I snort. “Let him do his thing. Got it.”
“Now, in midfield. You’ve got Brennan Wolfe. He’s responsible, calm. He’s married with three kids, so he knows how to manage a storm. He’s the first to training every day. He’s like the team’s emotional support human. It’s like having a parent on the pitch.”
“Okay,” I say, grateful there’s at least one player that won’t need my services.
“And that brings us to his midfield partner, your pal and mine, Oliver Bradshaw,” she says, laughing. “He’s our captain. Doesn’t score a ton of goals and he isn’t a flashy player, but he’s brilliant. Solid. Unshakable. He does all the dirty work, and the fans love him for it. He can be intense, but he’s always got your back.”
“Thanks for the lesson, Pips.”
The stadium comes alive as the team comes out and the starting lineups are announced. It’s a sea of red and blue, scarves in the air, voices chanting a song I don’t know the words to.
I glance down at the pitch, toward midfield, and Oliver’s eyes meet mine. It’s not long, just a second or two, but the gaze is locked and intense. Amid the noise and the energy, he actually sees me. He smirks and tips his head. Barely. A blink and you miss it kind of smile.
But I don’t miss it.
And apparently, neither does Pippa.
“Oi, what the fuck was that?” Pippa says, leaning toward me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“Nothing, love? You’re blushing,” she says, her eyes glinting. I look over at her and she’s grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat. “Is there something going on with Oliver?”
I blink. “What? You’re kidding, right? No. Absolutely not. Why would you even think that?”
“Because I’ve seen that look before.”
“What look?”
She gives me a pointed glance. “The one where you pretend you’re not intrigued.”
I scoff. “I’m not intrigued. I’m observing. For work.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, not buying it for a second. “You are allowed to have fun, you know,” she says a little softer.
I shrug, keeping my eyes forward. “I’m here to work, Pippa.Justwork.”
Pippa nods and watches the first half unfold. She yells, she chants, she becomes part of the mob. It’s electric and hard to ignore. Hard not to feel moved by.
By the time Sebastian scores, even I’m humming with excitement. I laugh as he, right on cue, kicks the corner flag. The crowd eats it up and immediately launches into a chant about him to the tune of “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes.
OHHHHHHH, Sebastian Le-roux!
(duh duh-duh duh-duh DUHHH duh)
Your defenders he flies through!
(duh duh-duh duh-duh DUHHH duh)
Our French magician, see whathe’ll do—
OHHHHHHH, Sebastian Le-roux!
God, this is incredible. The atmosphere, the energy, and the sheer ferocity of it all. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My fingers tighten on the scarf around my neck as I let the crowd swallow me whole.
One of my favorite things about football, so far at least, is how quickly the game moves. There are no commercial breaks that drag out the game longer than it needs to be. There’s some stoppage in play, mostly to sort out injuries or punishments, but it’s only a few minutes and never lasts long enough to shift momentum.
The second half is well underway, and Rockford is still clinging to that 1-0 lead. The other team came out with a little bit of life in the second half, a little more urgency in their step. It feels like they’re pounding at the door, like that tying goal is an inevitability.
