7. Chapter 7
Jack
Ishould already be at the training ground.
Instead I am in my kitchen at twenty past seven watching a five-year-old balance on a kitchen chair whilst analysing a pancake like he’s about to submit peer-reviewed findings.
“It’s not round,” Alfie says with deep concern.
“It’s a pancake,” I reply. “Not a football.”
“It should still be round.”
“It is round.”
“It’s a bit squashed.”
“It has dimples,” I say.
He considers that with the seriousness only small children can give completely unimportant things. Then he leans closer to the pan, watching the tiny bubbles forming on the surface of the batter.
“Why does it do that?”
“Heat,” I say, flipping it carefully. “The heat makes the batter change.”
He watches the next one go in with intense focus.
“So cooking is science?”
I smile. “That’s right.”
“Because things change?”
“Yes.”
He nods slowly, satisfied with the logic.
“So this is an experiment.”
“That depends,” I say. “If we eat the results, is it still science?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “That’s the best kind.”
I laugh quietly.
These mornings matter more than I ever expected they would.
When Alfie first came to live with me everything felt like controlled chaos.
Learning routines. Learning how much structure a child actually needs.
Learning that being responsible for someone else is both terrifying and grounding in equal measure.
Now we have rhythms.
Breakfast. School. Training. Homework. Repeat.
It isn’t glamorous. It isn’t exciting.
But it’s ours.
I flip another pancake and manage to tip a bit of batter straight down the front of my training top.
We both look down.
A pale splatter spreads across the Carlisle badge like evidence.
Alfie gasps.
“It’s on your T-shirt.”
“I noticed.”
I glance at the clock.
I absolutely should change.
I absolutely don’t have time.
“It’ll dry,” I say.
“That’s not how dirt works,” he replies immediately.
“Today it is.”
He watches the stain like he’s memorising it for future reference.
I hand him a pancake before transferring the rest into a Tupperware container so he can eat them at his breakfast club.
“Good?”
He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, evaluating.
“Yeah.” He gives me a thumbs up.
“That’s because I’m brilliant.” I lift him from the chair and shoo him towards the front of the house where I drop the Tupperware container into his small backpack.
I check the clock again.
Definitely late now.
“Shoes,” I say.
“On.” He points at his trainers, laces very inconveniently still undone. I make him tie them anyway because even if we’re late, I’m still aiming for the Father of the Year award.
“Coat?”
He sighs but puts it on.
We move through the routine we’ve built together. That quiet choreography single parents learn when there’s nobody else to catch the mistakes.
“Can you stay at breakfast club today?” he asks as we head to the car.
“Not today. I have to be at the training ground early.”
That little disappointed look hits right on cue. It gets me every time. One of the reasons we moved to Carlisle.
“But if I go in early, I can pick you up after school and we can play some games before dinner.” It might be questionable parenting, but the attempted bribery works. His face lights up, and just like that, I’m back in the running for the award.
By the time I reach the training ground I am ten minutes behind schedule and pretending I’m not.
Most of the players are here already. The usual noise greets me. Boots on concrete. Coaches calling instructions for players to hurry up. Someone asking about recovery minutes. Someone else wanting a decision about media access.
Normal pressure.
Normal responsibility.
I move through it automatically. Answering questions. Making decisions. Adjusting sessions. The part of the job I understand completely.
But part of my attention keeps drifting toward the time.
She should be here soon.
I tell myself it’s professional interest. She’s doing the interview. I want to see how she handles herself when she’s prepared instead of surprised.
That’s all.
Except I already told media to send her straight to my office.
And I turned down two other outlets for this.
Right.
Maybe not just professional.
I glance down at my shirt.
The batter stain is still there. Fainter now, but visible.
Brilliant.
I run a hand through my hair instead and head back toward my office.
The closer the interview gets, the twitchier I get. My pulse kicks up a notch. Something shifts low in my stomach.
Ridiculous.
It’s an interview. Not a first date.
Still, I straighten the papers on my desk. Move a mug. Open the window slightly.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because she struck me as someone who notices small things.
Then I sit.
Wait.
Tell myself I’m not waiting.
There’s a knock.
“Come in,” I say just as my stomach does a stupid little flip.