home advantage #2
“Oh, love.” She waves me off and pulls me in for a hug like we’ve known each other for years. “You’re always welcome. Grab her bags, Ollie.” She gestures toward the car before looping her arm in mine. “I’m sure you’re knackered after that drive. I’ve already put the kettle on.”
I love her already. I don’t know what I was expecting, but immediate warmth was not it, especially considering how shy Oliver is. She ushers me inside, guiding me like I belong here, leaving Oliver to grab the bags.
The house is small—cozy in a way that just feels like home. She leads me straight to the kitchen, nudging a mug of tea into my hands like it’s second nature.
“Sit down, love. Ollie’ll bring the bags in.”
I laugh, taking a sip of tea. “This is already so relaxing.”
She smiles at me, a kind, but knowing smile. “He told me you’ve had a rough go of it. Sod the bastard, I say. Just relax here, yeah?”
“What the bastard?”
Danielle laughs. “You’ve spent so much time with Oliver, I thought you’d have picked that one up by now. Just means fuck the bastard.”
I let out a giggle as my chest softens. How, in the span of five minutes, does this woman already have me on the verge of laughing and crying over a cup of tea?
The front door opens again, and Oliver’s voice calls out. “Fuck me, it smells amazing in here.”
Danielle turns toward me and laughs. “I’d say he didn’t learn that language from me, but…” She tilts her head and shrugs.
“Best welcome home I could have asked for.” Oliver steps into the kitchen and grins. “Do you need any help, Mum?”
I love the way his face softens around her. It’s like he steps over the threshold of this house and becomes lighter. Oliver becomes Ollie. Just a football playing boy who loves his mum and knows where he came from.
“No,” she shoos him with the wooden spoon in her hand. “Why don’t you both get settled before tea?”
“But we just had tea,” I whisper to Oliver, confused.
“It also means dinner. Another word to add to your dictionary.” He smirks at me. “Right then. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
He points out the tiny back garden before heading toward the living room. Shelves line the walls, filled with books, magazines, and mismatched trinkets. I pause in front of the fireplace, where one framed photo catches my eye.
A press clipping showing a very small, very serious-looking boy in an oversized football kit, with socks that go up his entire leg. The caption underneath says: Oliver Mackenzie shines in youth tournament.
I blink. Mackenzie?
Before I can say a word, Oliver is beside me, leaned in close to my ear. “I scored four goals that day.”
“Look how little you are,” I coo, still caught on the name.
He doesn’t say anything else. He has to know that I saw it. He doesn’t explain anything, and I know better than to ask. It just feels like a detail in a chapter he’s never let anyone read.
He nudges me gently with his elbow, breaking the spell. “Come on. Let’s drop your bags upstairs.”
Oliver leads me up the narrow staircase, carrying my suitcase and still muttering about how heavy the contents are.
He opens the first door on the left, and it feels like I step into a time capsule.
His childhood is everywhere. The walls are painted a soft blue, chipped in some areas, but covered in posters and framed photos of English footballers.
His twin-sized bed is covered with a dark blue duvet that he’s probably had for decades.
He hasn’t lived here in years, but somehow, the bedroom smells just like him.
“So, this is where the brooding began, huh?” I tease.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t start.”
I walk the room slowly, taking it all in like an exhibit in a museum.
Trophies, medals, and photos line the shelves—artifacts of his life displayed proudly.
I pause on a photo that catches my eye. Oliver and another boy, older, but with the same eyes, same grin.
They’re wearing matching football kits and holding up medals. That must be Henry.
I don’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me.
“I love this,” I say quietly. He smiles, leaning up against the wall. I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my bag on the floor. “Can I ask you something?”
He looks down at the floor, then meets my eyes. “The headline, right?”
I nod.
He hesitates a moment, then sits beside me. His fingers run through his hair as if gathering courage.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Oliver.”
“I want to,” he says, locking his eyes with mine.
“I was born Oliver Mackenzie. It’s my dad’s last name.
He was awful to my mum and to Henry. He left before I turned two, so I don’t really remember a time when he was around, but I remember the hole he left.
I remember the scars. It was until I got older that I realized how much he hurt me too, but Mum and Henry shielded me from it. ”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
He exhales slowly. “I had to wait until I was eighteen to legally change my name,” he says.
“It was an easy choice. Bradshaw is my mum’s last name.
She’s the one who raised me. She put food on the table and got me to every training session while juggling two jobs.
She’s the reason I made something of myself.
I knew if I ever made it in football, it was her name that deserved to be on that kit, not his. ”
I nod, almost unable to breathe.
“I never wanted his name on me. Not when I scored. Not when kids wore my kit. He doesn’t deserve to be part of anything I’m proud of.
” I can hear him fighting the emotion crawling up his throat, but he keeps himself calm.
“He tried to come back once,” Oliver says with a bitter laugh.
“He showed up when I was just getting started in the lower leagues. He wanted to get his hooks in, ride my coattails just in case I ever made it somewhere big. I told him to sod off.” Oliver pauses for a moment, then smiles. “Sod off means—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh. “I know what it means. Sod the bastard.”
He smiles at me, the warmth returning. “Exactly.”
I stare at him, my brow curved, but it’s not pity I feel. It’s recognition.
I stay silent. I don’t fill the space between us with clichés or platitudes. I just sit with him in it.
I know this feeling—of someone taking everything from you and coming back only when they think they can take something else too.
I know what it’s like to grin and bear it, always hoping one day, if you’re really good, things will be different.
Matt did it with a grin. Maybe he didn’t raise me, but he followed me here.
And he’s circling again, waiting like a vulture to take more away from me.
Oliver shut the door on his father, and I hope that door waits for me too. Because I realize now, I haven’t closed it yet. Not fully. Not in the way Oliver has.
He looks back over at me, and it feels like I really see him.
Not just the captain of Rockford FC, or the shy, sometimes moody man who hates the media.
I see the boy who was hurt and had to grow up too fast. I see the son who made a promise to his mum and kept it.
I see a man who took his broken pieces and built himself back better.
I feel like I understand him in a way I didn’t before—as someone whose pain recognizes mine. They shake hands and say, I see you because I am you.
“Thank you for telling me that,” I say, quiet and honest. I reach out and lay my hand on his.
“Yeah?” he whispers, the corners of his mouth lifting.
“Tea’s on!” Oliver’s mother yells from downstairs, and we both startle, like the rising heat in the room was just let out through suddenly opened windows.