“I trust you completely, Addison,” he says, his smile wide enough to light the room as he nods toward the gala plans.
Before I can say anything, Matt strolls into the office like he’s smelled an opportunity to swoop in and take credit for my work.
“Addison’s great at putting events together,” Matt says as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “I’d be happy to assist.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re very busy with the documentary,” Alan says, not picking up on the tension ripping through his office.
“On the contrary,” Matt says, flashing an irritating smirk. “My group is still filming, but I’d like to take a small step back to allow the team their time to prepare for these last games. Besides, we should be coordinating this together. After all, my team counts as media coverage.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Alan says gratefully. He doesn’t realize Matt’s Mother Theresa act is a facade.
“So,” Matt says, sitting down at the table uninvited, “I’ve got time on my hands. Addison and I used to work together seamlessly back in the States.”
I grit my teeth behind a smile. “I think I can handle this.”
Matt chuckles. “Of course you can. But it would be fun to do it together, just like old times.”
My spine stiffens. Just like old times, where I did all the work and he took all the credit. I realize now exactly why Matt is offering to help with this gala. It’s not about the team. It’s about control.
“That’s settled then,” Alan says, oblivious to the silent storm brewing. “You two work your magic and have it planned out for this Saturday. We play Wednesday this week, so it’s a rare weekend of no football for the lads.”
Alan launches into the next agenda item while I silently contemplate faking my own death.
As soon as we step out of Alan’s office, Matt falls into step beside me like it’s choreographed. I grip my notebook tighter, already bracing myself.
“So, how about a working lunch? Your office?” Matt asks, leaning in toward me. “You still like BLTs with a disproportionate amount of bacon, right?”
God, I hate that he knows that. It used to make me feel seen. Now it just makes me feel watched. I hate that he’s weaponizing nostalgia, like it’s a key he can use to unlock some old version of me that still wants to say yes. That girl isn’t here anymore.
“I’ll put together a list of ideas and email you,” I say curtly. He smiles at me like this is normal, like we’re still the same version of us that ended a long time ago.
I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction just to avoid him.
“Seriously?” I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re telling me Harry won’t eat anything yellow on match days?”
“Dead serious,” Oliver says, eyes gleaming as he holds back a laugh. “Carlos tried to sneak eggs into his breakfast burrito once, and he went mental.”
“Keepers are a really superstitious bunch, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Oliver nods, chuckling. “But he’s our keeper, and he’s putting in great results, so I’m not fucking with it. Not even a little.”
Oliver sits across from me, one ankle resting casually on his knee. I’m leaning forward, chin in my hand, grinning and laughing like I always seem to do when it’s just us.
I’m still laughing when there’s a knock at the door. Then, without waiting for a reply, it pushes open.
Matt steps in holding a paper bag and two drinks. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, smiling at me.
Oliver’s body language shifts instantly—his back straightens, his shoulders tense. The whole room feels like the air’s been sucked out.
“I brought lunch,” Matt says, holding up the bag like it’s a peace offering. “I thought we could discuss Saturday.”
Oliver perks up at that. Oh god, I hope he doesn’t think I would actually willingly agree to go to the gala with this asshole.
“I told you I was busy,” I say, measured but with an obvious edge. I look directly at Oliver, trying to communicate a hundred things without saying a single word. I didn’t ask him here. I don’t want him here. Please understand this.
“I figured you’d change your mind,” Matt replies smoothly, because he’s never accepted no as a complete sentence.
“I should go.” Oliver pushes up from his chair. “I should let you get back to work.” He says it so carefully, I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or covering for me.
