I blink. Mackenzie?
Before I can say a word, Oliver is beside me, leaned in close to my ear. “I scored four goals that day.”
“Look how little you are,” I coo, still caught on the name.
He doesn’t say anything else. He has to know that I saw it. He doesn’t explain anything, and I know better than to ask. It just feels like a detail in a chapter he’s never let anyone read.
He nudges me gently with his elbow, breaking the spell. “Come on. Let’s drop your bags upstairs.”
Oliver leads me up the narrow staircase, carrying my suitcase and still muttering about how heavy the contents are. He opens the first door on the left, and it feels like I step into a time capsule. His childhood iseverywhere. The walls are painted a soft blue, chipped in some areas, but covered in posters and framed photos of English footballers. His twin-sized bed is covered with a dark blue duvet that he’s probably had for decades. He hasn’t lived here in years, but somehow, the bedroom smells just like him.
“So, this is where the brooding began, huh?” I tease.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t start.”
I walk the room slowly, taking it all in like an exhibit in a museum. Trophies, medals, and photos line the shelves—artifacts of his life displayed proudly. I pause on a photo that catches my eye. Oliver and another boy, older, but with the same eyes, same grin. They’re wearing matching football kits and holding up medals. That must be Henry.
I don’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me.
“I love this,” I say quietly. He smiles, leaning up against the wall. I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my bag on the floor. “Can I ask you something?”
He looks down at the floor, then meets my eyes. “The headline, right?”
I nod.
He hesitates a moment, then sits beside me. His fingers run through his hair as if gathering courage.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Oliver.”
“I want to,” he says, locking his eyes with mine. “I was born Oliver Mackenzie. It’s my dad’s last name. He was awful to my mum and to Henry. He left before I turned two, so I don’t really remember a time when he was around, but I remember the hole he left. I remember the scars. It was until I got older that I realized how much he hurt me too, but Mum and Henry shielded me from it.”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
He exhales slowly. “I had to wait until I was eighteen to legally change my name,” he says. “It was an easy choice. Bradshaw is my mum’s last name. She’s the one who raised me. She put food on the table and got me to every training session while juggling two jobs. She’s the reason I made something of myself. I knew if I ever made it in football, it washername that deserved to be on that kit, not his.”
I nod, almost unable to breathe.
“I never wanted his name on me. Not when I scored. Not when kids wore my kit. He doesn’t deserve to be part of anything I’m proud of.” I can hear him fighting the emotion crawling up his throat, but he keeps himself calm. “He tried to come back once,” Oliver says with a bitter laugh. “He showed up when I was just getting started in the lower leagues. He wanted to get his hooks in, ride my coattails just in case I ever made it somewhere big. I told him to sod off.” Oliver pauses for a moment, then smiles. “Sod off means—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh. “I know what it means. Sod the bastard.”
He smiles at me, the warmth returning. “Exactly.”
I stare at him, my brow curved, but it’s not pity I feel. It’s recognition.
I stay silent. I don’t fill the space between us with clichés or platitudes. I just sit with him in it.
I know this feeling—of someone taking everything from you and coming back only when they think they can take something else too. I know what it’s like to grin and bear it, always hoping one day, if you’re really good, things will be different. Matt did it with a grin. Maybe he didn’t raise me, but he followed me here. And he’s circling again, waiting like a vulture to take more away from me.
Oliver shut the door on his father, and I hope that door waits for me too. Because I realize now, I haven’t closed it yet. Not fully. Not in the way Oliver has.
He looks back over at me, and it feels like I really see him. Not just the captain of Rockford FC, or the shy, sometimes moody man who hates the media. I see the boy who was hurt and had to grow up too fast. I see the son who made a promise to his mum and kept it. I see a man who took his broken pieces and built himself back better.
I feel like I understand him in a way I didn’t before—as someone whose pain recognizes mine. They shake hands and say,I see you because I am you.
“Thank you for telling me that,” I say, quiet and honest. I reach out and lay my hand on his.
“Yeah?” he whispers, the corners of his mouth lifting.
