the beautiful game
THIS IS THE ONE BY THE STONE ROSES
This is absolutely insane. Everyone warned me about the atmosphere, but seeing it in person is beyond what I imagined. It hits me before I even enter the stadium. The entire neighborhood is buzzing with electricity, like static before a storm.
It’s Saturday—match day—and I’m standing outside Ashdown Park with Pippa, who looks completely game-ready. Meanwhile, I’m layered up in a coat and a vague sense of panic. They’re already allowing fans inside, but Pippa wanted me to linger outside the stadium and just feel the energy.
The street is packed with fans in Rockford FC kits and scarves, faces painted, all heading into their church.
One person starts shouting about something like it’s life or death, and then they all pile on.
There’s music playing from the street vendors, drumming in the distance, and a steady electric current of anticipation leading toward the stadium.
“This… this is a lot,” I mutter, barely able to take it all in.
Pippa grins. “Just wait till you’re inside.”
“Great.”
“Come on,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “You can’t come to your first match and not wear something Rockford. It’s like showing up at a wedding without a gift.”
“Oh, is it?” I laugh as Pippa pulls me through the crowd toward the team store.
Inside, it’s a riot of red and blue. Kits hang from the walls and everything from hats to sweaters to mugs are stacked on the shelves.
It’s absolute chaos in here, packed with fans, and I’m surprised there’s any stock left in the store.
Pippa makes a beeline for the scarves and pulls one from the rack. It’s classic—red and blue stripes with the club crest stitched at both ends.
“Put this on,” she commands, shoving it at me.
I laugh, but loop the scarf around my neck. It’s warm. I look at myself in the mirror. Okay, fine—it’s kind of cute too.
“There,” Pippa says, beaming. “Now you don’t look like you’re being held here against your will.”
Inside the stadium, it’s even louder. Fans chant in unison, a deep, thunderous chorus that vibrates my seat. I don’t know any of the words, and they seem to have a song for everything. The loyalty is kind of overwhelming.
We find our seats down low near the halfway line, and I sit down next to Pippa.
“Okay,” Pippa says, nudging me. “Time to get you caught up on everyone.”
“I know who the players are,” I remind her with a laugh.
“I know that,” she says. “I mean, who they are as players.”
“Alright.” I nod my head toward the pitch. “Hit me.”
“Well, you have Sebastian, your striker. Number ten. Scores loads of goals, and he loves doing it. He’s dramatic. Loves to kick the corner flags in celebration,” she says, pointing to the corners of the pitch.
“Got it.”
“Carlos,” she says, laughing. “Oh, Carlos. He will get in the other team's face, under their skin. And not just them, but their fans as well. He plays it up. He’s a total ham.”
“Or a menace,” I quip.
“Oh, he is, absolutely. But the fans love him for it. And he’s our menace.” Pippa shifts her focus toward the goal. “Harry Freeman, the keeper. He can come across as a bit odd, but he’s brilliant. He’s superstitious and talks to the ball, but he’s focused.”
I snort. “Let him do his thing. Got it.”
“Now, in midfield. You’ve got Brennan Wolfe. He’s responsible, calm. He’s married with three kids, so he knows how to manage a storm. He’s the first to training every day. He’s like the team’s emotional support human. It’s like having a parent on the pitch.”
“Okay,” I say, grateful there’s at least one player that won’t need my services.
“And that brings us to his midfield partner, your pal and mine, Oliver Bradshaw,” she says, laughing.
“He’s our captain. Doesn’t score a ton of goals and he isn’t a flashy player, but he’s brilliant.
Solid. Unshakable. He does all the dirty work, and the fans love him for it.
He can be intense, but he’s always got your back. ”
“Thanks for the lesson, Pips.”
The stadium comes alive as the team comes out and the starting lineups are announced. It’s a sea of red and blue, scarves in the air, voices chanting a song I don’t know the words to.
I glance down at the pitch, toward midfield, and Oliver’s eyes meet mine. It’s not long, just a second or two, but the gaze is locked and intense. Amid the noise and the energy, he actually sees me. He smirks and tips his head. Barely. A blink and you miss it kind of smile.
But I don’t miss it.
And apparently, neither does Pippa.
“Oi, what the fuck was that?” Pippa says, leaning toward me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“Nothing, love? You’re blushing,” she says, her eyes glinting. I look over at her and she’s grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat. “Is there something going on with Oliver?”
I blink. “What? You’re kidding, right? No. Absolutely not. Why would you even think that?”
“Because I’ve seen that look before.”
“What look?”
She gives me a pointed glance. “The one where you pretend you’re not intrigued.”
I scoff. “I’m not intrigued. I’m observing. For work.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, not buying it for a second. “You are allowed to have fun, you know,” she says a little softer.
I shrug, keeping my eyes forward. “I’m here to work, Pippa. Just work.”
Pippa nods and watches the first half unfold. She yells, she chants, she becomes part of the mob. It’s electric and hard to ignore. Hard not to feel moved by.
By the time Sebastian scores, even I’m humming with excitement. I laugh as he, right on cue, kicks the corner flag. The crowd eats it up and immediately launches into a chant about him to the tune of “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes.
OHHHHHHH, Sebastian Le-roux!
(duh duh-duh duh-duh DUHHH duh)
Your defenders he flies through!
(duh duh-duh duh-duh DUHHH duh)
Our French magician, see what he’ll do—
OHHHHHHH, Sebastian Le-roux!
God, this is incredible. The atmosphere, the energy, and the sheer ferocity of it all. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My fingers tighten on the scarf around my neck as I let the crowd swallow me whole.
One of my favorite things about football, so far at least, is how quickly the game moves.
There are no commercial breaks that drag out the game longer than it needs to be.
There’s some stoppage in play, mostly to sort out injuries or punishments, but it’s only a few minutes and never lasts long enough to shift momentum.
The second half is well underway, and Rockford is still clinging to that 1-0 lead. The other team came out with a little bit of life in the second half, a little more urgency in their step. It feels like they’re pounding at the door, like that tying goal is an inevitability.
Beside me, Pippa is narrating the match for me, gesturing like she’s analyzing it for an audience. “Now look here. Watch Carlos.”
I follow, and just as she says it, Carlos makes a hard tackle, sending the ball flying up the pitch. Brennan picks it up, calm under pressure, and moves it forward with control. An opposing player wins the ball off him, and the entire stadium groans.
Oliver charges forward out of nowhere, fast but controlled. He dives into a tackle, wins the ball cleanly, and effortlessly shuttles it straight to Sebastian who—once again—puts it right into the back of the net.
The stadium erupts into the same chant from earlier about Sebastian Leroux, their French magician.
But me?
My eyes are still on him.
Because that goal was all Oliver.
For a split second, mid-tackle, his entire body moved with perfect precision. His arms flexed, jaw clenched tight, hair damp with sweat on his forehead. His body is years of work and training sharpened into something… beautiful. I don’t want to be the person who notices all of that, but—
I am.
“Addison,” Pippa says, nudging me in the side. “Still here for just business?” She gazes at me with a knowing smile.
I drag my eyes back to the pitch. “Just business.”
This is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Right?