fouls and misconduct
YOUR POWER BY BILLIE EILISH
“Say when,” Pippa says, pouring wine into my glass. I just watch her in mock silence, perfectly content to let her pour until the glass overflows.
“Addison,” she says, laughing, “I said, say when.”
“Why don’t you just get your own bottle?” I tease.
We’re curled up on her couch in sweats and no makeup. An open pizza box sits on the table between us, and there’s a vanilla candle lit that’s hitting me like a warm hug. She put some rom-com on, but neither of us is paying much attention.
The team is in Swansea for a game, and I opted to stay behind—giving some bullshit story about meetings to tie up here. No one questioned it. It’s all technically true, but it’s not the entire reason.
The real reason is Oliver.
It’s been a week since we got back from Stratton Wood.
A week since I felt his breath dangerously close to mine.
A week since I almost let myself get swept up in something I promised I’d never do again.
But now, my mind keeps replaying every moment in my head—the way he looked at me, the way he called me Addie, the way he talked about Henry.
And the way I almost let him kiss me.
But then I pulled back. I remembered who I am, what I’m doing here, and why I have these rules in the first place.
Every time I have a moment to myself, my mind drifts back to that town. To his childhood bedroom. The framed photo with the wrong last name. The pub. His mum’s roast dinner. The way he told me, “I’ll never let anything happen to you,” like it was the easiest promise he ever made.
For those forty-eight hours, I never thought about Matt.
Not once. That scares me the most, because for the last six months, Matt has been my reminder.
He’s the burned bridge that’s kept me from crossing into anything safe again.
He’s the lesson it took me too long to learn.
But I finally learned it, and I built a fortress from it.
I wrote rules on the walls and etched them into my bones.
Oliver doesn’t feel like any of that. He feels like standing barefoot in the grass, and yet, I still push him away. I’ve seen this film before, and I’m terrified to give it all away again. I just can’t afford to.
So I hide in London. I work late. I conjure meetings that could have been emails. I keep to myself.
“Ads?” Pippa says, waving her hands in front of my face. “Hello? You still with me, love?”
I blink. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Oh, good, you’re back.” Pippa laughs. “Where’d your mind go just now?”
“Sorry.” I rub my temple and let out an embarrassed laugh. “Just so much going on at work.”
“I get it.” Pippa takes a slow sip of her wine, clearly unconvinced. “How was the weekend away?”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yeah,” I say sharply, making it clear I don’t want to talk about it.
Pippa eyes me like she can smell the cover-up, but chooses not to press further.
“How’s work been since Matt’s return from the underworld?”
“Awful,” I groan, leaning back dramatically against the cushion. “He’s like a rash. Persistent. Irritating. Always showing up where he shouldn’t.”
“Oh, no.” Pippa cackles, her dark curls bouncing as she tips her head back.
“I’m serious, Pips. He’s everywhere.” I gesture dramatically. “Every meeting. Every elevator. Every hallway. It’s driving me mad.”
“I hate this for you.”
“Oh, and get this—now that he’s gotten to know the team and followed them around a bit, he wants to sit down and start interviewing the staff too.”
“Wasn’t that part of the plan, though? Full access to the team, staff, and locker rooms?”
I nod. "Yeah. But not like this. I mean, the managers, physio staff, and equipment team make sense. But me? Why? It’s just classic Matt looking for ways to spend time near me.”
Pippa’s expression drops into a frown. “God, I hate him. Are you going to say anything?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not making this a thing with the team. I’ll do my job, answer his questions, and be the professional I am. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.”
“And this,” Pippa says, raising her glass, “is why we drink.”
“I’ll cheers to that.”
Today is my interview with Matt, and I’m making myself sick with dread.
I wanted to do this in my office—in my space, where I’m comfortable. But no, of course not. Matt is insisting his office is already “set up” for the interview.
Set up, my ass.
I don’t believe it for a second.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down.
Mom: Good luck today, honey. Don’t let him get in your head.
I smile at her message. I called her yesterday, complaining about the interview. She knows as well as I do that he doesn’t actually care about my job. He probably sees this conversation as a mini-date.
Me: Thanks. I’ll call you tonight with all the details.
Mom: I hope your recap starts with elbowing him in the throat.
Mom: Because we already know he doesn’t have balls.
God, I love her.
Our session is scheduled for noon, and I don’t head down a minute sooner. I want to spend as little time with him as humanly possible. His office is adjacent to the locker room, which means I have to walk past the door, which is sometimes open, to get there.
Of course the door is open today.
And of course Oliver is the first person I see.
He glances up from unlacing his boots, eyes meeting mine. He gives me this look as I pass by—a mixture of confusion and protectiveness.
Matt stands there holding the door open for me like he’s a gentleman, then promptly shuts it behind me like a warden locking a cell.
He gestures toward the chair in front of his desk as he takes the big one behind it.
I’m not stupid. He’s trying to look important, trying to remind me he’s in charge here, not me.
I fold my hands neatly in my lap and force a neutral expression. It’s fake, but I’m not playing his game. I’m not giving him anything.
He smiles at me like we’re old friends, completely ignoring every invisible scar he’s put on my body. “Thanks for coming. I figured we’d break this up into a few sessions.”
I blink. “A few? I thought this was a one-off.”
He tilts his head like I’m being cute. “Oh, Addison. You know we need more than that. The audience will want depth.”
Oh, cool. Gaslighting already.
I glance around the office, searching for the camera. “Where’s the camera crew?”
He shrugs, a smug smile on his face. “I wanted to keep the interviews casual. Just you and me.”
Of course he did.
I keep my posture relaxed, telling myself over and over in my head not to react. Every part of this scenario is by design. The location. The isolation. The desk. The lighting. He set the scene here.
“Well, in the future I’d prefer interviews to be conducted with a third party present,” I say calmly, crossing my legs.
His smile flickers, but only for a second. “If that would make you more comfortable, Addison.”
I hate the way he says that. He makes it sound polite, but it feels like a backhanded slap. He adds this tone that implies I’m being irrational and emotional.
I nod, but say nothing. If he thinks he’s going to get a reaction from me, he’s going to be disappointed. I am not the same girl who used to fall for this.
Matt reaches for a recorder sitting on his desk and turns it on.
“So,” he begins, his voice smooth and unbothered. “What made you take the job at Rockford FC?”
“Well, the opportunity to be a part of a club’s historic promotion initiative doesn’t come around often. This is a club on the rise, and there’s a real opportunity here to shape their public identity. That’s a rare challenge, and I didn’t want to let it pass me by.”
He nods. “So, you think Rockford was worth that investment from you?”
“I do,” I say, nodding confidently. “This is a club with a lot of history, talent, and heart. Even among their fans, there’s a passion here I haven’t seen in any franchise, in any sport that I’ve been lucky enough to work in.
And they’ve been overlooked for so long, coming close but just not quite enough.
It’s the underdog story that people love to root for. ”
His eyes lift to mine. “And what’s your honest take on the players so far?”
“Well, there are a lot of strong personalities, but that keeps it fun.”
“You mean like the captain?” he asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.
I keep my tone even. “Oliver Bradshaw is private and focused. He leads the team by example—on and off the pitch.”
“Hm,” he muses. “You two seem close.”
“Is there a question in there?” I ask. “We work well together. It’s important to have good working relationships with every member of the team, so as not to disrupt the chemistry of the group. I want to help in their promotion battle, not hinder it.”
“What’s your goal here, Addison? With the club.”
“First and foremost, to keep this team on track to secure promotion. I want to help them develop an identity that connects with the community and the fans, while staying true to who they are.”
“And for you, personally?”
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “Well, I’ve known you a long time. You’re ambitious. Always have been. Just curious what your long game is. Back to New York?”
“I’m focused on the job I have right now, not the next one.”
“Why did you leave your last employer?” he asks casually.
I blink, a crack finally forms in my armor. That question caught me off guard. “You already know the answer to that, Matt.”
“I need it on the record,” he insists. “For the story.”
I force an even, professional tone. “I needed a new challenge, a place where my work was truly mine, and Rockford offered me that.”
He smiles, but it’s cold. “And how’s London? That has to be a huge adjustment. New city. New apartment.”
Each word hits me harder than the last. He says it casually, but he’s not asking. He’s reminding me that I walked away. He’s pressing to see if I’ll flinch.
“London is a wonderful city,” I say, forcing the words through a tight smile. “I’ve enjoyed what I’ve seen so far.”
“But it must be hard,” he says, his voice dripping with fake concern. “Being all alone.”
I shift in my chair. “I’m not alone.”
He raises an eyebrow, like he’s onto something. “No?”
“I have friends here. I have a team of good people around me. Please don’t pretend to care about how I’m adjusting, Matt.”
“Addison.” He leans back in his chair like he’s pleased he cracked me. “Don’t be touchy.”
“I’m done,” I say, standing.
He blinks, surprised. “What?”
“We’re done for today,” I say louder. “If you have more questions, please email them to me for approval before another session.”
I open the door without waiting for a reply. The door clicks shut behind me, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath the entire time I was in his office.
Oliver walks toward me from the locker room, in his street clothes, hair damp from a shower, eyes locked on me like he’s been waiting. Training was over before my interview. Everyone’s gone. He must’ve stayed late—for me.
“You alright?” he asks gently, like he already knows I’m not, but he’s trying to give me the space to say it.
“I’m fine,” I say too fast. I want to fall into him. I want to tell him everything I’m feeling. But then I remember my rules, and I swallow it all down.
I try to move, but I suddenly don’t remember how to put one foot in front of the other. Every limb just feels heavy.
“Addie,” Oliver whispers.
His hand catches mine before I can retreat, warm and steady, and my entire body tenses instinctively.
He gives it a squeeze and something shifts.
I exhale.
I let myself feel the weight of his palm over mine, the way it grounds me. Like he’s not trying to fix my problems, he’s just reminding me that I’m not alone with them.
I look up, and when our eyes meet, that’s all it takes. The panic dulls, the pressure in my chest lessens. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I feel my fingers tightening around his and then—
Matt’s office door creaks open.
Shit.
I pull my hand away in a flash, straightening my posture like a soldier. I clear my throat and let my professional, calculated mask take over.
“I’ll get back to you with the final details of the school event,” I say, intentionally loud enough to carry.
He smiles and nods, playing along. “Right, yeah. Just let me know. I’ll be there.”
I flash the most rehearsed, professional smile I can manage and head for the elevator.
Matt is none the wiser, but my hand still tingles.