She smiled.
And suddenly, I don’t give a shit about Matt Whitlock’s fancy suit, fake charm, or poor excuse for a handshake.
Addison smiled. I made her smile.
Matt steps away, gesturing for all of us to surround him like he’s about to give us some impassioned speech because we’re down 2-0 at half-time.
“Thank you, Alan,” he says with that rehearsed grin. “And thank all of you for having me. I know it’s not every day you have a big television channel wanting to follow you around. I’m here to observe, not disrupt. I know the cameras can be a bit much at first, but you’ll get used to them. I’m so excited to be spending the next few months withallof you.”
The moment he says that last line, his eyes land on Addison. Like that was just for her. He doesn’t say her name, but he might as well have.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my body is taking a step forward, fists clenched. Addison stands on the edge of the huddle, and when she catches my eye, she gives a tiny shake of her head.
It’s not desperate—just firm. Don’t. Don’t give him what he wants.
“I’m really looking forward to getting to know you all,” Matt continues, unaware that Addison basically granted a pardon for his execution. “I want to tell your stories, show people who Rockford FC really is. You’ve got something special happening here, and I can’t wait to share it.”
Something twists in my gut when he says that. It sounds harmless on the surface. But underneath, it’s like he thinks our lives, our pasts, and our families are his to sift through. It comes out like a challenge, like he’s covertly telling us he’s going to dig and excavate things we don’t want uncovered. But that’s not him sharing. That’s himtaking.
I’ve kept my life off-limits for a reason. I’ve always avoided talking about my family, about what we’ve lost. And then, after Cassandra sold stories about me to a tabloid, I’ve become even more reserved. I don’t want him dragging my past out into the light to paint it as some feel-good redemption arc. My life isn’t content.
There’s polite applause from a few of the lads, mostly the younger ones, who are still green. This club has never made it past the championship league, so for a lot of them, this is their first taste of fame.
But me? I don’t move. I don’t clap. I don’t even blink.
Because I don’t care what speech he gives, how many hands he shakes, or what mask he wears in front of everyone else.
I know exactly who he is.
And if he thinks, even for one second, that he can come here and control her again, he’s going to have to go through me. He’s going to learn real fast what I mean when I say I protect the people I care about.
14
touchline tension
SMILE BY LILY ALLEN
Alan’s office feels colder than usual. Normally, when we have our meetings, I sit casually on the sofa while we chat over the agenda for the week. But today? Today I sit in a chair at the table with my back straight, legs crossed at the knee, not because I’m comfortable but because I need to look like I’m not dying inside.
Matt sits across from me, close enough to make my skin crawl. He’s only been here a week, and it’s already a week too long. He leans back in his chair like this is his office, his club, and we’re all his employees, gathered here to bask in his greatness.
Alan sits at the head of the table, nodding along as Jim lays out the upcoming fixtures, training schedule, and recovery days. An international break is coming up, so logistically there’s a lot to plan for.
I clear my throat and flip to a page in my notebook. “We’ve got a few community events on the docket. There’s a hospital visit this week that Wolfe and Cabrera will be taking on, and I’m working with Gemma in media to finalize a date for a youth camp. I think we’re hoping for—”
“Oh,” Matt cuts in smoothly, “I’m so glad you took my suggestion.” He’s smiling, like it’s innocent. “You know, about increasing visibility with the younger fans.”
My mouth goes dry. We never talked about that. Not even close. I’ve done an incredible job avoiding him this past week. I’ve put on a masterclass performance of faking phone calls and conveniently having the world's tiniest bladder. And for what? For him to sit here and weave himself into the narrative?
“Well, I’ve been working on this for a while. I’ve been speaking with this organization involved for over a month.”
Nice try, asshole.
Matt shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, and looks away. I know what he said was intentional. I know that tone. I know that smile. I know his pathological need to put his name on my work.
Alan flips the page in his binder. “Good, that’s settled. Now, the international break. Make sure your date for the event is after that, maybe on a recovery day. Most of the players will be traveling during the break—some with their national teams, and others just on holiday.”
I nod, jotting it down.
