foul play
SHIP TO WRECK BY FLORENCE & THE MACHINE
It’s a typical Monday morning. After what felt like an endless amount of meetings, I’m finally back at my desk and the coffee I left here has gone lukewarm and tragic.
I’m bracing myself for a hectic week—filled with media promotions, a charity proposal for Carlos, and a call this afternoon with a fashion designer who wants Sebastian to model their spring athletic line.
There’s a knock at my office door as I organize my filing cabinet.
When I turn around, I’m surprised to see Oliver leaning against the door frame, in his street clothes, his hair damp from a post-training shower.
His arms are crossed, as usual, but today it doesn’t feel like it’s defensive. He seems… comfortable.
“Hey,” I say, surprised to see him.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks casually, like we’re friendly now.
“Not at all.” I shake my head. “I just got off a conference call with a few potential sponsors for Carlos’ camp in Spain.”
“A successful conference call?”
“I think so,” I reply, settling back into my chair.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “What did you think of the match Saturday?”
The fact that he’s the one asking—that he’s initiating a conversation like a normal, functioning human being—makes me narrow my eyes slightly. “Is this another Gaffer-mandated PR support moment?”
“No.” He chuckles softly. “I’m here on my own.”
I tilt my head, swiveling my chair from side to side. “Are you fishing for compliments, Bradshaw?”
He shrugs. “Just curious what the new PR manager thinks.”
“Well,” I say, dragging the word out just to annoy him. It works. His smile falters. “It was loud. It was chaotic. I really enjoyed it.”
He grins, briefly, but it’s there. “Did you now?”
“You didn’t play too bad either.” I smirk.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Annoyingly impressive,” I tease. “Especially because I was told you don’t push forward much. You’re a box-to-box midfielder, but you’re not usually pressing high up.”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly modest. “Just felt right in the moment.”
“Oh, did it now?" I jab. “Should I add that to your character profile? Oliver Bradshaw: Midfield. Moody. Clairvoyant?”
He chuckles. “Don’t forget bossy.”
“I believe the term you insisted on was captain.”
“Right,” he says with a wink. He glances over at the stack of files I was putting away. “Need help?”
He leans forward to grab them, but I pull them back. His eyes catch on a tab labeled player assets.
“Oh, no, I’m—”
“What the fuck was that?” he asks, brow furrowing. His eyes are even sharper than his voice.
I glance at it and try to play it cool. “The player profiles we were literally just talking about. Did you think I was joking?”
“I knew you were serious,” he says, his jaw tightening. “But why is it labeled assets?”
“It’s just how I organize things,” I lie smoothly. “It’s just an industry term.”
“That’s interesting,” he says, tilting his head at me. All the friendliness from moments ago has suddenly evaporated, replaced by something cold and cutting. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“Oh, well, um—”
“Try again, Addison.”
I try not to flinch. “It’s just a term, Oliver. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does to the person you’re reducing down to being just an asset.
” His voice drops low, the anger unmistakable.
“These lads—my teammates—they’re not numbers on a spreadsheet, Addison.
They’re not inventory. They’re not money in a bank account.
They’re people. They’re my family. They have loved ones, families, children.
They’ve fought through injuries, grief, and who knows what else.
And you’re sitting there calling them assets like they’re disposable. ”
“I never said they were disposable,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “It’s just how I keep things professional.”
“Well, it’s heartless,” he snaps. “We’re fucking people, Addison. Maybe you should get to know the people here before you start selling them.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
And with that, he shoves the folders away from him and leaves.
I’m left standing here, stung by his words, staring at the folder labeled assets. Suddenly, it does look wrong. It looks cold.
Damn it.
I push through the office door and stomp down the stairs toward the locker room, her words still burning in my ears.
Assets.
That’s all we are? Just numbers that can be moved around and sold. Not human beings with scars and real stories.
I can’t stop the rage rising, but it’s tangled up with something else—disappointment.
Why the hell did I seek her out today? What was I even thinking? I’m not supposed to care, but I did. For a moment, I let myself believe maybe she would be different from all the rest.
God, that was stupid.
I grab my bag from my locker, running a hand through my damp hair. I hate feeling this exposed. I’m supposed to be the captain. The guy who keeps it all together, who protects his team from people who don’t hold their best interests.
Instead, I got distracted by a pair of beautiful eyes.
I slam the locker shut and take a breath. This isn’t about her. It’s about me letting my guard down. Look where it got me. That won’t happen again.
I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to think about her.
“Oi,” a voice calls out from behind me. I turn around and Stan is leaning against the lockers on the opposite wall, arms crossed but eyes sharp. “You alright, Bradshaw?”
I straighten up, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m fine,” I mutter, forcing the words out. “Just hate when people don’t treat others like human beings.”
Stan nods slowly, stepping closer. “I hear you, mate. But you know, sometimes there’s a reason for it. People can act cold, or like they don’t care, when they’re actually afraid of caring too much. Maybe there’s some pain behind that purpose.”
Stan’s usual gruffness is softened with something like understanding. His words hang in the air, and for a moment, they strike a chord deep inside me.
I think about Addison. About how guarded she was today. How she tried to keep everything at arm’s length but slipped up just enough for me to catch that flicker of realness.
Maybe she’s that way for a reason, just like me. Maybe the walls, the coldness, the distance are all a shield.
I grit my teeth, but the knot inside me loosens. I’m still pissed at her. Still angry. But maybe… maybe there’s something more there too.