london derby
BEGIN AGAIN BY TAYLOR SWIFT
This is a bad idea.
This is definitely against my rules. No attachments—to people or places. No mess.
This definitely feels like an attachment—or the start of one, at least.
I should text him and call this off, but it’s probably too late. Or maybe this is one of his pranks. I get myself up early on a day off and get ready, and he’s still sleeping in, happily knowing I’m sitting here like Carrie left at the prom.
Calm down, Addison. I tap my fingers against the couch, running through the script again in my head, convincing myself I’m just being friendly. This is a professional outing. Yeah, that’s it. Team building. Idiot.
I tug at the sleeve of my sweater, wondering if it’s too casual. It’s a simple light blue crew neck, soft and comfortable. I’ve paired it with skinny jeans and a pair of sneakers. My hair is down, falling in brown waves that reach past my shoulders.
It’s me. It’s the version of me that exists outside the office. And for some reason, that feels vulnerable. I wasn’t even sure what to wear. Oliver wasn’t clear what we were doing. It didn’t leave me much to go with.
At exactly 8 a.m., there’s a knock at my door.
Of course he’s on time. Of course he’s standing there looking obscenely good for eight in the morning.
He’s in jeans that fit him far too well. A dark grey hoodie, worn-in and soft, with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He’s got sneakers on—like the kind people wear when they’re actually athletic, and not just pretending to be.
His hair, short on the sides and longer on top, is actually dry and styled.
Normally I see him before or after training, and it’s a damp mess.
With it styled and off his face, all I can see are the sharp angles and clean lines of his cheekbones and jaw.
But it’s the eyes that hit me hardest. Deep brown. Focused.
“Good morning, Captain.”
He’s quiet for a second. His eyes flick over me—down to my sneakers, to my sweater, and then back up to my hair, which is down for the first time since he’s known me. Something shifts in his expression, just for a second, and then it’s gone.
“Morning,” he says, voice low. “You look nice.”
“Careful now. That almost sounds like a compliment.” I smirk, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe. “So… what’s the plan here? Kidnap? Murder? Your text wasn’t clear.”
“I’m taking you sightseeing,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
“Sightseeing?”
He grins, and it’s not at all smug. It’s irritatingly charming. “You said you haven’t seen London. I’m showing you London.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s the greatest city in the world.”
“That’s one man’s opinion.”
“Yeah.” He nods, gesturing grandly to himself. “This man.”
Jesus. That was hot.
I clear my throat as I step out into the hall and lock my door. “Where’s your car?”
“Car? No, no.” He shakes his head and smiles. “You need to get the full experience.”
I blink, adjusting my eyes to the soft light of early morning. “The full experience? What’s that?”
He smiles, looking positively gleeful. “We’re taking the Tube, of course.”
“Seriously?”
“You said you’ve never taken it before. We can’t have that. You need the full London experience.” Oliver smirks and starts walking down the street. “Come on, Addison. It’ll be fun.”
And against my better judgement, I follow him.
We walk for a while, my neighborhood just beginning to stir. Oliver’s got his hands shoved into his pockets, not nervous, but comfortable. He glances sideways every so often to make sure I’m still with him.
We turn a corner and descend a set of concrete steps into a tunnel. It smells dusty and metallic, and is packed with people all commuting into the city.
“So, this is the Tube, huh?” I ask as we move through the turnstiles.
“Welcome to the experience,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to smile at me. “Just follow me. You’ll be fine. Just don’t talk too loudly or make eye contact.”
“So… just exist in a quiet state of dread?”
“Exactly.” He flashes a grin. “See, you’re almost British already.”
The platform is already crowded when we get there. It’s just a wall of bodies in motion. Oliver stands casually beside me, hands still in his pockets, like this is nothing. It surprises me because he mentioned at the pub that he hates crowds, that they overwhelm him.
I raise a brow. “I thought crowds make you anxious.”
He glances at me, then at the packed platform.
“Not these crowds. I’m anonymous in a sea of people.
No one knows I’m a footballer. They don’t give a shit about me.
I’m just a bloke waiting for a train. It’s when the crowds know you or think they know you.
When you’re surrounded by people who want pieces of you, that’s when it gets hard to breathe. But this… this doesn’t faze me at all.”
I suppose that’s true. Once he’s out of his Rockford kit or training wear, he’s probably unrecognizable to most people, especially in crowded spaces. Even now, with a hoodie covering his tattoos, he looks more boyish, and less of his usual muscular intensity.
The train screeches into the station, and the platform becomes chaotic.
The crowd shifts, tightening with anticipation, waiting for the doors to hiss open.
People surge forward, pushing and muttering apologies they probably don’t mean.
Then, suddenly, Oliver’s hand is in mine—firm and without hesitation.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me through the mess. His grip is steady as he threads us through the tangle of people. It catches me off guard, the feeling of his warm hand in mine. I like it more than I should.
The train is packed. Every seat is taken, and there’s barely any room to breathe.
Oliver doesn’t let go of my hand until he finds a small pocket of space for us to stand.
He gently places my hand on a pole, then shifts behind me, angling his body to shield me from the pressing crowd.
I glance up, noticing one of his arms braced above me and the other around my waist but holding on to the pole.
His eyes are looking forward, scanning the train like it’s instinct to protect me.
It’s ridiculous how safe I feel right now.
Even more ridiculous is how much I like it.
I tilt my head back slightly against his chest. “Do you moonlight as a bodyguard?”
“You’re five-foot-nothing in a sea of commuters,” he says without looking down. “I’m not about to let you get trampled.”
“I’m five-three,” I correct him. “Plus, letting me get trampled would solve your issue with having a PR manager, wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe.” He finally glances down at me and smiles. “But I’m just starting to tolerate you.”
The train jerks forward and I stumble slightly, but he’s already there, steadying me like it’s second nature.
And despite the crowd, the chaos, and the noise, I swear I can hear the shift between us as I’m basically wrapped up in Oliver Bradshaw in the middle of the Northern line.
When we step out of the Tower Hill station, the air is cool, but the sky is a cloudless bright blue.
“Alright, Captain,” I say, glancing over at Oliver. “Where are we headed?”
“We’re doing everything,” he says with a grin. “All the sights. You’re getting the full tourist experience.”
“Oh, am I?” I tease. “The tourist experience? I’ll make sure to block the entire sidewalk and stop in the middle of traffic to take photos, then.”
Oliver laughs. “I’ll take camera duty. You just focus on walking painfully slow and pointing at everything.”
“Got it,” I say, smiling.
He leads me straight over to the Tower of London first. It rises ahead like a relic from another time.
And right on cue, there are tourists everywhere.
They point at the landmark, calling it something entirely different from what it is.
They hold maps upside down and then wonder why they’re lost. They stop in the middle of walkways.
I love it. I love the way Oliver rolls his eyes, like he’s desperately trying to figure out how humanity got this stupid.
I love these landmarks, built from stone and soaked in history, juxtaposed against the modern London skyline like two worlds in a standoff.
“We don’t need to go in there,” I insist as Oliver pulls me into the crowded gift shop. “I’m not buying anything.”
“Too bad,” he says, already grabbing a keychain with an axe and a crown and some phrase about losing your head at the Tower of London. “It’s your first time. You need souvenirs. The cringier the better.” He grins and heads over to the checkout before I can stop him.
“But you don’t—”
“Shut up and take it, Addison,” he says, smiling at me.
I take it, and I might be grinning. A little.
Oliver and I walk across Tower Bridge. He plays the part of tour guide perfectly, taking photos for me and peppering our conversation with historical facts. Half of them are probably made up, but he makes them sound believable.
We pick up the Tube again and head over toward Parliament and Big Ben. The clock face glints gold in the sunlight, and the sight stops me in my tracks.
“Alright,” I say. “This is impressive.”
Oliver smiles, looking smug. “See? Greatest city in the world.”
“That’s still one man’s opinion.”
“Still this man,” he shoots back, grinning.
We stop nearby so I can use the bathroom, and when I come back outside, he’s holding something behind his back.
“What now?”
He pulls out a large canvas tote bag with the London Underground logo and the words “Mind The Gap” printed in big red letters.
I roll my eyes. “Are you serious?”
“I told you,” he says, shrugging. “Full tourist experience. Plus, you need a bag to carry all your souvenirs.”
We’re walking along the river when Oliver suddenly stops and looks ahead. “Fancy a ride?”
I follow his gaze, and my eyes go wide with fear. The London Eye spins slowly in the distance.
“Nope. No. Definitely not,” I say immediately. I look over at him, panicked. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Perfectly serious.” He turns to me, grinning. “You don’t do heights?”
“What gave that away?”