“Sorry, mate,” a breathless voice says to Oliver. When I look to my right, a man in a Rockford FC kit is standing beside me, eagerly grinning at Oliver. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but could I get a picture?”
Oliver’s eyes flick to mine, and he laughs. “I reckon I have to,” he says with a shrug. “I’m here withmyPR manager, after all.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. This is the first time he’s acknowledged my job and referred to me ashisPR manager. “You can be charming just this once, Oliver. I’ll allow it.”
He turns to the fan, flashes an easy grin, and poses for the picture. I listen as he asks the fan's name, signs something for him, and thanks him for supporting the club. He’s so genuine about it, like he actually cares.
I don’t say anything when he returns to the bar, taking his seat beside me and picking his pint up again.
“So, you really live by those rules then?” he asks me.
He’s forgotten that I didn’t explain all of them. The fan cut off rule six. Never fall in love with an asset. I’m not going to remind him.
“I try to,” I say, taking a sip of my beer. “I lived without them once, and I lost myself. I don’t want that to happen again.”
“I get it,” he says softly. “Can we agree to drop the word assets, though?”
“Agreed.” I nod. “I didn’t call you all ‘assets’ because I don’t care. I did it because I’m scared of what happens if I let myself care too much. I’ve seen what it costs. But I’m sorry, Oliver. I forgot how human this job is. I was so preoccupied with keeping my guard up.”
He gives a small nod. “You care a lot more than you let on.”
“So do you.”
“Do you ever think that maybe your rules don’t protect you the way you think they do?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But they’re the only thing that’s ever worked.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can I ask you something now?”
Oliver leans back a little. “Depends.”
“It’s not a PR question,” I promise him. “It’s not for your player profile. I’m just—”
“Nosy?”
“Curious.”
He sighs. “Go on, then.”
I lean back, studying him for a moment. His forearms rest on the table, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show the tattoos winding down his arm. His shoulders are relaxed, which surprises me, considering he just agreed to questioning.
“Why do you bring a different date to every team event?”
He stares at me for a second, then lets out a short laugh. “That’s what people say, yeah?”
“Well,” I say, sipping my beer, “I’ve seen the photos. Different date at every event.”
His jaw tenses, and for a moment I think he’s going to shut down the conversation. Instead, he scratches at the stubble on his jaw and sighs. “I haven’t actually dated in a few years,” he admits. “The last girl… she sold pictures of me to a tabloid. She did some interview, and she told them things about my family. She said things she had no right to talk about.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods. “It was right after I was named captain. She said it was a coincidence, but… once the tabloid paid her, she was gone.”
“Jesus, Oliver.”
“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like you, trust isn’t exactly my strong suit, either.”
