level at the break
SOMEONE TO STAY BY VANCOUVER SLEEP CLINIC
I swivel slowly in my chair, letting the momentum carry me back and forth lazily.
I’ve been sitting in my office for an hour, staring at my player files, angry at myself.
I didn’t think it would bother me this much.
I’ve had clients storm out of my office before.
I’ve had them throw tantrums over photos that ended up published or articles put out that they thought were off the record. But this is different.
Oliver’s anger feels personal. Even more so because I deserve it.
I called them assets. I dehumanized the people that clearly mean the most to him. He doesn’t just play with them every week. He plays for them. And he’s right. I don’t know them. I know enough about them to fill in a flashcard or a spreadsheet. I don’t know their lives or who they are as people.
I didn’t mean to be cold or impersonal, but that doesn’t matter. Intent doesn’t erase impact.
I rub my forehead and sigh, the pressure mounting behind my eyes. I need to leave before I spiral any further. Best to have a breakdown in the privacy of my own apartment, I think. I grab my bag and pull my coat on, shutting the lights off as I head out the door.
I head out of the elevator and into the lobby, and of course, there he is.
Oliver stops when he sees me, his jaw tightening the same way it did in my office. He clearly doesn’t want to see me, and I really don’t want to go for round two with him. He doesn’t say anything.
“Oliver,” I say quickly, stepping towards him.
“What?” he snaps, eyes flicking to mine, unreadable and guarded.
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
He crosses his arms like he doesn’t believe my apology. “You should be.”
“I am,” I insist. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I wasn’t thinking about how it would come across.
That’s not an excuse, I know that. But I…
I know I messed up. And you don’t know me very well, but I’ll tell you this: I don’t admit to messing up often.
Can I buy you a drink? Maybe I can apologize and explain myself a little better? ”
His eyes examine me, like he’s trying to decide if I actually mean it or if I’m able to polish and package my own words too.
Finally, he sighs, a reluctant surrender. “Fine.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Only because I fancy a pint,” he says dryly.
A corner of my mouth twitches. “Right. Of course.”
He walks past me toward the exit, not even stopping when he glances over his shoulder. “Come on, then.”
He’s still mad at me, and rightfully so, but there’s something in his voice that makes me feel a little lighter.
The pub is packed—not suffocating, but lively. Luckily, there’s two seats open at the bar, and Oliver and I take them.
“I’ll take a lager, please,” I tell the bartender.
“Same for me,” Oliver mutters. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Beer, huh?”
“Does that surprise you?”
He snorts, and I swear he’s trying not to smile. “A bit, yeah.”
I take my pint and lift it in a toast. “To barely tolerated peace talks?”
He clinks his glass against mine. “Go on,” he says, his voice low. “Explain yourself.”
“Oh, right to it then,” I say, laughing. I take a sip of beer first to buy myself some time to collect my thoughts. “So, um… before I came out here for this job, I used to work for this big production company in the States.”
“Yeah.” Oliver nods, prodding me to continue.
“I worked there with Matt Whitlock. My ex. He’s a sports journalist. I came up with this idea for him—a human-interest piece about athletes and grief.
I really believed in it. I even drafted a pitch for it.
I was so proud of it. I really thought it could go somewhere, that it could really help someone to see their favorite athletes working through real-life feelings.
I showed it to Matt because, I don’t know…
I trusted him. I thought he’d love it and want to pursue it.
But he told me it was stupid. He mocked it, actually.
He said no one wants to hear sad, depressing things about their favorite athletes. ”
I take a sip of beer, swallow, and look down at my glass.
“Cut to a month or so later, and we go to a company party. I’m on his arm and he’s working the room, and then they announce his promotion. Not just any promotion. A massive promotion. Lead sports journalist. He’s their new TV darling now. And guess which story he submitted to get the job?”
Oliver’s jaw tightens. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.” I laugh bitterly. “I was literally on his arm as they read out my pitch, with his name on it. I had to stand there next to him, smiling like a fucking idiot while everyone congratulated him on my idea. And he just soaked it all in, looking like a pig in shit.”
“He sounds like a right bellend.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say, laughing.
I’m not quite sure what bellend means, but from Oliver’s tone, I gather it’s not a compliment.
“I said nothing the rest of the night. I didn’t cause a scene.
But when we got home, I demanded to know why he stole the idea and never gave me credit.
He just looked at me and said I was an idiot for thinking I even deserved any. ”
“What the fuck?”
“That was kind of the theme of our entire relationship,” I say, my voice light but brittle.
“He gaslit me. Everything was always my fault. He made me feel small and worthless, but somehow still so lucky to be with him. And he cheated. A lot. But he always expected perfection from me in return. Everyone always asks why I stayed so long, but honestly? When someone tells you day in and day out that you’re nothing, you start to believe it.
Not only that, you start to believe you deserve it. ”
Oliver exhales, low and sharp. “What an absolute prick.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “So when I created my own company, I made rules. Six rules. My own little armor, so that would never happen to me again.”
Oliver watches me carefully. “So that's where calling us assets comes in?”
I nod. “It is. But Oliver, I’m sorry. Everything I just told you… it’s still no excuse to treat you all like that.”
“I appreciate that.” Oliver nods and almost lets out a smile. “What are the rules, then?”
I take a deep breath and tick them off with my fingers.
“One: Never bring your emotions to work. Two: Never stay in one job longer than a year. Three: Never get emotionally involved with the assets. Four: Never let a man overpower you. Five: Never sleep with the assets. And Six—”
“Sorry, mate,” a breathless voice says to Oliver. When I look to my right, a man in a Rockford FC kit is standing beside me, eagerly grinning at Oliver. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but could I get a picture?”
Oliver’s eyes flick to mine, and he laughs. “I reckon I have to,” he says with a shrug. “I’m here with my PR manager, after all.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. This is the first time he’s acknowledged my job and referred to me as his PR manager. “You can be charming just this once, Oliver. I’ll allow it.”
He turns to the fan, flashes an easy grin, and poses for the picture. I listen as he asks the fan's name, signs something for him, and thanks him for supporting the club. He’s so genuine about it, like he actually cares.
I don’t say anything when he returns to the bar, taking his seat beside me and picking his pint up again.
“So, you really live by those rules then?” he asks me.
He’s forgotten that I didn’t explain all of them. The fan cut off rule six. Never fall in love with an asset. I’m not going to remind him.
“I try to,” I say, taking a sip of my beer. “I lived without them once, and I lost myself. I don’t want that to happen again.”
“I get it,” he says softly. “Can we agree to drop the word assets, though?”
“Agreed.” I nod. “I didn’t call you all ‘assets’ because I don’t care. I did it because I’m scared of what happens if I let myself care too much. I’ve seen what it costs. But I’m sorry, Oliver. I forgot how human this job is. I was so preoccupied with keeping my guard up.”
He gives a small nod. “You care a lot more than you let on.”
“So do you.”
“Do you ever think that maybe your rules don’t protect you the way you think they do?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But they’re the only thing that’s ever worked.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can I ask you something now?”
Oliver leans back a little. “Depends.”
“It’s not a PR question,” I promise him. “It’s not for your player profile. I’m just—”
“Nosy?”
“Curious.”
He sighs. “Go on, then.”
I lean back, studying him for a moment. His forearms rest on the table, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show the tattoos winding down his arm. His shoulders are relaxed, which surprises me, considering he just agreed to questioning.
“Why do you bring a different date to every team event?”
He stares at me for a second, then lets out a short laugh. “That’s what people say, yeah?”
“Well,” I say, sipping my beer, “I’ve seen the photos. Different date at every event.”
His jaw tenses, and for a moment I think he’s going to shut down the conversation.
Instead, he scratches at the stubble on his jaw and sighs.
“I haven’t actually dated in a few years,” he admits.
“The last girl… she sold pictures of me to a tabloid. She did some interview, and she told them things about my family. She said things she had no right to talk about.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods. “It was right after I was named captain. She said it was a coincidence, but… once the tabloid paid her, she was gone.”
“Jesus, Oliver.”
“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like you, trust isn’t exactly my strong suit, either.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say gently. “But… why bring a date at all?”
He hesitates for a moment. “I don’t particularly like those events. The galas, the parties. I don’t do well with crowds, or cameras, or people in my face asking questions I don’t know how to answer. I get overwhelmed.”
“You get anxious?”
“Yeah,” he admits, looking away. “It just helps to have someone there. It doesn’t even matter who, really. Just something to hold on to.”
That’s when it all clicks for me. The moodiness. The silence.
“You’re not brooding,” I say, smiling a little. “You’re shy.”
“Don’t say it like that,” he groans.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s cute.”
“I mean, it kind of is.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue, but all he can do is fight back a smile. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re still bossy.” I swirl the last bit of beer in my glass and take a final sip.
“Captain,” he reminds me again. He meets my eyes, and for a second I forget how to breathe. There’s something about the way he looks at me when he’s not trying to be an ass. Oliver is quiet for a moment. He shifts in his seat, pivoting toward me, locking his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry, Addison.”
I blink. “For what?”
“Your first day. The fake directions,” he says, shaking his head. “I embarrassed you on purpose. I wanted to make you feel like you didn’t belong. But now… now I realize I did the same thing Matt did. I made you feel small.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Thank you, Oliver,” I say softly. He nods but doesn’t respond. I lean back in my seat and smirk. “Does this mean you’re ready to embrace me as the club’s PR manager?”
He snorts. “It means I’m ready to tolerate you as the club’s PR manager.”
“Progress,” I say, raising my glass.
“Barely,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
When I look up, he’s smiling, and this time, it actually reaches his eyes.
Once both beers are empty, I reach into my purse and pull out my card, setting it down on the bar.
“Alright. Apology pints are on me.”
He blinks. “I thought you were joking.”
“I would never joke about beer.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I know.” I nod. “I want to.”
I tap my card against the machine, and the bartender slides a receipt to me. I stare at it like it’s written in hieroglyphics.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks me.
“Where do I add the tip?”
Oliver chokes on a laugh. “You don’t.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Welcome to England, Addison. We pay our service workers a living wage here.”
“Incredible,” I say, giggling.
“I know.” He laughs.
“I still feel like I need that translation dictionary,” I say, dropping my card back into my purse. “You all just walk around all day saying ‘gaffer’ and not tipping anyone.”
“God forbid,” Oliver teases.
“Don’t get cocky, Bradshaw,” I say as we head out the door.
He leans in, just close enough to make my stomach flip. “Too late.”