8. Chapter 8 #2
We walk out together, down a corridor that smells faintly of coffee and that indefinable mix of sports kit and cleaning products.
Through the glass I can already see players drifting onto the pitch, stretching, talking, shoving each other in that very specific way grown men do when they are pretending not to be affectionate.
His hand settles low on my back as we reach the door, light but certain, guiding me through.
It shouldn’t register. It absolutely does.
Warmth spreads from the point of contact, quick and unexpected, like my body has decided to get involved without consulting me.
I am suddenly very aware of exactly where his hand is. And that I don’t want it to move.
The moment we step outside, the dynamic shifts slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough that I see the authority click into place. Players straighten a fraction. Conversations shorten. Focus sharpens.
Interesting.
One of the younger players jogs past and grins at him.
“Gaffer, you’ve brought backup today?”
Jack doesn’t rise to the taunt. “Warm-up starts in two minutes.”
“Yes, gaffer,” the player says, still grinning as he runs off.
“They always like an audience?” I ask quietly.
“They like distractions,” Jack replies.
“That sounds reassuring.”
“Ignore them and they get bored.”
“Solid life advice.”
I stand where he indicates, trying very hard to look like someone who understands what she’s watching. There is a lot of running. A lot of shouting. A lot of things that appear chaotic until Jack quietly points out patterns I would never have noticed.
“That drill is about movement off the ball,” he says.
“They’re all off the ball.”
“Yes.”
“Explains it all… not.”
He laughs softly. “Watch number eleven.”
Jack is right. The movement of the player isn’t random. It’s… organised chaos.
“Okay,” I admit. “That’s actually impressive.”
“I told you.”
Jack is explaining something about spacing when one of the assistant coaches calls his name from the far side of the pitch. He excuses himself with a quick, “Back in a second,” and jogs over, leaving me standing on my own.
Which is fine.
I am perfectly capable of standing still and not interfering with professional athletes.
For almost thirty seconds everything goes exactly to plan.
Then a ball rolls out of a drill and heads directly toward me like it has personally decided I am involved now.
It slows. Wobbles. Stops neatly against my shoe.
I stare at it.
It stares back. (I am aware balls do not stare. It feels like it.)
Across the pitch one of the players notices.
“Oi! Love!” someone shouts. “Send it back!”
Another voice joins in. “Go on! Give us a pass!”
I look instinctively for Jack.
He is still twenty metres away, deep in conversation, completely unaware I am about to ruin his professional reputation.
Right.
Fine.
I can do this.
I have legs. I understand the basic concept of kicking.
How hard can this be?
I take a small step back like I’ve seen players do. Then another. This is probably already too much preparation. One of the lads clocks this immediately.
“She’s lining it up like a free kick!” someone laughs.
“Don’t overthink it, just tap it, love!” another calls.
Tap it.
Yes.
Tap it.
I swing my foot.
Immediately I know this is wrong.
Instead of a neat, controlled pass, the ball rockets off at an angle I definitely did not authorise. For a horrible second it looks like it might hit one of the players. But it misses him and finds a much worse target.
The ball smacks straight into the coach Jack has just walked over to, hitting him on his bold spot with a sound that makes everyone wince in perfect unison.
For a split second everything freezes.
Then the laughter starts.
Not cruel. Just the kind of laughter that erupts when something unexpected and mildly painful happens to someone who is clearly going to survive it.
The coach straightens slowly, rubbing the back of his head.
“Well,” he says, turning around, “that’s one way to get my attention.”
“I am so sorry,” I say, hurrying towards them before my brain has caught up with my legs. “I genuinely was not aiming at you.”
“That’s what worries me,” he says, grinning.
“Gaffer,” one of the lads calls, “sign her up. Best shot all week.”
More laughter.
I stop in front of the assistant coach, mortified. “I really didn’t mean—”
He waves it off. “Relax. I’ve had worse.”
“From them?” I ask.
“Mostly from him,” he says, jerking his thumb toward Jack.
That earns another round of noise from the players.
One of them shouts, “She didn’t even aim that way!”
Jack, who has been taking this in with remarkable calm, bends down, picks up the ball and without even looking throws it back toward the group. It lands neatly at someone’s feet.
Then he says, completely deadpan, “So just like you last Sunday then.”
There’s a collective oooh from the squad.
“That was deflected!” someone protests.
“Was it?” Jack replies mildly.
“Gaffer, that’s out of order.”
“Hit row Z, that did.”
“Pitch was bobbly!”
Jack just folds his arms. “Always is when you miss.”
The attention shifts instantly from me to the unfortunate striker, who is now defending his honour while the rest pile in with helpful analysis of his finishing technique.
Jack turns back to me then, the teasing gone from his face.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
I blink. “I’ve just taken out part of your coaching staff.”
“He’ll live.”
“I should apologise again.”
“You already did.”
“I feel like I should apologise properly. Possibly with baked goods.”
That earns a small smile.
“Dave would never say no to cake,” Jack says. “Or biscuits. Or anything sweet.”
“I heard that!” Dave calls from behind him.
“Only speaking the truth,” Jack replies without turning.
I huff out a laugh.
“I genuinely didn’t mean to hit him.”
“I know.”
I look between them. “You’re all remarkably relaxed about workplace injuries.”
Jack’s mouth twitches, but his attention is still mostly on me, like he’s checking whether I’m actually okay or just pretending.
“I think I should stay away from all football-related activities,” I say.
“Probably sensible.”
“Is there a safe observation distance?”
“You’re in it.”
“That feels optimistic given my track record.”
He smiles properly then, warm and quick, and something in my chest does an inconvenient little shift.
Not helpful.
Definitely not helpful.
I fold my arms, trying to recover some dignity. “For the record, I was under pressure.”
“You had no pressure.”
“I had witnesses.”
He chuckles softly, then glances back at the players before looking at me again.
“You ready to see what they’re actually meant to be doing?”
“I assume ideally not being attacked by journalists.”
“Preferably not.”
We turn back toward the session.
I’m supposed to be watching the training.
I’m not.
I’m watching him.