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 lace our fingers together before I can think better of it, and fuck, it feels right.
“Come on,” I say, tugging her towards the door. “I should take you back to your car before you make me lose my mind again.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, but she plays it cool, arching a brow.
“You? Lose your mind? I thought you were always in control, Rossi.”
“Hmm.” My smirk darkens. “You’re testing that theory every time you open your mouth, bella.”
She huffs a laugh, but she doesn’t pull away. She lets me keep her hand in mine as I lead her through the quiet halls of the stadium and out through the dim car park until we finally reach her car.
I lean against the driver’s side door, blocking her way.
“So,” I drawl, arms folding over my chest. “I’m curious. Are you going to run from this again, giornalista?”
She lifts her chin, her expression unreadable.
“I don’t run.”
My gaze flickers to her lips, then back up.
“Good,” I murmur, pushing off the car and stepping back. “Then I’ll see you soon.”
I don’t kiss her again. I could, but I don’t.
Instead, I let her watch me as I walk away - because I know she’s watching.
And I know that, for the first time, she’s not running.
Not yet, at least.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Daphne
The following days blur into something strange and unfamiliar.
It’s hardly as though I expected the world to come to a standstill just because I’d slept with one of Italy’s most famous footballers - again. The sun still rises, the team still trains, and I still have articles to write.
But beneath the routine, beneath the illusion of normalcy, there are shifts.
Small, almost imperceptible, but shifts all the same.
Things are mostly the same as they were before, and yet, some things feel different. Some things feel new.
Matteo still lingers too long in post-match interviews, but now there’s something knowing in his gaze, something almost expectant.
He still finds ways to infuriate me with his smugness, but now his teasing is layered with something else. Something warmer, something charged.
It’s the way he leans in closer than necessary. The way his fingers graze mine when he hands me my recorder.
It’s the way his eyes track me across the room, the way his smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when he catches me watching him first.
It’s the subtle, nearly imperceptible touches - his knee bumping against mine during an interview, his hand brushing my lower back when he passes by in the tunnel.
The way his voice softens sometimes, when he says my name.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That it doesn’t mean anything.
But I’m a writer, and writers live for details.
And there are So. Many. Details.
Like when he shows up to training one morning when I’ve been sent to write a piece on the team’s routine, handing me a coffee without so much as a word.
I blink down at it, confused.
"What’s this?"
Matteo shrugs, expression infuriatingly casual.
"You looked like you needed one."
"Did you put something in it?" I frown.
"Just caffeine," he says, the picture of innocence. "And maybe a little love."
I nearly throw the cup at him.
Then there’s the press conference, where one particularly obnoxious journalist starts taking digs at him, picking apart his performance despite the fact that he’s been one of the best players of the season.
"Some would say that with the money you earn, you should be scoring more goals," the journalist says, voice oily with condescension.
Matteo’s jaw tightens, and before I can think better of it, the words are out of my mouth.
"Pretty sure if Rossi scored any more, we’d have to start renaming stadiums after him."
There’s a beat of silence before Matteo lets out a short, surprised laugh. He glances at me, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
The journalist - apparently annoyed at being upstaged - glares at me before moving on.
Once everything has wrapped up, Matteo hovers behind me, leaning in slightly as people shuffle around us, his voice a low murmur.
"Defending me now, bella?"
I huff as I pack my notes away.
"Don’t let it go to your head."
There are the moments that feel like old times - the banter, the eye rolls, the insufferable arrogance - but then there are the new ones.
The ones that threaten to throw me completely off balance.
And despite everything - despite how much we supposedly irritate each other - I’ve stopped pretending that I don’t look forward to seeing him.
And I think that maybe - just maybe - he’s stopped pretending, too.
*
It happens during one of those in-between moments, when the team is training and I’m sitting in the small café inside the stadium, half-distracted by my laptop screen.
I have my iced coffee, my notes and an ever-growing sense of frustration with the words refusing to cooperate.
I don’t even notice him at first.
Not until a shadow falls over my screen and a voice murmurs, far too close to my ear.