“Look,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “We don’t have to do this. You can tell the gaffer I’m fine and that you’ve done your good deed.”
Oliver’s eyes flick to my desk, and his expression shifts from annoyance to curiosity. His gaze lands on the crumpled wrapper next to my coffee.
“You had Gregg’s?” he asks, like he’s genuinely surprised.
I glance over at the wrapper. “Yeah. Luke recommended I get a sausage roll, but they were sold out, so I got a bacon wrap instead.”
Oliver smirks—like actually smirks. It’s the first time I’ve seen him flash any kind of smile, and it’s kind of mesmerizing. “And?”
“And what?”
“How was it?” he asks, like I’ve finally done something that earns his approval.
I tap my fingers on the desk, drawing out my answer just to annoy him. “It was good.” He nods, and it’s silent again. “Luke says I should go to the game Saturday.”
“You mean the match,” he corrects me, just like Luke would.
“Sure.”
“You should.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Ashdown on match day is something else. If you really want to understand what this club means, you need to be there. You need to feel it. It’s not just about the match. It’s the atmosphere. It’s the fans. I promise you, you’ll learn more from one Saturday at Ashdown Park than you will sitting in this office.”
I sit up a little, surprised at his answer. It’s not sarcasm. It’s actual, genuine advice. It’s also probably the most I’ve heard him speak since I got here.
“Really?”
“You’re sitting here doing questionnaires with us about what we care about. You can’t understand what we represent until you seewhowe’re representing. This is North London. Parts of it are posh, but that’s not Rockford. It’s a working-class community. They’re loyal, loud, and fiercely passionate. For a lot of them, Ashdown Park is their church.”
For a moment, there’s something soft in his voice when he talks about the community. Pride. And then, just as quickly as I notice it, he pushes it back.
“Alright,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I’ll go.”
“Good.” His arms are folded, his expression neutral, but his eyes—those stormy eyes—are honest and steady.
“But I need a favorfrom you first.”
How the fuck did I find myself here? I agreed to help her settle in—not that I had a choice. I can recommend a good restaurant in the area, maybe the best supermarket to shop at. But this? This is too much.
The locker room is quiet and smells like whatever aftershave Carlos bathes in after training. There’s a large whiteboard at the head of the locker room that Gaffer uses to lay out our tactics for match day. But today, I’ve drawn the saddest looking football pitch and written the word “OFFSIDE” in block letters at the top because, try as I might, she apparently doesn’t understand that, either.
Addison sits backwards on a folding chair, arms draped over the top, deeply concentrating. Her brow furrows like this is a foreign language, and not, you know, the sport this entire country revolves around.
But she’s trying, I guess. I’ll give her that. Most of the rules she’s picked up easily, considering she’s worked with other sports franchises before, but offside seems to be the most difficult.
There’s a smear of ink on her hand from where she accidentally leaned against the whiteboard, and a few strands of her ponytail have slipped loose. They sway when she leans forward, biting her lip in concentration. I can’t stop watching her.
I hate that.
I lean back against the wall. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. You don’t need to understand the offside rule, or any rules really, to do PR.”
“I just…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t like not knowing things,” she says without looking at me. “Especially when everyone else in the room does.”
