for a text. I don’t wonder if someone’s thinking about me.
I don’t fucking pine.
I rub a hand over my jaw, pacing my living room. I should be getting ready for training. I should be thinking about recovery, about the next game, about my performance.
Instead, here I am - checking my phone like an idiot, my stomach dropping every time I see that it’s not her.
It’s bullshit.
It’s a problem.
And problems need solutions.
Because there is no way - no fucking way - I’m letting her slip through my fingers.
I don’t know what her deal is. I don’t know why she’s holding back.
What I do know is that she’s a puzzle I need to solve, and tonight, I plan on getting some damn answers.
Because this isn’t over.
*
I should be high off this win.
I should be celebrating, riding the wave of adrenaline, soaking in the glory of scoring a hat trick in one of the biggest games of the season.