8. Chapter 8
Ava
Jack’s office looks exactly like you would expect from a man who seems incapable of chaos. Desk clear except for a laptop, a neat stack of training reports, and a mug that has clearly witnessed several win-or-lose debates. No framed glory shots. No trophies. No ego on display. Just work.
Which somehow makes me more nervous.
He looks up when I come in, smiles like I am a normal appointment on a normal day, and gestures to the chair opposite.
“Ava. Welcome. Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, which suggests competence I do not possess.
I open my notebook. My carefully prepared questions stare back at me. Ben and AJ helped with some. Google helped with most. I still have a strong suspicion I am about to embarrass myself.
“So,” I begin, aiming for confident and landing somewhere around polite panic, “let’s start with formations.”
“Alright.”
“How do you decide which one to use?”
“Depends on the players, who we’re playing, what we think the game will need.”
I nod as if I follow completely.
“And how do you… see that?”
“See what?”
“That it’s working.”
“Movement. Spacing. Passing options.”
I hesitate.
“…the triangles?”
His mouth twitches.
“Yes. The triangles.”
I feel absurdly validated.
“I knew it.”
“Did someone brief you?”
“I overheard AJ explaining them to someone and wrote it down like it was a state secret.”
“That sounds about right.”
I make a note, mostly so I have something to do with my hands. I am aware he is watching me with quiet amusement rather than judgement, which helps more than it should.
“You don’t watch much football, do you?” he says.
“I once watched a match because someone said there would be pizza.”
“And was there pizza?”
“Yes. It was excellent. I couldn’t tell you who won.”
He barks out a laugh. “That might be the healthiest way to watch football.”
“I did enjoy the bit where everyone suddenly started shouting at once.”
“That narrows it down to the entire match.”
My lips twitch.
“I also like watching the managers on the touchline. You all look like you’re trying to solve a very complicated maths problem with no calculator.”
“That’s fairly accurate.”
“You don’t seem like a shouter though.”
“I shout.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He leans back slightly. “Why not?”
“You seem too… measured.”
“Measured sounds dangerously close to boring.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Measured sounds like someone who thinks before speaking. Which is rarer than it should be.”
That earns me a look that lasts half a second longer than expected. Not uncomfortable. Just… attentive.
“You always this honest?” he asks.
“I try to be. Saves time.”
“Dangerous strategy.”
“I work in a newsroom. We survive on dangerous strategies.”
I turn a page before I can start wondering why I am suddenly enjoying this far more than I should.
“Right. Offside.”
He exhales slowly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry in advance.”
“I appreciate the warning.”
“So if someone is offside… they’re just… too far forward?”
“That’s the short version.”
“I specialise in short versions.”
He explains it patiently. Not like I am stupid. Like I am new. There is a difference and I appreciate it. When I ask a follow-up question he doesn’t sigh or simplify it to the point of uselessness. He just answers.
It is… surprisingly attractive.
Which is inconvenient.
“And then there’s var,” I say.
“V…A…R,” he corrects.
“Yes. The lines.”
“The lines?”
“The ones they draw that look like someone is measuring for curtains.”
That makes him burst out laughing.
“I have never heard it described like that.”
“You won’t unsee it now.”
“You may have ruined VAR for me.”
“My work here is done.”
I write something down and realise he is watching again.
He shakes his head.
“Is your whole article about general football terminology?” he asks without judgment in his voice.
“No… I… well I just wanted to understand the basics first.” Floor open and swallow me, please! He probably thinks I should have done my research before rocking up in his office. “I don’t like writing about things I don’t understand,” I try to explain myself.
“That already puts you ahead of a lot of people,” he nods approvingly.
“So,” I say, “how do you deal with pressure?”
His expression changes slightly. Not guarded. Just more thoughtful.
“You learn what matters,” he says.
“And what doesn’t?”
“The noise. Opinions. Headlines.”
“And what does matter?”
“The people you go home to.”
That answer lands somewhere soft before I can stop it.
“Your son,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. He sounds surprised. “My son.”
“You don’t really talk about him in interviews.”
“That’s deliberate.”
I nod. That makes immediate sense. If your life is constantly public, the instinct to protect the one person who didn’t choose that must be overwhelming.
“I wasn’t going to ask anything personal,” I say. “I was more interested in how being a dad changed how you approach the job.”
That seems to settle something in him. Not openness exactly. More like he has decided this is a safe version of the question.
“It makes you ruthless with your time,” he says. “I don’t stay late just because everyone else does. If I can do something tomorrow, I do it tomorrow. If I said I’d be home, I’m home.”
“That sounds… intentional.”
“It is. Football will take everything you give it if you let it. I decided not to let it take that.”
“And clubs accept that anymore?”
“They do if you’re clear from the start.”
“How clear?”
“I made it part of my contract here,” he says. “No unnecessary media work outside agreed hours. Protected days when I’m not travelling. And if I say I’m unavailable after a certain time, that’s not negotiable unless something’s on fire.”
I blink.
“You can do that?”
“If you’re willing to give something up in return.”
“What did you give up?”
“Money,” he says simply. “Quite a lot of it.”
That surprises me more than it should. Football is one of the few industries where people rarely admit that part out loud.
“There were bigger clubs interested,” he adds. “Bigger salaries. Less control over my time.”
“And you chose control.”
“I chose being a parent.”
There’s no hero speech attached to it. No look at me being noble. Just a practical decision stated like he’s explaining why he chose one supplier over another.
“And Carlisle agreed to that?” I ask.
“They wanted stability. I wanted balance. It worked.”
“And you were really fine with earning less?”
He gives a small shrug.
“There comes a point where more money doesn’t actually buy you anything you need.”
“And time does,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
That answer sits there between us for a second.
I make a note, though I already know this won’t make the article. Not because it isn’t interesting. Because it feels like one of those truths people only share when they forget they’re being interviewed.
I hesitate, then say, “Does your son understand you made those choices for him?”
The second it leaves my mouth I realise how badly phrased that is.
“He’s five,” I add quickly, giving a small apologetic smile. “That was a badly constructed question. What I meant was… does he notice you being around more?”
That seems to make much more sense to him.
“He notices I’m there for breakfast… on most days,” Jack says. “And school runs when I can do them. That’s enough.”
“That probably is enough at that age.”
“It is.”
I nod, making a note, but what I’m really doing is buying myself a second because something about that answer makes me swoon a little.
Jack is quiet for a moment after talking about his son, his thumb absently running along the edge of his mug like he’s only just realised how much he’s said.
“I probably shouldn’t have gone into that much detail,” he says, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before letting it fall back into place.
There’s no accusation in it. Just someone pulling himself back a step.
I shake my head. “I won’t use anything you’re not comfortable with.”
He nods, then rubs his jaw for a second, thinking.
“I don’t mind mentioning I’m a dad,” he says. “That’s public anyway. I just don’t want… the rest becoming part of the narrative.”
“I understand.”
I adjust my glasses even though they don’t need adjusting, mostly to give him a second to see I mean that.
He studies me for a moment, elbow on the desk now, fingers resting against his mouth like he’s deciding how much to trust me.
“I’ve had things end up in print before that were said in conversation,” he admits. “Not wrong. Just… more personal than I expected.”
I hesitate for a second, then add, “I was actually thinking I could let you read the piece before it goes in. Just to make sure I haven’t misunderstood anything.”
His head lifts slightly. “You’d do that?”
“For accuracy,” I say quickly. “Not… editorial control,” I add, because even I know that line matters. “Just so I don’t accidentally turn something personal into something public.”
He studies me for a moment, clearly not expecting that answer.
“I’d appreciate that,” he says eventually.
I shrug lightly, pretending to be more casual about it than I feel.
“It seemed like the decent thing to do.”
That earns me a small smile. Not the public one. The quieter one he seems to forget to manage.
And annoyingly, that smile does something to my concentration.
I look back down at my notes before I start looking like I’ve forgotten why I’m here.
Jack glances at his watch, then back at me.
“We’re starting training in ten minutes,” he says. “If you want to see how this actually works instead of just hearing me talk about it.”
I close my notebook. “Are you sure that’s wise? I feel like I’ve only just grasped the triangle situation.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“That sounds like something people say shortly before things go very wrong.”
He smiles. “Come on. You can stand near me. I’ll translate.”
“I appreciate the offer of live interpretation.”