2. Chapter 2
Jack
“Dad.”
“I’m here.”
“Are you listening properly?”
I smile and lean back in my chair, shutting my laptop without even thinking about it. Emails can wait. Directors can wait. The press can wait.
He cannot.
“I’m properly here,” I say. “You’ve got me.”
There’s a small silence while he decides if I mean that. Alfie always checks. Not because he doubts me. Because he used to have to.
“Okay,” he says. “Do you remember the one with the spikes?”
I do. I definitely do. This is day four of dinosaur briefings since the museum trip with my mum. Same enthusiasm every time. Same careful explanation like I might have forgotten overnight.
I pretend I might have.
“Remind me,” I say.
“The Stego… stego…”
“Stegosaurus?”
“Yes.” Approval in his voice. “That one.”
“The one with the big back bits?”
“They’re not bits,” he says immediately. “They help with temperature.”
I smile. Same correction as yesterday.
“Right,” I say. “Temperature.”
“And his brain was only this big.”
I picture his hands automatically. He did the gesture over dinner yesterday. Fingers about two inches apart. Very serious face. Explaining evolutionary design flaws to me like he’s presenting to a board.
“That’s quite small,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “Not very good.”
“No. That sounds like bad planning.”
“And his tail had spikes. For fighting.”
“That sounds useful.”
“I wouldn’t fight him.”
“Good choice.”
“I would run away.”
“That is also a very good plan.”
He likes it when I agree with his logic. Always has. Even when he was three he hated being dismissed. I learned early that listening properly matters more than sounding clever.
“Granny said they’re millions of years old,” he continues.
“Granny knows these things.” I’m pretty sure my mum spent a lot of time on Google before the museum visit. She’s a first-class grandmother. A dinosaur expert, she certainly is not.
“I asked how they know.”
“And?”
“They look at bones. I like bones,” he says.
That would worry most parents. With Alfie it means science books and documentaries and questions about fossils over breakfast.
My eyes drift to the photo on my desk without meaning to. Alfie at Christmas. Missing teeth. Hair sticking up because he refuses to let anyone brush it properly. That serious little face he gets when he’s concentrating.
There was a time I saw that face through screens more than in person.
Hotel rooms. Time zones. Calls squeezed between training sessions. Him asking when I was coming home.
Now I can say tonight and mean it.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“I think T-Rex would win though.”
“Against the Stegosaurus?”
“Yes. Bigger teeth.”
“Hard to argue with bigger teeth.”
“He could just bite him.”
“That does sound like a weakness.”
Alfie laughs. Quick. Bright. The kind of laugh that still surprises me sometimes.
This is why I said yes to Carlisle.
Tuesday morning phone calls about dinosaurs instead of missed calls from agents.
“Will you pick me up from school?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Can we watch the earth programme again tonight?”
“The one we watched last week?”
“Yes,” he whispers as if it were a secret.
“Sure. But not too long. Tomorrow is school again.”
“I know.” A beat. “Grandad lets me stay up if we watch space programmes.”
“That sounds like very irresponsible behaviour.”
“He says it’s learning.”
“He would say that.”
“I think he just likes space,” Alfie says quietly.
I laugh softly. “I'm sure he does.”
I swivel slightly in my chair and look out at the training pitch. When I was Alfie’s age my dad stood on muddy sidelines every Sunday. Never said much. He was just there.
Now he walks Alfie to school and tries to share his enthusiasm for everything science.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you famous here?”
I pause.
“Some people know me.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to play football.”
“I know that bit.”
I wait.
“They had your picture in the shop.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“You looked grumpy.”
“I probably was.”
“Why?”
“Because someone asked me a not nice question.”
“About football?”
“Probably.”
He considers this.
“I don’t think football questions are important.”
I smile. “That’s because you’re sensible.”
“I like science better.”
“That's smart.”
And I mean it without disappointment. He doesn’t need to be me. He just needs to be him.
That part matters more than goals ever did.
“Granny is calling,” Alfie says suddenly.
“School?”
“Yes.”
“Be good.”
“Love you Dad.”
“Love you too, mate.”
I wait until he hangs up. I always do. Something about ending the call first feels wrong, like walking away while he’s still talking.
For a second I just sit there with the phone still in my hand.
Then I put it down and the quiet comes back. Not the easy quiet from five minutes ago. The other kind. The one where work is waiting.
I reach for the folder on my desk. Training reports. Fitness updates. Tactical notes. The normal rhythm of the job settles back in automatically. Read. Assess. Adjust. Decide.
Control what you can control.
Outside my office window the first players are arriving. Boots slung over shoulders. Coffee cups in hand. One of the younger lads is already laughing too loudly at something. Nerves. Always nerves when something new starts.
I know the feeling.
My gaze drifts to the newspaper folded on the corner of my desk. My face again. And the same speculations for months.
Westland’s surprise move.
Step down or masterstroke?
Why Carlisle?
Everyone keeps asking that question like there must be some clever football answer. Like I have spotted some tactical opportunity nobody else has.
I pick the paper up, read the headline again, then fold it closed.
They are all looking in the wrong direction.
Seven years managing abroad. Bigger clubs. Bigger budgets. Champions League nights. Directors who talked about legacy like it was something you could buy.
Good football. Good work.
But I got tired of airports. Tired of watching Alfie grow through photos his nanny sent me. Tired of measuring fatherhood in international breaks.
I remember one video call in particular. Alfie showing me a drawing. Me pretending I wasn’t about to go into a match briefing.
“Is it good?” he’d asked.
It was a dinosaur with six legs and what looked like a jet engine.
“It’s perfect,” I told him.
I missed his birthday two weeks later.
That was the moment something shifted. I just didn’t want to be the kind of father who was always arriving tomorrow anymore.
Carlisle came along at the right moment.
People keep saying I’ve stepped down.
They don’t understand.
I’ve stepped closer.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Yeah?”
Martin, the club’s press officer, leans in. Calm. Efficient.
“They’re starting to arrive.”
No surprise there. The circus is punctual.
“You ready?” he asks.
I stand, automatically adjusting my cuffs.
“Always.”
He gives me a look that suggests he knows that isn’t entirely true but appreciates the effort.
“They’ll want the usual,” he says. “Why Carlisle. Long-term vision. Building something. All that.”
“No surprise there.”
I already know what I’ll say.
Project.
Challenge.
Right club at the right time.
All true.
Just not the real truth.
“And probably something about… lifestyle choices.”
That’s his polite way of saying women.
“Let them,” I say.
It’s useful. Always has been. Speculation about my personal life keeps attention exactly where I want it. Away from Alfie.
“Anything off limits?” Martin asks.
“Family.”
He nods. No follow-up questions. Good man.
When he leaves I move to the small mirror by the door. Habit, not vanity.
Public Jack looks different.
Shoulders back. Expression neutral. No trace of the man discussing dinosaur brains five minutes ago.
I run a hand through my hair. More grey than there used to be. I don’t mind. Grey suggests experience. Experience suggests control. Control keeps rooms quiet.
I switch off the light and step into the corridor. Conversations dip slightly as I pass. Not fear. Just awareness. The same reaction everywhere. Players measuring you. Staff watching your mood.
Manager mode.
Why Carlisle?
I reach the door and rest my hand briefly on the handle.
Because my son knows which nights I’m home now.
Because my parents get to walk him to school.
Because for the first time in years I know where I’ll be on a Tuesday evening.
Because sometimes the right move isn’t up.
It’s closer.
I open the door.
Time to perform.