4. Chapter 4
Jack
Press conferences have a rhythm.
You learn it early. When to answer. When to deflect. When to let silence do the work. Most of it isn’t about football. It’s about reading people.
I answer another question automatically while the rest of my attention does something more useful.
Scanning the room.
Same skill as reading a dressing room. Who wants something. Who’s bluffing. Who’s already decided what they think before you even opened your mouth.
Most are predictable.
One wants a headline.
One wants a mistake.
A few are already typing before I finish speaking.
Then my eyes land on her.
Back row.
Notebook instead of a laptop. Pen instead of a keyboard.
She only writes at certain moments. Not constantly like the others. Listens first. Then writes.
That stands out.
She isn’t trying to get my attention. Not leaning forward. Not nodding along. If anything, she seems to be trying to take up less space.
Shoulders slightly drawn in. Sitting back rather than forward.
Could be nerves.
Could be habit.
Could just be someone who prefers watching to talking.
I answer another question while keeping half an eye on her.
She doesn’t react much to the tactical talk. No sudden bursts of writing. No recognition signals. But when I mention people, she stops.
Looks up.
Then writes.
That’s different.
Someone asks about long-term plans. I answer without thinking about the words.
She pauses again before writing.
Thinking before recording.
That decides it.
If someone is actually paying attention, they deserve some of mine back.
I let the next question finish and then I look straight towards the back row.
She looks up at exactly the wrong moment and immediately realises she has been seen. There’s a flicker of uncertainty before she glances behind her, as if hoping I might mean someone else.
There isn’t anyone else.
“And you,” I say.
She freezes like she wasn’t planning on existing today.
“Yes,” I add, keeping my tone neutral. Easy. “You’ve been taking notes the whole time.”
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Right. Definitely not someone who came here hoping to be involved.
“Yes,” she says eventually.
“What’s your name?”
“Ava.”
Just Ava. No rush to add more.
“Where from?”
“The Carlisle Gazette.”
Local press.
“Go on then, Ava,” I say. “What’s your question?”
She freezes again.
“I… wasn’t actually supposed to talk,” she says.
A few journalists chuckle.
She ignores them.
“I’m usually a proofreader,” she adds. “I was sent because everyone else is on the toile—I mean… medically unavailable.”
That actually gets a proper laugh.
She looks faintly horrified that she caused it.
“So I don’t really know what I’m supposed to ask,” she continues, then presses on anyway. “But you don’t sound like someone who came here for football reasons.”
I lean back slightly. “No?”
“No,” she says, then clearly realises that sounded bold. “I mean obviously football. There is football. You are very… football. But that doesn’t sound like the whole answer.”
Now I’m definitely smiling.
“And what does it sound like?” I ask.
She hesitates. “It sounds like you chose this because you wanted something else as well. I don’t know… it just feels like that this isn’t just about your career.”
That shuts the room up.
Not tactical. Not sensational. Just… accurate.
For a second I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t have one. Because I’m deciding how much truth to allow into the room.
Most of them are waiting for something usable. A phrase they can twist. A hint of ego. A mistake.
She isn’t.
She’s watching me like she asked a real question and expects a real answer.
That’s different.
“You are right,” I say finally.
No elaboration. Just confirmation.
She nods slightly, like that matches whatever theory she was building in her head.
Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “That must be quite rare.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Choosing your own career moves?”
“No,” she says, and I can see her deciding whether to retreat or continue. She continues. “Admitting it’s not all about football. In sports it always sounds like it’s all or nothing.”
There’s a small murmur in the room at that.
Not loud. Just the sound of people recognising something true and not being sure they like it.
I find myself smiling properly now.
“That’s a fair point,” I say.
She looks like she wasn’t expecting agreement.
“So,” she says, clearly trying to steer herself back to something that sounds more like journalism, “if you did choose this deliberately… what were you choosing?”
I could give the standard answer. Project. Challenge. Timing. The usual safe words.
Instead I say, “The right environment.”
She tilts her head slightly, considering that.
“For you or for the players?” she asks.
There’s no trap in it. Just curiosity.
“For everyone,” I say. “If you get the environment right, people tend to do better work.”
She writes that down like she intends to check it later.
Then she looks up again.
“And if you don’t?”
That almost makes me laugh.
“Then you spend a lot of time fixing problems that shouldn’t exist.”
That earns a small smile from her. Quick. Unplanned. Gone again just as fast.
Like she forgot she was allowed one.
“That sounds inefficient,” she says.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then someone in the front row snorts.
I have to look down for a second to hide my own reaction.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say.
She gives a small nod, satisfied, then seems to remember she is not supposed to be part of this conversation at all.
“That was all,” she says quickly, already looking back down at her notebook like she can disappear into it if she tries hard enough.
Most journalists leave the door open in case there’s more.
She closes it herself.
And for reasons I don’t entirely examine, I find myself watching her for a second longer before I move on.
The next few questions feel routine again after that.
Formations. Injury depth. Transfer windows. The safe territory. The kind of questions where everyone already knows the acceptable answers.
I reply without much thought. Years of this mean I can do it while part of my attention is somewhere else.
She writes a few more things. Listens. Observes. Then closes her notebook with the quiet decisiveness of someone who knows when they’re done.
That, more than anything else, makes me want to speak to her afterwards.
I don’t usually feel that pull. Curiosity, maybe. Professional interest sometimes. But this is different. Not dramatic. Just a quiet sense that there is something there I haven’t quite worked out yet.
Something about the way she listened.
Something about the way she asked exactly what she wanted to know and nothing more.
Something about the fact she clearly hadn’t come here looking for anything.
I answer a question for Owen from the BBC and Martin steps forward to close things down.
“Last one.”
Someone asks about pre-season expectations. I give them something sensible and uncontroversial.
“Right, thank you everyone,” Martin says. Chairs scrape immediately. Conversations restart. The familiar post-conference shuffle begins.
I stand, shake Martin’s hand, exchange a few routine words with the club staff.
Then I glance towards the back row.
She’s gone.
I scan the room again, slower this time, pretending I’m just taking in the journalists as they leave.
No sign of her.
That’s unexpected.
Most would hang around. Try for a follow-up quote. A quick extra question. A handshake. Something.
She’s just… left.
I find myself mildly disappointed by that even if I’m not sure why.
I walk towards the exit more slowly than necessary, nodding at a few journalists as they pass. Professional autopilot.
Still looking.
Nothing.
Only now I realise I don’t even know her surname.
Just Ava.
Tall. That was obvious even sitting down.
Long frame she seemed determined to fold into smaller spaces.
Glasses she pushed up absent-mindedly when she was thinking.
Hair that wasn’t bright dramatic red. It was softer.
Somewhere between copper and brown. The kind of colour that probably looks different in sunlight.
Brown eyes, I think.
Her voice comes back to me instead.
You are very… football.
I almost smile again.
Not flirtation. Not trying to impress. Just honest observation that slipped out before she could edit it.
That might be what it is.
No performance.
Everyone else in that room was trying to get something from me.
She just wanted to understand something.
I step out into the corridor, still half expecting to spot her waiting by the exit or talking to someone from the club.
Nothing.
Just staff moving equipment and journalists already on their phones filing copy.
Martin appears beside me.
“Good session,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You handled that well.”
“Which part?”
He smiles slightly. “The proofreader.”
So he noticed too.
“What about her?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“She asked an odd question,” he says.
I nod back but my attention is already drifting again.
Back to the empty chair in the last row.
Funny.
Out of a room full of journalists, the one who wasn’t trying to impress me is the one I’m desperate to speak to again.