man of the match
FIRE BY KASABIAN
The announcer’s voice blares over the stadium speakers, the crowd is deafening, and I barely hear a thing.
My boots drag against the pitch as we line up. This is where I should be calm, sharp, locked in. Another must-win. Another three points we can’t afford to drop.
Instead, all I can think about is Addison. And Pippa trying to set her up with some jazz-band wanker, right fucking in front of me.
I knew something was going on just by how flustered Addison was getting. She tugs at her sleeves when she’s nervous, like she’s trying to pull herself down to earth. I’ve seen it enough times now to recognize it instantly.
The announcer says something to make the noise of the crowd swell, but my mind isn’t on the pitch. It’s back in that hallway, wondering what Addison said, if she agreed to anything.
I know what we agreed on. No strings. Just until the end of the season. But Christ—if I see her on the arm of some stranger, I’ll bloody lose it. The thought turns my stomach.
She’s not just anyone to me—not anymore. Maybe she never was. I know she has her rules. I know she’s not looking for anything more than what wehave, but I have this ridiculous notion that maybe she’ll change her mind.
“Oi.” Brennan elbows me in the side. “You good, mate?”
I grunt, forcing my face to relax. “Just focused.”
That’s a lie, but fake it till you make it, right?
I run a hand down my face, trying to snap out of it. Finally, I glance toward the crowd, and that’s when I see her.
Addison.
Jacket off.
Wearingmykit.
My name. My number. “Bradshaw” printed across her back like it belongs to her.
I swear time slows down, the lights hit her just right, and the whole bloody stadium goes silent. She’s the only one here. The only one I care about.
I feel everything. The pride. The possessiveness. The need.
And that’s it. I’m gone.
My pulse slams hard against my ribs. I crack my neck, bouncing on my toes as something that has felt stuck for weeks finally loosens.
The whistle blows and I explode off the line.
Let’s fucking go.
I’m throwing myself into every tackle, winning every ball like the bastards across from me nicked something from my own house. I shoulder their striker off the ball and snarl when he hits the turf.
“Up you get, lad,” I mutter under my breath.
The crowd goes mad, but it’s just noise.
I only hear my heart pounding in my ears and the way my name sounds when she says it.
Every pass, every run up the wing—I give it everything I have, because I know she’s watching me.Wearing me.
I need toshow her that I see her too. That no matter what rules we made, she’s already got all of me.
The frustration that's been sitting in my chest for weeks suddenly has somewhere to go.
