The apartment is dark and quiet, the only sound coming from the soft hum of the heater. I sit curled up on the sofa with my laptop open. Jet lag is hitting me and I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s being in a new place, in a new bed. Maybe it’s just getting used to the time difference. It’s 9 p.m. back in New York, but here in London it’s nearly 2 a.m. I should be sleeping. Tomorrow—or today—is a very big day.
I take a sip of the lukewarm tea I made earlier and set my mug aside. I pull up the Rockford FC website, diving into the bios of the players. I need to know who I’ll be working with, the personalities I’ll have to manage, and the egos I’ll have to navigate.
I start with the star striker, Sebastian Leroux. The French star has an electrifying reputation on the field. I watch a highlight reel showcasing a string of goals paired alongside exuberant celebrations. He celebrates every goal like it’s the game winner in the World Cup. He clearly has a flair for the dramatic. I jot down a few notes about him.Theatrical. Loves the spotlight. PR dream as long as he stays team-focused.
Next is Carlos Cabrera, defender. Just his profile photo alone tells me everything I need to know. He smirks at the camera, brown eyes shining like he knows something you don’t, and it’s obvious he’s the team provocateur. He thrives on getting under the skin of the other team, toeing the line of the rulebook. I chuckle at the photos of him shushing opposing players. I get the sense that referees hate him, but the fans love him. A quick search in the sidebar brings up photos of him out and about in London. Articles mention his rotating cycle of models. He seems to be constant tabloid fodder.Agitator. Charming. Hands will be full with this one.
Brennan Wolfe, dependable midfielder. Even from just his photo, I can tell he’s different. There’s no smirk. No smolder. With short blonde hair and blue eyes that look almost serene, he looks like the kind of guy who would say “thank you” even when given a yellow card. Hisbio mentions all the clubs he’s been at, a solid, grounding presence at each one. He’s quiet, but his impact is noticeable on the field. He’s the one who runs in, separating players and squashing potential issues. Married with children, he seems to live a quiet life outside the sport. This is like PR Christmas.Family man. Low drama. Easy.
Harry Freeman, goalkeeper. His long, wild mane is pulled back into a tight bun. The article mentions he doesn’t believe in cutting it because he might lose his luck. His biography mentions a quirky personality, intense on the field but childlike off it.Goalkeepers are a weird breed.Let him do his thing.
I scroll through the entire team, jotting down notes on each one before landing on the final player. Oliver Bradshaw. A dynamic, box to box midfielder, and captain of the team. The first thing that strikes me about him is the intensity in his eyes in every photo. His gaze looks like it could cut through steel. The team website goes into detail about how seriously he takes his captaincy, and how he grew up less than an hour away from the club, raised by a single mother, and lost his brother at a young age.That could be a good story.I open a quick internet search and notice another trend: different women in every photo.Great. Another playboy.Countless articles mention he’s private and rarely opens up in interviews, when he even allows interviews at all.Be careful. PR nightmare.
Each player has a unique story, a blend of charm, talent, and the pursuit of their dreams. There’s a lot I can workwith. There’s also a lot I’ll need to workon.
I craft mental profiles of them in my head, setting expectations of what I’m about to walk into.
I lean back, rubbing my eyes as fatigue finally sets in. I shut the laptop and set it on the coffee table. I pull the blanket up over myshoulders and curl into the sofa further. North London is a far, far way away from home, but I’m determined to make this new role a success.
4
loan spell
NO ROOTS BY ALICE MERTON
I step outside my apartment, and the crisp London air nips at my skin. It wakes me up, considering I only got about four hours of sleep, if you could even call it sleep. I mostly just laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying what I left behind, and wondering what lies ahead for me.
“Ready for your big day?” Luke asks, rocking back on his heels, excited like it’s Christmas morning. He’s wearing the same Rockford FC tracksuit he had on when he offered me this job. The jacket’s half-zipped, his hair sticking up like he got ready in a hurry, and his smile is infuriatingly bright for this hour.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, pulling the strap of my bag over my shoulder.
I took my time curating an outfit this morning—a ridiculous amount of time, if I’m being honest. I wanted to strike the perfect balance between feminine and powerful, approachable but confident. I grabbed skinny, black dress pants and paired them with a soft, silky blouse in a creamy blue color. I originally pulled a blazer from my suitcase but skipped it because it made me look like I was running foroffice or something. The goal was to exude confidence, like I actually know what I’m doing, without coming across as cold. I kept my long brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail, almost like I were restraining myself along with it.
Luke walks alongside me as we make our way toward Ashdown Park, home of Rockford FC. North London is bustling this morning. The streets are packed with cars rolling by, other commuters walking toward the Tube, and the occasional dog walker.
The closer we get to the stadium, the more real this feels. It’s like this place, this city, this team, is pulsing with a history I don’t understand yet.
Luke points ahead. “That’s the main entrance right there. And over to the right, that’s the fan shop. We should get you a kit at some point.”
“A kit?”
“A jersey.” Luke sighs. “Maybe we should start with a British translation sheet.”
“I’ll pick it up quickly,” I promise him. “Besides, I’m working for the team, not playing for them. I don’t think I need a… kit.”
Luke ignores me and continues his tour, sweeping a hand toward the stadium. “Rockford’s been around since 1902. Kicked around in the lower leagues for most of its existence, but there’s been a few glimmers of hope along the way. Heartbreak always followed. Right now, though, we’re on the rise. Biggest rise in our history, actually. We’re third in the table, fighting for promotion. That’s why you’re here. Everyone is watching us—the underdog that mightfinallyhave it in them to rise above. More eyes on us means we need you to make sure we don’t screw up the PR side of things.”
“That’s fine,” I say, glancing up at the stadium as we approach. “I like a good challenge.”
He shoots me a look. “Speaking of challenges… are we ever going to talk about why you actually took this job?”
“I created my own company. Needed clients.”
“Addison.”
“You’re the one who called me with the offer, remember?”
“Yeah, but—”
