It’s been weeks since the weekend in Stratton Wood. Weeks since we almost—
“Addison?” Simone nudges me gently. “You alright?”
I blink and look around. Everyone’s staring.
“Right,” I say, plastering on a smile. “Sorry. Thinking logistics. Where were we?”
Simone repeats it—something about an ad campaign—and I nod. I steer the conversation back on track without skipping a beat, like I didn’t just drift off to another planet while they’ve been talking. Like I’m not reliving some highlight reel of every time Oliver and I have been dangerously close to something more.
My rules were built for a reason, but I’m hanging on by a thread. A very frayed, worn-out thread that slips further from my grasp every time I see him.
Pippa and I head down the hallway, coffee in hand, at Ashdown Park toward the locker room. Match day always has an electric buzz, but today is even more elevated. The team is on a hot streak, and if they win today, they’ll have racked up eight straight. It would be another club record to add to what’s shaping up to be a historical season.
We round the corner to the locker room, and Luke spots us immediately, beaming like an overexcited golden retriever greeting its favorite humans. Pippa hands him his coffee and leans in for a quick, affectionate kiss.
I look around awkwardly while they chat until my eyes find him.
Oliver.
He’s across the room, one leg up on the bench, bending low in a way that weakens my already fragile sense of professionalism.
He looks up, mid-stretch, and catches me staring. His mouth curls into a soft grin, as if fully aware of what he’s doing to me. I whip my gaze away so fast I nearly spill my coffee.
“You alright?” Pippa asks, noticing my near mishap.
My gaze goes right back to him. He’s standing up straight, flexing his hips as he leans back with a lazy confidence. His kit rides up with each movement, exposing his toned body. His abs—a trail of muscle leading down beneath the waistband of his shorts in a perfect V—make mybrain short-circuit. He doesn’t even look like a snack, he looks like the entire goddamn meal.
I bite down on my lip, trying not to stare.
I fail.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
Get it together.
I’m about to suggest to Pippa that we go find our seats so the team can finish getting ready, but then I see Matt striding over with a self-important smile and his camera crew in tow.
“Well, I didn’t expect to see you down here before the game,” he says to me with surprise.
“We were just dropping off Luke’s coffee,” I mutter, nodding my head toward the evidence.
“Big day today,” he says with forced enthusiasm. His hand brushes my arm as he steps closer. It’s not enough to look deliberate to an innocent bystander, but it’s intentional. He knows what he’s doing.
“So, I’ll see you for the post-game interviews?” he asks, his voice low, like this is just between us.
I open my mouth to respond, some polite but sarcastic way of reminding him that it’s literally my job to be present for interviews, but I feel some shift in the air.
I glance across the room and Oliver’s eyes are locked in on Matt, his jaw tightened. His chest rises and falls slowly, like he’s putting every bit of energy into restraining himself from going full Terminator. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him that still and that angry at the same time.
Matt says something else, some thinly veiled flirtation about the camera loving me, but I tune it out.
Pippa doesn’t though.
“Hey, Matt?” Pippa says, her voice sweet but sharp.
“Yeah?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t go to her eyes. It’s deadly. “You know how I don’t work for the club, right?”
