bottled it
DUST BOWL DANCE BY MUMFORD & SONS
I’ve been dreading this day since that smug little motherfucker got here.
Today’s my scheduled end-of-the-season interview for the documentary.
I have to sit in a room with Matt for hours, watching back highlights and narrating the season for the final cut of the documentary.
I have to sit here and pretend I don’t want to kill him.
I have to answer his questions, giving him parts of me he doesn’t deserve.
It’s stifling in here, and sweat gathers at the back of my neck, but I don’t know if it’s the lights or my swelling rage.
I tug a little at the collar of my training top, wishing I could rip it clean off.
Matt sits across from me, a smug smile twisting his mouth, his clipboard in hand like he’s got some fucking authority.
I hate this.
“Ready?” he says casually, like he has no recollection of what happened in the hotel lobby with Addison. Now that he’s in front of his crew again, he wears his mask of phony charisma. He’s got an image to uphold.
I grind my teeth and nod once. Let’s get this over with.
The first few questions are easy. Addison prepped me for them. All about the season, the team, and the fans, like he cares about any of those things. I answer automatically, walking him through each highlight, my gaze focused past the camera.
“Talk to me about the pressure,” Matt says, leaning forward with fake interest. “Promotion is a few games away. A bottom of the ninth, bases-loaded situation. What’s that really like for you?”
I clench my jaw so tightly that it aches.
“It’s a lot of pressure,” I say, keeping it simple. “But we have a good group. You can’t do it alone, and there’s no one I’d rather win with than these people.”
Matt hums, like he’s considering probing further. His eyes gleam, and I know he’s gearing up for something.
“You’re a very intense player, Oliver.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding.
“Where does that come from?” he asks, starting casual. “You’ve got an edge to your game. So much determination and drive. Is that about football—or guilt?”
My mouth goes dry.
“What?”
“Your brother, Henry,” he says lightly, like it’s just some trivia fact about me and not a real goddamn person. “Do you think you play harder because you’re trying to make up for something you couldn’t fix?”
Henry.
I hate that he says his name so easily, like it doesn’t cost anything. Like it’s not the sharpest, deepest wound I’ve got. Like he doesn’t matter.
My chest tightens, something hot and suffocating crawling up my throat.
He’s not here to defend himself.
He’s not here to tell his own story.
And somehow, even now—even dead—I can’t fucking protect him.
Matt gets to say his name. Twist it. Package it up into something ugly and sellable. Turn him into a footnote in my story instead of the person he actually was.
The guilt hits me all over again, sharp and brutal. Not just that I couldn’t save him—
but that I can’t even keep him safe from this.
I can’t fucking breathe.
“Do you think he’d be proud of you?” Matt presses, invisible venom tucked behind the question.
“Yes,” I mutter.
I feel my anger and my guilt, all one fuse, ready to blow.
I know exactly what he’s doing. I know he’s setting me up.
And yet, it still slices right through me.
It still hurts, even when it comes from someone I have literally zero respect for.
Matt tilts his head like he’s curious, like he’s not gutting me like a fish for the camera.
“Is that where the drive comes from?” he asks, still pretending this is a real interview. “Do you play for yourself? Or the brother you couldn’t save?”
I choke down everything I want to say—every ugly word.
“I play for everyone who has believed in me,” I say quietly.
It’s the truth. But it’s not what he wants to hear.
“So,” he says, stretching the word out as he pulls out photos of me from team events over the years. “You’ve been busy over the years. Models. Actresses.”
I go rigid. He’s baiting me. He’s bringing up the worst shit on purpose. Every headline, every assumption, he’s throwing them all back in my face.
Fucking Christ, I want to deck him.
“Different time in my life,” I mutter, voice low.
“And now?” he says, smile turning sly. “You’re putting in the best numbers of your career. Something must have shifted in your life. Someone serious, maybe?”
He leans in like a shark that’s smelled blood.
Every pivot Addison taught me runs through my head. No comment. Just focused on the team.
But then he looks at me, and something about it just slithers under my skin. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The room feels completely dark.
And then I flub it. The words come out before I can even pull them back.
“No one special,” I hear myself say.
Fuck.
As soon as it comes out, my stomach feels sick.
Because it’s a fucking lie.
She’s not just someone special.
She’s everything.
Matt’s eyes gleam, like he’s congratulating himself on getting exactly the soundbite he wanted. I sit there, furious—at him, and at myself.
The second the cameras cut, Matt’s out of his chair, dusting off his jacket like he’s just put in some stellar award-worthy performance.
“A lot of touchy subjects in your life, Bradshaw. I had a lot of fun digging into your past. Single mother. Dead brother,” he says, clicking his tongue. “What a sad story.”
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him back against the wall. His eyes flicker with surprise, but then he grins even wider. He loves it. Fucking loves it.
“Don’t you ever say my brother’s name again,” I snarl.
Like I can still do something.
Like I can still protect him.
Matt just laughs before leaning in closer to me. “Relax, Bradshaw. We all have weaknesses. Yours just happens to be six feet under.”
The blood drains from my face. It takes everything I have not to hit him. I want to. I want to throw him right through the wall. But then I hear Henry’s voice in my head, telling me to let the bloody wanker go.
Henry isn’t my weakness. He’s my strength.
And I won’t let this bastard turn him into anything less.
I release my grip on him, stepping back before I change my mind. Matt smooths out his jacket, cocky as ever. He flashes a sly smile as he adjusts his cuffs.
“Oh, Bradshaw? A little advice for next time you’re on camera,” he says, voice full of mock sympathy. “Don’t call the woman you’re screwing ‘no one special.’” He smirks at me. “You might just break her heart.”
I don’t say a fucking word. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I turn on my heel and storm out of the office, heart pounding.
Because as weak and insignificant as he is, I know he’s right.
I never should have said that about Addison. I was rattled. But now I’m picturing her face when she sees the footage, and it kills me.
I have to find her.
I have to fix this.
I head down the hall, past the crew packing up their gear for the day, and out a side door to the car park. My fingers fumble with my phone, adrenaline making them shake.
Me: Where are you? I need to talk to you.
I can’t stand still. I pace around the car park, heart hammering, rehearsing some apology speech in my head.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean it.
Every second drags. She must have seen the footage already, or heard about it from one of the media people. She was held up in meetings today, but she probably asked someone to keep her posted on everything. She probably hates me now. Never wants to speak to me again.
Addison: I just got back to my office.
Me: Stay there.
Addison: Is everything okay?
I’m already moving before her last message comes through. I sprint up the stairs, barely breathing by the time I round the corner into her office. She’s packing up her bag for the day, but when she looks up at me, she knows something is wrong.
She steps toward me without hesitation, like she’s ready to catch me if I fall.
“Oliver?” she says softly, concern in her voice. “Are you okay?”
I reach her and stop, chest heaving, hands trembling at my sides. I want to touch her, but I can’t. Not until I fix this.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I manage, voice rough. “I fucked up the interviews. I said something I didn’t mean.”
She frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”
I swallow hard, tasting blood as I bite through my lip. “Matt asked if I was seeing anyone. And I…” I look down at the ground, then back up at her. “I said no one special. I didn’t mean it, Addie. I swear, I—”
A tear slips hot down my cheek before I can stop it. I swipe it away angrily, like I can erase the weakness.
“I know,” she says, stepping closer to me.
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” I rasp. “He—”
My voice breaks off as my throat tightens.
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “He what?”
“He brought up Henry.”
Her whole body stiffens, fury flashes in her eyes.
“He did what?”
“Yeah,” I say bitterly, scrubbing a hand over my face. “He dug into my life for pain he could package with a bow for this fucking documentary. Asked if I play harder because of guilt.”
Addison is practically vibrating with rage.
“Oliver. Listen to me,” she says, her voice low and fierce. “He doesn’t get to hold your grief, okay?”
I close my eyes, letting her words settle into the cracks inside me. This woman heals parts of me she didn’t even break.
“And so what?” she continues. “You fucked up an interview? Who cares.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “That’s interesting, coming from the PR Queen.”
“I mean it,” she presses. “I know exactly who you are. I told you that back in Stratton Wood. You are not defined by the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. You’re not a soundbite he can twist around. You’re Oliver fucking Bradshaw.”
I grab her hips, hauling her into me like I’ll fall apart without her.
“Addie,” I breathe, voice shaking as my forehead drops to hers.
I just stand there holding her until everything—Matt, the interview, the guilt—all fades away.