3. Chapter 3
Ava
Iarrive ten minutes early because arriving exactly on time feels risky and arriving late would require confidence.
Brunton Park is larger than I expect.
Football stadiums always look enormous on television but in person they feel even bigger. Like they have opinions about you.
I stand outside the entrance for a moment longer than necessary, adjusting the strap of my bag and rereading the email Marie-Louise sent as if it might suddenly contain an escape clause.
Press entrance – Media Suite
Right.
I show my pass to a man who looks like he could bench press me without warming up. He checks it, nods, and waves me through without a word.
Inside smells faintly of coffee and new carpet. The kind of neutral corporate smell designed to reassure people important things happen here.
I follow the signs and find the media room.
It is already filling up.
Laptops open. Phones out. Confident voices greeting each other like regulars in a pub. People who clearly belong here. People who know where to stand and where to put their bags and how loudly they are allowed to exist.
I pause just inside the doorway, doing what I always do in unfamiliar rooms.
Observe first. Move second.
Two journalists arguing quietly about transfer budgets like they are discussing military strategy. One photographer testing light levels. Someone already eating biscuits with the focus of a man who has made breakfast mistakes and is now correcting them.
No one looks at me.
Excellent.
I slide into a chair in the back row, exactly where I planned to be. Close enough to hear. Far enough to disappear.
Strategic invisibility.
I open my notebook.
Write the date.
Write FC Carlisle – Press Conference.
Underline it twice because structure is calming and if I do not control something I may dissolve into mist.
I am here to observe. I am furniture with a pen.
That I can do.
The room shifts slightly then. The kind of small change that happens when someone important arrives.
Conversations dip. Chairs straighten. People subtly rearrange their expressions into professional interest.
I look up.
Jack Westland walks in.
He is taller than I expect. Broad shoulders. Dark hair threaded with grey that looks deliberate rather than accidental. What black-and-white newspaper photos don’t show is those piercing blue eyes. Not light blue. Deep ocean blue.
He moves like someone who is used to being watched but not particularly interested in it.
Not flashy.
Contained.
His face is calmer than the photos. Less dramatic. More… attentive. Like he is taking in the room rather than performing for it.
That surprises me.
I find myself watching the small things.
He thanks the media officer who hands him notes. Properly thanks him. Eye contact. Uses his name.
That feels important.
Most famous people forget the names of those who are not on their level of fame.
He sits and places his hands flat on the table for a second before the questions begin. Grounding gesture. Control. Someone who prepares himself before the noise starts.
I write that down without really knowing why.
Very composed.
The first question comes from a man in the second row who does not introduce himself because he clearly assumes everyone already knows who he is.
“Jack, most managers in your position move upwards. Bigger clubs. Bigger budgets. So why Carlisle?”
The word Carlisle lands with just enough emphasis to suggest he means why here of all places.
I write:
Question sounds polite. Is not polite.
Jack does not react to the undertone. If he notices it, he does not show it.
“I moved because I believe in what’s being built here,” he says. Calm. Even. No defensiveness.
The journalist tries again.
“But realistically, this is a newly promoted side. Survival is the aim. That’s quite different from where you’ve been.”
Translation: This is a downgrade.
I write:
They are trying to get him to admit it’s a step down.
Jack folds his hands on the table. Not tense. Just still.
“Different doesn’t mean worse,” he says. “It just means different.”
Someone near the front gives a small hum that suggests that was annoyingly reasonable.
Another journalist leans forward.
“Was it about control? More influence over recruitment? More authority?”
This one is sharper. Fishing for ego.
Jack tilts his head slightly.
“I’ve never taken a job because I wanted more power,” he says. “I take jobs where I think I can do good work.”
I write:
Does not rise to bait.
The next question comes fast.
“There’s been speculation this is a lifestyle decision. Moving back to England. Slower pace. Is that fair?”
That one is dressed up nicely but the subtext is clear.
Are you winding down?
Jack smiles slightly. Not amused. Just acknowledging the attempt.
“I don’t think anyone in the Premier League is living a slower life,” he says.
A few journalists smile at that.
“I came because I think this is the right club at the right time.”
Professional answer. Clean. Controlled.
But he shifts slightly when he says right. Like the word means something specific to him.
I underline that.
Someone from the side raises a hand.
“You’ve always had a certain reputation off the pitch. Do you think coming to a smaller city changes that?”
That one lands differently.
Less football. More personal.
I write:
Now we get to the real questions.
Jack doesn’t hesitate.
“I think most people are less interesting than the stories written about them,” he says.
That makes a few people look up from their keyboards.
“That includes me.”
I look up too.
That is not a standard answer. That is someone choosing not to play the game.
Another journalist pushes.
“So no big lifestyle changes planned?”
Jack gives a small shrug.
“I plan to work very hard and try to win football matches.”
The room laughs lightly.
He doesn’t laugh with them.
He just waits for the next question.
Interesting.
A man in front of me asks about tactics. Formations. Pressing systems. Words I understand individually but not collectively.
I write anyway:
Everyone asking football questions.
I pause.
No one asking people questions.
That feels more interesting.
I find myself watching him instead of listening to the specifics.
How he pauses before answering. How he looks directly at whoever asked the question. How he never interrupts even when someone clearly tries to interrupt him.
He listens properly.
That is rare.
I write:
Listens fully before answering.
Someone tries again.
“Jack, are you here long term?”
He does not answer immediately.
“I don’t take jobs thinking about leaving them,” he says.
That answer feels heavier than the question.
I am still thinking about that when his gaze suddenly shifts.
Straight to the back row.
Straight to me.
My brain stops cooperating.
Why is he looking at me?
There are at least thirty people here who look much more like sports journalists.
I look behind me.
No one.
This is unfortunate.
“And you,” he says.
I freeze.
This is how horror films start.
“Yes,” he says again, voice calm, almost encouraging. “You’ve been writing things down very carefully.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I knew this would happen. This is why I stay in the background. Background people do not get called on.
“Yes,” I manage eventually.
“What’s your name?”
“Ava.”
“Where from?”
“The Carlisle Gazette.”
Something flickers in his expression. Interest. Not dismissal.
That is somehow worse.
“Go on then, Ava,” he says. “What’s your question?”
I do not have a question.
I was not supposed to have a question.
My brain offers several useless options including None thank you and Please continue.
None of which feel appropriate when thirty journalists have turned to look at me like I am an unexpected plot twist.