I’m still staring at the photo, and those eyes, when the phone on my desk rings.
“Addison Scott,” I answer, straightening my posture like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“Addison, Alan would like to see you in his office,” Jacob, one of Alan’s assistants, says on the other end of the line.
“Of course,” I say, grabbing my notebook. “On my way.” I hang up, plaster a PR smile on my face, and head down the hall toward Alan’s office.
I tap on Alan’s open door hesitantly. He looks up from his desk and smiles. “Addison, take a seat.”
Shit.What did I do?
I sit down, notebook in my lap. “What’s going on?”
My face must give away my nerves, because Alan leans forward and smiles. “Oh, nothing bad, Addison. Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief.
“I’ll get right to it,” Alan says, smiling. “We’re on a meteoric rise. Undefeated in the last seven games. We’re playing the best football in our history, and if we keep this streak up, we’re a shoo-in for promotion. Winning the league is the ultimate goal, but as long as we get into the playoffs, we still have a chance for promotion.”
“Okay," I say slowly, unsure where this is going.
“This team has never been in the Premier League, Addison. Naturally, our Cinderella story has captured the attention of fans around the world. The governing body sees an opportunity here to grow the audience of the game stateside.”
“I understand. I can plan some additional campaigns to keep visibility up. Events that keep our team the focus. Maybe we can—”
“We’re one step ahead of you,” Alan cuts in, smiling.
“Okay.” I nod, opening my notebook to jot down the details of what Alan wants.
“You’re already familiar with Peabody Productions, Addison.”
My stomach drops.
Shit.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, one of their shows,Game Day, is sending over a journalist to cover the back half of the season. They’ll have full access to the staff, locker room, players, ownership—you name it. They’ll be covering our fight for promotion in depth. A full documentary crew.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to hide my hesitation. “Who are they sending?”
Please don’t let it be Matt.Please.
Alan glances down at his tablet. “Matt Whitlock.”
Fuck.
I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. I swallow the dread building in my chest and nod, letting myself go numb. I let my hair down today, but I immediately want to pull it back.
“Okay,” I say smoothly.
“Apparently he pushed hard for the opportunity,” Alan says with an utterly unbothered smile.
Ofcoursehe did.
Alan really believes Matt advocated that hard because he believes in the club, and I don’t have the heart to burst his bubble.
“Well,” I say carefully, folding my hands in my lap so Alan can’t see how tightly they’re balled into fists, “okay then.”
