I don’t want to smile through bullshit. I don’t want someone to make problems disappear with fancy words. We’ve gotten this far without outside help. We fight, we claw, we build, and every drop of blood we bleed for this club is real. I don’t need someone waltzing in telling me how to polish my expression and choose my words carefully. I say what I mean and I say it with my whole fucking chest.
I don’t want her here, and I sure as hell won’t make it bloody easy for her.
I’m barely off the pitch before I see the media team out in full force. A few of the lads hang back to film interviews and videos for social media. I tend to stay on the pitch as long as possible to avoid most of it, which isn’t hard because Sebastian and Carlos love the camera.
And then there’s her.
Addison.
She’s been here a week. A week of weaseling her way into conversations she doesn’t belong in. A week of carefully watching us, like she’s looking for soundbites and story lines.
She’s laughing at something—probably some daft and mildly inappropriate comment from Carlos. Her hair’s still tied up, but there’s no power suit today. Just black jeans, a tucked-in shirt, and trainers. It’s like she’s trying to look casual, like she belongs here.
She spots me before I can detour unseen. “Captain,” she says, stepping in front of me.
“Scott,” I say flatly, a towel slung over my shoulder.
“Some of the guys are doing pre-game media content for Saturday,” she explains, gesturing toward the cameras. “Fan engagement, that sort of thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well, I saw your schedule and noticed you’re not doing any press work.”
“Not a fan of talking.”
She exhales through her nose, but I can tell she expected that dismissive response from me. “Look, I’m not trying to get in your way.”
I cock my head, unimpressed. “And yet… you are.”
I glance toward the media setup. Brennan is speaking calmly to the camera, the way he always does. Carlos and Sebastian are filming some kind of trivia thing for social media.
“Seems like they’re managing fine without me,” I say.
“You don’t like me,” Addison says, folding her arms tight. “That’s fine. I’m not a fan of you either. But like it or not, we’re on the same team now. I’m here to help.”
“Help how?” I ask, growing more annoyed by the second. “By telling us which words and photos will get the most clicks?”
“You think that’s all this is?”
“I think you want stories,” I snap. “You want redemption arcs and tear-jerking quotes to sell us like some Cinderella story.”
She blinks, but doesn’t look away. “That’s not—”
“What do you want from me?” My voice grows sharper. “You want me to roll out the red carpet for you? Tell you all my saddest stories so you can decide which one will play better with audiences?”
“No, I—”
“I’m not spare parts to craft your narrative,” I cut in. She exhales, flinching slightly, but she covers it quickly.
“I’m a footballer,” I say, my voice lower but still angry. “That’s my job. Not helping you do yours.” I step closer to her, enough to see her breath hitch. “And by the way, it’s a match, not a game. Learn the lingo before you start spinning stories.”
Her mouth parts like she wants to say something, like she wants to fight back, but she doesn’t.
“Fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. Then she turns on her heel and walks away, looking smooth and composed.
But she doesn’t look back.
And somehow, that pisses me off more than anything else.
