I don’t even hear him walk in. He just appears in the doorway like a goddamn shadow, a storm cloud rolling in to ruin my day.
“You’re here,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“I have to be,” he mutters.
I wave him in. He says nothing, just slumps down in the chair and stares at me.
“So, I’m meeting with everyone,” I explain. “I want to understand the goals each of you has off the pitch—community work, sponsorships, brand building, that kind of thing.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” This is fucking awkward. “This will be a lot easier if you meet me halfway, Oliver.”
“I don’t need anything,” he says, crossing his arms.
“Nothing?” I ask, tilting my head. “There’s not a single cause you care about? I don’t believe that.”
He looks like he’s about to brush me off or say something confrontational, but something flickers in his eyes. I can’t quite tell what it is, and he pushes it away like he hopes I didn’t notice it.
“I work with kids sometimes,” he says in a low voice.
“Kids?”
He nods once. “Single parents. Rough neighborhoods. Families that don’t have much.”
And there it is. A crack in the concrete wall. I think back to his player biography, and how it mentioned that he was raised by a single mother. This can’t be a coincidence.
“Any particular reason?” I ask, though I’m not sure why I want or need him to elaborate. I’m just curious.
His eyes dart to mine, then quickly away. The wall slams back into place. “My business,” he mutters.
“Okay.” I nod, jotting it down. “I’ll look into it.” It’s silent between us, just for a second or two, but it feels longer. “You’re all set, Oliver.” He doesn’t move. He looks like he’s being held against his will.
He takes a deep exhale. “Gaffer wants me to help you settle in.”
I raise a brow. “Gaffer?”
“Manager,” he says, his expression unchanged. “Potter.”
I blink. “Why not just say ‘manager’ then?”
He exhales, like this conversation is physically hurting him and I’ve insulted his entire family. “Because… he’s thegaffer.”
“Is that even a word?”
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, annoyed. I smirk, enjoying that I finally got a real reaction out of him.
“Fine,” I say, relenting on the teasing. “So,Gafferwants you to help me settle in?”
“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “How is it going?” He draws out each word like it’s painful for him to even ask.
“Are you asking because you want to, or because you have to?”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Fine. It’s, uh… it’s going okay, I guess? Jet lag wasn’t fun, but I think I’ve finally adjusted to the time zone.”
Oliver nods but stays silent.
