i've been writing for a while and i have a huge passion for football, especially liverpool. if anyone has any requests, i'll list the players i'm willing to write for below ❤️
FOOTBALL MASTERLIST
FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST
people i'll write for:
- i write for pretty much any footballer, just send me a request, and if i can do it, i will !!
- i've written a lot for jude bellingham, pablo gavi, and more recently, jamal musiala, so i'd like to think i'm pretty versatile !!
- most f1 drivers, current or past !!
please do feel free to send me requests and i'll complete them asap !! ❤️
Y/N had always been brought up on one motto: never make mistakes. Mistakes, her father said, were for the weak, and weakness was not something tolerated in his house.
While some might call his methods harmful, unyielding at best and cruel at worst, she had never been given a choice. To him, life was less about living and more about surviving, each day another competition where only the strongest deserved to keep moving forward.
For years, she lived in that shadow. The fear of slipping up clung to her like a second skin, shaping every word, every action, every decision. At school, it meant perfect grades, rehearsed answers, and never raising her hand unless she was absolutely sure she wouldn’t stumble.
At home, it meant long nights bent over books or drills while her father’s voice drilled into her ears like the steady beat of a war drum. A mistake was not a slip of the tongue, not a wrong answer, it was failure. It was proof that she wasn’t strong enough.
And so, she learned to be quiet. Quiet was safe. Quiet left no room for judgment. Quiet kept her invisible, tucked away from the risk of scrutiny. Yet in the silence, she nurtured something her father never quite managed to stamp out: a love for the game.
Football had been an escape at first. She’d watch the matches with wide eyes, caught between the electricity of the crowd and the elegance of the strategy unfolding on the pitch. It wasn’t just the players who fascinated her; it was the managers, the minds behind the decisions, the ones scribbling furiously in notebooks, barking orders with conviction. While her peers dreamed of scoring goals, she dreamed of drawing them on a whiteboard.
Her father didn’t understand it, he barely tolerated it. He saw no future for her in football, no stability, no respect. “You’ll be eaten alive,” he told her once, his tone more dismissive than cruel. “It’s a man’s game. You’d be wasting your time.”
But something in her bristled at that. Maybe it was the defiance she never dared show him out loud, or maybe it was the stubbornness he himself had planted in her. If football was a man’s game, then she’d learn to play it better than they did.
The path was not easy. She was twenty-six now, but the years leading to this point had been paved with doubt.
University had tested her, not just academically but socially, surrounded by peers who underestimated her before she even opened her mouth. She kept her head down, worked harder than anyone else, and earned a place in sports science courses where her presence was met with raised eyebrows. She wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, but she made sure her work spoke for her.
Internships were worse. Clubs were eager enough to have her file reports, run data, fetch coffee. The idea of her making tactical suggestions or standing beside a manager during training was laughable to some. She heard the whispers, the patronizing jokes, the casual dismissals that clung to her like smoke.
“Pretty face, wrong field.”
“She won’t last a season.”
“Give her a desk job, that’s where she belongs.”
Every word stung, but she swallowed them down, pressing the hurt into a quiet determination. She didn’t have the luxury of mistakes, not in her father’s house, and not in this industry. Each setback became another lesson. Each dismissal another reason to prove them wrong.
What kept her moving wasn’t recognition, it was the work itself. She found herself obsessed with studying formations, dissecting matches, and learning from anyone who would give her the time of day.
The language of football was something she could read fluently, even if no one believed her at first. Her notebooks filled with diagrams, her laptop with endless spreadsheets, her mind with possibilities.
Eventually, someone noticed. Not everyone, not the whole world, but someone. And sometimes, one chance is all it takes.
By the time she reached Middlesbrough, she had enough experience to back her presence, though it never silenced the doubts completely. She was still young, still quiet, still walking into rooms where her voice felt like a whisper against thunder. But here she was, assistant manager in a league where people had laughed at the thought of her even making it to the sidelines.
She carried the weight of her father’s words still, that gnawing fear of being weak, of making the mistake that would prove every critic right. But she also carried something else now: the proof that she could survive in spaces where she was never supposed to belong.
And maybe, just maybe, survival was only the beginning.
Rob was an easy person to work with. That was the first thing Y/N noticed. Unlike the men she had worked under before, managers who barked orders and rarely listened, coaches who saw her as a novelty rather than a colleague.
He never made her feel like she was fighting to exist in the room. He didn’t look through her, didn’t wait for her to slip up so he could confirm the quiet prejudice in his head. He saw past her gender, past her age, past the soft-spoken hesitancy that others had written off as weakness.
That didn’t mean she found it easy.
Every morning, she arrived early, tucked into herself, double-checking notes, making sure her reports were printed, her laptop charged, her observations neatly color-coded. She needed everything to be perfect, because if it wasn’t, if she stumbled, the echo of her father’s voice would be there to remind her that mistakes were fatal.
Rob noticed the way she worked, though he didn’t say anything at first. He watched her hover on the edge of meetings, her pen scratching furiously across paper while the others debated formations. She rarely interjected, but when she did, her points were sharp, precise, impossible to ignore.
One afternoon, after training, he found her alone on the pitch, crouched near the touchline with a clipboard balanced on her knee. The players had already headed inside, the floodlights not yet switched on, the sky painted in that hazy grey before evening.
“You know you don’t have to take everything home with you,” he said, voice warm, steady.
She startled, snapping her head up. “I ... sorry, I was just… finishing notes on the drills.”
Rob tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’ve been finishing notes for twenty minutes.”
Heat prickled at her cheeks. She looked down at the clipboard, then back up, searching for the right response. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
“You won’t.” He stepped closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his training jacket. “I see the way you work. Nothing slips past you.”
She blinked, uncertain how to respond. Compliments weren’t something she knew what to do with; praise felt like a trap, something dangled in front of her only to be ripped away the moment she faltered.
“I just… I’d rather be thorough,” she managed.
Rob studied her for a moment, and though his expression was kind, it was also unwavering. He had a way of looking at people that made them feel as though he’d already read the pages they were trying so hard to hide.
“You don’t have to prove yourself every second of the day,” he said finally.
Her chest tightened. “I’m not ... ” she began, then stopped. Of course she was. Of course he’d noticed.
Rob crouched beside her, lowering his voice as though sharing something meant only for her. “Y/N, you’re good at this. Really good. I wouldn’t have you here if you weren’t.”
The words sat heavily in her chest, so foreign they almost hurt. For a moment, she thought about telling him the truth, that she had spent her whole life convinced that a single mistake would cost her everything. That she’d been taught survival wasn’t about being good, but about being flawless. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in fear.
Instead, she gave him a small nod, eyes fixed on the pitch.
“Alright,” he said gently, rising to his feet again. “But don’t let that clipboard keep you out here all night. Go home. Rest. We need you tomorrow, not burnt out by Friday.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders sagging. “Yes, coach.”
There was a flicker of something in his expression at the way she said it, something caught between amusement and curiosity, but he only nodded and started back toward the tunnel.
The following week, she tried to carry his words with her, but old habits were hard to unlearn. In the staffroom, the others spoke loudly, debating tactics, while she remained on the edges, clutching her notes. Every so often, Rob would glance her way, an unspoken encouragement in his eyes.
Finally, during one particularly heated discussion about shifting to a back three, she cleared her throat. “Actually, I think it could work, if we push the wingbacks higher and rotate the midfield accordingly.”
Silence fell. Heads turned. She immediately regretted speaking, her stomach twisting.
But Rob leaned forward, interest flickering across his face. “Go on.”
Her voice wavered. “It… it would stretch the opposition’s press, especially if they overload centrally. It could give us more width without sacrificing too much defensively.”
Another coach frowned, ready to argue, but Rob cut in before the words left his mouth. “She’s right. We’ve struggled against narrow presses before. It’s worth considering.”
Relief flooded her chest, though she tried not to show it. She simply lowered her gaze, scribbling something on her notepad to avoid the weight of the room’s attention.
Later, when the meeting ended and the others filed out, Rob lingered by the doorway. “Good work today.”
Her heart stuttered. “I… thank you.”
His eyes softened. “Don’t thank me. You earned it.”
For the first time, she almost believed it.
As she was about to leave the room, her notes tucked tightly against her chest, Rob called out after her.
“Y/N!”
She froze in the doorway, the syllables echoing louder than they should have in the empty corridor. Turning slowly, she found him leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed, studying her with that unreadable half-smile that always managed to unsettle her.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a minute?”
Her stomach clenched. A minute could mean anything: a correction, a criticism, a reminder of something she’d overlooked. She hated that her first instinct was panic, but years of bracing for her father’s sharp remarks had taught her to expect reprimands, not reassurance.
Rob gestured toward one of the chairs. “Sit for a second.”
She obeyed, clutching her notebook so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Did I ... did I say something wrong in the meeting?” she blurted out, unable to stop herself.
His brows lifted. “Wrong? No. Why would you think that?”
Heat rushed to her face. “I just… I’m not sure I explained it well. I didn’t mean to interrupt anyone.”
Rob leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his voice steady but firm. “Listen to me. You don’t have to apologize for speaking. You don’t have to shrink yourself so other people have room. What you said made sense. It helped.”
Her throat tightened. “But what if it hadn’t? What if it was a bad idea?”
He tilted his head, eyes softening as though he could see every ghost of doubt sitting behind her words. “Then it would’ve been a bad idea. That’s all. Nobody gets it right every time. You think I haven’t made calls that blew up in my face?”
She gave a small, disbelieving huff of laughter. “You?”
“Oh, plenty,” he said, smiling faintly. “Bad substitutions, wrong shape, poor timing. I’ve made mistakes at every level of this game. It’s part of it. You learn, you move on.”
Mistakes. The word sat between them like a stone, heavy and unyielding. She thought of her father, the way his mouth twisted whenever she slipped up as a child. She thought of the shame that clung to her like smoke, the endless hours spent trying to erase even the smallest errors.
She shook her head. “I can’t afford to make them.”
“You can,” Rob said gently, but firmly enough that it left no room for argument. “And you will. Everyone does.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers tightening around her notebook. “Not me. Not if I want people to take me seriously.”
Silence stretched for a moment. Then, softly, he asked, “Who told you that?”
The question hit harder than she expected. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to force the truth out. Instead, she shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Rob studied her for a long moment, then sighed, leaning back. “It does matter. But you don’t have to tell me now.” He paused, then added with a trace of humor, “Just promise me one thing.”
She glanced up warily. “What?”
“That if you’re going to work yourself into the ground, you’ll at least let me buy you a decent cup of coffee to keep you alive.”
A startled laugh slipped out before she could stop it, light and small but real. “That’s your solution?”
“For now,” he said, standing and moving toward the door. “Long-term solution is teaching you that you don’t have to be perfect to be brilliant.” He pulled the door open, glancing back over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”
She sat frozen for a moment after he left, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Nobody had ever spoken to her like that, not with patience, not with quiet certainty. It left her unsettled, almost more afraid than before.
Because if Rob really believed she could afford to make mistakes, then maybe, just maybe, she’d have to learn to believe it too.
That night, Y/N could not shake Rob’s words out of her mind.
You don’t have to prove yourself every second of the day.
I wouldn’t have you here if you weren’t good at this.
Long-term solution is teaching you that you don’t have to be perfect to be brilliant.
They replayed in her head long after she’d left the stadium, through the quiet bus ride back to her flat and into the stillness of her bedroom. His voice carried a weight that unsettled her, not as sharp like her father’s had been, not dismissive like so many of her previous employers, instead it was steady, gentle, gracious.
Rob had been kind to her since the day she joined Middlesbrough’s staff. From their first handshake, he hadn’t looked at her like she was out of place. He’d asked her opinion in meetings, listened without interrupting, and never once made her feel like she had to shout to be heard.
It had to mean nothing more than professionalism. Of course it did. He was her manager, forty-two, seasoned, respected, steady. She was twenty-six, quiet, always treading lightly, forever afraid of stepping wrong. The idea that there could be an undertone to his words was ridiculous.
And yet…
When she closed her eyes, she saw the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when she spoke. She remembered the warmth in his smile when she’d laughed, the softness in his voice when he’d crouched beside her on the pitch.
You’re good at this.
She curled tighter beneath her blanket, heart thudding, shaking her head as though the motion could scatter the thoughts away. He was being friendly. That was all. She was reading into things that weren’t there.
The next morning, she arrived at Rockliffe Park before most of the staff, as she usually did. The corridors were quiet, the scent of fresh coffee drifting faintly from the kitchen. She set her bag down in the office, opened her laptop, and began running through the data from yesterday’s drills.
Half an hour later, footsteps approached. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was, she’d already memorized the sound of his stride.
“Early as ever,” Rob said, leaning against the doorway with a takeaway cup in hand.
“I had reports to finish,” she murmured, eyes still on the screen.
“You’d have had them finished even if you came in at nine,” he replied, walking over to set the cup down beside her laptop.
She blinked at it, then at him. “What’s this?”
“Coffee,” he said, shrugging as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Thought you could use one.”
Her chest tightened. “You didn’t have to ...”
“I know,” he cut in lightly. “I wanted to.”
She wrapped her hands around the cup, trying to ignore the way warmth spread through her chest faster than the heat from the drink itself. He had brought her coffee. Managers didn’t bring their assistants coffee. It was supposed to be the other way around.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
His smile lingered for a beat longer than necessary before he moved toward his desk. “Anytime.”
The signs piled quietly after that, though Y/N refused to acknowledge them for what they were. He always asked how she was doing, and not in the perfunctory way most people did, but with genuine interest. He made sure she sat beside him during tactical meetings, encouraged her to speak even when her voice wavered, and never let a contribution of hers go unrecognized.
Once, when she forgot her jacket on a particularly cold evening, he’d wordlessly draped his own over her shoulders before returning to the touchline. Another time, during a heated debate among the staff, his voice had cut firmly through the noise: “Let her finish. She’s making a good point.”
And then there was the way he looked at her. Not openly, never in a way that crossed lines, but enough for her to notice when his gaze found her across the room, steady and thoughtful, as though she were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together.
Still, she dismissed it all. He was kind. He was supportive. He was the sort of man who lifted people up, not tore them down. That was his nature. She wasn’t special.
She couldn’t be.
It was Leila who finally broke the spell.
Leila, Middlesbrough’s media manager, was the kind of woman who saw everything. Sharp-eyed, confident, and unafraid to speak her mind, she had taken a liking to Y/N almost immediately, often slipping into her office with a grin and a comment about the latest chaos behind the scenes.
One afternoon, as Y/N sat hunched over her laptop in the staffroom, Leila plopped down beside her with a steaming mug of tea.
“You know,” Leila began casually, “if Rob stares at you any longer during meetings, I’m going to start charging him for eye contact.”
Y/N’s head snapped up, heat rushing to her cheeks. “What? No, he doesn’t, he’s just… he looks at everyone like that.”
Leila snorted. “Sweetheart, he does not look at everyone like that. Trust me, I’ve been here long enough to know.”
Y/N shook her head firmly, trying to force a laugh. “He’s just being friendly. Supportive. That’s all.”
“Oh, please.” Leila leaned back, smirking. “The man practically lights up when you walk in the room. He brings you coffee, for God’s sake. When was the last time he brought anyone else coffee?”
Y/N fumbled for an answer and found none.
Leila’s grin widened. “Exactly. And don’t get me started on the way he defends you in meetings. Half the coaches could be shouting over each other, and the second you speak, he shuts them all up like it’s gospel.”
“That’s… that’s not true,” Y/N muttered, staring intently at her laptop screen.
“It is very true.” Leila tilted her head, studying her. “You’re really that clueless, huh?”
“I’m not clueless,” Y/N said quickly. “I just… it’s not like that. He’s my boss. Aside from the age gap, there's a power imbalance. It would be ...” She stopped, swallowing hard. “It would be impossible.”
Leila softened then, her teasing edge giving way to something gentler. “Impossible? No. Complicated, maybe. But don’t sell yourself short, Y/N. You don’t see it, but everyone else does. The man is gone for you.”
Her chest tightened, a mix of disbelief and panic rising. “He can’t be.”
Leila shrugged, sipping her tea. “Tell that to the way he looks at you.”
That night, alone in her flat again, Y/N replayed the conversation in her head. Leila’s words clung to her, colliding with Rob’s kindness in a storm of confusion.
You’re good at this.
I wanted to.
The man is gone for you.
She pressed her palms to her face, groaning into the quiet. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to keep her head down, to do her job, to never give anyone reason to doubt her place on the staff. Relationships weren’t part of the plan, not with colleagues, and certainly not with her manager.
And yet, when she closed her eyes, she saw his smile again. Warm. Steady. Patient.
The kind of smile that didn’t feel like a mistake at all.
A few days had passed before the first EFL round. The mood around the training ground was electric, brimming with expectation, but Y/N’s chest carried a weight heavier than any tactical file she tucked under her arm.
The fixture list had been cruel. Liverpool. Of all places. Of all clubs. She hadn’t stepped foot there in years, not since she’d finally broken free of her father’s grip. Now, returning as an assistant manager, she’d have to face both the professional challenge and the personal ghosts she’d locked away.
She thought she was hiding it well. Her voice never wavered during meetings, her instructions to staff were clear, her posture straight. But cracks reveal themselves in silence. She stayed too long staring at the screen in her office, fingers hovering over the same line in the scouting report, eyes glassy. Her coffee went untouched more often than not. She was composed, but not whole.
Rob noticed. Rob always noticed.
It was after one of the longer training sessions that he cornered her, just as she was sliding her laptop into its case. The locker room was mostly empty now, the echo of laughter from a few stragglers fading into the hall.
“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something firmer in the way he said her name. She looked up, startled, like a student caught daydreaming in class.
“Yes, Rob?”
“You’ve been off this week.” He didn’t phrase it like a question. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, studying her with the same attention he gave to analyzing a game’s turning point.
She stiffened, lowering her gaze. “Just busy, that’s all. Preparing for Liverpool takes a lot.”
He tilted his head. “Busy, sure. But I’ve seen you busy. This is something else.”
She bristled, defensive. “With respect, I don’t think my moods affect the team’s preparation. The reports are done, logistics are in place. Nothing’s been missed.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He took a step closer, his voice softening. “I’m saying you seem… elsewhere. And I’d like to know why.”
Y/N hesitated. The words pressed against the back of her teeth, begging for release. But old habits clamped down hard. Never make mistakes. Never show weakness. Her father’s rules were etched into her bones. She forced a small smile, shaking her head.
“It’s fine, really. Just nerves about returning to Liverpool.”
Rob caught the slip instantly. “Returning?”
Her breath caught. She cursed herself for letting it slip, but it was too late. His eyes were on her, unwavering, kind but insistent.
“My family’s there,” she admitted, reluctantly. “It’s complicated.”
He let the silence stretch, giving her space, not pressure. “Complicated how?”
Y/N’s throat tightened. She glanced around the empty office, as if expecting shadows of the past to crawl out from under the desks.
“My father,” she finally whispered. “He’s… he’s not the type to be proud of me. Not the type to… accept me in this role. He thinks I don’t belong here. Never has. I left because of that.”
Rob’s brow furrowed, his arms dropping to his sides. “And you’re worried about seeing him again.”
She swallowed hard, nodding. “I thought I’d buried it, you know? But it’s like the closer we get to Liverpool, the louder it gets in my head.”
Rob exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, before speaking with the kind of calm authority he always carried. “Y/N, listen to me. You’re one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever worked with. You’ve earned every inch of this position. That man, whatever he said to you, doesn’t change that. He doesn’t get to rewrite your story.”
His words lodged deep, both comforting and terrifying. She felt seen, exposed. She forced a laugh to lighten the air. “You’re supposed to be worrying about Liverpool’s high press, not my family drama.”
“I can do both.” He smiled, small but genuine. “You’re part of my team too.”
Something in her chest fluttered, but she stamped it down quickly, shoving papers into her bag. “Thanks, Rob. Really. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t push further, but his eyes lingered on her as she brushed past him, heading for the door. The weight of his gaze followed her all evening, heavy yet warm.
That night, Y/N lay awake in her flat, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside her window, but inside, the silence was deafening. Rob’s words replayed over and over, looping like commentary on a highlight reel. You’re part of my team too.
He meant it in a professional sense. Surely he did. Rob was kind, yes, but also practical. He’d always treated her with respect, never once questioned her authority, never dismissed her ideas. He was a rare ally in a world where she’d had to claw her way forward.
But still, there had been something in his tone. Something unspoken. Something she refused to believe, because believing it would complicate everything.
She shook her head, pressing the heel of her palm against her eyes. “Stop,” she muttered to herself. “He’s just being supportive. That’s all.”
The next day at the media office, Y/N was buried in press prep for the cup match when Leila, the media manager, swiveled her chair toward her with a sly grin.
“You’ve got a fan,” Leila said, sing-song.
Y/N looked up, confused. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. Rob. He’s got it bad.”
Y/N nearly choked on her water. “Excuse me?”
Before Y/N could say more, Leila leaned over and plopped a bouquet onto her desk, a neat bundle of fresh red tulips, tied with a simple ribbon. The stems were still dewy, their petals open just enough to show off their color.
“Found these at reception with your name on them,” Leila announced dramatically, grinning like a cat with cream. “Guess who arranged for them to be delivered?”
Y/N blinked, speechless. “You’re kidding.”
Leila waggled her brows. “I may or may not have overheard him on the phone yesterday asking the florist about ‘something classic, but not cliché.’ Ring any bells?”
Heat crawled up Y/N’s neck as she stared at the flowers. “He could’ve sent them to anyone. Maybe it’s a team thing, or ...”
“Oh, please.” Leila cut her off, laughter bubbling in her throat. “You really don’t see it, do you? The man is down bad! captial B bad ...”
“Leila, stop. He’s just… he’s kind. That’s all.”
“Kind?” Leila raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Honey, that man treats everyone else like they’re just pieces on a chessboard. With you? He listens. He smiles. He asks about you. That’s not kindness. That’s interest.” She pointed at the tulips. “And this? This is basically a confession in floral form.”
Y/N shook her head firmly, though her chest tightened. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t come here for that. I’ve worked too hard to have my career reduced to gossip about who I might or might not be dating.”
Leila softened, her teasing fading into something gentler. “I get it. You’ve got your walls up. But just… don’t dismiss it so quickly. Sometimes the right people show up when you least expect it.”
Y/N turned back to her screen, heart pounding louder than the clatter of keyboards around her. The tulips sat in the corner of her vision, bright and impossible to ignore. Rob’s voice echoed in her mind again: You’re part of my team too.
She tried to shake it off, focusing on drafting key points for the press conference, but for the first time in years, she felt the ground shift beneath her carefully controlled life.
And with Liverpool looming ahead, she wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing, or a disaster waiting to unfold.
The train ride to Liverpool was uneventful for most of the staff. Conversations buzzed around Y/N in low hums, match prep, scouting reports, casual banter between coaches and analysts. For her, though, the trip was anything but quiet.
Her phone buzzed for the seventh time in less than an hour. She didn’t need to check the screen. She already knew who it was.
Her father.
The preview line of each text burned against her vision no matter how quickly she shoved the phone face down on her lap. Where are you staying? Don’t ignore me. You think you’re too good for your family now?
Her fingers tightened around the device, pulse quickening. She could almost hear his voice layered over the train’s rumble, sharp, cutting, the same tone he had used on her growing up whenever she hesitated or dared to disagree.
Across the aisle, Leila shot her a look, eyebrow arched in question. Y/N forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and shook her head as if to say nothing. Then she shoved her phone deeper into her bag and pulled out her notes. Work. Focus on work.
But the buzzing didn’t stop. It was relentless, like her father could reach through the screen and drag her back into the shadows she had spent years escaping.
By the time the squad settled into the hotel in Liverpool that evening, Y/N felt like she was carrying a lead weight in her chest. She moved through the motions—check-in, dinner with staff, last-minute prep—but her mind wasn’t there.
When she finally slipped away to her room, she thought the silence might bring relief. Instead, it made the noise in her head louder.
The knock on her door startled her.
“Y/N?”
Rob’s voice.
For a moment, she panicked. Had she forgotten a briefing? Missed an assignment? She opened the door hesitantly, clutching her sweater around her.
“Hey,” Rob said softly, standing in the hallway with his hands tucked into his pockets. His usual calm presence made the air shift. “Mind if I come in for a minute?”
She blinked. “Um… sure.”
He stepped inside, glancing briefly around the tidy hotel room before his gaze landed back on her. “I just wanted to check in. You seemed… off today.”
Her breath caught. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
He gave her a look that told her he wasn’t buying it. “You’re a bad liar, Y/N.”
She laughed weakly. “Guess I need to work on that.”
Rob leaned against the desk, folding his arms, studying her carefully. “You don’t have to tell me, but… if something’s weighing on you, it might help to get it out. You’ve been carrying yourself like you’re bracing for a storm.”
The words cracked something open in her chest. For years, she had perfected the art of silence, of swallowing everything that hurt. But the way he said it, without pressure, without judgment, made it impossible to keep the walls intact.
Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “My father.”
Rob didn’t move, but his expression softened. He waited.
She exhaled shakily, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap. “He’s been texting me nonstop since he found out we’d be in Liverpool. I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t want to. But he, he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Rob’s brow furrowed. “What does he want?”
“Control,” she said bitterly. “That’s all he’s ever wanted. Growing up, it was… everything had to be perfect. Mistakes weren’t allowed. If I got something wrong, even the smallest thing, he made sure I knew I’d failed him. And that doesn’t just go away. I still ...” Her throat tightened. “I still hear him every time I second-guess myself.”
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. Rob didn’t rush to fill it. He simply let her breathe, let her words settle in the space between them.
Finally, he said, quietly but firmly, “That’s not how a father should be.”
Her eyes stung. “I know. But it’s how mine is.”
Rob pushed off the desk and crouched slightly so he was level with her, his gaze steady. “You’ve been carrying that weight for a long time.”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“You don’t have to carry it here,” he said. “Not with me. Not with this team. I need you sharp, yes, but not perfect. Nobody here expects perfection. Least of all me.”
Her laugh was wet and shaky. “You say that like you’ve never seen me panic over the smallest mistake.”
“I’ve seen it,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And I’ve also seen you bring insights nobody else noticed. You care more than anyone I’ve worked with. That’s not weakness, Y/N. That’s strength.”
Something in his tone made her chest ache, gentle, certain, laced with an affection she didn’t recognize until now. She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. “You’re being too kind.”
“No,” he said simply. “I’m being honest.”
Her phone buzzed again on the nightstand. The sound made her flinch. Rob’s eyes flicked toward it, then back to her.
“You don’t have to answer,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. “But the guilt ...”
“Isn’t yours to carry,” he interrupted gently.
She looked up at him, startled. He didn’t look angry or impatient. He looked… steady. Like he could hold her fears without flinching.
For the first time in years, she felt the tiniest flicker of relief.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Rob straightened, giving her a small nod. “Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.” He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. “And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re more than your father’s voice in your head. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”
Her throat closed, emotion pressing hot and sharp behind her eyes. She managed a small nod, but the words stuck with her long after he left.
That night, sleep didn’t come easily. Her father’s messages still lit up her phone, but she couldn’t bring herself to open them. Instead, she replayed Rob’s voice in her mind. You’re more than your father’s voice in your head.
For once, she let herself believe it might be true.
The bus ride to Anfield carried a kind of silence that wasn’t silent at all. Conversations buzzed at the front, bursts of laughter between the players, the clink of headphones around necks, the occasional murmur from staff comparing notes. But for Y/N, each sound was muffled beneath the thunder of her heartbeat.
Her phone sat face-down in her lap. The last message from her father burned against her skull.
I’ll be there. Don’t think you can hide from me.
The words had hit her harder than any tactic board, harder than any match briefing. She’d half-expected it, half-dreaded it, but seeing it confirmed? It was like she’d been strapped into a match she’d never agreed to play.
She pressed her palms together tightly, staring out at the blur of Liverpool streets as the bus rolled closer to Anfield.
From across the aisle, Leila leaned over just far enough to whisper, “You okay?”
Y/N managed a small nod, though her throat was too dry to force words out.
Leila’s gaze lingered a moment longer, but she let it go, turning back to scroll through her phone. Y/N silently thanked her. Any more kindness and she might have cracked open right there.
At the front of the bus, Rob was standing, one hand braced against the overhead rail as he gave the players a final run-through of the schedule. His voice was calm, low, grounding. He looked like he belonged in command, steady, collected, a figure impossible to shake.
Her eyes drifted to him without meaning to. There was something about the way he spoke, the way he kept the chaos at bay. The memory of his words from last night still pulsed through her veins like a second heartbeat: You’re more than your father’s voice in your head.
But what if her father proved him wrong tonight?
She dragged her gaze away, gripping her notebook so hard her knuckles whitened.
The bus hissed to a stop outside Anfield.
The first thing Y/N noticed was the sound: the roar of Liverpool fans, the chants that shook the air, the sea of red that blurred against the grey sky. The second thing she noticed was her own body’s betrayal, her pulse racing, her palms sweating, her chest tightening as if it already knew he was here.
Her father. Somewhere in that crowd, in those stands, watching, waiting.
She moved quickly, keeping close to Leila and the other staff as they filed into the stadium. Rob’s voice carried over the noise, calm but firm as he guided the group inside.
Once they reached the inner tunnel, Rob slowed, letting the others pass ahead. His gaze flicked to Y/N. “Walk with me.”
She froze, then nodded, her feet obeying before her mind could argue.
They fell into step together, the muffled roar of the crowd echoing through the concrete walls. Rob didn’t look at her right away, but his presence was steady beside her, like a tether keeping her from drifting too far.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said at last.
“I’m always quiet,” she tried to joke, though her voice came out strained.
He glanced at her then, eyes sharp enough to cut through every wall she tried to put up. “Quieter than usual.”
She exhaled, her fingers tightening around her folder of notes. “He texted me. My father. He said he’s here.”
Rob stopped walking, turning fully to face her. “At Anfield?”
She nodded, the word catching in her throat. “He said he’d be in the stands. I don’t know where. I don’t know what he wants. But… he’s here.”
Rob’s jaw tightened. “And he hasn’t seen you in how long?”
“Years.” Her voice wavered. “But that doesn’t matter. He’ll find me. He always does.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them, raw and terrified, and for a moment she hated herself for sounding so weak. But Rob didn’t flinch. He didn’t look at her like she was fragile.
He looked at her like she was worth listening to.
“You don’t owe him anything,” Rob said, low and steady. “Not your attention. Not your time. And definitely not your peace of mind before a cup match.”
Her eyes stung. “It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But you’re not facing this alone anymore.”
The words landed like an anchor in her chest, heavy but grounding.
Before she could reply, Leila’s voice called from down the tunnel, “Rob! We’ve got press waiting!”
Rob gave a small nod, then looked back at Y/N. “We’ll deal with it after. For now, focus on what you’re here for.”
She wanted to believe it was that easy. She wanted to believe she could shove her father back into the shadows where he belonged. But as they walked toward the press room, her phone buzzed again in her pocket.
Her stomach twisted.
The hours leading up to kickoff passed in a blur. Briefings, line-ups, media duties, it all washed over her in fragments, her mind split between work and the gnawing dread that he was somewhere above, watching.
When she finally stepped out onto the touchline with the rest of the staff, the noise of Anfield hit her like a wave. The chants rattled through her chest, the lights glaring down against the pitch. She scanned the stands without meaning to, her eyes darting over faces, searching and fearing all at once.
And then ...
She saw him.
He was older, greyer, but unmistakable. Sitting a few rows back from the dugout, arms crossed, gaze locked on her like a spotlight.
Her breath hitched. She tore her eyes away, heart hammering so hard she thought she might be sick.
Beside her, Rob’s voice cut through the noise. “Y/N.”
She looked up at him, startled. His hand brushed briefly against her elbow, grounding. His eyes searched hers, and though he didn’t ask, she knew he knew.
“You’re okay,” he said, firm but quiet enough that only she could hear. “Look at me, not him.”
Her throat tightened. She nodded, focusing on the calm steel in his gaze.
For the first time that day, the roar of Anfield dulled just enough for her to breathe.
The match itself was chaos, as cup matches always were. Liverpool pressed hard, Middlesbrough fought tooth and nail, the crowd roared with every chance. Y/N threw herself into the tactical notes, into the substitutions Rob asked her to weigh in on, anything to keep her mind off the burning awareness of her father’s stare.
Every time doubt clawed at her chest, Rob’s voice was there, asking for her input, listening when she spoke, steady as stone.
And when the final whistle blew, though Middlesbrough hadn’t won, they hadn’t been humiliated either. Against Liverpool, that was its own small victory.
But Y/N barely felt it. Her father was still out there, somewhere in the stands.
As the staff and players began filing back toward the tunnel, she lingered a step behind, frozen between running and hiding.
Then Rob appeared at her side, his voice low but certain. “You don’t have to face him.”
Tears stung her eyes. “But what if he comes down here ...”
“Then he’ll answer to me first,” Rob said simply.
Something in his tone, protective, unwavering, sent a shiver through her.
For once, she didn’t argue. She let herself fall into step beside him, away from the pitch, away from the eyes in the crowd that had haunted her all night.
And though her father’s shadow still loomed, for the first time in years, she didn’t feel entirely alone beneath it.
The late September air bit with the faint chill of Merseyside, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked concrete.
The players moved in a loose pack toward the team bus, a chorus of laughter and banter softening the tight coil of nerves before the cup match. Y/N walked a little apart, her media folder hugged to her chest like a shield, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her phone was still buzzing with unread texts, her father’s name glaring at her from the screen like a siren she refused to hear.
She told herself she was fine. She’d always told herself that.
But then, just as she reached the curb, the air shifted. That unmistakable gravel of a voice, the one that could slice through her no matter how many years had passed, cracked across the night.
“Y/N.”
Her body froze before her mind caught up. Her heart thudded, wild and sickening, as if her chest had been split open. She turned her head slowly, already knowing what she would see.
Her father stood just outside the barrier, older now, more lined, but no less imposing. His broad shoulders hunched forward, his expression carved from stone. The sight of him yanked her backward in time, long nights of silence, clipped commands, words so sharp they had carved themselves into her bones.
She tightened her grip on the folder, nails digging into the cardboard. Not here. Not in front of them. Not now.
Before she could move, Rob’s hand brushed lightly against her elbow. Just enough for her to know he was there.
“You alright?” he murmured, his eyes following her gaze. When he spotted the man, his shoulders tensed.
Her throat tightened. “That’s… that’s my father.”
Rob’s eyes flickered, sharp, calculating. Then he stepped subtly forward, just enough to put himself between her and the older man, his presence steady and immovable.
“Y/N.” Her father’s voice came again, louder, impatient. “We need to talk.”
The staff nearby glanced over curiously, a few players pausing mid-conversation. Y/N felt heat climb her neck, shame blooming like fire beneath her skin. The last thing she wanted was an audience.
She forced her voice out, thin and unsteady. “This isn’t the time.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been ignoring me. You don’t get to walk away from me.”
At that, Rob’s jaw tightened. He shifted fully now, squaring himself between them. His voice carried no hesitation, low but edged with steel.
“She said this isn’t the time.”
The words hung in the damp night air. Simple, but weighted. A line drawn.
Her father bristled, his attention snapping to Rob as if only just registering him. “And who the hell are you?”
Rob didn’t flinch. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, his stance calm but resolute. “Her manager. And part of this club. Which means, right now, my responsibility is making sure she gets on that bus without distraction.”
The older man scoffed, an ugly sound. “Distraction? I’m her father.”
“You’re upsetting her,” Rob said flatly. “That’s not care. That’s pressure. And I won’t let it happen here.”
Y/N’s breath hitched. She wanted to say something, anything, but her voice was locked behind years of swallowed silence.
Her father’s eyes snapped to her. “You let him talk for you now? That’s what you’ve become? Hiding behind other people?”
The words cut like they always did, designed to pierce her. But this time, before she could even react, Rob’s voice came in, steady as stone.
“She doesn’t need to explain herself to you. Not tonight. Not ever, if she doesn’t want to.”
Her father’s mouth twisted, but the security team had already noticed, stepping subtly closer. The tension sharpened. The players were quiet now, eyes flicking between the confrontation and the bus.
Y/N finally found her voice, though it trembled. “Please… just go.”
For a moment, her father just stared at her, his jaw working. Then, with a bitter shake of his head, he muttered something under his breath and turned, disappearing into the crowd with the same sharp edges he’d always carried.
Silence followed, thick and suffocating, until the hum of the bus’s engine broke it. Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of years.
Rob didn’t say anything at first. He just stayed there, close enough that she could feel the steadiness radiating from him, grounding her. Finally, his voice came, softer now.
“You don’t owe him anything.”
Her throat burned. “You don’t understand, he’s always been like this. He knows how to make me feel… small. Like I’ll never be enough.”
Rob turned toward her fully, his eyes catching hers with quiet intensity. “I don’t need to know him to see what he does to you. And I’ll tell you this, Y/N, you’re not small. You’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve met.”
Tears pricked at her eyes before she could stop them. She hated crying in public, hated showing that kind of vulnerability. But Rob’s words landed somewhere deep, somewhere untouched for too long.
“You shouldn’t have to defend me like that,” she whispered.
“I’d do it again,” he said simply. No hesitation. No calculation. Just truth.
Something inside her shifted. She had told herself for so long that no one would ever stand in front of her like that, no one would ever take her side against him. But Rob just had. And not out of duty, not out of protocol, out of care. Out of something more.
Leila’s words came back to her like a ghost: Honey, that man treats you differently. That’s not kindness. That’s interest.
Y/N’s chest tightened, her thoughts tangling into knots. She wasn’t ready for this. She couldn’t be. And yet, standing there with him, she felt something she hadn’t in years. Safe.
He gave her a small nod toward the bus. “Come on. Let’s get you on board.”
As she climbed the steps, she felt the curious eyes of the players on her, but no one said a word. Rob followed, settling into the seat across the aisle from her, his presence still steady, still there.
And for the first time in her life, Y/N realized she didn’t feel completely alone in facing the shadow her father had always cast.
The bus smelled faintly of damp wool and engine oil, that peculiar mix that always seemed to cling after a wet night in Liverpool. Players shuffled into their usual seats, earbuds sliding in, jackets shrugged off, the low hum of conversation rising and falling like background static.
Y/N slipped into her spot halfway down the aisle, pressing herself close to the window, the glass still misted from the rain outside. She dropped her folder onto her lap, clutching it as if it could tether her to the present moment.
Her chest was tight. Too tight.
The image of her father standing there, his face, his voice, the sharpness of his words, echoed like a loop she couldn’t pause. She could still feel the heat of shame crawling up her skin, the weight of the squad’s eyes on her, the way her pulse had thundered like it was trying to escape her body.
You let him talk for you now? That’s what you’ve become?
She pressed her palm flat against the cold window, as if the chill could quiet the storm inside. Her throat ached with the tears she’d forced down, her jaw stiff from keeping it all in. She’d spent her whole life holding herself together in front of him, how dare he come here and unravel her in front of everyone?
She was shaking, but she hid her hands beneath her folder, praying no one noticed.
Across the aisle, Rob slid into his seat. He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, his long frame settling comfortably, eyes flicking over to her briefly before turning toward the aisle. His calmness felt intentional, as if he knew pressing her now would only make the cracks deeper.
The bus jolted into motion, pulling away from Anfield, the city lights smearing into blurred streaks against the rain-slick windows. Y/N focused on them, tried to anchor herself to the rhythm of the ride, but the harder she tried, the more her father’s voice echoed in her head.
Her nails dug into the cardboard folder. She could feel herself fraying.
“Breathe.”
The word came low, quiet, from Rob. She turned her head, startled, but he wasn’t even looking directly at her. His gaze stayed on the aisle, his tone casual, but she knew it was for her.
Her lips parted. “I ...” Her voice cracked, too fragile. She stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Rob said, still soft. Then finally, he looked at her, and the steadiness in his eyes nearly undid her. “And that’s okay.”
She shook her head, too quickly. “Not here. Not now.” Her voice dropped, sharp with desperation. “They’ll see.”
Rob leaned a little closer, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “Let them. You don’t owe anyone perfection, Y/N.”
Her throat tightened. The words scraped against years of conditioning, years of hearing the opposite. You’re only as good as what you show. Don’t be weak. Don’t embarrass yourself.
Her father’s rules. His voice. Always.
Her vision blurred. She blinked furiously, but the tears pushed stubbornly forward. She turned back toward the window, pressing her forehead to the cold glass, trying to hide it.
“I can’t,” she whispered, barely audible.
Rob’s hand shifted, resting on the back of the seat in front of him. Close enough that if she reached just slightly, she could touch it. He didn’t push, didn’t grab, didn’t draw attention, just left it there. A quiet offering.
Something inside her snapped. A choked sob slipped out before she could stop it, muffled by the hum of the bus, but it was enough. She curled forward, hugging her folder to her chest like a shield, her shoulders trembling.
She expected whispers, stares, the weight of judgment. But when she dared glance sideways, the players were lost in their own bubbles, headphones in, eyes on phones, conversations low. No one was looking.
Except Rob.
His eyes stayed on her, steady, unflinching, not with pity but with something else, something warm, protective, patient.
She exhaled shakily. “I hate that he still does this to me. After everything, after all the distance… one word from him and I feel like I’m twelve again, begging him to just, just see me, his daughter.”
Her voice cracked again, the years of swallowed pain spilling through.
Rob leaned closer, his voice low enough only she could hear. “That’s not weakness. That’s survival. He made you carry his weight for too long. It’s not on you.”
Her breath hitched. She pressed her fist against her mouth, trying to hold herself together, but the tears slid hot and silent down her cheeks.
“Hey.” Rob shifted slightly, enough that his shoulder brushed hers across the aisle. The smallest touch, grounding, reminding her she wasn’t floating away. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
The words lodged deep in her chest. No one had ever said that to her. Not her mother, not old friends who’d quietly drifted away, not anyone.
She let her forehead rest against the window again, eyes closed, breathing ragged. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice was firm now, cutting through the spiral. “I want to be here.”
Her eyes flew open, heart stuttering. She turned her head, and for the first time, their gazes locked fully. There was no sidestepping, no polite distance—just his eyes, clear and steady, holding hers as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
Heat rose to her cheeks, a different kind of ache blooming in her chest. She didn’t know what to say.
The bus slowed as it neared the hotel, the lights from the lobby casting a glow across the wet pavement. Players stirred, gathering bags, voices picking up again. The spell broke, but not entirely—the air between her and Rob still hummed with something unspoken.
When the bus finally pulled up, Rob stood and, without a word, reached up to grab her folder from her hands. She blinked at him, startled, but he only gave her a small, reassuring nod.
“Let me carry this,” he said quietly. “You’ve carried enough tonight.”
The lump in her throat threatened to undo her again. She followed him off the bus, her steps unsteady, but for the first time since hearing her father’s voice, she felt like she wasn’t crumbling alone.
The hotel lobby smelled faintly of lemon polish and tired travelers. Warm light spilled across the marble floor, catching on damp jackets and muddy shoes as the squad shuffled inside. Conversations were hushed, clipped, the sting of defeat from Anfield still clinging to them. No one was in the mood for jokes or loud banter.
Y/N trailed just behind Rob, hugging her coat tighter around herself. She felt heavy, every step like wading through fog. Her father’s words still scratched at the edges of her mind, raw and unrelenting. Even now, hours later, she could hear his voice ringing in her ears. You let him talk for you now? That’s what you’ve become?
She wanted to vanish upstairs, lock the hotel room door, and fall apart where no one could see. But Rob slowed his stride deliberately until she caught up, his presence a steady line just beside her.
“Upstairs,” he murmured, tipping his head toward the elevators. It wasn’t a question, more a quiet directive, as if he knew she was seconds away from bolting.
Y/N swallowed hard. “Rob, I .... I just need to be alone.”
He glanced at her, one brow lifting. His voice was calm, firm without being forceful. “You’ve been alone in this long enough.”
The words hit like a blow to her chest. She couldn’t respond, so she just followed him, too tired to argue.
The elevator was silent except for the faint hum of machinery. She stood rigid, eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors. Rob didn’t crowd her, didn’t push, just stayed close enough that his quiet steadiness filled the space between them.
When they reached their floor, she stepped out quickly, fumbling for her keycard. Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped it. Rob reached over gently, steadying her wrist.
“Let me.” He took the card, slid it into the slot, and opened the door. The small gesture, so simple, so unassuming, nearly undid her.
Inside, the hotel room was sterile: beige walls, a neatly made bed, the faint hum of the radiator. Safe, but suffocating all the same. She set her bag down too hard on the chair, rubbed her face with both hands, trying to will herself back into composure.
But Rob’s voice was soft behind her. “Y/N.”
She froze.
When she finally turned, he was leaning lightly against the door, arms crossed, studying her with that same steady gaze. No pity, no judgment. Just him.
“Talk to me,” he said.
Her laugh came out cracked, humorless. “What’s left to say? You heard him. You saw it. He’s never going to change, and I…” Her throat tightened until the words choked off.
Rob pushed off the door and came closer, not too close, just enough that she felt the weight of his presence. “And you?”
Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “And I’m still his child. No matter how far I run, it’s like he’s in my head. Every mistake, every hesitation, it’s his voice telling me I’m not enough. That I’ll never be enough.”
Her chest heaved, anger and grief colliding, pouring out in messy fragments she couldn’t contain. “I thought I escaped when I left Liverpool. I thought if I worked hard enough, proved myself, I could be free of him. But tonight ...” Her voice cracked. “Tonight proved I’ll never be free.”
Rob’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark with something fierce. “Don’t you dare believe that.”
She blinked, startled by the intensity in his voice.
“You are not defined by him,” Rob continued, low but unwavering. “Every step you’ve taken, every barrier you’ve broken, it’s yours. Not his. He doesn’t get to own your success, and he sure as hell doesn’t get to own your doubt.”
Tears blurred her vision, spilling hot down her cheeks before she could stop them. “You don’t understand. He raised me like I was in a competition. Mistakes meant punishment, silence meant survival. That doesn’t just disappear.”
Rob took a careful step closer. “You’re right. It doesn’t disappear overnight. But it doesn’t control you anymore, unless you let it.” His voice softened, steady as an anchor. “And I won’t let you.”
Her breath hitched. “Rob…”
“I mean it.” He reached out, hesitated, then placed a hand gently on her arm. Warm, grounding, unshakable. “Once we’re back in Middlesbrough, I’ll make sure you never have to think of him again. Not in this job. Not in this team. Not in your life if you don’t want to. You deserve better than living in his shadow.”
The promise settled between them, heavy and sure. Y/N’s lips parted, trembling, but no words came. For so long, no one had stood between her and her father. No one had said I won’t let you.
Her walls cracked further, and she whispered, broken, “Why are you doing this?”
Rob’s eyes softened, but the affection there was undeniable. “Because you matter. More than you realize.”
The room felt too small, the air too thick. Her pulse thundered, her mind spinning. She wanted to deny it, to retreat back into the safety of distance, but his words sank too deep.
She shook her head, wiping furiously at her cheeks. “You’re my boss. You shouldn’t…”
He gave a small, wry smile. “Maybe. But right now, I’m just a man who hates seeing someone he cares about suffer.”
Her breath caught at the word cares.
Silence stretched, fragile and charged. She swayed slightly, exhaustion and emotion colliding, and Rob caught her elbow gently, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Rest,” he said softly, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. “You’ve carried enough tonight.”
Y/N let out a shaky laugh through her tears. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” His smile was faint but warm. “And someone needs to remind you until you start believing it.”
Her chest tightened again, but not from pain this time. Something unfamiliar stirred there, hope, fragile but insistent.
She nodded weakly, whispering, “Thank you.”
Rob stood slowly, straightening, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulled it back. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another day. And when we’re back home…” His voice dropped, steady with quiet conviction. “We’ll make sure his voice doesn’t follow you anymore.”
Y/N watched him go, her heart pounding, the echo of his words louder than her father’s had ever been. For the first time in years, she believed she might not have to fight alone.
The days after Liverpool blurred into an odd rhythm. Recovery sessions, tactical meetings, training schedules. The sting of that loss had bitten hard at first, but the squad seemed to carry it with resilience. A string of wins in the Championship followed, each performance tighter, sharper, more unified. The press painted it as grit, determination, the hallmark of Rob’s leadership.
For Y/N, though, the victories felt muted. Not because she wasn’t proud, the work she put in behind the scenes mattered to her, but because something else had shifted. Something she couldn’t quite ignore anymore.
Rob.
She’d always admired his professionalism, the way he carried himself with quiet authority that demanded respect without ever needing to shout. But now, she noticed more. The subtle change in how he treated her, not in grand gestures, but in the smallest details, the ones she couldn’t pretend were coincidences.
It started with the coffee.
She walked into the office one morning, bleary-eyed after staying up too late preparing scouting notes, only to find a steaming cup waiting on her desk. Not the generic black sludge the staff usually survived on, but the exact way she liked it: two sugars, a splash of milk, strong enough to keep her awake through hours of match footage.
She frowned, glancing around. “Leila?”
The media manager raised her hands in mock surrender from across the room. “Not me. That was your secret admirer.”
Y/N’s cheeks burned. “Don’t start.”
Leila grinned knowingly, then went back to her laptop.
Later, she’d caught Rob passing by her desk with a casual, “Thought you might need it. Long night?”
She could only nod, too stunned to respond properly.
The coffee turned into other things. Little things. The way he’d nudge a packet of biscuits toward her during meetings, somehow always the chocolate-covered ones she favored. The way he’d ask questions outside of football. what music she was listening to, if she’d been painting lately, whether she’d finally tried that new bakery Leila wouldn’t shut up about.
It unsettled her, this careful attention. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it was so deliberate. Every detail he noticed was a reminder that he was watching, listening, caring in a way she wasn’t used to.
One evening, as she was gathering her notes after training, Rob leaned against the edge of her desk, his expression relaxed.
“You always hum when you’re focused,” he said casually.
Y/N blinked, startled. “What?”
He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That song. you hum it when you’re deep in thought. Some pop thing, isn’t it?”
Her face heated. She hadn’t even realized she did that. “I, um, it’s not a pop song, it’s Florence and the Machine.”
Y/N’s stomach twisted at the compliment, though he said it so matter-of-factly she couldn’t call him out for it. She ducked her head, stuffing papers into her bag. “You notice too much.”
“Or maybe you underestimate how noticeable you are.” His voice was low, even, but it hung in the air between them.
She froze, heart lurching. Before she could respond, he pushed off the desk, his tone shifting back to business. “Good work today. The players are listening to you more. They respect you.”
Her throat felt dry. She managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”
When he walked away, she stared at the space he’d left, her pulse still racing.
Two days later, during an away match, the pattern repeated. The coach seats on the train were cramped, papers spread across the table between them. Y/N was absorbed in her laptop when a shadow fell over her screen.
She looked up. Rob was standing there, holding a paper bag.
“Thought you could use this,” he said, sliding it across to her.
Inside: a pastry from that bakery Leila had dragged them all to weeks ago. The exact one Y/N had declared was dangerously good and then pretended she hadn’t gone back twice on her own.
Her lips parted. “How ...”
“You mentioned it in passing,” he said simply, settling into the seat opposite her. “I listen.”
She blinked at him, the weight of those words settling deep. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” His tone was easy, almost casual, but his eyes stayed on her a moment too long before flicking back to the papers in front of him.
Y/N broke off a piece of the pastry, her hands trembling slightly. She wasn’t used to this, this steady current of care, this constant reminder that someone was paying attention to her in ways that felt… personal. Dangerous.
She tried to brush it off, to focus on the match prep, but every time their knees brushed under the table, every time she caught his gaze lingering, her chest tightened.
Later that night, back at the hotel, she sat with Leila in the lounge. The media manager sipped her drink, eyeing Y/N with open curiosity.
“You know, if you keep pretending you don’t notice, you’re going to drive yourself mad.”
Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. “Not you too.”
Leila smirked. “Who else?”
“Everyone.” Her voice cracked with exasperation. “You all keep saying there’s something there, but he’s just… being kind. That’s all.”
“Kind?” Leila echoed, raising a brow. “Come on, Y/N. The man practically memorizes your coffee order, your favorite sweets, even the way you hum under your breath. That’s not kindness. That’s devotion.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. She whispered, “I can’t afford to think about it that way. He’s my boss. This is my career. If I let myself believe there’s something more…”
Leila softened, her tone gentler now. “I get it. I do. But don’t mistake your fear for reality. Just because your father taught you that affection comes with strings doesn’t mean this is the same. Rob’s not him.”
The words lodged in Y/N’s chest, heavy and unshakable.
That night, lying in her hotel bed, Y/N stared at the ceiling, the echoes of Leila’s words mixing with Rob’s voice in her memory. I listen. I want to be here. You’re not alone anymore.
For years, she’d built walls around herself, convinced that letting anyone in meant weakness, risk, danger. But Rob wasn’t knocking them down with force, he was quietly stepping through the cracks, one detail at a time.
It terrified her.
But it also made her wonder, just for a moment, what it might feel like to finally be seen, and not as a mistake waiting to happen.
The win against Norwich was a hard-fought, ugly 1-0, the kind of victory that builds character more than it delights fans. The mood in the dressing room afterwards was one of exhausted triumph, the air thick with the smell of damp grass, sweat, and deep heat spray.
Y/N was in her element, tucked into a corner with her tablet, reviewing the final possession stats. The players respected her quiet intensity; they’d seen her insights change games. As they filed out towards the buses, a few of them clapped her on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that still sent a thrill through her.
Rob was the last to leave, shrugging on his coat. He paused beside her, his gaze sweeping over the now-empty room before settling on her.
“Good call on their left-back’s positioning,” he said. “We exploited that gap twice because of your notes.”
She looked up, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. “He’s always been suspect on the turn. The data confirmed it.”
“Still. You saw it.” He held her gaze for a beat too long, the noise of the departing squad fading away. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
The car park was mostly empty, the night air crisp and cold. The team bus was already pulling away, its red taillights disappearing towards the motorway. Y/N frowned, pulling her coat tighter.
“Did we miss the bus?”
Rob jingled his keys, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I drove separately. Figured we could debrief without fifty lads singing ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ at the top of their lungs.”
Her heart gave a traitorous thump. This is professional, she told herself firmly. A manager and his assistant reviewing a match. Nothing more.
The drive started in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the soft crackle of a post-match talk radio show filling the space. They discussed the game, the substitutions, the moments that could have gone better. It was easy, familiar.
But as they left the city lights behind, the conversation drifted. He asked about her painting, not as a passing comment, but with real curiosity. She found herself telling him about the landscapes she tried to capture, the frustration of getting the light wrong, the peace it brought her, a peace football never could.
“It’s quiet,” she said, staring out at the dark fields rushing past. “There’s no one to judge it. It’s just for me.”
Rob was quiet for a moment. “Everyone needs something that’s just for them.”
He then told her about his daughter, how she was getting into art at school, his voice softening with a pride that was entirely separate from football. He spoke of the challenge of balancing this life with being a present father, the guilt that sometimes kept him up at night.
Y/N listened, mesmerized. This was a side of him he never showed at the training ground. The formidable manager was also a man who worried about missing school plays.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Y/N said softly.
He glanced at her, the dashboard lights casting shadows across his profile. “I hope she thinks so.”
The conversation lulled again, but the silence now was different. It was charged, intimate. The space inside the car felt smaller, the air warmer. Y/N’s fingers tightened on the strap of her bag. She was acutely aware of every small movement he made, the way his hands rested on the steering wheel, the scent of his cologne mixed with the night air.
She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t realize they’d taken a wrong turn until he muttered a quiet curse under his breath.
“Satnav’s rerouting us. Road closure ahead,” he explained, glancing at the screen. “This’ll add another twenty minutes.”
“It’s fine,” she said, her voice a little breathless. Too long. Not long enough.
They found themselves on a narrow country lane, hemmed in by high hedges. The world outside shrank to the tunnel of light from the headlights. It felt like they were the only two people left.
Rob cleared his throat. “You’ve been quieter since Liverpool. And I don’t just mean your usual quiet.”
The directness of the question caught her off guard. She’d hoped the professional routine had buried the memory of her father’s confrontation, of her breakdown on the bus.
“I’m fine,” she said, the automatic response feeling flimsy in the closeness of the car.
“Y/N.” His tone was gentle but insistent. “You don’t have to be.”
She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. “It’s just… it’s embarrassing. That you all saw that. That you saw me fall apart.”
“Is that what you think that was?” he asked, his voice low. “Falling apart?”
“What else would you call it?”
“I’d call it being human,” he said firmly. “I’d call it carrying a weight no one should have to carry, and finally setting it down for a moment because you knew you were safe. There’s a strength in that, too. A different kind of strength.”
Tears pricked at her eyes again, but they were different this time, not of shame, but of a profound, overwhelming relief. He wasn’t disappointed in her weakness. He saw it as courage.
She dared a glance at him. His eyes were on the road, but his jaw was set, his profile etched with a fierce protectiveness.
“I meant what I said,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going to let his voice follow you here. Not on my pitch. Not in my staff room. And definitely not when you’re sitting in my car.”
My car. The possessive pronoun hung in the air, simple and devastating.
Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. “Why are you so… good to me?”
Rob didn’t answer immediately. He slowed the car, pulling over into a designated passing place on the deserted lane. He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. The only light came from the moon and the car’s interior lamp.
He turned in his seat to face her fully, his expression open, raw, and completely unguarded.
“Because from the moment you walked in, I saw the fire in you,” he said, his voice rough with an emotion she couldn’t name. “I saw the intelligence, the dedication, the quiet stubbornness that refuses to be broken. And I see the woman who is so much more than the sum of her fears.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from her hand on the centre console. “And I can’t seem to look away.”
Y/N’s breath hitched. The air crackled between them. The space separating them felt like a chasm and a breath all at once. Every instinct screamed at her to retreat, to lock down, to protect herself. But a newer, braver part of her wanted to lean into the warmth of his gaze, to close that infinitesimal distance.
Her phone, buried in her bag, buzzed loudly, shattering the moment.
She flinched, pulling her hand back as if burned. The spell was broken. Rob let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before turning the ignition back on.
“We should get back,” he said, his voice returning to its usual, steady timbre, though she didn’t miss the slight tremor in it.
“Yes,” she whispered, her own heart hammering against her ribs.
The rest of the drive was silent, but the air was thick with everything that had been said, and everything that had nearly happened. As he pulled up outside her flat, he finally spoke again.
“Get some sleep, Y/N. You’ve earned it.”
She nodded, unable to form words. As she stepped out of the car, his voice stopped her.
“For the record,” he said, leaning across the passenger seat to look up at her. “It’s not just me being your boss.”
Then he gave her a small, heartbreakingly sincere smile, and drove away.
Y/N stood on the pavement, watching his taillights disappear, the cold night air doing nothing to cool the fire he had lit inside her. The walls around her heart weren't just cracked; they were crumbling.
The next morning, the training ground felt like a stage. Every interaction with Rob was loaded with a new, terrifying significance. When their eyes met across the canteen, a jolt went through her. When he handed her a file, his fingers brushing against hers, she felt it like a brand.
She was drowning in it, and she had no idea how to swim.
At lunch, she escaped to the relative quiet of the media office. Leila took one look at her and closed the door.
“Okay. Spill. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. A very handsome, tactically brilliant ghost.”
Y/N sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands. “I think I’m in trouble, Leila.”
She told her about the car ride, the country lane, the silence, the things he said. She left out the part about almost holding his hand, but from the way Leila’s eyes widened, she probably guessed.
“He pulled the car over?” Leila whispered, incredulous. “Y/N, that’s not a subtle hint. That’s a billboard. A fireworks display. That’s him basically saying...”
“I know what he was saying!” Y/N interrupted, her voice strained. “But what do I do? This is my career. This is everything I’ve worked for. If this goes wrong...”
“What if it goes right?” Leila countered softly. “What if it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”
“I can’t think like that. It’s too dangerous.”
“Is it?” Leila leaned forward. “Or are you just scared because for the first time, someone is offering you something that isn’t conditional on you being perfect? That’s terrifying, I get it. But it’s also a gift.”
The door to the office opened, and Rob stood there. Both women froze.
“Leila, the press conference notes,” he said, his voice even. His eyes flicked to Y/N, and for a fraction of a second, the professional mask slipped, and she saw the same man from the car last night. “Y/N, a word when you’re done?”
She just nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
He left, and Leila let out a low whistle. “Yeah. You’re in trouble. The good kind.”
Later, he found her by the training pitch, watching the under-21s run through drills. He stood beside her, both of them looking straight ahead, as if they were just two colleagues discussing work.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable last night,” he said quietly.
“You didn’t,” she replied, just as softly. “You… confused me.”
“That makes two of us.” He risked a glance at her. “I’ve never been good at this. The lines. They’ve always been clear. Until you.”
Her heart ached. “What are we doing, Rob?”
He was silent for a long time, watching a young midfielder thread a perfect pass through a tight space.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, his honesty disarming her completely. “But I know I don’t want to stop. And I know I would never, ever do anything to jeopardize what you’ve built here. Your work, your reputation… it’s sacred. I want to protect it, not harm it.”
It was the most beautiful and the most painful thing he could have said. Because it acknowledged the impossibility of their situation, even as it confirmed the depth of his feeling.
“We can’t,” she whispered, the words tasting like ash.
“I know,” he said, his voice thick with resignation. He finally turned to look at her, his eyes full of a war between desire and duty. “But knowing hasn’t made it go away yet.”
He gave her a sad, fleeting smile, then walked back towards the main building, leaving her standing alone on the touchline.
The whistle blew on the pitch, signaling the end of the drill. The players began to disperse, their laughter echoing in the cold air. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, feeling more alone than she ever had in her life. She had spent years building a fortress to keep the hurt out, and now, the one person who had managed to get inside was the one person she couldn't let stay.
The victory felt hollow. The future, once a straight path she was determined to walk perfectly, had now forked into two impossible directions, and her heart was torn right down the middle.
Their dynamic had shifted. It was a subtle, seismic change that only the two of them could feel, like a fault line running directly beneath their professional feet. To the outside world, they were the same: the manager and his fiercely intelligent assistant. But the air between them was now thick with everything left unsaid.
They still spoke, of course. They discussed formations, player fitness, opposition weaknesses. But their conversations were now perfectly polished, devoid of the easy warmth that had once crept in at the edges. Rob no longer brought her coffee. He no longer lingered by her desk. The small, personal questions had vanished, replaced by a strict, almost painful professionalism.
It was what she had asked for. It was what was safe. So why did it feel like a punishment?
The tension simmered beneath the surface, a constant, low hum of awareness. In meetings, Y/N could feel the weight of his gaze from the head of the table, but when she looked up, his eyes were always on his notes. Their hands brushed once when reaching for the same tactical board marker, and they both recoiled as if scalded. The space around them felt charged, a minefield of repressed words and stifled glances.
One afternoon, a week after the car ride, Y/N was in the analysis room, coding footage from a recent match. The door clicked open, and she knew it was him without turning. The very atmosphere in the room changed.
“The press are asking about our set-piece strategy for the Leeds match,” Rob said, his voice carefully neutral. He stood in the doorway, not venturing further in. “I need you to draft some talking points. Nothing too revealing.”
“I’ll have them on your desk by five,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the screen where a player kept making the same defensive error on a loop.
A beat of silence. Then, “You’re working on the Preston match?”
“Their left-wing rotation. It’s a pattern. We can exploit it.”
“Good.” Another pause. He hadn’t moved. She could feel the question hanging in the air, a deviation from their new, unspoken rules. He finally asked it. “Are you alright, Y/N?”
The concern in his voice, so familiar and yet so foreign now, was her undoing. She stopped the footage and finally turned to face him. The dark circles under his eyes mirrored her own.
“I’m fine, Rob. Just… focused.”
His jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred different things. Instead, he just gave a curt nod. “Good. Keep me updated.”
And he was gone, leaving her alone with the ghost of his presence and the echo of a conversation they were both too afraid to have.
The breaking point, or perhaps the bridge, came on a Saturday. A home game. The Riverside was buzzing, a sea of red and white under a pale grey sky. Y/N was in the tunnel, clipboard in hand, running through last-minute reminders with a young substitute. The roar of the crowd was a physical force, vibrating through the concrete.
As she turned, she almost collided with a small figure standing just behind Rob.
It was a girl, no more than ten years old, with a cascade of dark, curly hair tied back in a Middlesbrough scarf. She had Rob’s eyes—the same clear, intelligent gaze, currently wide with a mixture of awe and nervousness as she took in the chaotic pre-match scene.
“Y/N, this is my daughter, Ellie,” Rob said, his hand resting protectively on the girl’s shoulder. His voice was different when he spoke to her, softer, laced with a pride that was purely paternal. “Ellie, this is Y/N. She’s the very clever one who helps me with all the tactics.”
Ellie offered a shy smile. “Dad says you know everything about the other team.”
Y/N’s carefully constructed professional walls wobbled. She crouched down slightly, bringing herself to Ellie’s eye level, a gesture her father had never once afforded her.
“Not everything,” Y/N said, returning the smile. “But I try to learn their secrets. Your dad is the one who decides what to do with them.”
Ellie’s eyes flickered between her and Rob, a curious expression on her face. “He said you’re the reason we started winning more.”
Y/N’s breath caught. She dared a glance up at Rob. He was looking at his daughter, but a faint blush tinged his ears. He’d talked about her. To his daughter.
“Well,” Y/N said, her voice a little unsteady, “it’s a team effort. Everyone has to do their part.”
The whistle from the pitch signaled the players were ready to walk out. The noise escalated.
“Right, you, missy,” Rob said, his tone shifting to playful command. “Up to the seats with Leila. She’s got your hot chocolate waiting.” He gave Ellie a quick, tight hug. “Be good. Watch carefully.”
“I will! Good luck, Dad!” Ellie grinned, then, impulsively, turned and hugged Y/N.
Surprised, Y/N froze for a second before gently hugging her back, a sudden, unexpected warmth flooding her chest.
As Leila led Ellie away, the girl looked back over her shoulder, giving Y/N a small, decisive wave.
The tunnel emptied, leaving Y/N and Rob alone for a fleeting moment amidst the echoing chants. The players were already marching onto the pitch.
Rob’s eyes met hers. The professional mask was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable hope. “She’s been asking to meet you for weeks,” he admitted quietly.
The confession hung between them, more intimate than any declaration. He hadn’t just been thinking about her; he’d been talking about her to the most important person in his world.
Before she could formulate a response, the kitman shouted for Rob. He gave her one last, long look, then turned and walked out into the roaring stadium.
Y/N stood alone in the suddenly quiet tunnel, the ghost of Ellie’s hug still lingering. She had spent her life building defenses against a father who saw her as a flaw to be corrected. And now, in the space of two minutes, she had been confronted by a man who so respected her, he held her up as an example to his daughter.
The game was a blur. Her notes were automatic, her analysis rote. All she could see was the shy smile of a little girl with her father’s eyes, and all she could feel was the terrifying, exhilarating crack spreading through the foundation of every wall she’d ever built.
Later, after a hard-fought 2-1 win, Y/N was in the staff room, packing her things. The room was emptying, the buzz of victory slowly fading. The door opened, and Ellie peeked in, still clutching her half-empty hot chocolate cup.
“Dad’s talking to the press,” she announced. “He said I could wait here.”
“Of course,” Y/N said, her heart doing a funny little flip. “Come on in.”
Ellie wandered over, looking at the diagrams still on the whiteboard. “Do you really draw all those?”
“Sometimes,” Y/N said, leaning against the desk. “It helps us see how to move.”
“It looks like art,” Ellie declared, before turning her serious gaze on Y/N. “My dad smiles more when he talks about you.”
The air left Y/N’s lungs. She had no defense against the blunt, honest observation of a child.
Before she could respond, Rob appeared in the doorway. He looked tired but happy, his tie loosened. His eyes found Ellie, then swept to Y/N, full of a silent, unspoken question.
“Ellie was just helping me decipher my own diagrams,” Y/N said, her voice softer than she intended.
Rob walked in and put a hand on Ellie’s head. “Ready to go, trouble?”
“Yes!” Ellie chirped. She skipped to the door, then stopped. “Y/N? Will you be here next week?”
Y/N’s eyes met Rob’s over his daughter’s head. The tension was still there, the fear, the professional complications. But beneath it, something new was growing, something quiet and strong and real.
“Yes, Ellie,” Y/N said, and she found she was smiling without having to force it. “I’ll be here.”
Rob’s answering smile was slow, tentative, but it reached his eyes for the first time in days. It wasn’t a resolution. The minefield was still there. But as they walked out together, the sound of Ellie’s chatter filling the corridor, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to navigate it. Together.
The dynamic had shifted. It was a subtle, seismic change that only the two of them could feel, like a fault line running directly beneath their professional feet. To the outside world, they were the same: the manager and his fiercely intelligent assistant. But the air between them was now thick with everything left unsaid.
They still spoke, of course. They discussed formations, player fitness, opposition weaknesses. But their conversations were now perfectly polished, devoid of the easy warmth that had once crept in at the edges. Rob no longer brought her coffee. He no longer lingered by her desk. The small, personal questions had vanished, replaced by a strict, almost painful professionalism.
It was what she had asked for. It was what was safe. So why did it feel like a punishment?
The tension simmered beneath the surface, a constant, low hum of awareness. In meetings, Y/N could feel the weight of his gaze from the head of the table, but when she looked up, his eyes were always on his notes. Their hands brushed once when reaching for the same tactical board marker, and they both recoiled as if scalded. The space around them felt charged, a minefield of repressed words and stifled glances.
One afternoon, a week after the car ride, Y/N was in the analysis room, coding footage from a recent match. The door clicked open, and she knew it was him without turning. The very atmosphere in the room changed.
“The press are asking about our set-piece strategy for the Leeds match,” Rob said, his voice carefully neutral. He stood in the doorway, not venturing further in. “I need you to draft some talking points. Nothing too revealing.”
“I’ll have them on your desk by five,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the screen where a player kept making the same defensive error on a loop.
A beat of silence. Then, “You’re working on the Preston match?”
“Their left-wing rotation. It’s a pattern. We can exploit it.”
“Good.” Another pause. He hadn’t moved. She could feel the question hanging in the air, a deviation from their new, unspoken rules. He finally asked it. “Are you alright, Y/N?”
The concern in his voice, so familiar and yet so foreign now, was her undoing. She stopped the footage and finally turned to face him. The dark circles under his eyes mirrored her own.
“I’m fine, Rob. Just… focused.”
His jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred different things. Instead, he just gave a curt nod. “Good. Keep me updated.”
And he was gone, leaving her alone with the ghost of his presence and the echo of a conversation they were both too afraid to have.
The breaking point, or perhaps the bridge, came on a Saturday. A home game. The Riverside was buzzing, a sea of red and white under a pale grey sky. Y/N was in the tunnel, clipboard in hand, running through last-minute reminders with a young substitute. The roar of the crowd was a physical force, vibrating through the concrete.
As she turned, she almost collided with a small figure standing just behind Rob.
It was a girl, no more than ten years old, with a cascade of dark, curly hair tied back in a Middlesbrough scarf. She had Rob’s eyes—the same clear, intelligent gaze, currently wide with a mixture of awe and nervousness as she took in the chaotic pre-match scene.
“Y/N, this is my daughter, Ellie,” Rob said, his hand resting protectively on the girl’s shoulder. His voice was different when he spoke to her—softer, laced with a pride that was purely paternal. “Ellie, this is Y/N. She’s the very clever one who helps me with all the tactics.”
Ellie offered a shy smile. “Dad says you know everything about the other team.”
Y/N’s carefully constructed professional walls wobbled. She crouched down slightly, bringing herself to Ellie’s eye level, a gesture her father had never once afforded her.
“Not everything,” Y/N said, returning the smile. “But I try to learn their secrets. Your dad is the one who decides what to do with them.”
Ellie’s eyes flickered between her and Rob, a curious expression on her face. “He said you’re the reason we started winning more.”
Y/N’s breath caught. She dared a glance up at Rob. He was looking at his daughter, but a faint blush tinged his ears. He’d talked about her. To his daughter.
“Well,” Y/N said, her voice a little unsteady, “it’s a team effort. Everyone has to do their part.”
The whistle from the pitch signaled the players were ready to walk out. The noise escalated.
“Right, you, missy,” Rob said, his tone shifting to playful command. “Up to the seats with Leila. She’s got your hot chocolate waiting.” He gave Ellie a quick, tight hug. “Be good. Watch carefully.”
“I will! Good luck, Dad!” Ellie grinned, then, impulsively, turned and hugged YNSurprised, Y/N froze for a second before gently hugging her back, a sudden, unexpected warmth flooding her chest.
As Leila led Ellie away, the girl looked back over her shoulder, giving Y/N a small, decisive wave.
The tunnel emptied, leaving Y/N and Rob alone for a fleeting moment amidst the echoing chants. The players were already marching onto the pitch.
Rob’s eyes met hers. The professional mask was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable hope. “She’s been asking to meet you for weeks,” he admitted quietly.
The confession hung between them, more intimate than any declaration. He hadn’t just been thinking about her; he’d been talking about her to the most important person in his world.
Before she could formulate a response, the kitman shouted for Rob. He gave her one last, long look, then turned and walked out into the roaring stadium.
Y/N stood alone in the suddenly quiet tunnel, the ghost of Ellie’s hug still lingering. She had spent her life building defenses against a father who saw her as a flaw to be corrected. And now, in the space of two minutes, she had been confronted by a man who so respected her, he held her up as an example to his daughter.
The game was a blur. Her notes were automatic, her analysis rote. All she could see was the shy smile of a little girl with her father’s eyes, and all she could feel was the terrifying, exhilarating crack spreading through the foundation of every wall she’d ever built.
Later, after a hard-fought 2-1 win, Y/N was in the staff room, packing her things. The room was emptying, the buzz of victory slowly fading. The door opened, and Ellie peeked in, still clutching her half-empty hot chocolate cup.
“Dad’s talking to the press,” she announced. “He said I could wait here.”
“Of course,” Y/N said, her heart doing a funny little flip. “Come on in.”
Ellie wandered over, looking at the diagrams still on the whiteboard. “Do you really draw all those?”
“Sometimes,” Y/N said, leaning against the desk. “It helps us see how to move.”
“It looks like art,” Ellie declared, before turning her serious gaze on Y/N. “My dad smiles more when he talks about you.”
The air left Y/N’s lungs. She had no defense against the blunt, honest observation of a child.
Before she could respond, Rob appeared in the doorway. He looked tired but happy, his tie loosened. His eyes found Ellie, then swept to Y/N, full of a silent, unspoken question.
“Ellie was just helping me decipher my own diagrams,” Y/N said, her voice softer than she intended.
Rob walked in and put a hand on Ellie’s head. “Ready to go, trouble?”
“Yes!” Ellie chirped. She skipped to the door, then stopped. “Y/N? Will you be here next week?”
Y/N’s eyes met Rob’s over his daughter’s head. The tension was still there, the fear, the professional complications. But beneath it, something new was growing, something quiet and strong and real.
“Yes, Ellie,” Y/N said, and she found she was smiling without having to force it. “I’ll be here.”
Rob’s answering smile was slow, tentative, but it reached his eyes for the first time in days. It wasn’t a resolution. The minefield was still there. But as they walked out together, the sound of Ellie’s chatter filling the corridor, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to navigate it. Together.
continue with Ellie confronting Rob and urging him to ask Y/N out
Of course. Here is the continuation, focusing on Ellie's pivotal role.
The following week, the new, fragile equilibrium held. The tension between Rob and Y/N was now laced with a different quality, a shared, secret warmth born from Ellie’s approval. They weren't back to their old easiness, but the painful, rigid professionalism had softened. When they spoke, their eyes would hold for a second too long, a silent acknowledgment of the shift.
It was a Thursday evening. Rockliffe was quiet, most of the staff long gone. Rob was in his office, the glow of his laptop screen illuminating the darkening room. He was reviewing training footage, but his focus was shot. All he could see was the look on Y/N's face when Ellie had hugged her, a look of stunned, gentle wonder.
A soft knock on his open door broke his reverie.
Ellie stood there, still in her school uniform, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Her expression was uncharacteristically serious.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said, closing his laptop. "Everything okay? I thought you were at your mum's."
"I am. She dropped me off. I said I forgot my art project." Ellie walked in and plopped into the chair opposite his desk, her feet not quite touching the floor. She fixed him with a gaze that was far too perceptive for a ten-year-old. "We need to talk."
A knot of paternal dread and amusement tightened in Rob's stomach. "Oh, we do, do we? About what?"
"About Y/N."
Rob stilled. "What about her?"
"You like her," Ellie stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. It wasn't a question.
Rob ran a hand over his face. "Ellie, it's... complicated."
"Why?" she challenged, leaning forward. "Because you're the boss? That's a silly reason."
He couldn't help but smile at her simplistic, brutal logic. "It's not that simple, love. There are rules. People talk. I have to be careful not to make things difficult for her."
"Are you making things difficult for her now?" Ellie asked, her head tilted.
The question hit him with the force of a physical blow. Was he? The strained silence, the careful distance, was that any easier for Y/N than the potential fallout of something more?
"You're sad when you're not with her," Ellie continued, her voice softening. "I can tell. You get all quiet and you stare at your phone. And when you talk about her, your voice does this... thing. It gets all warm. Like when you talk about me scoring a goal."
Rob's throat felt tight. His daughter had seen right through him, dismantling his adult complexities with the pure, unassailable clarity of a child.
"Ellie..." he began, but she wasn't finished.
"And she's sad too," Ellie declared. "When she thinks no one is looking, she looks at you like... like you're the answer to a question she's been asking forever."
He was rendered completely speechless. He had no defense against this.
"You should ask her out," Ellie said, as if suggesting they get ice cream. "On a date. A proper one. Not football stuff."
"Ellie, I can't just ..."
"Why not?" she interrupted, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "You're always telling me that if I want something, I have to be brave and go for it. That the worst thing someone can say is 'no.'" She stood up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder with an air of finality. "So, be brave, Dad."
With that, she walked around the desk, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and marched out of his office, leaving him sitting in the semi-darkness, his world thoroughly tilted on its axis.
His daughter, his ten-year-old daughter, had just given him the most profound and terrifying pep talk of his life.
The next day, the air at the training ground was charged with a new kind of electricity. Rob was different. The resigned tension was gone, replaced by a quiet, focused determination. He didn't hover, but his glances towards Y/N were no longer fleeting; they were intentional, full of a question he was now, finally, ready to ask.
Y/N felt the change immediately. It set her nerves alight. The careful distance they'd maintained felt like it was about to shatter.
The opportunity came late in the afternoon. She was the last one in the analysis room, shutting down the systems. The door clicked open, and she knew it was him. This time, she turned.
Rob stood there, his hands in his pockets. He looked more nervous than she'd ever seen him before a cup final.
"Got a minute?" he asked, his voice a little rough.
"Of course," she said, her own heart hammering against her ribs.
He stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place was deafening in the quiet room.
He took a deep breath. "I had a... conversation with Ellie last night."
Y/N's eyes widened slightly. "Oh?"
"A rather direct one," he added, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "She seems to think I've been... less than brave."
The air grew thick, every particle humming with anticipation.
"Brave about what?" Y/N whispered, though she knew. She knew with every fibre of her being.
"About this," Rob said, taking a step closer. "About us. About the fact that I haven't been able to think straight since the moment you walked in here, and that the idea of continuing to pretend this is just professional is slowly killing me."
Tears sprang to Y/N's eyes, not of sadness, but of overwhelming relief. He'd said it. He'd finally given voice to the thing that had taken up all the space between them.
"Rob..." she started, the old fears rising. "The club... the press... your job..."
"Let me worry about that," he said, his voice firm, his gaze unwavering. "I have spent my entire life weighing risks, calculating odds. And I am telling you, Y/N, the biggest risk isn't being with you. The biggest risk is losing the chance to be with you because I was too scared to try." He took another step, now close enough that she could see the flecks of grey in his blue eyes, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. "So, I'm being brave. Ellie's orders."
A watery laugh escaped her. "She ordered you to do this?"
"She did. And she's rarely wrong." He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm before he gently took her hand. His touch was electric, a current that shot straight to her heart. "So. Y/N. Would you... would you have dinner with me? A proper dinner. No tactics boards. No players. Just... us."
All the arguments, all the fears of her father, all the warnings about professionalism, crumbled to dust in that moment. They were no match for the look in his eyes, or the memory of a little girl's hug, or the simple, terrifying, wonderful truth that she wanted this, too. More than anything.
She looked down at their joined hands, then back up at him, and for the first time, she let him see everything she'd been hiding, the hope, the fear, the longing.
"Yes," she said, her voice clear and sure. "I would. I'd really like that."
The relief that washed over his face was transformative. The tension finally, completely, melted away, replaced by a radiant, hopeful joy. He didn't kiss her, not here, not yet. But he squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles in a promise.
"Good," he breathed out, a genuine, full smile breaking across his face. "That's... really good."
As they walked out of the analysis room together, the future was still uncertain, filled with challenges they would have to face. But the minefield was behind them. They had chosen to cross it, hand in hand, guided by the brave, uncomplicated heart of a ten-year-old girl. The survival was over. Now, it was time to live.
The restaurant was a quiet, intimate Italian place tucked away on a cobbled street in Yarm, far from the prying eyes of the Riverside. Soft candlelight flickered across the dark wood tables, glinting off the glass of a rich Brunello Rob had ordered. For the first ten minutes, there had been a palpable, nervous energy between them. It was one thing to acknowledge the tension at the training ground; it was another to be sitting across from each other in this undeniably romantic setting, with no whiteboards or footballs to hide behind.
Y/N twisted the stem of her wine glass, her heart still performing a frantic drum solo against her ribs. She’d changed three times, finally settling on a simple emerald green dress that made her feel both confident and unlike her usual pitch-side self.
Rob watched her, a small, captivated smile on his face. “You’re staring,” she said, her voice a little breathless.
“I am,” he admitted without a hint of apology. “It’s just… strange to see you without a clipboard permanently attached to your hand. It’s a good strange. A very good strange.”
She laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in her shoulders. “I feel a bit naked without it, to be honest. It’s my security blanket.”
“You don’t need one,” he said, his voice softening. “Not with me.”
The waiter arrived, saving her from having to formulate a response to that. They ordered—a seafood linguine for her, a steak for him—and when they were alone again, the silence was less fraught, more comfortable.
“So,” Rob began, leaning back in his chair. “No shop talk. That was the rule. But I have to ask one thing, professionally.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“How did you do it? How did you go from a girl being told she’d be eaten alive in a man’s game to being the most indispensable person in my technical area? And I don’t want the polished, interview answer.”
She took a sip of wine, the bold red steadying her. He was offering her a piece of his genuine curiosity, and she felt compelled to offer a piece of her truth in return.
“I treated it like a siege,” she said, her gaze dropping to the candle flame. “Every patronizing comment, every dismissive glance, every time I was handed a coffee order instead of a scouting report… it was another brick in the wall I was building around myself. I just made sure my wall was made of something stronger than their doubts. Data. Preparation. Work ethic. I made myself so useful, so undeniable, that eventually, they had to either accept me or admit they were willfully ignoring the best tool at their disposal.”
Rob listened, his expression one of deep respect. “You turned their weapons into your fortifications.”
“Something like that,” she murmured, looking up at him. “It was lonely, though. For a long time.”
“I can’t imagine,” he said, and she knew he meant it. “I walked into my first job with a certain… presumption of respect. I never had to earn the right to just be in the room.”
“That’s the difference,” she said. “You earn respect. I had to earn the right to even be allowed to earn it.”
He reached across the table, his fingers gently covering hers. The contact was warm, solid, real. “You have more than earned it. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you ever had to fight that battle.”
Her throat tightened. “Thank you, Rob.”
Their food arrived, and the conversation drifted. They talked about books—he was a history buff, she preferred sprawling fiction. They talked about music, debating the merits of 80s rock versus modern indie. He told her stories about Ellie as a toddler, the messy, joyful chaos of those early years, and her heart ached with a fondness that felt both new and ancient.
“She’s wonderful, Rob,” Y/N said, her voice full of genuine warmth. “So bright, and so sure of herself. You’ve done an amazing job.”
A shadow of the old guilt crossed his face. “I’ve missed too much. Too many birthdays, too many school plays. This job… it demands everything.”
“But you’re there for her in the ways that matter,” Y/N insisted. “She knows you love her. She feels safe with you. That’s what lasts. The rest is just… noise.”
He looked at her, his eyes searching hers. “How are you so wise about a relationship you’ve never had?”
The question, though gently asked, struck a chord. She looked down, pushing a piece of pasta around her plate. “I suppose I just know what the absence of that safety feels like. It gives you a pretty clear blueprint for what it should be.”
The air between them shifted again, becoming heavier, more intimate. The noise of the restaurant faded into a distant hum.
“He doesn’t get to have any more space in your head, Y/N,” Rob said, his voice low and intense. “Not tonight. Not ever again, if I have anything to say about it.”
“What do you get to have, then?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, daring to voice the question that had been hanging between them all evening.
His gaze dropped to her lips for a fleeting, electric second before returning to her eyes. “Hopefully, a chance.”
They skipped dessert. The unspoken tension had built to a crescendo that left no room for tiramisu. He paid the bill, his hand resting on the small of her back as they walked out, a simple touch that felt more possessive and thrilling than any overt gesture.
He drove her back to her flat, the car filled with a charged silence. The radio was off. The only sound was the purr of the engine and the frantic beating of her own heart. He pulled up outside her building but left the engine running, both of them staring straight ahead for a moment.
“I had a really good time tonight,” he said, his voice rough.
“So did I,” she replied, turning to face him. “Thank you, Rob. For… for being brave.”
He turned off the engine. The sudden quiet was absolute. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to her, his large frame seeming to fill the space of the car. The streetlamp outside cast a soft, golden glow over his features, highlighting the determined set of his jaw.
“I don’t want the night to end,” he confessed, his eyes dark and serious.
“Neither do I,” she breathed.
That was all the permission he needed. He leaned across the centre console, one hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. His touch was gentle, questioning, but his eyes burned with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs.
“Y/N,” he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips.
And then he closed the distance.
The kiss was not tentative. It was not a cautious exploration. It was a release. It was the culmination of months of stolen glances, weeks of agonizing tension, and a lifetime of waiting for a connection this profound. His lips were soft yet demanding, moving against hers with a passion that was both desperate and reverent.
She responded instantly, her hands coming up to clutch at the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. The console dug into her ribs, but she didn’t care. All she could feel was the heat of his mouth, the scratch of his stubble against her skin, the solid, real weight of him. It was a kiss that tasted of red wine and longing and a future she had never dared to imagine for herself.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, foreheads resting together in the quiet darkness of the car.
Rob’s breath was warm against her lips. “Wow,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
A slow, dazed smile spread across Y/N’s face. “Yeah,” she managed to whisper. “Wow.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb tracing the line of her bottom lip. “I should let you go.”
“You really shouldn’t,” she said, the boldness of her own words surprising her.
His eyes flashed with heat and a hint of surprise. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. “In that case,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. “How about you invite me up for a coffee?”
She laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. “I thought you’d never ask.”
