Six Months Later
Six months ago, we were a secret.
Now he’s cooking pasta inourkitchen.
“Keep an eye on the sauce,” he says, handing me a wooden spoon. “I have to prep the garlic bread.”
Within seconds, I have sauce on the countertop, and I think, even the ceiling.
“Hey,” Oliver says, sliding behind me, chest brushing my back. “Why do you stir so aggressively?”
“Maybe the sauce needed to aerate?” I offer, laughing at myself. I can bake with ease, but cooking, actually cooking, is a skill I don’t possess. Not like him, anyway.
“You’re treating the marinara like it’s a contact sport.” Oliver takes the spoon away from me and points it toward the living room. “Now get out of my kitchen.”
“Ourkitchen,” I correct him, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re quite bossy.”
“I prefer Captain, remember?” He grins at me, full and lazy. The kind of grin that makes me weak in the knees and forgetful of whatever we were talking about, which is rude, honestly. He’s got a tea towel thrown over his shoulder like he’s Gordon Ramsay, and his hair is still damp from the shower he took after training.
Every time he smiles at me, I feel a flutter in my stomach that I still haven’t gotten used to. We’ve been living together for months, and the man can still make me blush like we’re sneaking around the hallways at work.
Except now we don’t have to hide.
No more closed doors. No more hiding undercover. No more pretending I’m just his PR manager and he’s just a footballer.
We commute together most days. He trains and plays hard to keep the team in the Premier League. I handle the media circus that follows. Then we come home to this weird, messy, beautiful life we’ve created.
I retreat to the sofa, watching as he moves around the kitchen with ease, with the same quiet intention he always carries. I glance to my left at the mantle above the fireplace. Mixed among photos of Oliver and Henry growing up with their mother are photos of the life we’ve only just begun to live together. On one end of the mantle is a gold frame holding the photo from Hyde Park—the one we joked we’d tell our grandkids about. I guess now we will.
On the other end of the mantle, a frame sits holding a photo from the promotion match. His arms are around me while confetti sticks to my hair. His medal hangs beside it now, displayed like the win was something we earned together.
Maybe it was.
“Wine or no wine?” he calls from the kitchen.
“Honestly, Captain,” I say, shooting him a teasing smirk. “Do you even know me at all?”
He smilesat me and grabs two bottles from the cabinet, opening one and leaving the other for later.
Oliver brings two bowls out to the living room and hands me mine. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He sits down beside me, thigh pressed to mine as our dinner balances on the coffee table in front of us.
I grab the remote and glance over at Oliver. “You’re sure? You really want to watch this?”
“Yup.”
“After everything he tried to do?”
Tonight, the first episode of the documentaryGame Daymade about Rockford finally airs. I’ve been hesitant about watching it for weeks, but Oliver has been insistent.
“He didn’t win, Addie," Oliver says.
“He tried.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “People like him always try to. But look what came of it.” He gestures toward the screen and then around the room. “You’re here. We’re here. We’ve got promotion. We’ve got the team. We’ve got us, Addie.”
He’s right. For every moment Matt tried to twist into something ugly, there were a hundred more that became something beautiful. It was never just about Oliver and me. It was everything. All of it. It was Rockford. Sebastian’s wild celebrations. Carlos’ fiery determination. Stan’s dry sarcasm. Brennan’s steady presence. Luke’s unwavering loyalty. Pippa’s fierce friendship. There’s more than one love story here, but ours threads through them all.
