flagged offside #2
“You’re sitting here doing questionnaires with us about what we care about.
You can’t understand what we represent until you see who we’re representing.
This is North London. Parts of it are posh, but that’s not Rockford.
It’s a working-class community. They’re loyal, loud, and fiercely passionate.
For a lot of them, Ashdown Park is their church. ”
For a moment, there’s something soft in his voice when he talks about the community. Pride. And then, just as quickly as I notice it, he pushes it back.
“Alright,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I’ll go.”
“Good.” His arms are folded, his expression neutral, but his eyes—those stormy eyes—are honest and steady.
“But I need a favor from you first.”
How the fuck did I find myself here? I agreed to help her settle in—not that I had a choice. I can recommend a good restaurant in the area, maybe the best supermarket to shop at. But this? This is too much.
The locker room is quiet and smells like whatever aftershave Carlos bathes in after training.
There’s a large whiteboard at the head of the locker room that Gaffer uses to lay out our tactics for match day.
But today, I’ve drawn the saddest looking football pitch and written the word “OFFSIDE” in block letters at the top because, try as I might, she apparently doesn’t understand that, either.
Addison sits backwards on a folding chair, arms draped over the top, deeply concentrating. Her brow furrows like this is a foreign language, and not, you know, the sport this entire country revolves around.
But she’s trying, I guess. I’ll give her that. Most of the rules she’s picked up easily, considering she’s worked with other sports franchises before, but offside seems to be the most difficult.
There’s a smear of ink on her hand from where she accidentally leaned against the whiteboard, and a few strands of her ponytail have slipped loose. They sway when she leans forward, biting her lip in concentration. I can’t stop watching her.
I hate that.
I lean back against the wall. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. You don’t need to understand the offside rule, or any rules really, to do PR.”
“I just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t like not knowing things,” she says without looking at me. “Especially when everyone else in the room does.”
I get the sense that she’s not just talking about football. Her honesty surprises me. There’s no spin. No sarcasm.
There’s something about her when she’s not playing on the defensive, when she’s not trying to spin or control the room. It’s almost endearing.
I hate that too.
“Okay,” I say, tapping the board with my marker. “Try again. Here’s your striker.”
“Yes,” she says, pointing at my stick figure with a grin. “He scores all the goals.”
“Not all of them,” I correct her. “He does score a lot of them, though.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling. “The striker scores a lot of goals.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Now, this line here? That’s the last defender. If your striker runs past him before the ball is passed—that’s offside.”
She stares at the board like it’s moving, like it’s trying to trick her. “So… what you’re saying is, they can’t be ahead of the last guy?”
“Exactly,” I say proudly, happy she’s finally fucking got it. I can’t even hide my smugness.
“But what if the ball already left the guy’s foot?”
Bloody hell. We were so close.
I sigh, pressing the marker to my mouth to stall me from saying the rude words crawling up my throat. “If he was already behind the defender when the ball left his foot, he’s fine. If not, still offside.”
She sighs, rolling her eyes. “This is a lot.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But there’s so many little rules to football.
I mean, your goalkeeper is expected to save penalties, but if he steps off the line too soon to try, the kicker gets to retake it?
He’s supposed to save it, and then you penalize him for trying to?
That’s madness. And don’t get me started on this offside business. ”
“I promise it will make sense once you watch the match.” I say, leaning against the whiteboard. “Besides, you’ve already stopped calling it ‘soccer.’ That counts for something.”
She lets out a breath. “I’m trying, okay? I feel like I need a little British-to-American dictionary to keep in my pocket. There’s so many words. Gaffer? Kit? Pitch? Shit, I called it a field the other day and Luke looked at me like I insulted his mom.”
“Mum,” I correct her, smirking.
“Right,” she says. I laugh—actually laugh—and for a second, I’m not annoyed with her. She doesn’t seem annoyed with me. For a second, I forget that I don’t want her here.
She stares at the board again, like she’s trying to decode some riddle. Her posture suddenly straightens.
“Wait,” she says, pointing to another sad stick figure. “So, if the striker is in line with the last defender when the ball is passed, it’s okay. He just can’t be past the defender before the ball is kicked?”
“Exactly,” I say, blinking with surprise. “You’ve finally got it.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, grinning like she scored a goal herself. It’s ridiculously charming. And then she turns to me, still smiling, but softer. “Thank you, Oliver. Seriously.”
The way she says that—soft, genuine—catches me off guard. There’s no sarcasm. It’s just her.
I clear my throat and look away, scratching at the back of my neck. “Well, Gaffer said to help you out.”
Internally, I cringe. Real smooth, mate. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy this. Don’t act like some small part of you did this because you wanted to.
She snorts. “Right. Mandatory kindness. Charming.”
I roll my eyes, already heading out of the locker room. “You’re exhausting.”
She points a marker at me, still grinning. “And you’re bossy.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “Captain.”
She laughs, and I can hear it lingering in the air as I round the corner.
And, annoyingly, I find myself smiling too.
Bloody hell.