loan spell #2
“Ah! There you are!” Alan calls out, looking beyond me. A moment later, two gentlemen step inside the office wearing matching Rockford FC tracksuits. “This is Jim Potter, our manager,” Alan says, gesturing toward the taller of the two gentlemen.
Jim is all energy—he bounces forward with an easy, confident grin, offering me the firmest handshake I’ve ever felt. Strong, but genuine. “Addison!” he exclaims. “Great to have you with us.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Potter. I’m looking f—”
“Jim, please.” He smiles at me.
“Jim,” I repeat. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“This,” he says, gesturing to the man next to him, “is my assistant manager, Stan Frederickson.”
Stan doesn’t step forward right away. He folds his arms across his chest, appraising me with a skeptical look, like I’m a prized cow at auction. He’s shorter than Jim, with dark hair and a permanent frown carved into his face.
“You ever worked in football before?” he asks bluntly.
Jim sighs, like he knew this was coming. “Stan—”
“No, it’s okay,” I say, meeting Stan’s gaze. “It’s a fair question. No, I haven’t. But I’ve worked with my share of athletes, mostly American football and baseball. But it’s neither here nor there. PR is about knowing the people, not the sport.”
Stan huffs, clearly unimpressed, and steps back.
“And there are the teeth.” Alan laughs and steps toward me. “You’ll have to excuse Stan. He’s been here longer than any of us. He’s skeptical, but his heart is in the right place.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say, not trying to make waves this early.
“He just doesn’t trust anyone who wasn’t born within five miles of this stadium,” Jim says, laughing. “You’ll win him over eventually, Addison.”
“We’ll see about that,” Stan mutters.
The contrast between Jim and Stan is almost comical.
Jim, full of enthusiasm and optimism, and Stan, the lifelong fan who’s seen so much heartbreak, he doesn’t believe things when they’re right in front of his face.
They have a classic good cop, bad cop dynamic that probably works wonders as a coaching tandem.
Stan is like a dark rain cloud, but I can tell under his gruff exterior there’s genuine love for this club.
Alan glances at his watch and nods toward me. “I’m sorry to cut this short, Addison. I need to go over a few things with Jim and Stan post-training. Why don’t you head down and meet up with Luke in his office?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
He gives me quick directions to Luke’s office—take the elevator down to the lowest level, go past the weight training room, hang a left, and Luke’s office is the second door on the right. Seems simple enough, right?
It seemed that way, but the moment I step into the hallway, I second-guess everything.
Was it past the weight room or the rehab room?
Was it right or left?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My brain is still jet-lagged, I’m running on no sleep, and I’m fighting the nerves of meeting the entire team in a few minutes.
I hesitate in the hallway, biting my lip. Right or left? Fuck.
I make a split decision, turn the corner, and walk straight into a wall.
Except it’s not a wall. It’s a man.
A very shirtless, very tattooed man.
I step back, eyes flicking up from defined abs to sharp, angular features and damp, tousled brown hair.
It’s club captain, Oliver Bradshaw. I recognize him immediately from my research—midfield, private, moody, suspected playboy.
Tattoos wind over his shoulder and down his right arm.
He’s taller than I imagined, and I didn’t expect him to be so…
hot. I take a hard swallow, trying not to look at this man like he’s an entire fucking meal.
And judging from the way he’s looking at me—unimpressed, very annoyed—he hates me already.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says flatly.
His voice is low. His accent is British, but edgy—not at all crisp like Luke’s.
“Sorry, I was, uh, looking for Luke’s office. Luke Wright.”
“You were going the wrong way.”
“Clearly.”
He stares at me for a moment, like he’s debating whether to give me directions. It’s my first day, throw me a fucking bone.
He gestures vaguely behind him. “Second door on the left,” he says in the most dismissive tone possible as he jerks his chin toward a nearby door.
I nod, already moving to get away from him. “Thanks.”
I push open the door and—
Oh.
Fuck.
I’ve just walked directly into the locker room.
A locker room full of half-dressed, loud soccer players.
That. Fucking. Asshole.
I know all the faces from my research, but I wasn’t expecting to see this much of them so soon.
I freeze for a moment, mortified, but determined not to let it show.
Oliver stands behind me in the doorway, leaning up against a locker, with a smug grin on his face.
I will not give Oliver the satisfaction of thinking he’s rattled me.
If there’s one thing I know about PR, it’s how important it is to own the moment.
I can spin whatever hand I’m dealt, and so long as I retain my composure, I can control the narrative.
Instead of bolting like I wish I could, I roll my shoulders back, plaster on a confident smile, and take a deliberate step forward in the locker room.
“Well,” I say, my voice loud but amused, “this is kind of disappointing.”
That’s enough to get their attention. There’s so much ego flowing through this room that half of them probably think I’m referring to the parts of their bodies on display as disappointing.
Carlos Cabrera steps forward, a towel barely clinging to his hips. “Disappointing?”
I arch a brow. “Not one of you is media ready? First impressions matter, boys. In PR, they’re everything.”
Sebastian Leroux, half-dressed and grinning, gestures to himself. “I do not look perfect already?”
I give him a slow, assessing once-over. “You look fine. But PR isn’t just about looks.
The public only knows you from what you put out there.
Presentation is crucial. I’ll be meeting with all of you, as a team and individually, to teach you about media awareness.
Because like it or not, people are watching. ”