flagged offside
DO I WANNA KNOW? BY ARCTIC MONKEYS
Luke and Pippa’s apartment is warm in an effortlessly cozy way. Their building is newer than where I’m staying, and far more sleek and modern, but still feels perfectly lived-in.
They invited me over for dinner tonight, and I’m grateful to finally have a home-cooked meal instead of the pre-made salads I keep buying from the grocery store on my way home every day.
I’ve been too jet-lagged to actually pull out the pots and pans, do a proper grocery shop, and make my own meals.
Today is the first day since I got here that I finally feel like I’m in the same time zone.
Pippa hands me a glass of wine and curls up on the other end of the sofa. Luke sets a timer for the dinner in the oven and then sprawls out in an armchair.
“So,” he says, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at me. “You made it through the first week. How are you feeling? Surviving?”
“Barely,” I deadpan, though I let a small smile creep onto my face.
“It’s definitely been a whirlwind. It’s been a quiet few days, honestly.
No major emergencies yet. They’ve got a match this weekend, so they’re all focused on training.
I’ve spent the last few days just moving into my office, getting a system of organization in place, and observing. ”
“Observing what?” Pippa asks me, curious.
“Personalities,” I say, swirling my wine. “Who arrives early, who coasts in late. Who talks too much, and who doesn’t talk at all. That kind of thing.”
Luke smirks. “Let me guess—Oliver doesn’t talk at all.”
“Ding ding ding,” I mutter. “He acts like I’m a Dementor, ready to suck the soul out of the team.”
“Nice,” Pippa says, laughing at my Harry Potter reference. “He’ll come around.”
“He just doesn’t like change,” Luke assures me.
“Or people,” I mutter, and they both laugh. “He’s a complete ass.”
Pippa winces in sympathy. “Did something else happen? Besides the fake directions?”
“Yeah. At training the other day, I was trying to be professional. I figured I’d be friendly, maybe extend an olive branch his way, you know, like a normal functioning adult.
But he went full teenager tantrum on me.
” I mimic his voice, dropping it an octave and adding enough of a brooding accent to make my point.
“What do you want from me? You want me to roll out the red carpet for you? I’m a footballer.
” I roll my eyes and huff out a laugh. “I swear, he’s impossible. ”
“Speaking of training and prep,” Luke says, leaning forward. “Are you coming to the match on Saturday?”
I shake my head immediately. “I planned to stay upstairs in the offices. I can get updates remotely as I focus on managing the press.”
Pippa raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I’ve seen them in training. I just don’t think they need me pitch-side.”
“As much as I appreciate that you’re finally saying ‘match’ and ‘pitch,’ you’re wrong,” Luke says, shaking his head.
“But you haven’t seen them play live,” Pippa says. “There’s a big difference.”
Luke sets his beer down on the table. “You can’t just work behind the scenes and expect the lads to come to you, Ads. You’ve got to see what it means to be part of this club.”
Pippa leans forward, smiling at me. “You can sit with me. Get down in the trenches. It’s fun, I promise you. Everyone singing horribly, chanting together. I think you’ll get a good feel for the pulse of the supporters, you know? That’s valuable insight for PR, right?”
I pause, because I know she’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. “I’ll, uh… I’ll think about it.”
Luke exchanges a grin with Pippa. “Addison translation: she’ll turn up, sit stiff as a board for ninety minutes, and pretend not to enjoy herself.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “I said I’ll think about it.”
But somewhere deep down, I already know I’m going.
By the time Carlos strolls into my office, I’ve burned through two cups of coffee and demolished a bacon wrap that I bought on my way in this morning.
I’ve scheduled each player to have an initial one-on-one meeting with me, so I can understand what they’re passionate about off the pitch and how I can help them beyond the game.
Carlos sits in the chair across from my desk like he owns the office, and that chair is his throne. His legs are spread far apart, his arms draped over the chair, and his sunglasses are still on even though we’re indoors.
“I just want to know what matters to you, Carlos,” I say, flipping to the next page in my notepad.
“Winning. Women,” he says with a smirk. “Preferably at the same time.”
“Not that.” I fix him with a pointed look. “What do you want to support? Or build? You have a platform, Carlos. What do you want to do with it?”
To his credit, he softens. He drops the superstar act.
He pulls the sunglasses off, which is a bigger gesture than it seems. “I have a football camp,” he says.
“Back home in Spain. I hold it every summer. For kids. It gives them training, mentorship, and one good meal a day. It’s free for them, but if you could help find sponsors to help fund it, we could bring in even more kids. ”
I nod, genuinely impressed. “Absolutely, Carlos. I’d love to help you with this.” An agitator with a secret heart of gold? I can definitely work with that. “We can build a campaign around it—really highlight the local impact and pitch it to brands with youth initiatives.”
Carlos smiles, not his usual cocky smirk, but a real one. “You know, you’re not that bad.”
“Don’t go spreading that,” I mutter, mostly amused.
He gets up and heads out of the office. I glance down at my sheet to check which player is next. Oliver. Great.
I don’t even hear him walk in. He just appears in the doorway like a goddamn shadow, a storm cloud rolling in to ruin my day.
“You’re here,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“I have to be,” he mutters.
I wave him in. He says nothing, just slumps down in the chair and stares at me.
“So, I’m meeting with everyone,” I explain. “I want to understand the goals each of you has off the pitch—community work, sponsorships, brand building, that kind of thing.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” This is fucking awkward. “This will be a lot easier if you meet me halfway, Oliver.”
“I don’t need anything,” he says, crossing his arms.
“Nothing?” I ask, tilting my head. “There’s not a single cause you care about? I don’t believe that.”
He looks like he’s about to brush me off or say something confrontational, but something flickers in his eyes. I can’t quite tell what it is, and he pushes it away like he hopes I didn’t notice it.
“I work with kids sometimes,” he says in a low voice.
“Kids?”
He nods once. “Single parents. Rough neighborhoods. Families that don’t have much.”
And there it is. A crack in the concrete wall. I think back to his player biography, and how it mentioned that he was raised by a single mother. This can’t be a coincidence.
“Any particular reason?” I ask, though I’m not sure why I want or need him to elaborate. I’m just curious.
His eyes dart to mine, then quickly away. The wall slams back into place. “My business,” he mutters.
“Okay.” I nod, jotting it down. “I’ll look into it.” It’s silent between us, just for a second or two, but it feels longer. “You’re all set, Oliver.” He doesn’t move. He looks like he’s being held against his will.
He takes a deep exhale. “Gaffer wants me to help you settle in.”
I raise a brow. “Gaffer?”
“Manager,” he says, his expression unchanged. “Potter.”
I blink. “Why not just say ‘manager’ then?”
He exhales, like this conversation is physically hurting him and I’ve insulted his entire family. “Because… he’s the gaffer.”
“Is that even a word?”
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, annoyed. I smirk, enjoying that I finally got a real reaction out of him.
“Fine,” I say, relenting on the teasing. “So, Gaffer wants you to help me settle in?”
“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “How is it going?” He draws out each word like it’s painful for him to even ask.
“Are you asking because you want to, or because you have to?”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Fine. It’s, uh… it’s going okay, I guess? Jet lag wasn’t fun, but I think I’ve finally adjusted to the time zone.”
Oliver nods but stays silent.
“Look,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “We don’t have to do this. You can tell the gaffer I’m fine and that you’ve done your good deed.”
Oliver’s eyes flick to my desk, and his expression shifts from annoyance to curiosity. His gaze lands on the crumpled wrapper next to my coffee.
“You had Gregg’s?” he asks, like he’s genuinely surprised.
I glance over at the wrapper. “Yeah. Luke recommended I get a sausage roll, but they were sold out, so I got a bacon wrap instead.”
Oliver smirks—like actually smirks. It’s the first time I’ve seen him flash any kind of smile, and it’s kind of mesmerizing. “And?”
“And what?”
“How was it?” he asks, like I’ve finally done something that earns his approval.
I tap my fingers on the desk, drawing out my answer just to annoy him. “It was good.” He nods, and it’s silent again. “Luke says I should go to the game Saturday.”
“You mean the match,” he corrects me, just like Luke would.
“Sure.”
“You should.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Ashdown on match day is something else. If you really want to understand what this club means, you need to be there. You need to feel it. It’s not just about the match.
It’s the atmosphere. It’s the fans. I promise you, you’ll learn more from one Saturday at Ashdown Park than you will sitting in this office. ”
I sit up a little, surprised at his answer. It’s not sarcasm. It’s actual, genuine advice. It’s also probably the most I’ve heard him speak since I got here.
“Really?”