under pressure
THE ARCHER BY TAYLOR SWIFT
I think media day is my least favorite day of the week. While most of my day-to-day job is crafting a message before it goes out, media day before a match always feels like a live performance where anything can—and will—go wrong.
I have the team prepped and ready, but one wrong quote and I’m doing damage control for a week.
Carlos is up next, and he’s the one I’m most nervous about.
Usually his soundbites are entertaining.
He sometimes says the wrong thing, but he has a charming swagger that the media seems to love.
If this were a romantic comedy, he’s the bad boy with a heart of gold.
I know reporters are going to ask about his red card and subsequent suspension.
I know they’ll ask whether he thinks he’s at fault for the loss.
And while I’ve prepared him for the question, Carlos just loves to go off script.
Matt’s here too, hovering like a shark, waiting for blood to drip into the water. He’s pretending not to watch me—which means he absolutely is. I know how his brain works.
He's not here to see the whole picture. He's here to collect evidence.
Every awkward quote. Every frustrated player. Every loss. Every crack in the foundation.
He's just waiting to file away another exhibit in the case he's been building against me since the day I left him.
In Matt's version of the world, nothing is ever just one thing.
A player loses his temper in an interview? That's a leadership failure.
The club drops points? That's a culture problem.
The attack hasn't looked right in weeks? Someone isn't doing their job.
And somehow, no matter how many coaches, analysts, directors, players, and executives are involved in the operation, the blame always finds its way back to me.
It's ridiculous. And the worst thing about it is that I know it's ridiculous, but I still feel terrible about it.
I have exactly zero control over whether a striker buries his chances. I don't decide tactics. I don't pick the lineup. I don't tell Carlos to collect yellow cards like they're loyalty points.
But Matt has always been gifted at finding a way to make me responsible for things that were never mine to carry. That's what living with him felt like.
If he was angry, I must have provoked it.
If he was unhappy, I must have disappointed him.
If something went wrong, I must have missed a step somewhere.
Eventually you start believing it. You start looking at every problem and wondering what you could have done differently.
What you should have fixed.
What you failed to control.
And lately, there seems to be a lot I can't control.
The team keeps forcing an attacking strategy that isn't producing goals.
The losses keep piling up.
The pressure keeps mounting.
And then there's today.
Because if there's one player I need to get through media day without creating a headline, it's Carlos.
I spot him waiting near the backdrop, bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who got sent off last weekend.
I give him a nod, and he strides toward the gaggle of reporters waiting for him.
I fold my arms, take a deep breath, and silently pray for professionalism.
The prayer lasts approximately three seconds.
“Carlos, you got a red card against Millwall,” the first reporter says. “What’s your take on that? It looked like a bit of a temper flare.”
Carlos smirks, and I immediately know he’s about to throw gasoline on a fire. “It wasn’t a temper flare. I meant to do it.”
Oh, for the love of—
The reporter blinks.
Then every microphone in the semicircle seems to inch forward simultaneously.
“Are you saying you intentionally fouled him?”
Carlos shrugs, completely unbothered.
“He was getting away with everything all match. You give it, you get it.”
With that, the atmosphere changes instantly. I can practically smell the blood in the water. The reporters exchange glances. The phones go up. Someone starts scribbling frantically in a notebook.
Here we go.
One of the reporters leans in and chuckles. “So, you retaliated?”
“I’d do it again,” Carlos says, like it’s a badge of honor.
Jesus Christ.
I’m moving toward them before I even realize it. My stomach twists with panic because I know Matt heard all of that, and there’s no way he’s not using it in the documentary, probably in the episode titled “Addison Scott Can’t Control Her Team.”
“Carlos,” I say brightly, stepping into the circle with my best professional smile. “Can I borrow you for a second?”
A couple reporters groan. One even laughs. They know exactly what's happening. Addison Scott has gone into damage control.
I point toward Brennan, who's sitting nearby watching this disaster unfold with the expression of a man witnessing a car crash.
“Brennan will answer a few questions instead.”
Carlos looks confused, but steps back without protest. I nod toward Brennan on the bench and gesture with my eyes. He understands instantly and steps in, taking over the interview and shifting it back toward solid ground.
I pull Carlos to the side of the pitch. The second we're far enough away from the microphones, I drop the smile.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Seriously?” Carlos scoffs. “You benched me mid-interview?”
“Carlos, you just admitted to intentional misconduct. On record, I might add.”
“And?”
I stare at him, because surely there's a joke coming. Surely nobody is this dense.
“And?” I repeat.
Carlos shrugs. “He deserved it.”
My eye twitches. “Whether he deserved it isn’t the point.”
“The media loves this stuff.”
“The media loves train wrecks too,” I snap. “That doesn't mean we hand them the matches.”
Carlos rolls his eyes. “They'll move on tomorrow.”
“No. They'll spend the next week asking whether you have a discipline problem. Whether the club has a discipline problem. Whether we've lost control of the dressing room.”
His expression finally shifts, just slightly. It's enough to tell me he hadn't thought that far ahead.
I lower my voice. “You've got enough talent to make headlines for your football, Carlos. Stop making them for everything else.”
For the first time, he doesn't have a comeback ready.
His jaw tightens, then he looks away.
“Fine.”
I turn back to the media and force a smile, but then I feel it.
A stare.
I look past the cameras and find Oliver. His brow is furrowed and his arms are crossed. I know that look. It’s the same one he gives the team when he thinks someone made the wrong call.
Shit.
Because suddenly I don't know whether he's upset about what Carlos said—
Or what I did.
I tug one of Oliver’s shirts over my head and fluff my hair back into place. The cotton hangs loose on me, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and him.
Oliver is in the bathroom brushing his teeth while I sit on the edge of his bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone.
“I’m just saying,” he calls, words muffled by toothpaste, “I don’t think pulling him from the interview was the right move.”
I stare down at the floor. There it is. The thing we've been dancing around all day.
“And I’m just saying there was a bigger picture,” I reply.
Oliver spits into the sink. “I know there was.”
“Do you?”
He appears in the doorway a second later, toothbrush still in hand. “Yes.”
“Because it doesn't sound like it.”
His eyebrows lift. My tone came out sharper than I intended.
“I understand why you did it,” he says. “I just don't agree with it.”
I laugh once. “Well, that's reassuring.”
“Addie.”
“No, seriously. Carlos was seconds away from turning himself into a headline.”
“He already had.”
“Exactly.”
Oliver folds his arms. “You've redirected players before. Hell, I've watched you do it. You could've stepped in, steered the conversation somewhere else, and nobody would've thought twice about it.”
I set my phone on the nightstand and push to my feet.
“He was digging himself deeper with every answer.”
“But yanking him mid-interview? In front of twenty reporters?”
“He was being reckless.”
“You could have redirected it,” he says, tone sharp but low. “That’s literally your job, and I’ve seen you do it a thousand times. Instead, you humiliated him in front of the media.”
“It wasn’t humiliation,” I argue, “it was damage control.”
“It didn’t look like damage control, Addison.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means…” Oliver takes a deep breath. “It means I know Matt was watching. I think you saw him watching and panicked. And instead of worrying about what Carlos was doing, you started worrying about what Matt would think. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him, so instead, you embarrassed Carlos. ”
My heart drops, and not because I think he’s wrong. It’s because I know that tone of disappointment.
I step back instinctively. “Got it.”
He frowns. “Addie.”
I turn and walk away. I don't even decide to. My body just does it. I’m halfway across the living room and nearing the door before I realize I haven’t taken a breath.
This is it, right?
We’re done.
He’s right. He’s angry. He thinks I’m bad at my job.
I pushed too hard, and now I’ve ruined it. Classic Addison. I need to grab my shit and get out of here.
I press a hand to the wall near the door like I need help staying upright. Everything is a blur. My body is bracing for impact, and he didn’t even raise his voice.
“Addie?”
I flinch when I hear his voice behind me.
“What?”
“You alright?”
No. Not even a little.
“I’m fine.”
He steps closer, carefully, like he's approaching a frightened animal. “Addie, talk to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words spill out automatically. Instinctively. The way they always used to.
If I apologize first, maybe the punishment is smaller. Maybe it ends sooner.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“What?”
“Why are you apologizing?” he asks again.
I stare at him.
Because that's what happens next.
Isn't it?
“Addie, where are you going?”
I shake my head. “Back to my place, I guess.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?” I ask, like it’s a stupid question. “We fought. You’re upset. I know how this ends, so let’s just end it now.”
Oliver is quiet for a moment.
“I was frustrated. Not mad,” he finally says. “But that doesn’t mean we fought, or that anything is ending.”
I let out a shaky breath. “That’s just… not what I’m used to. With Matt, I—”
“I’m not Matt.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I know.”
“I don’t think you do.” Oliver’s voice is calm, but hits me deeply. “Because it feels like I’m standing in his shadow, paying the price for something I didn’t do. Something I would never do.”
There’s no judgement in his voice. Just sadness. Sad that I’ve been conditioned to believe the worst, and sad that I would expect it from him.
“Listen, Addie,” Oliver says firmly. “We disagreed, that’s all. I can handle your opinions, but if this is going to work—”
“If this works?” I cut in. “Oliver, it’s temporary.”
His eyes hold mine. “Temporary or not, you need to trust me. I need to trust you. Otherwise, we’re just waiting for the bomb to detonate, yeah?”
And then he pulls me in, warm and steady. It’s not forgiveness, it’s understanding. And that’s one thing I never thought I would have.
“I like fighting with you, Addie.” A crooked smile stretches across Oliver’s face. “I like when you push me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I manage a small smile. “So, we’re good, then?”
“Come on,” he says, tugging me back toward the bedroom. “We can keep disagreeing in bed.”