tactical change
I can’t sleep.
I’ve been in the same spot since I got home—slouched on the sofa, one leg bent up, the other on the floor—half watching the telly, half drowning in my own head.
My knee bounces like I’ve got a match in the morning, but I don’t.
Tomorrow is a recovery day. I can sleep in, go out, do whatever I bloody want.
But I can’t stop thinking about Addison.
Bloody hell.
She’s just our PR manager. That’s it. Nothing more.
I keep telling myself that, over and over, like a chant that rings out at Ashdown Park. Like that might make it true.
But something was different tonight. We talked—like, really talked.
It wasn’t just banter and sarcastic comments.
It was honesty. She opened up to me, and even more surprisingly, I opened up to her.
And I did it voluntarily. It didn’t feel forced or awkward.
It felt real. Easy, even. It was as if we’d called a temporary truce in whatever ridiculous war we’ve been waging against each other since she got here.
An armistice over pints and shared scars neither of us deserved.
I can’t stop thinking about what she’s been through. About the courage it must have taken her to blow up her life and rebuild it in another country. Our conversation has been lodged in my chest since we left the pub.
I came home, took my shirt off, and changed into track pants. I warmed up some leftover curry that now sits on the table uneaten. I turned on the telly that’s been sitting on mute for over an hour. I just can’t get her out of my head. And I want to know more.
I grab my laptop from the table and start typing into a search engine.
Addison Scott. New York. Public Relations.
I hate that I’m doing this. I’m sure she’s googled me. It’s her job, anyway. But a random assortment of photos and press clippings surely doesn't tell you what you need to know about a person.
I hit enter anyway.
It’s mostly press releases for clients she’s worked with. There’s a professional bio on her, showing her just as sharp and polished as she is in person. It talks about how she grew up in the business.
My curiosity gets the better of me when I click on “images.” And that’s when I see him.
Matt.
I know it’s him just from the smug smile on his face, like he owns the world. He’s got the kind of smile that makes you willing to break your own knuckles just to land the punch. There are photos from red carpet events and galas. Every single photo he flashes the same fucking smile.
I click on one from last year, making it bigger.
Addison stands next to him in this sleek black dress, smiling like she’s pretending to be happy.
I can tell she isn’t. Her smile doesn’t even reach those piercing blue eyes.
She looks beautiful, and he doesn’t even notice.
He’s grinning like a smug prick, but in each photo, he never even looks over at her.
His eyes are either directly staring down the camera or looking somewhere else entirely.
His arm is always around her, but it’s not protective, it’s possessive. They’re together, but apart.
I don’t know why that bothers me. I don’t know why it makes me want to slam my laptop shut, book the next flight to New York, and punch him right in his bloody face. But it does.
I finally find one photo of him actually looking at her. The caption says it’s an award show in the industry that honored her for some campaign she had worked on. He should be beaming with pride, but instead he’s looking at her like she stole the spotlight from him.
He used her. Lied to her. Controlled her. He made her feel small and worthless. And now that I’m sitting here staring at his perfectly styled hair and smug face, I hate him even more than I did at the pub, if that was even possible.
Because even in these photos, it’s obvious. He never saw her.
He didn’t see the girl I do. The girl who orders beers over cocktails and doesn’t understand British currency. The girl who acted like she won the lottery when she finally understood the offside rule. And he definitely never saw the girl who built six ironclad rules to survive what he broke in her.
And those rules. I understand them. I might even be one of the only people in her life who understands why she thinks she needs them, because once you’ve been burned, everything feels like fire.
I close my laptop and shove it into the drawer of the table.
This is mad. I’ve known her for what—a month?
I’ve tolerated her for even less.
But I can’t shake it. There’s something twitching in my chest, and the feeling baffles me.
It’s the desire—no, the need—to protect her.
Not because she needs saving, because she doesn’t. She’s already saved herself by blowing up her life and rebuilding it with her own two hands.
There’s a part of me that wants to rewrite the way she sees men like me, to make up for the shit she’s been through.
Which is ridiculous, because I’ve never had a hero complex. When I get the ball on the pitch, more often than not, I’m feeding it to someone else and setting up their superstar play. I’m not taking it for myself. I don’t want the accolades, and I surely don’t want the attention.
I’ve got enough pressure as it is. I’m trying to drag this team to promotion. It’s all I want. It’s all I’ve dreamed of. I don’t need anything else clouding my head.
Everyone knows I don’t like change. It’s a running joke around the locker room. I keep my head down, do my job, and lead my team. But tonight, something shifted, and I didn’t seem to mind it. Not with her.
Maybe because it didn’t feel like change. It felt like something cracking open.
Just as I’m about to convince myself to stop being pathetic and go to bed, my phone buzzes.
Addison: Just saw the goal on Match of the Day ??
I stare at the screen for a second, smiling like a fucking idiot.
She’s watching?
I don’t know why that catches me off guard, but it does. I assumed she tolerated football the way someone tolerates jet lag—just part of the job. She said she enjoyed the match, but I figured it was a one and done experience to help her craft whatever message she planned on spinning.
But now I’m sitting here, picturing her in her flat, sitting on her sofa, and watching me on the telly.
Thinking of me.
Wanting to text me.
And that does something to me. Something I can’t quite explain.
I shake my head and type back.
Me: Why are you watching me?
Addison: It’s literally my job to watch you, Oliver.
I lean back, chuckling.
Me: Do you enjoy that job then?
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Addison: It’s my job. Don’t flatter yourself. It was a solid goal.
Me: Solid? It was the goal of the week, actually.
It was the goal of the week, but it wasn’t even mine. I just played a small part in setting up Sebastian to take the strike. But knowing she’s watching this right now and thinking of me, that goal might as well be mine.
There’s no response for a second. I can’t help but picture her curled up on her sofa, maybe giggling at our conversation. Maybe she’s even finally let her hair down in the safety of her own flat. And what’s weird is I’d like to see her like that. Unguarded. Comfortable.
Addison: Don’t get cocky now, Bradshaw.
I grin. I can’t even help it. I like this.
I like her.
Me: I wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t need to make any extra messes for you.
Addison: It’s kind of wild how many teams there are just in London. How do you all fit?
I let out a laugh because I know she’s dead serious. The conversation could have ended with a compliment on the replay of the goal, but she’s continuing on. She’s initiating this, reaching for more.
Me: You know London is massive, right?
Addison: Yes and no. I go from my apartment to the training grounds, to Ashdown and back, and that’s it.
Addison: And sometimes the pub.
I shake my head, smiling. She’s not even trying to be funny, and somehow she still is. I stare at her text for a moment, trying to figure out what to say until an idea strikes me. I shift onto my side, get more comfortable, and text her back.
Me: Be ready at 8 a.m. tomorrow.
Addison: Am I being kidnapped?
Me: In a way, yes.
Addison: You’re not going to tell me what this is?
Me: Nope. Gonna have to trust me.
There’s a pause. I swear I can feel her smile through the phone.
Addison: Alright. I’m in.
I set my phone down on the table beside me and lean back, grinning like a complete idiot.
Addison: Goodnight, Captain.
I stare at the screen a beat longer than I need to. Captain. I know she’s being cheeky, but it still sends heat down the back of my neck.
Me: Sleep well, Addison.
And I do actually sleep well. Eventually.
But only after reading that conversation a few too many times.