away fixture
FOR REAL THIS TIME BY GRACIE AbrAMS
I grip the edge of the seat in the cab, my fingers curled so tight on the leather that my knuckles ache.
Outside the window, London unfolds like a postcard.
Big Ben stands tall in the distance as we weave through traffic with red double-decker buses.
I watch wide-eyed as the London Eye turns slowly against the blue sky.
“First time in London?” the driver asks, smiling at me in the rearview mirror.
“First time even out of the country,” I admit.
His eyebrows lift, like he wasn’t expecting me to admit that, especially given the amount of luggage he loaded into the car.
It surprises me too. I’ve spent years planning out the perfect career and the perfect life, but I never went anywhere.
I collected paychecks, but not passport stamps.
Even just days ago, I never imagined I’d be here.
But when Luke called with the opportunity, I knew it was the right move.
And now here I am.
I look out the window again, watching in horror as the cab whips around a roundabout in the wrong direction. My stomach jolts like I’ve been thrown sideways.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, putting a hand to my forehead and squeezing my eyes shut as the car sharply turns. “Fucking Christ.”
“You’ll get used to it,” the driver says, chuckling. “And keep talking like that and you’ll fit right in here, love.”
“Doubtful.”
He shakes his head and continues driving, amused that I’m watching normal London traffic like it’s the scariest roller coaster I’ve ever been on.
The cab pulls up in front of a row of brick buildings and slows to a stop. “This is it,” he announces before shifting the car into park.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to move.
I push the car door open and step out onto the pavement.
The street is quaint and quiet, with just the faint sound of city life in the distance.
I glance up at the building—old, but charming, like it’s lived many lives.
It looks like it was ripped straight from a period drama—complete with weathered bricks, bay windows, and an iron gate.
God, where’s Emma Thompson? Is she here somewhere, ready to profess her love for Hugh Grant?
Before I can fully process where I am and what I’ve done, the front door swings open and Luke runs out grinning, with Pippa trailing behind him.
“Addison!” He comes toward me, arms spread wide open to pull me in. “Welcome home, love.”
“Let her breathe, Luke,” Pippa scolds from behind, hands on her hips. She steps out from his shadow, a petite woman with dark curly hair, sharp brown eyes, and brown skin. She takes my hands and pulls me toward her. “Good to see you, Addison.”
“Good to see you too, Pips.”
She slides her arm through mine and leads me toward the apartment. “Grab her bags, Luke!” she shouts back toward her husband.
“Well, with that order, you’re robbing me of the chance to be chivalrous.” Luke laughs, groaning theatrically as he pulls the first of my bags from the trunk of the cab. I can’t help but smile as I follow Pippa inside the building.
The first-floor apartment is nice, and bigger than I expected. For an old building, the apartment is surprisingly modern. The hardwood floor creaks under my boots. The built-ins along the wall are filled with books and knickknacks that make me feel like I’ve stepped into a real place.
The kitchen flows into the living room, both spaces painted a soft dove grey.
There’s a white subway tile backsplash and enough counter space for someone who likes to cook, which I don’t.
I enjoy baking, but for some reason, I’m utterly hopeless at cooking.
I think the takeout services in New York City will miss me more than anyone else.
Floor to ceiling windows in the living room bring in gorgeous natural light and offer a clear view of Ashdown Park, where Rockford FC plays, in the distance. The massive floodlights stand tall against the sky.
I swallow hard. I’m really here. I did this.
Pippa sits down on the navy velvet sofa, her gaze sweeping across the room.
“It’s a solid flat. Good on the team to put you up here.
They even got the landlady, Jane, to agree to a special season-long lease for you.
You’ll love Jane, by the way. And she lives right upstairs too.
You’re close to the stadium, in a safe area, and it looks like there’s a good coffee shop right around the corner. ”
“And more importantly,” Luke says, plopping down on the sofa next to her like he already lives here. “A pub!”
“Honestly,” Pippa says, rolling her eyes. “You’re like a retriever. Throw a pint your way and you’re good for hours.”
I stand in the adjoining kitchen, still taking in my surroundings. “I can’t believe I did this.”
“How’s it feel?” Luke asks, leaning forward. “Second thoughts?”
I shake my head and smile. “Not yet.”
“Good.” Luke grins, standing up. “Now let’s go celebrate your arrival.”
“Celebrate? I just got off the plane. I’m exhausted, and I probably smell like shit.”
Pippa smiles at me. “We can start with something small.”
“Right then,” Luke says, clapping his hands together. “To the pub.”
I roll my eyes. “Walked right into that, didn’t I?”
Pippa nods. “Absolutely.”
I sigh, though something in me feels brightened. Like the smallest bit of hope has crept in.
Nestled on the corner of a narrow North London street is the neighborhood pub, The Crown & Lion.
It looks exactly like I’d expect it to—dark wood, low beams, warm lighting, sports memorabilia on the walls, and the smell of ale.
It feels like it’s been here forever, like it’s seen many lives and years of laughter and drunken declarations of love.
Luke rejoins our table expertly carrying three pints. “Here we are,” he says, placing them on the table and sliding one towards me. “First proper pint in London. None of that watered-down nonsense you lot call beer across the pond.”
Pippa raises her glass. “To Addison, and her new beginning.”
I roll my eyes and laugh, but lift my glass anyway. “And to my temporary insanity.”
I take a sip of beer and set the glass down.
My eyes scan the bar, taking in the loud conversation, the patrons energetically watching twelve different matches on the televisions.
It’s a far cry from the sleek cocktail lounges I went to in New York, but it feels more real.
No one in this bar feels like a stranger.
I don’t know a single person, but I feel comfortable among them.
“Alright,” Luke says, leaning back in his chair. “How are we feeling about our first day?”
I nod slowly. “I feel… good. Really good, actually.”
“Wow.” Pippa smiles. “I’ve never heard you sound so confident.”
“I have a plan,” I say, taking another sip.
Luke arches a brow, clearly intrigued. “Do tell.”
I take another sip of beer. “When I created my own firm, I set rules for myself. Boundaries, if you will. Basic things. No distractions, no emotional entanglements, that sort of thing. Nothing that will make me lose focus or control.”
“Emotional entanglements?” Luke asks, confused.
Pippa gives a slow, knowing nod. “She means she’s not sleeping with anyone, honey.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “Not just sleeping, though. Just no emotional involvement whatsoever.”
“Fair play, I guess. Though not very fun.” Luke smirks at me.
“I’m supposed to be cleaning up the messes, not creating them.”
The apartment is dark and quiet, the only sound coming from the soft hum of the heater.
I sit curled up on the sofa with my laptop open.
Jet lag is hitting me and I can’t sleep.
Maybe it’s being in a new place, in a new bed.
Maybe it’s just getting used to the time difference.
It’s 9 p.m. back in New York, but here in London it’s nearly 2 a.m. I should be sleeping. Tomorrow—or today—is a very big day.
I take a sip of the lukewarm tea I made earlier and set my mug aside. I pull up the Rockford FC website, diving into the bios of the players. I need to know who I’ll be working with, the personalities I’ll have to manage, and the egos I’ll have to navigate.
I start with the star striker, Sebastian Leroux.
The French star has an electrifying reputation on the field.
I watch a highlight reel showcasing a string of goals paired alongside exuberant celebrations.
He celebrates every goal like it’s the game winner in the World Cup.
He clearly has a flair for the dramatic.
I jot down a few notes about him. Theatrical.
Loves the spotlight. PR dream as long as he stays team-focused.
Next is Carlos Cabrera, defender. Just his profile photo alone tells me everything I need to know.
He smirks at the camera, brown eyes shining like he knows something you don’t, and it’s obvious he’s the team provocateur.
He thrives on getting under the skin of the other team, toeing the line of the rulebook.
I chuckle at the photos of him shushing opposing players.
I get the sense that referees hate him, but the fans love him.
A quick search in the sidebar brings up photos of him out and about in London.
Articles mention his rotating cycle of models.
He seems to be constant tabloid fodder. Agitator.
Charming. Hands will be full with this one.
Brennan Wolfe, dependable midfielder. Even from just his photo, I can tell he’s different.
There’s no smirk. No smolder. With short blonde hair and blue eyes that look almost serene, he looks like the kind of guy who would say “thank you” even when given a yellow card.
His bio mentions all the clubs he’s been at, a solid, grounding presence at each one.
He’s quiet, but his impact is noticeable on the field.
He’s the one who runs in, separating players and squashing potential issues.
Married with children, he seems to live a quiet life outside the sport.
This is like PR Christmas. Family man. Low drama. Easy.
Harry Freeman, goalkeeper. His long, wild mane is pulled back into a tight bun.
The article mentions he doesn’t believe in cutting it because he might lose his luck.
His biography mentions a quirky personality, intense on the field but childlike off it.
Goalkeepers are a weird breed. Let him do his thing.
I scroll through the entire team, jotting down notes on each one before landing on the final player.
Oliver Bradshaw. A dynamic, box to box midfielder, and captain of the team.
The first thing that strikes me about him is the intensity in his eyes in every photo.
His gaze looks like it could cut through steel.
The team website goes into detail about how seriously he takes his captaincy, and how he grew up less than an hour away from the club, raised by a single mother, and lost his brother at a young age.
That could be a good story. I open a quick internet search and notice another trend: different women in every photo.
Great. Another playboy. Countless articles mention he’s private and rarely opens up in interviews, when he even allows interviews at all. Be careful. PR nightmare.
Each player has a unique story, a blend of charm, talent, and the pursuit of their dreams. There’s a lot I can work with. There’s also a lot I’ll need to work on.
I craft mental profiles of them in my head, setting expectations of what I’m about to walk into.
I lean back, rubbing my eyes as fatigue finally sets in. I shut the laptop and set it on the coffee table. I pull the blanket up over my shoulders and curl into the sofa further. North London is a far, far way away from home, but I’m determined to make this new role a success.