6. Chapter 6
Ava
Itry to time it so I can walk past Marie-Louise’s office without being noticed.
Not in an obvious way. Nothing suspicious. Just a slight adjustment of pace. A file held up like a shield. The quiet hope that if I look busy enough I might become invisible.
Unfortunately Marie-Louise has the observational skills of a hawk.
She spots me immediately.
She’s on the phone, one hand pressed to her temple, the other already motioning me inside.
I freeze for half a second.
Then I walk in.
There is no graceful way to refuse that gesture.
I sit down in the chair opposite her desk while she continues the call, her finger raised slightly to signal one moment. I fold my hands together in my lap and try to look like someone who belongs in editorial offices.
“Yes,” she says into the phone. “No, I understand that… yes… yes I do.”
A pause.
“No, that is not the issue. The issue is that I need to understand why.”
Another pause.
I try not to listen.
I fail.
“Yes, but that’s highly unusual,” she continues. “We don’t normally agree to conditions like that… no… because that isn’t how journalism works.”
I wonder if the owner of the newspaper is demanding more cuts to our budget. He is always after more stories for less money.
“That may be,” she says, her voice calmer now, “but I still need a reason that makes sense from my side.”
A longer pause this time.
Her eyes flick to me briefly. Assessing. Measuring.
Then back to whatever she’s seeing on her screen.
“I see,” she says slowly.
Another pause.
“Well… yes. I can understand why that might appeal to him.”
I feel a small, unpleasant question forming in my chest.
Is this about me?
“Yes,” she says finally. “Leave it with me. I’ll speak to her.”
Her tone is neutral. Professional. Impossible to read.
She ends the call and sits back slightly, studying me for a moment.
I prepare myself.
“Ava,” she says, not unkindly, “let’s start with yesterday.”
I nod.
“I understand you were stepping in at short notice,” she continues. “And I appreciate that you did that.”
I wait.
“But,” she adds gently, “those notes were… unconventional.”
I feel heat creep up my neck.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have written down the football details.”
Because I know how this works. You do the job you were given, not the one that feels easier.
“Yes,” she says. “That would usually be the expectation.”
“I’m sorry.”
And I am.
I don’t like doing things badly. Even accidentally.
I also don’t like disappointing people. That part lands harder than the mistake itself.
Marie-Louise watches me for a second, then her expression softens slightly.
“Ben tells me what you did write was useful,” she says. “Just not what he expected.”
“I wrote what I noticed.”
“I gathered that.”
There is the faintest hint of amusement in her voice now.
“You essentially profiled him.”
I’m not sure whether that is praise or criticism.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she says. “I don’t think you did.”
She folds her hands together.
“Which brings me to the reason you’re here.”
My stomach drops slightly.
“Yes?”
She studies me another moment, like she’s deciding how to say something.
“Jack Westland has offered the Gazette an exclusive interview.”
“That’s… good… I guess.”
“It is,” she agrees. “Exclusives usually are.”
She pauses.
“There is a condition.”
“What condition?” I ask.
Her mouth curves slightly, like she still finds it strange herself.
“He will only do it if you conduct the interview.”
For a second I think I have misunderstood.
“I’m sorry?”
“He asked for you by name,” she says. “Apparently he found your question… refreshing.”
My brain goes very quiet for a second.
That must be a mistake.
That has to be a mistake.
“I am not a journalist.”
“You are employed by a newspaper.”
“I correct spelling.”
“You also asked the only original question in that room yesterday.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
I also don’t know what to do with the small, unexpected warmth that spreads through my chest at the idea that he remembered me. Not just the question. Me.
That is not a useful thought.
I push it away immediately.
“I think he misunderstood,” I say eventually.
Marie-Louise almost smiles.
“I don’t think he did.”
Silence settles between us.
I can feel my carefully ordered world shifting slightly off centre.
“I can say no,” I say quietly.
Because that would be the sensible choice. The safe choice. The Ava-shaped choice.
“You could,” she agrees.
“But you don’t want me to.”
“No,” she says honestly. “I don’t.”
I swallow.
“I don’t know how to interview someone.”
Marie-Louise leans back slightly.
“You know how to listen,” she says. “That’s enough.”
I think about the notebook. About what I missed. About what I wrote down instead.
I also think about the way he had listened back.
As if the question deserved space.
“And if I say no?”
“Then we lose the exclusive.”
No pressure then.
I look down at my hands.
Yesterday I had stepped outside my usual role by accident.
Today I am apparently being invited to do it on purpose.
And a very small, very inconvenient part of me wonders what it would be like to sit across from him properly. To ask questions when I have time to think. To see if he would listen like that again.
Or look at me again with these intense eyes.
Oh, wow. That is definitely not a professional thought.
“I would need help,” I say.
“You’ll have it.”
“I would need preparation time.”
“You’ll have that too.”
I hesitate.
Marie-Louise waits.
“I’ll try,” I say finally.
She nods once, satisfied.
“Good,” she says. “Let’s see what happens.”
As I leave her office a single thought follows me back into the newsroom.
Yesterday I asked one question and I struggled.
Next time, I will have to ask many.
And there will be nowhere to hide.
And, if I am being completely honest with myself, a small part of me is not entirely sure I want to.
The training centre is larger than I expected.
Glass. Steel. Clean lines. Everything looks purposeful. Even the reception area feels like it belongs to people who know exactly where they are supposed to be.
I am not one of those people.
“I'm Ava Morgan from the Carlisle Gazette. I’m here to see Jack Westland,” I say to the receptionist, trying to sound like this is a normal part of my working day.
She gives me a professional smile. “Of course. He’s expecting you. If you head down that corridor and turn left someone will point you in the right direction.”
The first corridor leads to another corridor. That one leads to a gym. The gym leads to a physio room where a man is having his leg manipulated in a way that makes me instinctively wince.
He looks up.
I say, “Sorry,” even though I have done nothing wrong.
He gives me a thumbs up.
I leave.
The next person I ask sends me toward the analysis suite. The analysis suite sends me toward the indoor pitch. The indoor pitch sends me toward what someone calls the players’ side, which I take to mean offices.
It does not mean offices.
The door I open is not an office.
It is a changing room.
There is a split second where nobody moves. Then someone laughs. Someone else keeps pulling on socks like this is completely normal.
Half the team is there.
And half the team is wearing very little.
My brain reacts in a very Ava way.
Error. Wrong room. Exit immediately.
“I am so sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for Jack Westland.”
One player looks up from tying his laces, completely unfazed.
“Love,” he says. “not in here.”
Another grins. “You want the gaffer’s office. End of the corridor.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
I am still standing there.
This is not ideal.
My brain is now very loudly reminding me that I am a forty-something woman standing in a professional football changing room surrounded by semi-dressed young lads.
“I will leave now,” I say.
“That’s usually how this part goes,” someone replies with a chuckle.
I step backwards.
Do not look around.
Do not accidentally make eye contact.
Focus on neutral things. The floor. The door handle. My notebook.
My brain, extremely unhelpfully, decides to notice details anyway. The general level of physical fitness. The fact that professional athletes apparently do not experience awkwardness as a concept.
I reach the corridor and close the door behind me.
I stand there for a second.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
That did not happen.
It did happen.
I adjust the strap of my bag like that will somehow restore order to the universe.
New rule: always knock.
New rule: assume every door leads somewhere embarrassing.
New rule: never trust directions that include the words players’ side.
I start walking again, determined to pretend this was entirely routine.
At the end of the corridor I find a door that actually looks like an office. Frosted glass. Name plate. Order. Sanity.
I check the name.
Jack Westland
My stomach does a small, unexpected shift.
This is not about the changing room anymore.
This is about him.
I suddenly become very aware that I am about to sit across from someone who asked for me specifically.
Me.
That still doesn’t feel entirely real.
I smooth a hand over my notebook, buying myself two seconds to settle.
Professional.
This is professional.
I knock.
A brief pause.
Then his voice from inside.
“Come in.”
And just like that I am about to find out whether yesterday meant as little to him as it should have.