counterattack
AFRAID OF EVERYONE BY THE NATIONAL
I don’t like her.
I really don’t fucking like her.
I don’t like the way she walks in here, like she owns the place, all business and calculated smiles. I don’t like the way she talks like she’s already got each of us figured out.
And what winds me up even more? The fact that the club thinks we bloody need her.
Public relations is a fucking joke. Just a fancy way of selling lies.
We’re third in the league. We’re playing some of the best football we’ve played in decades.
Our fans love us, and they’re the most passionate in the league.
They’d follow us into fire if we asked them to.
This is a great club in a working-class neighborhood.
The media is already on our side. So, why do we need her?
We’ve got a real shot at promotion to the Premier League. That’s been my dream since I was a kid, and now it’s just within reach. I can feel it. I can taste it.
So in my mind, the last thing we need is someone coming in and changing the way we do things, changing the tactics and momentum. I don’t want some outsider here, who doesn’t even know the game, telling us how things look.
I don’t give a toss how things look. I care about how they are. I care about the hard-working people in this neighborhood who give their last pound to support us. I want to win for them just as much as for myself.
I sit down on the bench of my stall in the locker room, trying to block out the conversation around me.
“She really handled that like a breeze,” Brennan says, shaking his head with something almost like admiration.
“She seems very clever,” Sebastian says, agreeing with Brennan.
Carlos leans back, smiling like a muppet. “And she’s hot.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course that’s all you noticed, mate.”
“She’s a stunner.” Carlos shrugs, feigning innocence. “Am I wrong?”
No, he’s not wrong.
She’s gorgeous.
She has long brown hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Something tells me if she let it down, it would have some wildness to it. And her eyes—
Fuck. Her eyes.
They’re blue, but not like any blue I’ve ever seen before. They’re electric, like they see right through you. I noticed them immediately, even when she was glaring at me.
I shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. She’s gorgeous, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s here to do a job we don’t need. She’s here to meddle, to twist things, to mold us like clay, making us marketable and palatable to the masses instead of just letting us play the damn game.
I don’t want to smile through bullshit. I don’t want someone to make problems disappear with fancy words.
We’ve gotten this far without outside help.
We fight, we claw, we build, and every drop of blood we bleed for this club is real.
I don’t need someone waltzing in telling me how to polish my expression and choose my words carefully.
I say what I mean and I say it with my whole fucking chest.
I don’t want her here, and I sure as hell won’t make it bloody easy for her.
I’m barely off the pitch before I see the media team out in full force. A few of the lads hang back to film interviews and videos for social media. I tend to stay on the pitch as long as possible to avoid most of it, which isn’t hard because Sebastian and Carlos love the camera.
And then there’s her.
Addison.
She’s been here a week. A week of weaseling her way into conversations she doesn’t belong in. A week of carefully watching us, like she’s looking for soundbites and story lines.
She’s laughing at something—probably some daft and mildly inappropriate comment from Carlos. Her hair’s still tied up, but there’s no power suit today. Just black jeans, a tucked-in shirt, and trainers. It’s like she’s trying to look casual, like she belongs here.
She spots me before I can detour unseen. “Captain,” she says, stepping in front of me.
“Scott,” I say flatly, a towel slung over my shoulder.
“Some of the guys are doing pre-game media content for Saturday,” she explains, gesturing toward the cameras. “Fan engagement, that sort of thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well, I saw your schedule and noticed you’re not doing any press work.”
“Not a fan of talking.”
She exhales through her nose, but I can tell she expected that dismissive response from me. “Look, I’m not trying to get in your way.”
I cock my head, unimpressed. “And yet… you are.”
I glance toward the media setup. Brennan is speaking calmly to the camera, the way he always does. Carlos and Sebastian are filming some kind of trivia thing for social media.
“Seems like they’re managing fine without me,” I say.
“You don’t like me,” Addison says, folding her arms tight. “That’s fine. I’m not a fan of you either. But like it or not, we’re on the same team now. I’m here to help.”
“Help how?” I ask, growing more annoyed by the second. “By telling us which words and photos will get the most clicks?”
“You think that’s all this is?”
“I think you want stories,” I snap. “You want redemption arcs and tear-jerking quotes to sell us like some Cinderella story.”
She blinks, but doesn’t look away. “That’s not—”
“What do you want from me?” My voice grows sharper. “You want me to roll out the red carpet for you? Tell you all my saddest stories so you can decide which one will play better with audiences?”
“No, I—”
“I’m not spare parts to craft your narrative,” I cut in. She exhales, flinching slightly, but she covers it quickly.
“I’m a footballer,” I say, my voice lower but still angry. “That’s my job. Not helping you do yours.” I step closer to her, enough to see her breath hitch. “And by the way, it’s a match, not a game. Learn the lingo before you start spinning stories.”
Her mouth parts like she wants to say something, like she wants to fight back, but she doesn’t.
“Fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. Then she turns on her heel and walks away, looking smooth and composed.
But she doesn’t look back.
And somehow, that pisses me off more than anything else.
I’m about to grab all my shit and leave for the day when Stan calls me into the gaffer's office.
Great. This can’t be good.
I find myself outside the office a few moments later, still dripping with sweat, though I don’t know if it’s from training or the nerves, because my gut’s already twisting.
I knock once, then push the door open. Gaffer’s behind the desk, leaving Stan leaning up against the wall like always, arms crossed like he doesn’t want to be here.
“Close the door, Bradshaw,” Stan grumbles, already scowling.
Right. Not ominous at all.
I sit down in the chair across from Gaffer’s desk, waiting for whatever this is about. He leans forward with a bright smile. “We need to talk about Addison Scott,” he says, getting straight to the point.
I don’t even try to hide my eye roll. “Do we?”
Stan exhales sharply. “Save the attitude, Bradshaw.”
My brain flashes through the past week. I’ve given her non-stop attitude, sarcasm, and false directions set up to embarrass her. Did she seriously report that to Gaffer?
“Did she complain about me?”
“No.” Gaffer waves his hand dismissively. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what’s going on?”
Gaffer clasps his hands together and softens his expression, like he’s about to tell me bad news. “Look, I know you’re not thrilled about us bringing in a PR manager, but she’s here for a reason.”
“A reason we don’t need,” I mutter.
“I said, save it,” Stan says, glaring at me. He can’t be any happier about this than I am, so I don’t know why he’s scolding me for saying what we’re both thinking.
“Oliver,” Gaffer says, cutting through the tension. “We’re on the verge of promotion. Everything we do from here on out is under a microscope—our tactics, our players, our behavior. One misstep and the media will have a field day.”
“I don’t plan on making any missteps,” I say, crossing my arms.
“It’s not just about you,” Gaffer says, tilting his head. “It’s the whole team. Addison’s not here to ruffle our game. She’s here to smooth things over so we can focus on our game. That’s the priority, yeah?”
I grind my teeth, but nod.
“Good,” Gaffer says, smiling. “Now, as captain, your job is to lead by example. Not just during the ninety minutes. We need you to be better about this.”
I bristle. “Better how?”
Gaffer looks down, like he knows I’m going to get angry with whatever he’s about to say. “Help her settle in. This is a big change for her. Make sure the lads don’t give her too much trouble.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
Stan levels me with a glare. “You don’t have to be best mates, but you do have to be professional.”
Gaffer leans forward, staring at me like this is already settled. “She’s here to help, Oliver. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
I exhale a slow, frustrated breath and sink back into my chair, defeated. “You’re ordering me to do this?”
“I’m asking you not to make me order you, Oliver.”
I clench my jaw. I fucking hate this. Having her here is one thing, but now you want me to roll out the red carpet and be a bloody one-man welcome committee? Like I don’t have anything better to do?
I don’t want her here. I don’t want her meddling. And I sure as hell don’t want to be responsible for making her feel at home. But I don’t really have a choice. I take my job as captain seriously, and I don’t want to do anything that would jeopardize Gaffer taking the armband away from me.
“Fine,” I say begrudgingly.
“That’s a good lad,” Gaffer says, smiling as he stands. “See you tomorrow, Bradshaw.”
I don’t say another word. I push out of the office and head back into the locker room, shutting the door loud enough to make it clear I’m still not happy about this.
The second I look up in the locker room, I’m greeted by Sebastian, Brennan, and Carlos. All three lined up, arms folded, smirking at me like I’ve just left the headmaster’s office.
Brennan raises a brow. “You get benched, mate?”
“No.”
Carlos grins. “What’d you do then, Cap?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, trying to move past them.
The three of them follow me like we’re in some cartoon. I feel them behind me, just breathing, waiting expectantly for any crumb of information. Misery loves company, I guess.
I sigh. “Gaffer wants me to help the PR settle in.”
“She has a name, you know,” Brennan reminds me. “Addison.”
Carlos whistles low. “Lucky bastard.”
I roll my eyes and grab my things. “Trust me, it’s not a prize. I don’t want the job.”
Carlos claps me on the shoulder. “Switch with me. I’ll take the bullet.”
“Nope,” I say through gritted teeth. “Apparently, as captain, it’s part of my job.”
“Look on the bright side,” Sebastian says with a grin. “If I had to show someone around, I wouldn’t complain if it were her.”
I don’t reply. I let them giggle and go back to talk about their plans for the night. Carlos and Sebastian are hitting up some new club. Brennan will go home to his wife and kids.
And I… I’ll go home to my empty flat, just like every other day.
They’re trying to convince me that having to deal with her will be painless just because she’s hot.
They’re partially right—she is hot. Her blue eyes are like fire and ice all at once. But nothing about this is going to be painless.
She’s here to spin stories. I’m here to win games. End of.