clean sheet
Epilogue
LIFE IS WAITING BY HARRISON BOE
Six Months Later
Six months ago, we were a secret.
Now he’s cooking pasta in our kitchen.
“Keep an eye on the sauce,” he says, handing me a wooden spoon. “I have to prep the garlic bread.”
Within seconds, I have sauce on the countertop, and I think, even the ceiling.
“Hey,” Oliver says, sliding behind me, chest brushing my back. “Why do you stir so aggressively?”
“Maybe the sauce needed to aerate?” I offer, laughing at myself. I can bake with ease, but cooking, actually cooking, is a skill I don’t possess. Not like him, anyway.
“You’re treating the marinara like it’s a contact sport.” Oliver takes the spoon away from me and points it toward the living room. “Now get out of my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen,” I correct him, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re quite bossy.”
“I prefer Captain, remember?” He grins at me, full and lazy.
The kind of grin that makes me weak in the knees and forgetful of whatever we were talking about, which is rude, honestly.
He’s got a tea towel thrown over his shoulder like he’s Gordon Ramsay, and his hair is still damp from the shower he took after training.
Every time he smiles at me, I feel a flutter in my stomach that I still haven’t gotten used to. We’ve been living together for months, and the man can still make me blush like we’re sneaking around the hallways at work.
Except now we don’t have to hide.
No more closed doors. No more hiding undercover. No more pretending I’m just his PR manager and he’s just a footballer.
We commute together most days. He trains and plays hard to keep the team in the Premier League. I handle the media circus that follows. Then we come home to this weird, messy, beautiful life we’ve created.
I retreat to the sofa, watching as he moves around the kitchen with ease, with the same quiet intention he always carries.
I glance to my left at the mantle above the fireplace.
Mixed among photos of Oliver and Henry growing up with their mother are photos of the life we’ve only just begun to live together.
On one end of the mantle is a gold frame holding the photo from Hyde Park—the one we joked we’d tell our grandkids about. I guess now we will.
On the other end of the mantle, a frame sits holding a photo from the promotion match. His arms are around me while confetti sticks to my hair. His medal hangs beside it now, displayed like the win was something we earned together.
Maybe it was.
“Wine or no wine?” he calls from the kitchen.
“Honestly, Captain,” I say, shooting him a teasing smirk. “Do you even know me at all?”
He smiles at me and grabs two bottles from the cabinet, opening one and leaving the other for later.
Oliver brings two bowls out to the living room and hands me mine. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He sits down beside me, thigh pressed to mine as our dinner balances on the coffee table in front of us.
I grab the remote and glance over at Oliver. “You’re sure? You really want to watch this?”
“Yup.”
“After everything he tried to do?”
Tonight, the first episode of the documentary Game Day made about Rockford finally airs. I’ve been hesitant about watching it for weeks, but Oliver has been insistent.
“He didn’t win, Addie," Oliver says.
“He tried.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “People like him always try to. But look what came of it.” He gestures toward the screen and then around the room. “You’re here. We’re here. We’ve got promotion. We’ve got the team. We’ve got us, Addie.”
He’s right. For every moment Matt tried to twist into something ugly, there were a hundred more that became something beautiful.
It was never just about Oliver and me. It was everything.
All of it. It was Rockford. Sebastian’s wild celebrations.
Carlos’ fiery determination. Stan’s dry sarcasm.
Brennan’s steady presence. Luke’s unwavering loyalty.
Pippa’s fierce friendship. There’s more than one love story here, but ours threads through them all.
“Us,” I say, flashing a warm, genuine smile. I press play on the remote. “Hope they got my good side then.”
He smiles, and we fall into a quiet rhythm.
There’s a shot of Oliver screaming something to the team, soaked in rain.
Even then, you can see the heart on his sleeve and the passion he plays with.
I suppose, as angry as I was to have Matt show up, there’s something beautiful about having these memories at my fingertips always.
It’s surreal watching the season back. I remember every headline, every crisis, and every event.
There’s a shot of me outside the locker room after a match, clipboard in hand, laser-focused.
Oliver walks into the frame and brushes past me.
He doesn’t even stop to look at me, but he makes sure our hands touch.
The cameras move on, and the audience will probably never know we had already been together for months at that point.
I watch as pieces of our beginnings unfurl on screen. Oliver’s hand rests on my thigh, casual and steady.
“How weird is this?” I ask quietly. “Watching it all happen.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “You mean watching myself fall in love with my PR manager?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a gift.” His gaze finds mine. “It’s like I get to fall in love with you over and over again.”
The documentary rolls on, filled with flashbacks and footage of the earliest moments of our relationship.
I can’t stop thinking about how far we’ve come.
Not even just me and Oliver.
But me.
From who I used to be.
A woman who was afraid to take up space.
And yet, here I am now. Stronger. Happier. In love. Taking up as much space as possible, beside a man who basks in my light.
It didn’t happen all at once. True growth is quieter and harder than that.
It’s not one big push toward something. It’s a thousand small moments strung together into something real.
It’s standing your ground. Setting a boundary.
Saying no. Saying yes. Trying. Letting yourself hope again. Letting yourself believe again.
I think about how Oliver was when we met. All closed-off glares and tension. And now? Now he’s soft and open. Not just with me, but with everyone. He lets them see all of him.
Oliver and I grew together. Neither of us had to shrink to make it work. We made room for each other.
And for just a small moment, as the documentary flashes to another dramatic scene, I think of Matt.
He doesn’t get a happy ending.
But he doesn’t get a tragic one either.
And somehow, I think that’s worse for men like him.
Closure is funny like that. It doesn’t always come in the form of a grand, satisfying takedown. This isn’t a fairytale movie that ends with him being exposed in some moment of cinematic justice. Sometimes, the villain doesn’t win, but they don’t necessarily lose either.
He just… stays the same. Still desperate. Still clawing for attention. Still hiding behind his charm and ego. Still chasing stories that were never his to tell.
He doesn’t get a redemption arc. There are no lessons learned.
He just doesn’t get me.
And that’s the only ending that matters.
One day, people will see him for who he truly is. That’s what I hope, anyway. And when they do, I hope I never hear about it. Because I’m not listening anymore. I’m not waiting for it to happen. I’m too busy living this life.
Sometimes, you don’t need to watch your villain lose.
Sometimes, it’s enough that you made it out.
That you escaped the wreckage and moved into something better.
You clawed your way out to write a better story, one you deserved.
You walked away from the war and chose peace instead. You chose yourself.
Sometimes, the most powerful ending isn’t revenge.
It’s freedom.
I glance over at Oliver. This man, this life, is everything I didn’t know I could have.
Maybe Matt didn’t lose.
But I won.