Matt appears beside us, because of course he does. It’s like he’s got a homing signal attached to me or something. He just shows up everywhere, grinning like he owns the place.
“Just don’t forget to send photos from the beach, Alan,” he says.
Alan laughs. “Oh, I’ll think of you all while I sit in the sand sipping some coconut-flavored cocktail."
“You better not,” I quip. If I were on the beach with a cocktail, I wouldn’t think about work for a single second.
“What are you both doing for the holiday?” Alan asks, checking his watch.
I open my mouth to answer, but Matt cuts in.
“I’ll be around,” he says. “Not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll find something.” Then he turns toward me. “Maybe you and I could get together, Addison. For old time’s sake?”
My spine straightens. He says it so casually, but I know the look in his eyes. It’s possessive.
And for old time’s sake? What the fuck is that? We never spent the holidays together. Every single thing he does and says is intentional and pointed, and it’s so fucking exhausting.
I force a polite smile and direct my gaze at Alan. “No set plans.”
Alan pats both our shoulders. “Well, Happy Christmas.” He sets off out the door, waving as he goes.
“You too, Alan,” I call after him.
The moment he’s gone, Matt leans in close to me. “Spending Christmas alone? That’s bleak. I mean it, Addison. You can always call me.”
He walks off like he hasn’t just soured the air around him, and I’m left standing in the lobby, stomach twisting.
I hate that he can still make me feel cornered, make me question my power, even when I know I have it.
I keep telling everyone I’m fine with spending Christmas alone, and I say it convincingly enough that they might even believe me. Hell, sometimes I almost believe me. A quiet night of sweatpants, takeout, and movies sounds charming if I package it right.
But what I don’t say is how lonely it can be. I don’t tell anyone there’s always a moment, late at night, after the credits roll and the room is quiet, where the emptiness settles over me. It sucks the air out of my lungs, and I can think of nothing except how alone I am.
I glance down the hallway and wonder what Oliver’s doing right now. He’s probably finishing up training. Probably unaware that justthinkingof him calms the storm Matt leaves behind.
THIS CHRISTMAS BY PICTURE THIS
The hospital ward is strung with tinsel and paper snowflakes. There’s a tree in the corner covered in candy canes and homemade ornaments. It’s festive, chaotic, and beautiful.
All the lads are here. I’m admittedly not one for public events, but anything involving children I’m adamant we all turn up for it. This is bigger than my insecurities. What I go through day to day on the pitch is nothing compared to what these children do. I’m fighting for promotion, but they’re fighting just to stay alive. Coming here reshapes your perspective and makes you realize how small your problems really are.
Carlos is strolling through the ward pretending to be Santa, complete with a fake beard that keeps sliding down and a red hat that's too big for hishead. Sebastian is admiring all the drawings the kids made, especially the ones of him scoring goals. Brennan is in his element, coming at every adult in the room with the kind of empathy only a parent can. Even Harry, odd as he is, has put his juggling talents to an entertainment use.
I work the room, sitting with one kid who wants to show me his drawings, another who wants me to add stickers to my Rockford Christmas jumper.
Between every moment, every shared smile, I catch Addison watching. She's got her phone in one hand, the other lightly on Carlos’ back as she steers him away from the Christmas tree he almost knocked over. He grins at her like a little kid and says something that makes her laugh.
She’s busy, but she still finds time to joke with Carlos, laugh at Sebastian while he leads Christmas carols, and keep Harry from eating too many of the cookies meant for the children.
Addison's not just managing this whole circus—she’s in the trenches with us. She talks to the hospital staff with ease, makes sure every parent gets the photos they want, and kneels down to eye level whenever she talks to a child. She even smiles and gives the film crew a shot if they need it, but never lets Matt get too close. I can see the way she maneuvers around him, keeping him at a professional distance while pretending not to. She makes it look easy, but I know it’s taking every ounce of her energy to avoid him and keep a smile on her face.
I lower myself onto the edge of a hospital bed beside a little boy, maybe eight years old, with a Rockford cap on and a matching scarf around his neck.
“Alright, mate,” I say, flashing a smile as I notice the football sitting in the corner of the room. “What position do you play?”
“Midfield,” he says shyly, pointing to the captain's armband around my jumper. “I wanna be you.”
“Oh, yeah?” I reach up, unstrap the band, and offer it to him. “Here. It’s yours. Keep watch over the lads for me, alright?”
