I finally find one photo of him actually looking at her. The caption says it’s an award show in the industry that honored her for some campaign she had worked on. He should be beaming with pride, but instead he’s looking at her like she stole the spotlight from him.
He used her. Lied to her. Controlled her. He made her feel small and worthless. And now that I’m sitting here staring at his perfectly styled hair and smug face, I hate him even more than I did at the pub, if that was even possible.
Because even in these photos, it’s obvious. Heneversaw her.
He didn’t see the girl I do. The girl who orders beers over cocktails and doesn’t understand British currency. The girl who acted like she won the lottery when she finally understood the offside rule. And he definitely never saw the girl who built six ironclad rules to survive what he broke in her.
And those rules. I understand them. I might even be one of the only people in her life who understands why she thinks she needs them, because once you’ve been burned, everything feels like fire.
I close my laptop and shove it into the drawer of the table.
This is mad. I’ve known her for what—a month?
I’ve tolerated her for even less.
But I can’t shake it. There’s something twitching in my chest, and the feeling baffles me.
It’s the desire—no, the need—to protect her.
Not because she needs saving, because she doesn’t. She’s already saved herself by blowing up her life and rebuilding it with her own two hands.
There’s a part of me that wants to rewrite the way she sees men like me, to make up for the shit she’s been through.
Which is ridiculous, because I’ve never had a hero complex. When I get the ball on the pitch, more often than not, I’m feeding it to someone else and setting up their superstar play. I’m not taking it for myself. I don’t want the accolades, and I surely don’t want the attention.
I’ve got enough pressure as it is. I’m trying to drag this team to promotion. It’s all I want. It’s all I’ve dreamed of. I don’t need anything else clouding my head.
Everyone knows I don’t like change. It’s a running joke around the locker room. I keep my head down, do my job, and lead my team. But tonight, something shifted, and I didn’t seem to mind it. Not with her.
Maybe because it didn’t feel like change. It felt like something cracking open.
Just as I’m about to convince myself to stop being pathetic and go to bed, my phone buzzes.
Addison:Just saw the goal on Match of the Day ??
I stare at the screen for a second, smiling like a fucking idiot.
She’s watching?
I don’t know why that catches me off guard, but it does. I assumed she tolerated football the way someone tolerates jet lag—just part of the job. She said she enjoyed the match, but I figured it was a one and done experience to help her craft whatever message she planned on spinning.
But now I’m sitting here, picturing her in her flat, sitting on her sofa, and watching me on the telly.
Thinking of me.
Wanting to text me.
And that does something to me. Something I can’t quite explain.
I shake my head and type back.
Me:Why are you watching me?
Addison:It’s literally my job to watch you, Oliver.
I lean back, chuckling.
Me:Do you enjoy that job then?
