tight marking
COOL BY GRACIE AbrAMS
Alan is so energetic this morning that I’m not even sure he’s actually seated in his chair. He bounces with excitement so much I don’t think his behind ever touches the seat.
“We’re almost there, Addison,” he says, eyes bright with anticipation. “Promotion is within reach. If we didn’t have that losing streak back in February, it would have been locked down by now.”
“I know.” I smile, tapping my pen against my notepad. “I’m sure it would have been nice to have it tied up by now, but we wouldn’t be Rockford if we weren’t underdogs right to the end.”
“Exactly,” Alan says, smiling. “How are things coming along for the gala this week?”
“Just working out the last-minute details,” I say, a hint of hesitation in my voice. Alan seems to notice it. The planning committee has handled most of the logistics of the event. I’ve just been coordinating media coverage.
“What is it, Addison?”
“Everyone's focused. The players. The coaches. The supporters. The entire club is laser-focused on these last few matches. Part of me wonders whether a gala in the middle of all that becomes a distraction.”
He nods. “I get that. Trust me, I want promotion just as much as everyone here. But this is tradition. Every year before the final stretch of the season, we host this gala.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “But every year isn’t like this year. We’ve never been this close before.” Alan smirks at me. “What?”
“Look at you becoming a football fan,” he teases.
“Worried about distractions and speaking like you’re one of us.
I see where your concern is, Addison. I really do.
I think it’s important to keep with our traditions.
If we start doing things differently just because of the situation we’re in, that might trip the lads up and get into their heads.
But I also think celebrating how far we’ve come and raising money for local organizations will really remind the lads of who we’re playing for. ”
“That’s true,” I admit. Maybe he’s right. Maybe subconsciously, I worry it will distract the team because I know from personal experience, simply because of Oliver, how badly they all want this. Maybe I’m too close to see the bigger picture here.
“You've become one of us, you know.”
I laugh. “What does that mean?”
“You came here to handle media relations.” He points at me. “Now you're worried about squad mentality and momentum.”
I laugh. “I suppose football has grown on me.”
“Football?” Alan scoffs, laughing. “Rockford has.”
“You might be right.”
“I trust you completely, Addison,” he says, his smile wide enough to light the room as he nods toward the gala plans.
Before I can say anything, Matt strolls into the office like he’s smelled an opportunity to swoop in and take credit for my work.
“Addison’s great at putting events together,” Matt says as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “I’d be happy to assist.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re very busy with the documentary,” Alan says, not picking up on the tension ripping through his office.
“On the contrary,” Matt says, flashing an irritating smirk. “My group is still filming, but I’d like to take a small step back to allow the team their time to prepare for these last games. Besides, we should be coordinating this together. After all, my team counts as media coverage.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Alan says gratefully. He doesn’t realize Matt’s Mother Theresa act is a facade.
“So,” Matt says, sitting down at the table uninvited, “I’ve got time on my hands. Addison and I used to work together seamlessly back in the States.”
I grit my teeth behind a smile. “I think I can handle this.”
Matt chuckles. “Of course you can. But it would be fun to do it together, just like old times.”
My spine stiffens. Just like old times, where I did all the work and he took all the credit. I realize now exactly why Matt is offering to help with this gala. It’s not about the team. It’s about control.
“That’s settled then,” Alan says, oblivious to the silent storm brewing. “You two work your magic and have it planned out for this Saturday. We play Wednesday this week, so it’s a rare weekend of no football for the lads.”
Alan launches into the next agenda item while I silently contemplate faking my own death.
As soon as we step out of Alan’s office, Matt falls into step beside me like it’s choreographed. I grip my notebook tighter, already bracing myself.
“So, how about a working lunch? Your office?” Matt asks, leaning in toward me. “You still like BLTs with a disproportionate amount of bacon, right?”
God, I hate that he knows that. It used to make me feel seen. Now it just makes me feel watched. I hate that he’s weaponizing nostalgia, like it’s a key he can use to unlock some old version of me that still wants to say yes. That girl isn’t here anymore.
“I’ll put together a list of ideas and email you,” I say curtly. He smiles at me like this is normal, like we’re still the same version of us that ended a long time ago.
I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction just to avoid him.
“Seriously?” I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re telling me Harry won’t eat anything yellow on match days?”
“Dead serious,” Oliver says, eyes gleaming as he holds back a laugh. “Carlos tried to sneak eggs into his breakfast burrito once, and he went mental.”
“Keepers are a really superstitious bunch, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Oliver nods, chuckling. “But he’s our keeper, and he’s putting in great results, so I’m not fucking with it. Not even a little.”
Oliver sits across from me, one ankle resting casually on his knee. I’m leaning forward, chin in my hand, grinning and laughing like I always seem to do when it’s just us.
I’m still laughing when there’s a knock at the door. Then, without waiting for a reply, it pushes open.
Matt steps in holding a paper bag and two drinks. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, smiling at me.
Oliver’s body language shifts instantly—his back straightens, his shoulders tense. The whole room feels like the air’s been sucked out.
“I brought lunch,” Matt says, holding up the bag like it’s a peace offering. “I thought we could discuss Saturday.”
Oliver perks up at that. Oh god, I hope he doesn’t think I would actually willingly agree to go to the gala with this asshole.
“I told you I was busy,” I say, measured but with an obvious edge. I look directly at Oliver, trying to communicate a hundred things without saying a single word. I didn’t ask him here. I don’t want him here. Please understand this.
“I figured you’d change your mind,” Matt replies smoothly, because he’s never accepted no as a complete sentence.
“I should go.” Oliver pushes up from his chair. “I should let you get back to work.” He says it so carefully, I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or covering for me.
“Oliver—”
“Did I interrupt something?” Matt asks, glancing back and forth between us, the picture of fake concern.
I force a smile. “We were just talking about Oliver potentially starting his own foundation.”
“Right,” Oliver says, clearing his throat. He shifts behind Matt, moving toward the door. “We can pick it back up later.”
Oliver stops in the door frame, rolls his eyes, and winks. Matt can’t see it, but it’s all I need to know that he isn’t upset with me.
And then he’s gone, and I hate watching him leave. And I really hate being stuck for lunch with Matt.
Matt drops into Oliver’s empty seat like nothing happened and starts pulling lunch out of the bag. “There you go,” he says, handing me a wrapped sandwich. “BLT—heavy on the B, light on everything else.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. I take a bite of the sandwich. Damn it, it’s good. I hate that it’s good.
“So,” Matt says, laying out his lunch like it’s some romantic picnic for one, “for the gala, I’m thinking we bring the whole documentary crew in. Full set up. Multiple camera angles. Interviews. The works.”
I fold my hands, forcing a polite smile. “This event is for charity, Matt. There’s already going to be media coverage. You can bring a few of your people, but we don’t need to turn it into a full circus.”
Matt waves that off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Come on, Addison. Elevate. Remember that Christmas party we worked on when you were still at Peabody?”
I blink slowly. “Yeah,” I say, biting back the memory. “I remember it.”
“That night was amazing. Everyone talked about how incredible that party was. And you and me—we managed all of it, like a real power couple.”
I tighten my grip on my drink, willing myself to keep my mouth shut.
I’m not sure we remember the same event.
What I remember is our CEO pulling me aside to compliment the event, and then Matt sulking for a week, snapping at me anytime he could that I’d made him look small.
He said I was starved for attention and not a team player.
“I guess I remember that party differently,” I say, coolly.
He shrugs, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about and doesn’t give a shit. “I guess I choose to remember the good times.”
Of course he does, because he’s the one who benefitted from them.
What good times?
Maybe those moments of love bombing seemed great at the time. Maybe they seemed like the “good times.” But now? Now I realize times were never good.
I push my sandwich away, my appetite suddenly gone.
“Fine,” he says. His jaw ticks, but he covers it with a smug grin. “We can do it your way.”
That was too easy. He’s up to something.
“Good,” I say, standing up to make it clear this meeting is over. “Makes sense, considering I’m the one who actually works here. You’re just… what was it? Happy to assist?”
And that does it. I see the slight twitch of his smile, the way his fingers flex on this drink. He doesn’t say anything, just stands up, and lets out a chuckle that doesn’t even reach his eyes.
“I just want to help you, Addison,” he says smoothly. “But… whatever you think is best.”
I nod and open my file cabinet. I pretend to look for something, just to make it clear that I have other things to do. He heads out of my office with a smug little nod and disappears down the hall.
I know exactly what he’s up to.
He’s waiting to watch me fail.