man of the match
FIRE BY KASABIAN
The announcer’s voice blares over the stadium speakers, the crowd is deafening, and I barely hear a thing.
My boots drag against the pitch as we line up. This is where I should be calm, sharp, locked in. Another must-win. Another three points we can’t afford to drop.
Instead, all I can think about is Addison. And Pippa trying to set her up with some jazz-band wanker, right fucking in front of me.
I knew something was going on just by how flustered Addison was getting. She tugs at her sleeves when she’s nervous, like she’s trying to pull herself down to earth. I’ve seen it enough times now to recognize it instantly.
The announcer says something to make the noise of the crowd swell, but my mind isn’t on the pitch. It’s back in that hallway, wondering what Addison said, if she agreed to anything.
I know what we agreed on. No strings. Just until the end of the season. But Christ—if I see her on the arm of some stranger, I’ll bloody lose it. The thought turns my stomach.
She’s not just anyone to me—not anymore. Maybe she never was. I know she has her rules. I know she’s not looking for anything more than what we have, but I have this ridiculous notion that maybe she’ll change her mind.
“Oi.” Brennan elbows me in the side. “You good, mate?”
I grunt, forcing my face to relax. “Just focused.”
That’s a lie, but fake it till you make it, right?
I run a hand down my face, trying to snap out of it. Finally, I glance toward the crowd, and that’s when I see her.
Addison.
Jacket off.
Wearing my kit.
My name. My number. “Bradshaw” printed across her back like it belongs to her.
I swear time slows down, the lights hit her just right, and the whole bloody stadium goes silent. She’s the only one here. The only one I care about.
I feel everything. The pride. The possessiveness. The need.
And that’s it. I’m gone.
My pulse slams hard against my ribs. I crack my neck, bouncing on my toes as something that has felt stuck for weeks finally loosens.
The whistle blows and I explode off the line.
Let’s fucking go.
I’m throwing myself into every tackle, winning every ball like the bastards across from me nicked something from my own house. I shoulder their striker off the ball and snarl when he hits the turf.
“Up you get, lad,” I mutter under my breath.
The crowd goes mad, but it’s just noise.
I only hear my heart pounding in my ears and the way my name sounds when she says it.
Every pass, every run up the wing—I give it everything I have, because I know she’s watching me. Wearing me.
I need to show her that I see her too. That no matter what rules we made, she’s already got all of me.
The frustration that's been sitting in my chest for weeks suddenly has somewhere to go.
The game slows down. The way it always does when everything clicks. When instinct takes over. When football feels simple again.
The ball comes across the box. I don’t even think. I just strike through it, clean and hard.
The ball rockets to the back of the net, and the stadium erupts.
Next thing I know, I’m sliding on my knees, arms spread open as the lads pile on top of me.
I barely feel it, because when I stand up, my eyes find hers immediately.
Up on her feet, cheeks flushed with adrenaline, chanting my name like I hung the damn moon.
And fuck me, it wrecks me.
That’s one way to snap a losing streak.
The second half kicks off and my legs are already burning. The stadium is a wall of noise—the fans riding every tackle, every half-clearance, and every panicked boot upfield.
It’s 1-0. The most dangerous scoreline in football. Close enough to lose. Close enough to panic.
Every pass, every touch, every goddamn second matters. I can feel the weight of the lads on my back, the crowd in my ears, and a little voice in my head whispering that if I slip, we slip.
But then I also hear Stan’s voice from the other day, telling me that I can’t control everything, that I’m pushing myself too hard.
I probably am. I want this so badly for myself, and for the lads. The weight of that pressure is crushing, but then I look into the crowd and see her, and when she watches me with that kind of passion and hope, I think I could single-handedly drag this team over the line if I wanted to.
I’m everywhere. Sliding in for tackles, sprinting back to cover the defense, and barking orders like a drill sergeant on steroids.
“Eyes up! Push the fuck up!” I shout, pumping my fists. The lads are responding, following my lead, and I can see them feeding off it.
I glance across the pitch.
Brennan is tracking back.
Sebastian is pressing like a madman.
Carlos is making another run into space.
They're here.
All of them.
This isn't mine to carry alone.
I suck in a breath and point forward. “Keep pushing!”
The lads respond instantly. Not because I'm barking orders, but because they want this too.
The opposition breaks through the midfield. I dart forward, shoulder first into the bastard trying to pass, boots crunching turf and man. Whistle blows. Yellow card.
“Oi! What? Can’t protect the pitch?” I yell cheekily, grinning at the ref. “It’s a bloody hazard zone out here!”
The opposition surges again, dangerous as hell. I track, lunge, and boot the ball away.
Every second is chaos, but I thrive in it. My body moves before my brain catches up. I can feel my pulse in my fists, in my boots, and even in my bloody teeth.
I don’t stop. Corners, throw-ins, every second, I’m shouting, motivating, driving, making sure no one relaxes. I can’t let them. Not now. Not ever.
By the final whistle, I’m soaked, lungs screaming, legs trembling. But we’ve done it. I’ve done it.
I steal another glance toward the stands, and there she is, looking at me with so much pride it physically aches.
Not because I scored.
Not because I wore the armband.
Not because I played well.
Because she sees me.
The real me.
The messy, stubborn, terrified idiot underneath all of it.
And bloody hell, that might be the best feeling in the world.
The locker room is electric after the final whistle, buzzing like we won the bloody league and not a tight 1-0 match. We didn’t just scrape by—we earned it. After a stretch of matches where it felt like points were impossible to come by, we won.
I’ve got a grin plastered on my face, but I roll my eyes when I spot Matt hovering in the corner, camera in tow. He corners me before I have the chance to duck into the showers.
“So, Bradshaw,” he says, pushing himself close to me. “You were really on one today. Anything in particular fuel that performance?”
“I don’t know,” I say casually. “It was a great team performance. Good to bounce back after the last few and take three points.”
“Yes,” Matt says, not thrilled by my group-effort answer. “It was a great team performance, but you were on another level.”
I shrug, flashing a clipped, media-trained smile. “I guess I just felt a fire today.”
Not a lie. Not the whole truth.
Matt nods to the cameraman behind him and moves around the locker room to get shots of the lads celebrating.
I close my eyes like I can still see her, in the crowd, in my kit.
Yeah, I was on fire today.
But it wasn’t tactics.
It was her.
I hit the showers quickly, throw on fresh clothes, and head away from the noise toward Luke’s office for some physio. My knee has felt tight lately. It’s nothing serious, just the glamorous life of professional football.
Plus, I like the quiet after a match and everyone’s left. It’s the calm after the storm.
Especially when I want to replay one image over and over in my mind.