“Bullshit.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Relax, Bradshaw,” Stan says. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t particularly care either. But I know that look.”
“What look?”
“You’re trying to fix what’s broken on the pitch because there’s something else you can’t fix. Maybe something you’re afraid of losing?”
I swallow hard, biting the inside of my cheek. How can he be so clueless and so intuitive all at once?
“You can’t control everything, Oliver,” Stan says. “Not the matches. Not the team. And definitely not whatever it is you’re holding on to so tight.”
“What do you mean?”
Stan sighs, pausing to choose his words carefully. “You’re pushing too hard, Oliver. You’re punishing yourself.”
“For the matches? They’re my fault.”
“Not the matches,” he says slowly. “Henry.”
That word hits me square in the chest. My head drops forward, elbows on my knees. I can’t find the words to say anything. I know I’ve been takingmy frustration about Addison leaving out on the pitch, but I didn’t realize it’s been my feelings about Henry too.
That’s why this all feels so familiar. Because I’ve done this before.
I’ve loved someone and known, deep down, that I couldn’t save them. That no matter what I said or did or begged for, the end was written in stone.
I couldn’t stop Henry’s death.
And I can’t stop Addison from leaving.
It’s a different grief, but the same loss. The same instinct to hold on to everything else until my hands bleed.
That helplessness manifests with me forcing everything else around me, but failing at all of it.
“I know losing him changed you, Oliver,” Stan says. “Of course it did. How could it not? But you’ve been trying to rewrite that story on the pitch ever since. You can’t.”
I blink fast. Don’t cry. Not here.
“You can’t change what happened to him,” Stan says, softer now. “You can’t rewrite that story. You’ve spent years trying to.”
The words hit me like a punch, because I think part of me has always been trying to make the story hurt less. I’ve spent years trying to earn a different ending.
“But you can write something new,” Stan says. “Henry’s story is finished. But yours isn’t. You’re allowed to move forward, Oliver. You’re allowed to stop carrying that guilt.”
“But I was supposed to—”
“No,” Stan says, cutting in. “You were a kid, Bradshaw. You loved him. That was your job. And you did your job.”
I finally glance over at him. His eyes are steady, grounding.
His words hit me harder than any opponent ever could.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit.
He clapsa firm hand on my shoulder. “You start by trusting the lads around you. Every one of us wants this just as much as you, but you can’t lead if you’re drowning. You don’t have to carry every bloody thing yourself. Sometimes letting go is the strongest thing a leader can do.”
I nod, but it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in days.
