Beside me, Pippa is narrating the match for me, gesturing like she’s analyzing it for an audience. “Now look here. Watch Carlos.”
I follow, and just as she says it, Carlos makes a hard tackle, sending the ball flying up the pitch. Brennan picks it up, calm under pressure, and moves it forward with control. An opposing player wins the ball off him, and the entire stadium groans.
Oliver charges forward out of nowhere, fast but controlled. He dives into a tackle, wins the ball cleanly, and effortlessly shuttles it straight to Sebastian who—once again—puts it right into the backof the net.
The stadium erupts into the same chant from earlier about Sebastian Leroux, their French magician.
But me?
My eyes are still onhim.
Because that goal wasallOliver.
For a split second, mid-tackle, his entire body moved with perfect precision. His arms flexed, jaw clenched tight, hair damp with sweat on his forehead. His body is years of work and training sharpened into something… beautiful. I don’t want to be the person who notices all of that, but—
I am.
“Addison,” Pippa says, nudging me in the side. “Still here for just business?” She gazes at me with a knowing smile.
I drag my eyes back to the pitch. “Just business.”
This is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Right?
8
foul play
SHIP TO WRECK BY FLORENCE & THE MACHINE
It’s a typical Monday morning. After what felt like an endless amount of meetings, I’m finally back at my desk and the coffee I left here has gone lukewarm and tragic. I’m bracing myself for a hectic week—filled with media promotions, a charity proposal for Carlos, and a call this afternoon with a fashion designer who wants Sebastian to model their spring athletic line.
There’s a knock at my office door as I organize my filing cabinet. When I turn around, I’m surprised to see Oliver leaning against the door frame, in his street clothes, his hair damp from a post-training shower. His arms are crossed, as usual, but today it doesn’t feel like it’s defensive. He seems… comfortable.
“Hey,” I say, surprised to see him.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks casually, like we’re friendly now.
“Not at all.” I shake my head. “I just got off a conference call with a few potential sponsors for Carlos’ camp in Spain.”
“A successful conference call?”
“I think so,” I reply, settling back into my chair.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “What did you think of the match Saturday?”
The fact thathe’sthe one asking—that he’s initiating a conversation like a normal, functioning human being—makes me narrow my eyes slightly. “Is this another Gaffer-mandated PR support moment?”
“No.” He chuckles softly. “I’m here on my own.”
I tilt my head, swiveling my chair from side to side. “Are you fishing for compliments, Bradshaw?”
He shrugs. “Just curious what the new PR manager thinks.”
“Well,” I say, dragging the word out just to annoy him. It works. His smile falters. “It was loud. It was chaotic. I really enjoyed it.”
