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brOAD SHOULDERED BEASTS BY MUMFORD & SONS
I’m supposed to be working.
I have countless emails to answer, a press release to write, and a branding proposal to get ready for Sebastian. I’ve done none of it.
Instead, I’m staring at my phone.
At that photo.
The one from yesterday—Oliver and I standing in Hyde Park, his arm around me in the most natural way, caught mid-laugh by a stranger with excellent timing and no sense of boundaries. It doesn’t even look posed. It just looks like something that’s been real for a long time.
When did things shift? When did he go from brooding and hating me, to tolerating me, to whatever this is? Because this feels like something different from just tolerating me. If this is how he tolerates people, I’m curious how he acts when he really likes someone.
His eyes are brown. I knew that the day I met him, when he tricked me into walking into a locker room of half-naked men.
I noticed them then. But I didn’t really see them until now.
They’re warm, and they seem to twinkle whenever he flashes that elusive smile.
But there’s something sad in them, like they’ve never known peace.
I’m still staring at the photo, and those eyes, when the phone on my desk rings.
“Addison Scott,” I answer, straightening my posture like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“Addison, Alan would like to see you in his office,” Jacob, one of Alan’s assistants, says on the other end of the line.
“Of course,” I say, grabbing my notebook. “On my way.” I hang up, plaster a PR smile on my face, and head down the hall toward Alan’s office.
I tap on Alan’s open door hesitantly. He looks up from his desk and smiles. “Addison, take a seat.”
Shit. What did I do?
I sit down, notebook in my lap. “What’s going on?”
My face must give away my nerves, because Alan leans forward and smiles. “Oh, nothing bad, Addison. Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief.
“I’ll get right to it,” Alan says, smiling.
“We’re on a meteoric rise. Undefeated in the last seven games.
We’re playing the best football in our history, and if we keep this streak up, we’re a shoo-in for promotion.
Winning the league is the ultimate goal, but as long as we get into the playoffs, we still have a chance for promotion. ”
“Okay," I say slowly, unsure where this is going.
“This team has never been in the Premier League, Addison. Naturally, our Cinderella story has captured the attention of fans around the world. The governing body sees an opportunity here to grow the audience of the game stateside.”
“I understand. I can plan some additional campaigns to keep visibility up. Events that keep our team the focus. Maybe we can—”
“We’re one step ahead of you,” Alan cuts in, smiling.
“Okay.” I nod, opening my notebook to jot down the details of what Alan wants.
“You’re already familiar with Peabody Productions, Addison.”
My stomach drops.
Shit.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, one of their shows, Game Day, is sending over a journalist to cover the back half of the season. They’ll have full access to the staff, locker room, players, ownership—you name it. They’ll be covering our fight for promotion in depth. A full documentary crew.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to hide my hesitation. “Who are they sending?”
Please don’t let it be Matt. Please.
Alan glances down at his tablet. “Matt Whitlock.”
Fuck.
I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. I swallow the dread building in my chest and nod, letting myself go numb. I let my hair down today, but I immediately want to pull it back.
“Okay,” I say smoothly.
“Apparently he pushed hard for the opportunity,” Alan says with an utterly unbothered smile.
Of course he did.
Alan really believes Matt advocated that hard because he believes in the club, and I don’t have the heart to burst his bubble.
“Well,” I say carefully, folding my hands in my lap so Alan can’t see how tightly they’re balled into fists, “okay then.”
“Do you know him?” Alan asks.
“Yes, sir.”
Oh, I know him alright.
“How well do you know him?”
I smile, but it hurts. “We have some history.”
Alan glances at me, suddenly serious. “Is it going to be a problem?”
And the frustrating thing is, I want to say yes. It’s going to be a huge problem. This is a terrible idea, and I’d rather light the building on fire than be in the same place as Matt Whitlock.
But I don’t. This is my job. I’m doing this for myself, and not only that, but I’m doing it well. I won’t let him take that away. I won’t let him change the way everyone looks at me.
“No,” I lie smoothly. “It won’t be a problem.”
Alan moves on, discussing the logistics and scheduling behind the whole operation. I nod, smile, and jot down notes, my voice agreeing along perfectly PR steady. But inside? Inside, I’m fucking screaming.
Of course they’re sending Matt. Of course the universe would send the one person I never wanted to see again, especially when I was finally feeling okay. Maybe even happy.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Matt is Game Day’s golden boy.
He’s their lead journalist. They would send him to cover something like this, but I can’t shake the feeling that he probably wanted to come.
Hell, this entire thing was probably his idea.
Even if it wasn’t, there’s no way he didn’t volunteer for it.
I barely make it back to my office before the mask cracks. The door shuts behind me, and I toss my notebook and pen on the desk like they are infected. I stand up against the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled up against my chest.
I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, like someone is pushing down on it with both hands.
Matt is coming here. And soon. He’ll be in the locker room.
In all my meetings. At training. At matches.
Just standing beside me everywhere I go with that fake smile and snake-oil charm that will fool everyone else, and I’ll look like the crazy one.
He’ll spend all his time pretending we don’t have a history full of betrayals and bruises he never had to wear.
The tears come fast and I can’t stop them. I feel everything. Rage. Fear. Exhaustion. He’s taken so much from me already, and now he’s going to be here, in the place I’m trying to rebuild my life. No matter where I run, I can’t escape him.
I hate that I’m falling apart. I hate that he still has this power over me.
The locker room is filled with the usual post-training chatter. Everyone’s hyped up after a good session and just waiting for dismissal for the day. I’m already showered and changed, just sitting in my stall with my bag at my feet.
“Alright, lads,” Gaffer says, clapping his hands to grab our attention.
Everyone quiets and looks toward the front of the room where he and Stan are gathered.
“We’ve got some big news for you. You all know what kind of season we’re having, what our goal is.
It’s so close we can taste it. Well, lads, everyone’s noticing.
There’s an American show, Game Day, that’s sending one of their top journalists to follow the team for the rest of the season. ”
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter under my breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear. This has to be a joke.
“They’re going to have full access to everything. The locker room, training, matches, everyone here. They’ll be arriving next week. Full camera crew. This is going to be huge for the club.”
The room reacts with excitement. The lads start talking over one another. Everyone is buzzing about the cameras, the interviews, and all the extra exposure.
Everyone except me. I hate the idea of journalists having full access to the team. Cameras following us everywhere. I hate the idea of more eyes on me, digging up stories and talking to my family.
Then it hits me—the combination of the words “Game Day” and “journalist.”
“Wait,” I cut through the excitement buzzing in the room. “Who is coming?”
Gaffer doesn’t seem to notice the shift in my tone. He probably assumes it’s my usual aversion to cameras and attention seeping in, which is fair, to be honest.
He glances down at his information sheet. “Matt Whitlock.”
Fuck.
It’s like everything goes quiet for a second, and I’m back at the pub, remembering Addison’s story, and everything she went through with him.
I’m furious all over again. Of course it’s him. Of course it’s the smug, self-righteous bastard that, despite having never met, I hate with every fiber of my being. The thought of him being near Addison again makes my stomach churn.
Addison.
I need to find her. I need to make sure she’s okay.
I don’t want to be in this room, surrounded by the lads all hyped about this impending media circus, when I’m only worried about her.
Stan notices my silence, and his voice breaks through my thoughts. “Thoughts, Bradshaw? I thought you’d be ranting and raving by now.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, though it’s not at all convincing. I just want to get out of here.
As soon as the team is dismissed, I leave the room quickly. My legs move before my brain catches up, and I find myself racing down the hallway toward the stairs. I don’t bother with the lift. It would only slow me down. I need to see her.
When I reach her office, I don’t knock. I just push the door open.
She’s sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest. Her face is buried in her hands, and I can tell she’s been crying. There’s a sound coming from her. It’s not a sob, but just the sound of quiet, broken exhaustion.
It’s not something I ever expected to see from her. Calm, collected Addison, always composed, always professional. I notice she even wore her hair down today, the first time she’s ever done that at work.
Everything around me blurs. I can’t even think. All I see is her, looking so small in this moment. An ocean between them, and he still managed to make her feel small. I’ve never wanted to protect anyone more than I do right now.
“Addison,” I say, stepping forward and shutting the door behind me.
She doesn’t even move. It’s like she’s so deep into this she can’t even hear the world around her. Her shoulders shake slightly, and I can hear her soft, ragged breaths. My chest aches at the sight. I hate that she’s here, alone, breaking down, when she deserves so much more than this.
Without even a pause to think, I drop to the floor beside her.
“Addison,” I say again, and she finally looks at me. She looks so tired, so defeated. I remember the way she smiled yesterday, so free and full, and I hate him even more for taking that away from her—and from me.
“Oliver,” she says, her voice cracking. There’s something almost embarrassed in it, like she’s not used to anyone seeing her like this.
But I don’t care. I don’t care about professional boundaries. I pull her toward me and wrap my arms around her. She doesn’t pull away. She just lets herself sink into me and rests her head on my chest.
“You’re here.” She says that with a tone of surprise, like she’s not used to someone being there to catch her.
“You needed me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
I don’t say anything for a while. I just hold her, hoping the steady pressure of my arms around her will be of comfort. She doesn’t need words. She just needs to feel safe. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she knows she is.
“Thank you,” she finally whispers.
My hand gently brushes through her hair, letting myself savor this moment of quiet connection.
Eventually, I feel her body relax against mine.
Her breathing evens out, but I don’t move.
I stay there, holding her, letting her take all the time she needs.
It’s intimate in a way I didn’t expect, but I can’t seem to tell myself to let go.