“Mhmm.” She smiles and tips her head toward the kitchen. “I made cinnamon rolls.”
“So that’s what I smelled in the hallway.” I change into sweatpants and join her on the sofa. She immediately plops her feet in my lap like she’s had the physically taxing day, not me.
She’s got the telly on, but we’re not really watching. I tell her about training—how Carlos tripped over a cone and then tried to fight it, how Sebastian got called out for practicing his goal celebrations. She laughs, licking the frosting from her finger.
“I spent the day bingingFour in a Bed,” she says, smacking her lips. “Five episodes. I couldn’t stop.”
“You and my mum.” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “She can’t get enough of it either.”
“It’s so good!”
We’ve been at this since December—going back and forth between my place and hers. Hiding out together at night and parting in the morning like nothing happened. Two months of hiding, of stolen glances. All the while I’ve been playing the best football of my life, and that can’t be a coincidence.
We order a cheeky takeaway and watch oldTop Gearepisodes—the good ones, with the original cast. The only cast, I argue every time. She eats it up, laughing every time Hammond crashes his car or Clarkson thinks he has the challenge in the bag.
Later, when she falls asleep halfway through an episode, I don’t move. I sit there with her, a blanket tugged over us both, her breathing soft against my neck.
This is just easy. Comfortable. She says this is all it can ever be, that we have a finite amount of time. But this… this feels like home.
So I just enjoythis, whatever it is, for what it is. Because tomorrow morning, we step out of the bubble. We go to work, and we’re just friendly coworkers again. Then we have the match this weekend, and the cameras following my every move.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I gently lift Addison off me and slide a pillow in my place, pressing a kiss to her forehead before I grab my phone. The team group chat is blowing up.
Brennan:Big match this weekend, lads. How are we feeling?
Carlos:Think I’m gonna score a hat trick.
Sebastian:I’ll give you my car if you manage to score 3 goals.
Brennan:50 quid says Cap gets booked.
Carlos:Nah, he’s been suspiciously calm lately. Either meditating or shagging someone, I think.
Me:You know I’m here, right?
Hold on, what would Addison do here? Carlos, though he’s joking, is getting dangerously close to the truth, and I’m a terrible liar. Time to pivot.
Me:50 quid Stan has a meltdown before half-time.
Sebastian:You’re on.
Crisis averted.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket and let the lads continue chirping about who might score and who will get a yellow card first.
I glance back over at Addison. She’s still curled up, legs tangled, arms holding on to the pillow as if it were me.
And then she blinks sleepily, like she knows I’m there.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
“Come on,” I say, dropping to my knees in front of her, brushing her hair back. “I’ll take you to bed.”
“But we’re watching the show,” she says groggily.
I chuckle. “Hammond will crash. James wins. Jeremy will moan about it. You’re all caught up. Let’s go to bed.”
She yawns. “Okay.”
