defending the box
BULLET FOR YOUR LOVE BY SAM PALLADIO
It’s been a week, and I know exactly what day today is.
I can feel it in my jaw—the way my teeth grind against each other the moment I step out of my car at the training ground.
The sun is out, and the lads are filtering into the building, chatting and messing about, but all I can think about is him.
Matt fucking Whitlock.
His name alone makes my blood boil. I’ve never even met the prick, and I want to put him through a brick wall. Several walls, actually.
Because I know what he did to her.
And the thought of him strolling in here, shaking hands, pretending like he’s not a fucking bellend? That has me ready to throw the first punch before he even says hello.
When I step into the lobby, Addison is strolling around, watching the media team as they film pre-match day promo.
She’s in work mode—polished and unreadable.
But I know her now, even if it’s just a little.
I see the way her arms are crossed over her body, like she’s caging herself in.
I know how hard she’s working to keep those walls built up high today.
“Morning,” I mutter as I walk up beside her.
“Please,” she says, finally looking over at me. “Be civil.”
I snort. Not because I find it funny, but because that is way too big an ask.
“Oliver,” she warns, soft but firm. “I mean it. Don’t let him destroy you. Please.”
The please tugs on something in my chest.
“I know,” I whisper. “Best efforts.”
“Thank you,” she says, her voice surprised, like she didn’t expect me to agree so easily.
Truth is, I want to put him through the ringer.
I want to make him feel as unwelcome as possible.
Actually, I want to punch him immediately upon introduction.
But she doesn’t need any of that from me.
She needs me to stay away from causing chaos and keep as much off her plate as possible.
I hate it, but that’s the job. On and off the pitch, my job is to hold the line.
“But,” I add, stepping closer and lowering my voice. I wait until she meets my eyes, until she sees how serious I am. “Don’t let him have power over you. You’re Addison fucking Scott.”
She smiles for a moment—quick, flickering, but it’s there. It’s like seeing the sun cut through clouds for half a second.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. Before I can say anything else, someone calls her, and she’s off to fix a camera and lighting dilemma. And I’m left standing here, ready to walk into fire for her.
I shove my boots on harder than necessary, jaw tight, as I listen to Carlos talking about how many cameras will be on us.
Sebastian’s already preening, checking himself in a mirror like he’s imagining which side is his best. And Harry’s just standing there juggling, because keepers are a weird breed.
They’re all grinning like it’s Christmas morning, and I can’t blame them because they don’t know any different. They haven’t learned yet that the cameras don’t just watch—they dissect. They take what they want, as much as they want, and twist whatever’s left.
Brennan sits down on the bench of his stall, next to mine. He’s a quiet lad, not shy, just content to not add any more noise. With three kids at home, I think he prefers to zone out at training.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
I shrug. “No more than usual.”
He doesn’t buy it. “That’s my point, Ol. You hate interviews, cameras, media, the whole bit. I expected you to be the one flipping tables over this, and instead, you’re just calmly getting ready for training like it’s any other bloody Monday.”
I lean back, dragging a hand over my jaw. “And?”
“And you know something,” he accuses me.
Of course I do. But Addison told me that in confidence, and I’m sure she wouldn’t want it getting out. Then it’s just Matt controlling her all over again.
But Brennan’s also my best mate on the team, and I can’t bring myself to just lie to him.
“Mate, just… just watch your back with him, that’s all.” It isn’t much, but it’s a crumb.
Brennan raises an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Let’s just say… I don’t trust blokes who smile with their mouth and not their eyes, alright?”
He doesn’t press. He just gives me a slow nod. “Got it, mate.”
I turn back to putting the rest of my training kit on. Everyone else is still buzzing, but I tune it out. I’ve got no patience for it. I don’t care if he writes some glowing review of the team, or of me. If he even so much as breathes wrong near her—I might lose it.
“Don’t let him destroy you.”
She doesn’t understand. He already did, by destroying her.
We’re all gathered at the touchline of the pitch like we’re waiting for some kind of inspection.
Even the staff’s out here. Gaffer and Stan are deep in conversation.
Gaffer looks thrilled, and Stan looks like he’s biting his tongue in half.
Stan might be the only person besides Addison and me that’s unhappy about this whole thing, albeit for different reasons.
Stan’s a local bloke. This club is everything to him. He’s fiercely protective of it. Underneath his gruff demeanor and permanent frown, I actually admire that about him. You can’t fake loyalty like his.
Even Addison’s out here, which is not at all normal. Usually during training she’s holed up in her office, hard at work, juggling schedules and press events. But Agnelli wanted everyone out here for the arrival.
She’s standing just a little off to the side, trying to look composed.
But I know better now.
She thinks she’s hiding it. And maybe she is for everyone but me.
Her posture’s perfect, and she’s smiling, but I can see the way her fingers twitch. The way she grabs one wrist and then the other, like she’s trying to force herself to stay still. I can see her jaw tighten with every shaky breath.
Then Agnelli walks out toward the pitch, with Matt beside him.
He looks exactly like he did in every photo I found online.
Confident. Casual. Like he already knows all of us and owns every room he walks into.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Addison stiffen.
I’ve never seen her flinch before, and I don’t like it.
This girl walked into a locker room of half-naked footballers and barely batted an eye, but one look at this fucker and she’s shaking like a leaf.
I want to go to her, but I can’t.
I’m stuck here with my teammates, forced to just watch her discomfort like a form of torture. I glance at her again. Her hands are trembling. I can see her throat bob as she swallows back emotion.
She looks away from him. When her eyes land on me, I hold her gaze. I give her the smallest nod, like I’m trying to silently talk to her. Breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Her lips part a little, like she understood me completely.
The lads quiet down when Alan starts some speech, welcoming Matt to the club like he’s some bloody hero returning from war. Polite claps ripple through the team, but I stand there, arms crossed in silent protest.
Matt works the gaffer and Stan like a goddamn politician before shifting his attention toward Addison. My chest tightens. Addison steps forward, stoic and professional, like she’s heading to the gallows. She lifts her hand for a polite handshake, her expression blank.
He takes her hand and pulls her into a hug.
And my blood fucking boils.
Her body goes still. She doesn’t hug back. She doesn’t even blink. She just stands there, like she’s disconnected from her own body.
And he grins. Fucking grins.
I feel something dangerous twist in my stomach. My fists clench at my sides, and my jaw is tight enough to crack. I feel like smoke is coming out of my ears and all I can do is just watch.
It’s not just that he touched her. It’s how he touched her. Like he’s staking a claim, reminding her that she’s still something he controls.
Brennan shifts next to me. He glances over at me, then at Matt, then back at me again. I don’t say a word. I don’t have to. He knows.
Our partnership on the pitch is seamless because we can read each other without saying a word. This is no different. I don’t know how he pieces it together, he just does.
Matt peels himself away from Addison, and I can finally exhale. Despite it being a chilly November day, I am heated.
Alan gestures to the team. “And this is our squad. Lads, this is Matt Whitlock.”
Matt turns to us like he’s stepping on stage to accept a prestigious award.
I hate everything about him. I hate his ultra-white teeth and politician charm.
I hate his blue suit, complete with a pocket square and designer label.
His charcoal gray tie is loosened like he’s trying to say I’m casual while also screaming I’m better than you.
He moves through the team like it’s a rope line and he’s running for office. He flashes fake smiles and shakes hands like he’s known you for years. He’s smooth. He plays the part well. Some of the lads eat it up.
“Oliver Bradshaw,” he says, offering his hand like it’s some kind of gift. “Club captain. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you too, motherfucker.
I stare at his hand for a second too long before shaking it. It’s brief. Cold. One firm movement.
“Oh, yeah?”
He nods, still grinning. “Your teammates speak highly of you. They say you’re the heart of this club.”
“Well, I know how to protect the people I care about,” I say, cool, calm, and collected.
I don’t even look for his reaction. Instead, my eyes flick to Addison. She stands behind him, still near the touchline, out of his eyesight. I look at her just in time to catch her mouth twitch upwards. She ducks her head like she’s trying to hide it, but I see it.
She smiled.
And suddenly, I don’t give a shit about Matt Whitlock’s fancy suit, fake charm, or poor excuse for a handshake.
Addison smiled. I made her smile.
Matt steps away, gesturing for all of us to surround him like he’s about to give us some impassioned speech because we’re down 2-0 at half-time.
“Thank you, Alan,” he says with that rehearsed grin.
“And thank all of you for having me. I know it’s not every day you have a big television channel wanting to follow you around.
I’m here to observe, not disrupt. I know the cameras can be a bit much at first, but you’ll get used to them.
I’m so excited to be spending the next few months with all of you. ”
The moment he says that last line, his eyes land on Addison. Like that was just for her. He doesn’t say her name, but he might as well have.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my body is taking a step forward, fists clenched. Addison stands on the edge of the huddle, and when she catches my eye, she gives a tiny shake of her head.
It’s not desperate—just firm. Don’t. Don’t give him what he wants.
“I’m really looking forward to getting to know you all,” Matt continues, unaware that Addison basically granted a pardon for his execution. “I want to tell your stories, show people who Rockford FC really is. You’ve got something special happening here, and I can’t wait to share it.”
Something twists in my gut when he says that.
It sounds harmless on the surface. But underneath, it’s like he thinks our lives, our pasts, and our families are his to sift through.
It comes out like a challenge, like he’s covertly telling us he’s going to dig and excavate things we don’t want uncovered.
But that’s not him sharing. That’s him taking.
I’ve kept my life off-limits for a reason.
I’ve always avoided talking about my family, about what we’ve lost. And then, after Cassandra sold stories about me to a tabloid, I’ve become even more reserved.
I don’t want him dragging my past out into the light to paint it as some feel-good redemption arc. My life isn’t content.
There’s polite applause from a few of the lads, mostly the younger ones, who are still green. This club has never made it past the championship league, so for a lot of them, this is their first taste of fame.
But me? I don’t move. I don’t clap. I don’t even blink.
Because I don’t care what speech he gives, how many hands he shakes, or what mask he wears in front of everyone else.
I know exactly who he is.
And if he thinks, even for one second, that he can come here and control her again, he’s going to have to go through me. He’s going to learn real fast what I mean when I say I protect the people I care about.