I lift her easily. Her arms wrap around my neck, and I carry her into the bedroom. She’s asleep again by the time I lay her down and slide under the covers beside her.
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead, letting my fingers linger there for a moment before running down the side of her face.
“Addie,” I whisper. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
I pull her close to me, draping my arm around her. I know my mind should be preparing for the match this weekend, but I’m starting to dread each match day. All they are is a reminder—a countdown—letting me know this will all come to an end.
But for now, this is ours.
31
under pressure
THE ARCHER BY TAYLOR SWIFT
I think media day is my least favorite day of the week. While most of my day-to-day job is crafting a message before it goes out, media day before a match always feels like a live performance where anything can—and will—go wrong.
I have the team prepped and ready, but one wrong quote and I’m doing damage control for a week.
Carlos is up next, and he’s the one I’m most nervous about. Usually his soundbites are entertaining. He sometimes says the wrong thing, but he has a charming swagger that the media seems to love. If this were a romantic comedy, he’s the bad boy with a heart of gold. I know reporters are going to ask about his red card and subsequent suspension. I know they’ll ask whether he thinks he’s at fault for the loss. And while I’ve prepared him for the question, Carlos just loves to go off script.
Matt’s here too, hovering like a shark, waiting for blood to drip into the water. He’s pretending not to watch me—which means he absolutely is. I know how his brain works.
He's not here to see the whole picture. He's here to collect evidence.
Every awkward quote. Every frustrated player. Every loss. Every crack in the foundation.
He's just waiting to file away another exhibit in the case he's been building against me since the day I left him.
In Matt's version of the world, nothing is ever just one thing.
A player loses his temper in an interview? That's a leadership failure.
The club drops points? That's a culture problem.
The attack hasn't looked right in weeks? Someone isn't doing their job.
And somehow, no matter how many coaches, analysts, directors, players, and executives are involved in the operation, the blame always finds its way back to me.
It's ridiculous. And the worst thing about it is that I know it's ridiculous, but I still feel terrible about it.
I have exactly zero control over whether a striker buries his chances. I don't decide tactics. I don't pick the lineup. I don't tell Carlos to collect yellow cards like they're loyalty points.
But Matt has always been gifted at finding a way to make me responsible for things that were never mine to carry. That's what living with him felt like.
If he was angry, I must have provoked it.
If he was unhappy, I must have disappointed him.
If something went wrong, I must have missed a step somewhere.
Eventually you start believing it. You start looking at every problem and wondering what you could have done differently.
What you should have fixed.
What you failed to control.
And lately, there seems to be a lot I can't control.
