24. Ollie
ollie
The pounding in my head was relentless; every whistle from the ref and call from the sideline felt like someone was drilling directly into my skull.
I planted my hands on my hips, pretending I was deep in thought about the game when, in reality, I was trying not to look like I was on death’s doorstep.
The cold air helped a little, but not enough to chase away the hangover.
I’d told myself to take it easy last night—future Coach Ollie would appreciate it, I’d thought.
Turns out, past Ollie was a bloody fool.
The first half was painful to watch, and not because of my headache. Missed tackles, sloppy passes, and a general lack of coordination from the team. My growled instructions didn’t seem to land; maybe because my voice sounded like it was clawing its way out of a gravel pit.
At halftime, I rallied them in the huddle, pacing back and forth like I wasn’t moments away from collapsing into the ice bucket.
“We’re getting hammered out there,” I snapped. “Start using your heads, or we’re going home with a loss. Tighten the line, stick to your assignments, and for the love of God, stop passing like it’s hot potato.”
They nodded, wide-eyed. At least someone still found me intimidating.
The second half was better, if only because the other team started to wear out. A well-executed turnover in the scrum got the ball to our fly-half, who kicked it straight into their twenty-two. Our winger was on it like a dog on a bone, dodging defenders and diving over the line.
I tried to keep my celebration low-key—one fist pump, a sharp clap—but even that made my head throb.
By the final whistle, we’d scraped out a win. Not our best performance, but a win nonetheless. The players mobbed each other on the pitch while I hung back near the dugout, leaning against the frame and pretending to be reflective when really I was trying to stay upright.
That’s when I saw her—standing just a few feet to my left on the sideline, bundled in a coat, her hair tucked beneath a knit hat.
She had two phones out—one aimed squarely at me, the other recording the pitch.
Even with sunglasses on, I could tell she wasn’t smiling at me . . . but something close hovered there.
“Filming my misery?”
She didn’t look away from her screen. “Just documenting the game,” she said, too casually. “Your misery’s incidental.”
“Glad it’s useful,” I muttered, grabbing a towel to wipe my face.
A beat passed before she tilted the phone slightly toward the scoreboard. “You looked like you were gonna pass out after that try,” she said, softer this time.
I gave a small huff of a laugh. “Probably was.”
Another beat. A longer pause. Neither of us quite sure what came next.
“I was live-streaming parts of the game, with permission, of course, from the owner, and the comments about Coach Daddy and the sexiest coach alive were too good.”
“Joy,” I deadpanned.
“Hence why I pulled up the second phone so I could give the true fans what they want.”
“A video of the game?”
“No,” she chuckled. “You and your sexy face that many would like to sit on.”
This time it was my turn to smirk. I closed the distance between us in a few quick strides. Grabbing her face, I turned her toward me. “Sit on my face.”
Her eyes popped open, and then she pulled away. “We need to talk.” She shifted the conversation seriously. “I feel really bad about yesterday and throwing all that at you.”
She felt bad? Why? If anyone felt bad, it should’ve been me. I ran away when shit got hard.
“No. What? Why?”
“Why . . . I feel bad?” Her lips curled down like she wasn’t sure how to respond.
I looked up and tugged on the pom-pom of the hat. “You’re wearing the hat I got you.”
“Yes, but please answer me.”
“I feel bad, love. I shouldn’t have left you. We had a nice day and then things got complicated—”
“And you don’t do complicated.” She butted in.
“That’s not it. I got scared.” I shook my head, disgusted with myself. “Can you come over later? Mum and Dad are leaving in the morning and are coming by for dinner.”
“Who’s inviting me?”
She looked so sad, her big, beautiful green eyes shadowed with something I couldn’t quite name. The curls escaping from her knit hat framed her face in a way that tugged at something deep in my chest.
“Me. I’m inviting you, Nova. Not them. Me.”
Her eyes searched mine, the silence stretching between us until she gave the tiniest nod. “Alright.”
“Afterward, when they leave, we can talk about this.”
“Like, actually be adults and not ignore this big thing happening between us?” She joked, and I grabbed her arms.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Coach Daddy.”
“Mhmmm.” My nostrils flared in mock anticipation, a smirk tugging at my lips. “I love the way you call me Daddy. Say it again.”
Her laugh rang out as she smacked my arm and stepped back, holding up her phones like they were trophies. “Thanks for making us go viral, baby.”
Like that, she was off, her curls bouncing under that damn pom-pom hat, leaving me standing there grinning like an idiot. I loved hearing her laugh. I loved it so much I’d do anything to hear it again.
The smell of takeaway lingered in the room, heavy and comforting as the fire crackled in the corner.
The dining table was littered with half-empty cartons and crumpled napkins.
The salty tang of soy sauce mixed with the lingering sweetness of sticky, glazed dishes, and a faint hint of chili still clung to the air.
Nova sat on the sofa in the next room, her feet propped up on the wooden coffee table, her head resting back against the cushion.
She looked cozy, wrapped in the soft glow of the fire, the maroon sweater dress she’d changed into accentuating her growing bump.
Even though I’d seen her yesterday, it seemed like her belly had grown overnight.
I carefully unwrapped the tray of treacle tart that Mum had brought from a bakery by her house. The buttery shortcrust pastry cradled a sticky filling of golden syrup, breadcrumbs, and lemon.
Mum and Nova were lost in their own world while Dad helped clean the rest of the table.
“So, how are you holding up, love?” Mum asked.
Nova sighed. “I’m alright, really. But my feet are killing me. What I wouldn’t give for a bath right now . . .”
Mum’s laughter followed. “Oh, I used to love a nice warm—not too hot—bath when I was pregnant. It was the only thing that made me feel remotely human some days.”
Their laughter carried through the room, and though I wasn’t part of the conversation, I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips as I added a generous dollop of clotted cream to each plate.
By the time I brought the plates over, they were still smiling, the kind of easy bond forged over shared experiences I couldn’t quite tap into.
“Dessert?” I offered.
Nova glanced up at me, her expression softening as she reached for the plate. “I was starting to think you got lost over there.”
“Nah. Just helping Dad get the table cleaned up.”
“I can help.” She shifted like she was about to sit up, but I pressed her hand down.
“Please. Eat your dessert. We’re all settled.”
“But I’m the guest,” she whined, a teasing edge in her voice. “This is my job.”
“A guest?” Mum scoffed, her voice sharp with mock indignation. “You are not a guest.”
Nova’s face went flat as she deadpanned, looking between me and Mum. “I quite literally am a guest. If I’m not, what am I?”
Mum glanced at me, and I quickly shook my head.
It wasn’t the time. Not with her here like this, relaxed for once in my home.
The home that I still wanted her to live in with me.
I wanted her to stay, not bolt at the first sign of something heavier.
Especially since I still needed us to have that conversation she promised.
The evening settled into a peaceful rhythm.
Dad nursed a glass of whiskey, his voice carrying through the room as he recounted the game.
“That scrum in the second half, Oliver. Textbook. Tight and controlled—none of that loose nonsense you see these days. The boys are listening to you, and it shows.”
I’d found my place on the sofa, next to Nova initially, but Mum had pulled a chair up next to her.
“They’re a good group. Just needed some discipline.”
“Discipline and a coach who knows what he’s doing,” Dad added, raising his glass in a small salute. “You’ve done well, son.”
Mum had commandeered Nova’s phone, laughing as she scrolled through the live recording Nova had done earlier. Nova sat beside her, one leg tucked beneath the other, her hands resting on her bump as she let Mum lead the commentary.
“Look at this.” Mum pointed to the screen. “You caught him mid-yell. Honestly, Oliver, you look like you’re about to explode.”
Nova smirked, tilting her head to look at me. “It’s very intense, Coach.”
“I’m glad my finest moments are immortalized forever.”
The fire continued to crackle, the room settling into that familiar kind of comfort you only get with family. Desserts were devoured, plates scraped clean, and soon it was time for Mum and Dad to head out.
Mum hugged Nova first, her arms lingering longer than usual. “You’re doing wonderfully, love. Don’t be a stranger. Come to the country for Christmas.”
“I promise,” Nova said. “I’ll see you soon.”
When Mum turned to me, she pulled me into one of those rare hugs that spoke volumes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t let her go, Oliver. I love her. Don’t muck it up.”
The weight of her words pressed into me, heavy and impossible to ignore. I nodded against her shoulder. “I won’t.”
The door shut behind them, and the house fell into a hushed stillness, the fire’s glow flickering over the walls. I turned back to Nova, who stood near the sofa, fiddling with the hem of her sweater dress, her green eyes darting up to meet mine.