There it is.
A direct hit.
The impliedyou don’t know football.
The subtlewhat are you even doing here?
“Right,” I say. “Just good to know the expectations.”
Matteo watches me for a moment longer before flashing a slow, knowing smile.
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my expression pleasant.
Mark seems to have been stunned into silence by my question, not so much as looking in my direction as the press event continues.
I barely hear the next few questions, though. My pulse is still pounding, and my fingers are curled into fists beneath the table.
Three months of this.
Three months of Mark’s condescension.
Three months of arrogance from players like Matteo.
Three months of trying to prove I belong.
I swallow down my irritation, grab my notepad and start writing.
Matteo Rossi wants me to prove myself?Fine.
Challenge accepted.
Chapter Eight
Matteo
Iexhale slowly, rolling my shoulders to shake off the stiffness that’s settled in.
Another day, another press obligation.
I know it’s part of the job - smiling, answering the same recycled questions and dodging the ones I don’t like.
It’s second nature by now, but I still hate wasting time sitting in a stuffy room when I could be training.
Could be doing somethinguseful.
We’re having one of our best seasons in years, and I refuse to be the reason that momentum slows.
I spot my agent across the room, deep in conversation with one of the team’s PR gurus. He’ll give me the all-clear when I can leave, but for now, I have to wait.
With a sigh, I make my way over to some of the guys lingering near the drinks table. A few of them already have champagne flutes in their hands, looking far more relaxed than I feel.
"Where’s the afterparty, Rossi?" Diego, one of our midfielders, grins at me.
"Not interested," I reply, reaching for a water instead of thealcohol being passed around.
"Liar," he laughs. "You always say that, and then we find out you were out at some exclusive place we couldn’t even get into."
I smirk but don’t confirm or deny.