And if she is, I knowexactlywho I’ll be making a beeline for.
Mark Chapman - legendary journalist, self-important prick - might keep her tucked away, but with any luck, she’ll be standing in that row of reporters, waiting, recorder in hand, ready to challenge me again.
I step through the tunnel, the floodlights overhead castinglong shadows against the walls. Sweat still clings to my skin, my muscles hum with residual energy, and the buzz of victory thrums beneath it all.
The press area is packed - journalists shifting, adjusting their microphones and cameras, murmuring to each other as they prepare to ask the same tired questions they always do. The ones they could probably answer themselves by now.
But I don’t care about any of them.
Because then, I seeher.
She’s standing towards the back, slightly to the side with her arms crossed, her weight shifted onto one hip like she’s bracing herself.
Like she doesn’t particularly want to be here.
She’s wearing high-waisted linen trousers, the kind that cinch at her waist and flow effortlessly down her legs, making her look both effortlessly put-together and maddeningly unattainable. The soft fabric hugs her hips in a way that has my fingers twitching at my sides, and the black cropped tee she’s paired it with exposes just the slightest sliver of smooth, pale skin beneath it.
It’s maddening, really.
Because ofcourseshe has the perfect body to match that sharp tongue of hers.
Toned but soft in all the right places, those curves demanding to be touched, to beheld.
I can already picture my hands spanning her waist, fingers pressing into her hips, pulling her against me the way I know she’d fit so fucking well.
Her red hair catches the artificial light, and her lips - plump, pink, and absolutely fuckingdistracting- are slightly partedas she watches the players filter in.
Dio.
I snap myself out of it, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
Not the time. Not the place.
But my gaze remains locked onto her, and I spot it.
The slight movement of her eyes, the smallest shift of her gaze towards me -
And just like that, I know I’m not the only one paying attention.
She stiffens slightly, like she can feel my eyes on her, and I struggle to fight against the smirk pulling at the corners of my lips.
Yeah. She fucking knows.
But, of course, she won’t look back at me again. No, she’s stubborn, and she keeps her gaze fixed on a player who’s approaching.
She’s pretending she’s just here to do her job, pretending she’s not at all affected.
Like hell she isn’t.
I smirk, stretching out my shoulders as I glance at the row of journalists lined up before her.
If I want to get to her, I’ll have to go through them first.
Which means, for the first time in my entire career, I’m about to willingly - enthusiastically, even - answer post-match questions.
Yeah. Things are about to getinteresting.
Chapter Fourteen