loan spell
NO ROOTS BY ALICE MERTON
I step outside my apartment, and the crisp London air nips at my skin. It wakes me up, considering I only got about four hours of sleep, if you could even call it sleep. I mostly just laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying what I left behind, and wondering what lies ahead for me.
“Ready for your big day?” Luke asks, rocking back on his heels, excited like it’s Christmas morning.
He’s wearing the same Rockford FC tracksuit he had on when he offered me this job.
The jacket’s half-zipped, his hair sticking up like he got ready in a hurry, and his smile is infuriatingly bright for this hour.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, pulling the strap of my bag over my shoulder.
I took my time curating an outfit this morning—a ridiculous amount of time, if I’m being honest. I wanted to strike the perfect balance between feminine and powerful, approachable but confident.
I grabbed skinny, black dress pants and paired them with a soft, silky blouse in a creamy blue color.
I originally pulled a blazer from my suitcase but skipped it because it made me look like I was running for office or something.
The goal was to exude confidence, like I actually know what I’m doing, without coming across as cold.
I kept my long brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, almost like I were restraining myself along with it.
Luke walks alongside me as we make our way toward Ashdown Park, home of Rockford FC. North London is bustling this morning. The streets are packed with cars rolling by, other commuters walking toward the Tube, and the occasional dog walker.
The closer we get to the stadium, the more real this feels. It’s like this place, this city, this team, is pulsing with a history I don’t understand yet.
Luke points ahead. “That’s the main entrance right there. And over to the right, that’s the fan shop. We should get you a kit at some point.”
“A kit?”
“A jersey.” Luke sighs. “Maybe we should start with a British translation sheet.”
“I’ll pick it up quickly,” I promise him. “Besides, I’m working for the team, not playing for them. I don’t think I need a… kit.”
Luke ignores me and continues his tour, sweeping a hand toward the stadium.
“Rockford’s been around since 1902. Kicked around in the lower leagues for most of its existence, but there’s been a few glimmers of hope along the way.
Heartbreak always followed. Right now, though, we’re on the rise.
Biggest rise in our history, actually. We’re third in the table, fighting for promotion.
That’s why you’re here. Everyone is watching us—the underdog that might finally have it in them to rise above.
More eyes on us means we need you to make sure we don’t screw up the PR side of things. ”
“That’s fine,” I say, glancing up at the stadium as we approach. “I like a good challenge.”
He shoots me a look. “Speaking of challenges… are we ever going to talk about why you actually took this job?”
“I created my own company. Needed clients.”
“Addison.”
“You’re the one who called me with the offer, remember?”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s fairly simple, Luke. It’s a job.”
“Hey,” Luke says softly, grabbing my arm. “It’s just us now. I know you. I know that’s not all of it.”
I take a slow breath. “I just need a fresh start.”
“That’s a bit vague, Addison.”
“Well, it’s all you’re getting,” I say with a smirk. He knows there’s more, and I do too. “I know what you’re asking, and I don’t want to talk about Matt. I’ve given him enough of my breath.”
The air between us tightens. I don’t stop walking, but my jaw locks and I’m hoping he doesn’t press this further.
“Alright.” Luke nods, exhaling through his nose. “But just so you know, if you ever do want to talk about it, I’m always here.”
“I know.” I glance at him, appreciating his friendship even though I have no intention of unpacking the Matt-shaped weight in my chest. It’s quiet for a few moments. “Hey, Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“I missed you,” I whisper. “I missed you so much.”
“I know,” he says quietly, taking my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “I hated watching him erase you.”
We continue walking like that, hand in hand, in comfortable silence together.
We enter Ashdown Park and the air shifts. The moment we walk through the turnstiles, the sounds of the outside world disappear. There’s no hum of morning traffic, no bustling sidewalks. It’s like stepping straight into history.
“Alright,” Luke says, clasping his hands together. “Rapid-fire tour. We’ve got to be over at the training grounds in an hour.” He gestures toward the massive concourse. “This is where the fans congregate on match days. It’s absolute chaos. Can barely hear yourself think.”
“Noted.”
“And that,” he says, pointing straight ahead, “is the pitch.”
“The pitch?”
“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “The field?”
“Got it.” Blue seats stretch around the pitch, each one worn but proud. The scent of grass mingles with the familiar musk of aged stone. It’s cozy and intimate—the kind of place where strangers walk through the turnstiles and become family.
He moves ahead, leading me down a tunnel. “Down here is the press room. You’ll probably spend a lot of time here, especially doing damage control when Carlos says something stupid.”
I snort. “Great.”
The hallway is lined with rows of framed jerseys, each one belonging to famed players in the club’s history. Luke slows down, tapping the glass over one of them.
“This one belonged to Andy Green. He was club captain in ‘87. Took Rockford to the FA Cup final at Wembley. They lost, but he played his heart out. Absolute legend, he is.” Luke gestures further down the hall. “Dressing rooms are this way. Home team on the right, away on the left.”
“Got it.”
“Then upstairs, we’ve got all the executive suites and offices. You’ll have a workspace up there, but most of the time you’ll be working out of the office at the training grounds.”
“Okay,” I mutter.
“Remember all that?”
“I’ve got it.”
Luke grins. “Alright, let’s head out. We’ve got to get over to the training grounds. Time to meet everyone else.”
I nod and smile. Time to see what I’ve really gotten myself into.
The cab ride over to the training facility, Copley Green, is short. It’s only two miles away from Ashdown Park, but long enough that it gives me a moment to breathe.
Luke leans back in his seat. “So,” he says, watching me, “how do you feel so far?”
I let out a sigh, not meeting his eyes. “Well, I’m tired.”
“Not what I meant, Addison.”
I stare out the window as North London unfolds outside.
“I think it’ll be fine,” I say eventually. “Besides, it’s only a year.”
“And what happens if you actually like it here?”
I look over at him and huff out a small laugh. “I won’t.”
Luke raises a brow, but doesn’t argue with me. The cab turns into the facility’s parking lot, and we step out into the crisp air again.
“Well, this is Copley Green,” he says, pointing toward the large, sleek facility with Rockford FC’s crest displayed over the main entrance.
He leads me straight through the lobby, bypassing the security checks.
“Morning, Jenna,” he says, tipping his head at the receptionist. “This is our new PR, Addison Scott. I’ll get her sorted with an access card later. ”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell her. She smiles and nods, and I continue to follow Luke, my nerves fluttering.
“We’ll go up and meet Agnelli first,” he says, pushing a button for the elevator. “Might as well meet the big boss straight away.”
I nod and follow him into the elevator. It takes us upstairs to an office overlooking the outdoor training facility.
Inside, Alan Agnelli stands near the window, looking out at the pitch.
He’s in his mid-fifties with neatly styled salt and pepper hair.
His suit is perfectly tailored, but not in a showy way.
Luke knocks at the open door, and Alan immediately turns around. The moment he smiles, I know he’s different from most sports moguls. His smile is genuine, and it seems to brighten the entire office.
“Addison,” he says warmly, crossing the room to shake my hand. “Welcome. Welcome to Rockford FC. We’re so pleased to have you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Agnelli, I’m—”
“Alan, please.” He smiles, gesturing toward the chairs opposite his desk. “Please sit down. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”
Luke excuses himself and heads down to training, promising he’ll find me after.
“I really appreciate that, Alan.” I listen carefully as he lays out his history with the club, from saving them from the brink of liquidation to now being on the cusp of promotion.
It’s a true Cinderella story—a PR dream, honestly.
But hearing him talk about it, it’s so clear he’s not the type of owner to simply throw money at the team and walk away.
He’s invested. The enthusiasm in his voice makes it clear—he’s a fan first, owner second.
That alone sets him apart from any sports franchise I’ve ever worked with.
Most teams are owned by some faceless conglomerate or billionaires looking for something shiny to add to their cabinet.
They don’t understand the sport. They don’t even care.
But this? This feels personal. A passion-driven, family-oriented ownership is a perfect PR angle.
I couldn’t write this up any better if I tried.
“We’re just so excited to have you, Addison,” he says, clasping his hands together. “The club is growing fast, and I really think you can help shape our story.”
“I’m excited to get started,” I tell him. “Do you have any expectations of me?”
He smiles. “Stability. This club and this community have been through a lot over the last decade. We’re growing fast, and with that attention comes pressure. I need you to handle that with grace, and with teeth when necessary.”
I smirk. “Grace and teeth. I can do that.”