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)
Among them are high-profile coaches, team executives, and various celebrities, all mingling over cocktails.
At the far end of the room, a small stage is set up, flanked by enormous floral arrangements and a banner with the charity’s name. A band plays live music to the crowd, and further back, an auction table displays luxury items and signed memorabilia.
I take another sip of my champagne, glancing around.
It’s strange being here and not working. At events like these, I’d usually have a press badge clipped to my dress, a notepad in my hand, and a clear purpose: meet people, get some comments from them, capture the atmosphere, report on the key moments.
But tonight, I’m just…here. Floating.
I awkwardly follow Mark as he moves to stand and begins to weave through the crowd, greeting people he knows. He’s clearly in his element, schmoozing and making easy conversation with various reporters, PR reps and sports executives.
He’s also working his way through the free drinks at an alarming pace.
I can already see it in the way his movements are getting looser, his words a little more exaggerated. It doesn’t help that his usual crowd of sports journalists - all equally arrogant, all equally insufferable - are just as deep into their drinks.
They’re currently standing in a loose group, laughing loudly and throwing around inside jokes I don’t understand.
"Come on, Sinclair, don’t just hover," Mark says, handing me another glass of champagne despite the fact that I’ve not even finished my first. "Loosen up a little."
I force a small smile.
"I’m fine, thanks."
He rolls his eyes.
"You’re acting like you’ve never been to one of these before."
"I’ve worked events before," I correct him. "But I’ve not… attended them for fun."
"Fun is what you make it,” he says. “Just stick close to us. We’ll take care of you."
I don’t find that particularly reassuring, especially when one of his equally inebriated friends leans in closer than necessary and murmurs, "yeah, we’ll take real good care of you."
I go rigid while Mark just laughs, and I make a mental note to start keeping my distance.
Before I can come up with an excuse to slip away from the small group, the air in the room shifts, and I don’t even need to turn around to know why.
I hear it first.
The sudden lull in voices, a ripple of attention moving through the crowd like a stone dropped in water. Conversations pause as subtle glances are exchanged, and people instinctively adjust their posture as if preparing for a show.
Then, the atmosphere changes.
A certain energy crackles through the room, a gravitational pull toward whatever - or should I say whoever - has just arrived.
Despite myself, I finally turn, and -
Yep. There he is.
Matteo Rossi walks in like he owns the place.
Even from across the room, I can see it. The easy confidence in his stride, the slow, deliberate way he scans the space as if already aware that most people are watching him. He’s flanked by a few of his teammates, all dressed in sharp tuxedos, but it doesn’t matter.
Matteo is the one who commands attention.
His dark hair is slightly tousled in a way that looks both effortless and intentional, and his perfectly tailored black tux does nothing to disguise the lean muscle beneath.
Everything about him - his posture, his expression, even the lazy way he adjusts one of his cufflinks - suggests he’s completely at ease.
His gaze moves across the room slowly, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, and dammit, my breath hitches when they finally land directly on me.
Of course that stupid smirk of his appears the moment our eyes meet.
I exhale sharply, already regretting every decision that has led me to this moment.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that tonight just got a lot more complicated.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matteo
These things are always the same.
Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The air is thick with expensive cologne and perfume, along with the sound of champagne flutes clinking and the low hum of conversation.
I step inside, flanked by a couple of my teammates, our movements effortless and casual - but I know the second we enter, we’ve become the centre of attention.
It always happens.
Eyes flick toward us, some subtle, others not so much.
A ripple of recognition moves through the crowd, like a tide shifting with the change in energy.
People straighten their shoulders, adjust their ties, whisper to whoever they’re standing beside. Some will be waiting for their chance to come over, to shake hands, to make introductions that they’ll tell themselves will lead to something important.
I’ve been to a million of these events. I already know the script, and I’m already counting down the minutes until I can leave.
Then, as I do what I always do - scanning the room, reading the atmosphere, cataloguing the faces I need to acknowledge - I see her.