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 sit down across from him, trying not to bristle at the way he’s already treating me like I’m the one who’s been slacking off when I’m actually ten minutes early for our meeting.
“So,” he begins, pulling out his phone and typing something as if I’m not even here, “Have you managed to do anything useful since yesterday?”
“I drafted and sent an article over to Richard last night,” I say evenly, ignoring his flat tone. “He published it this morning.”
“An article,” he comments, sounding entirely unimpressed. “How very… predictable.”
“Well, Richard seemed to like it,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself. “He hardly made any edits at all, and it’s already picking up a lot of traction.”
Mark’s fingers pause mid-type. He looks up at me from his phone, an eyebrow arched.
“Picking up traction?” he repeats, looking as disgusted as he sounds. “Honestly, kid, you’re lucky Richard’s so generous. Maybe next time, you could aim a little higher than just having your stuff published.”
God, he’s such an asshole.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
There’s a long pause as Mark finally comes off his phone. He sighs and leans back in his chair, looking at me with the kind of superiority I’ve learned to expect from him.
“Next time, make sure that you copy me in,” he says.
“I - what?”
“I need to make sure that you’re doing this properly. I expect to be copied in on every piece that you send to Richard. No exceptions.”
I feel my pulse pick up, a knot tightening in my stomach.
Journalism might not be my real passion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in what I do. I’ve been writing professionally since I graduated with a first-class honours degree in English Literature last year, and I’ve never had anyone question my competence like this.
Not even Richard.
To now have Mark sit here and all but tell me he doesn’t trust me to write a decent article without his supervision… It stings.
A lot more than I want to admit.
Because I know I’m capable. I know how to research, how to structure an engaging piece and how to craft an angle that will actually get people reading.
If I thought for even a second that I’d submitted something subpar, I wouldn’t have sent it in the first place.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. I will not let this prick see that he’s gotten under my skin.
“Okay,” I say, my voice measured. “I’ll make sure to copy you in moving forwards.”
Mark smirks like he’s won something, like I’ve just confirmed that I need his guidance.
“Good girl.”
The words land like a slap, hot embarrassment prickling at my skin.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He thinks I’m young, inexperienced and easy to intimidate.
And sure, I’m new to this particular beat, but I’m not incompetent.
Forcing a tight-lipped smile, I nod and make a mental note to draft my next article twice as well - just to prove him wrong.
The meeting wraps up not long after, with Mark running through our schedule for the next two weeks. It’s a packed itinerary, with press events, interviews, promotional activities and even a charity gala - although our attendance there hasn't actually been confirmed just yet.
Good thing I packed those extra heels, after all.
The sheer volume of it all is a little overwhelming, but I refuse to let Mark see that.
Despite the dampener he’s put on my mood, I can’t deny a flicker of excitement at the opportunities ahead. Covering football might not be my dream, but being in the thick of it - attending high-profile events, rubbing shoulders with people who dominate headlines…
There’s something undeniably thrilling about it.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to make the most of this experience after all.
“Well, you’ve got enough to be busying yourself with for now,” he says, nodding towards the door. “Don’t disappoint me, Sinclair.”
Despite his words, I remind myself that I’m not here to please him as I step out of his private office and into the main workspace, ready to introduce myself to my new colleagues.
I’m here for myself, and whatever happens, I’m not going to let him - or anyone else for that matter - take that away from me.
Chapter Ten
Matteo
The final training session before a game is always the most important.
The last run-through before war.
We work on set pieces, defensive transitions, and pressing patterns. We work until every movement, every pass, every attack is drilled into our bones.
Tomorrow, we win.
That’s the only outcome I’ll accept.
“Rossi, move your ass!”
I smirk at our coach’s bark, already pivoting on my foot and surging forward. The ball comes to me clean, and in one fluid motion, I take a touch, feint past a defender and rocket a shot into the top corner.
The net ripples.
It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful.
“Madonna,” Marco, one of our midfielders, groans dramatically as he jogs over. “You love making us look bad, don’t you?”