“You two making decisions on behalf of the club feels wildly inappropriate.”
“We are men of the people,” Carlos says.
“You are idiots.”
“Also true.”
Sebastian nods. “We contain multitudes.”
“Exactly,” Carlos agrees. “You’re part of the team now.” He says that with such confidence, like he were making a presidential decree. The answer catches me off guard. I glance between them. These ridiculous men. These loud, chaotic, occasionally impossible footballers.
Somewhere along the way, they'd stopped feeling like clients.
They'd become my team.
My people.
My friends.
“But I’m not a player,” I point out.
Sebastian shrugs. “Neither is Luke, and he’s got pretty much all of us on a kit.”
Carlos perks up like he’s just had divine inspiration. “I’ve got it! Pick one of us.”
“What?”
“Pick one of our names,” Carlos explains. “Come on. Who gets the honor?”
“Why don’t you pick for me?”
“Bradshaw,” they say at the exact same time, without even blinking.
I laugh, raising my coffee cup to hide the heat blooming up my neck.
“Why?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Of course it would be Oliver. Of course it would be the man currently taking up all the room in my bed and somehow even more space in my head.
“He’s our leader,” Carlos explains. “It only makes sense that you should go with the captain.”
Sebastian tilts his head and chuckles. “Plus, you’d make it look better than he does.”
“Good luck getting her to listen to you,” Matt says, striding into the hallway having overheard the whole conversation.
He strolls up to us, hands in his pockets, a smug smile locked and loaded. Carlos and Sebastian both straighten, which surprises me.
“She’s not exactly one for letting loose. But hey,” he says with faux modesty, “you’ve done well for yourself. All that pushing I gave you back in the day must have finally sunk in. Look at where we are now.”
I clench my jaw so hard it’s a miracle I don’t crack my teeth. My face must look like I’m passing a kidney stone because Carlos looks at me like he’schecking if I’m going to murder someone. Sebastian mutters something in French under his breath.
“Yeah,” I say sarcastically. “It’s all because of you.”
Matt nods like he genuinely thinks he’s being appreciated. “Of course. Anytime.”
Then, thankfully, he strolls off toward the press area, because there’s nothing he loves more than a camera and a hot microphone.
“Fucking asshole,” Carlos mutters after Matt is out of earshot.
I raise a brow. “Sebastian, what is it that you said?”
