9. Chapter 9
Jack
Training ends the way it usually does. Loud, sweaty, and full of opinions nobody asked for.
Boots scrape on concrete as the lads head toward the changing rooms, still arguing about a missed chance in the finishing drill like it mattered. Someone is already talking about food. Someone else is blaming the pitch for something that was very obviously his own fault.
“Gaffer,” Liam calls as he passes me, nodding toward Ava, “you sure she’s not here to replace us?”
“Only the underperforming ones,” I say.
“That’s most of us then,” he mutters.
“That definitely includes you,” I tell him.
Connor slows as he walks past, jerking his chin toward Ava. “If she’s coming back next week, I’m actually gonna start trying in training.”
“You should try that anyway,” I reply.
“Feels unnecessary unless someone’s watching.”
“I’m watching, that needs to be good enough for you to move your arse,” Dave tells him as he passes, still rubbing the spot where the ball hit him earlier.
“Still hurts,” Dave adds for effect.
“You’ll survive,” I say.
“Say that now. Wait till I can’t lift my brew later.”
“Occupational hazard.”
From further down the line Jamie calls back, “If she says I’m class will I start Saturday?”
“If she says you’re class,” I reply, “I’ll check she’s watching the right training session.”
“That’s cold.”
“That’s football.”
A few more laughs follow them into the tunnel before the door swings shut and the noise fades, leaving just the quiet of the pitch.
I glance sideways at Ava. She’s watching the team like she’s just witnessed something she didn’t expect to enjoy.
“Well?” I ask.
She looks back at me. “Well what?”
“You’ve seen it up close now. What do you think?”
She considers that for a second, then folds her arms like she’s about to deliver a professional assessment.
“I think,” she says slowly, “it doesn’t look that difficult.”
I let out a short laugh. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Bit of running. Bit of shouting. Occasional dramatic falling over.”
“That’s your technical analysis?”
“I believe that’s the official term.”
“That’s a bold assessment from someone who’s never kicked a ball.”
“I have kicked a ball.”
“When?”
“Primary school. I retired after I hit a teacher.”
I glance at her. “There’s a pattern forming.”
“That was also accidental.”
“Of course it was.” I nod toward the far goal. “Come on then. Let’s test the theory. One shot. You try to score. I try to stop you.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You’re actually making me do this?”
“You said it looked easy.”
She hesitates just long enough for me to think she might back out. Instead she falls into step beside me as we walk across the pitch.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” she says.
“I really am.”
That part is true.
What I don’t say is that I’m simply not ready for her to leave yet.
The training finished ten minutes ago. She could have thanked me, gone back to the office, written up her notes. That would have been the normal version of today.
Instead I’m walking slowly across a football pitch with her, stretching a thirty-second challenge into something longer because I’m not quite done being around her.
I’m not entirely sure when that happened.
Or why.
Or why I’m not stopping it.
She’s got her hands tucked into her coat pockets now, confidence from five minutes ago replaced with something more cautious.
“You’re not going to make me run loads, are you?” she asks.
“It’s ten metres.”
“That feels manageable.”
“You say that now.”
She exhales a small laugh. “I feel like this is a trap.”
“It’s absolutely a trap.”
“Honesty is appreciated.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few steps.
She looks smaller out here somehow. Not physically. Just… out of her natural habitat. And yet she hasn’t tried to get out of it. She’s still here. Still game.
I like that more than I probably should.
“You nervous?” I ask.
“No.”
That comes too quickly.
I glance sideways at her.
She notices.
“Alright,” she admits. “Slightly.”
“Good.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Means you care if you miss.”
She looks at me for a second like she’s deciding whether that was meant as a joke or not.
I’m not entirely sure myself.
We reach the penalty spot and I roll a loose ball toward her with my foot.
“Right,” I say, stepping backwards toward the goal, “from here. You get one attempt. If you score, you can officially say football is easy.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you admit we’re highly skilled professionals.”
She considers that. “I don’t like the terms.”
“Non-negotiable.”
“And you’re actually going to try to stop me?”
“I’m not risking my reputation.”
She adjusts her glasses again. “That feels dramatic given your opponent.”
“I’ve already seen what you can do.”
“That was an accident.”
“That was enough.”
She gives me a big grin as I step back into goal.
I don’t actually care whether she scores.
I just wanted another five minutes.
She positions herself behind the ball like she’s seen the lads do during the training, feet slightly too wide, shoulders a little tense.
“This feels very official,” she says.
“It is.”
“There should be a whistle.”
“I’m not giving you a whistle.”
“That feels like poor refereeing.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say.
She takes a breath and starts forward.
Not running. Not really even jogging. More like a very determined fast walk.
I have to bite back a smile.
She taps the ball.
Very gently.
It rolls forward at a speed that would not trouble a distracted toddler.
I stay where I am.
She follows it, concentrating so hard it’s almost impressive. At one point she nearly steps on it and has to windmill her arms slightly to keep her balance.
I take a step forward, just in case she falls over.
She recovers, keeps going, eyes flicking between the ball and me like she’s trying to remember which one is more dangerous.
She gets closer. Three metres. Two.
Then one.
And just as she reaches me she suddenly looks past my shoulder and says, very casually,
“Oh… I think Dave wants you.”
It’s automatic.
Years of someone shouting my name from the sideline.
I glance toward the building.
Half a second.
That’s all she needs.
The ball rolls past my foot.
I turn back just in time to see it cross the line.
She throws both hands in the air like she’s just won the World Cup.
“Yes!”
I stare at her.
She is absolutely delighted with herself.
“You cheated,” I say.
“I used tactical distraction.”
“You lied.”
“I improvised.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts,” she says, beaming. “Goal is a goal.”
I walk forward and retrieve the ball. “You’re not getting that past VAR.”
“There was no VAR.”
“Convenient.”
She folds her arms, smug. “Scoreboard says Ava one, professional football manager zero.”
“Nil,” I correct automatically.
She blinks. “What?”
“Nil. It’s one–nil. Not one–zero.”
“That feels unnecessarily fancy.”
“That’s football.”
She considers that. “I still prefer zero.”
“You don’t get to rewrite the sport because you scored one dodgy goal.”
“History will remember this differently.”
I roll the ball back toward the penalty spot. “Alright. One more.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Rematch?”
“Rematch.”
“Same rules?”
“Same rules. But no cheating”
She smiles slowly. “No cheating?”
“No cheating.”
“That sounds targeted.”
“Well, you asked for it.”
She walks back toward the penalty spot, this time with a little more confidence. Still cautious, but less like she’s about to apologise to the grass.
I watch her go, noticing the way she squares her shoulders like she’s decided she belongs here now.
Interesting how quickly she adjusts.
“Ready?” she calls.
“Whenever you are.”
She starts forward, this time actually trying to dribble. Small, careful taps, tongue briefly caught between her teeth in concentration.
It’s… surprisingly endearing.
She gets closer. Slower than any player I’ve ever faced. But with a determination that makes me take it seriously anyway.
Three metres.
Two.
Then she lifts her hand again and waves brightly behind me.
I don’t want to look.
I really don’t.
But instinct is a difficult habit to break.
My eyes flick sideways for half a second.
And that’s when I see she’s already winding up her foot.
I move at the same time.
She tries to knock the ball past me again but she’s misjudged where it’s stopped, her foot catching slightly on the top of it instead of the side.
That hesitation is all I need.
I step forward and catch her around the waist before she can recover, lifting her clean off the ground as she lets out a startled laugh.
“Hey!”
“No cheating,” I remind her.
“I waved!”
“You lied.”
“I distracted.”
“You’re impossible.”
She’s laughing again now, hands automatically gripping my shoulders as I spin her once before setting her down.
Neither of us moves straight away.
We’re both still smiling.
Breathing a little harder than we probably should be.
Her hands are still on me.
My hands are still on her.
And suddenly I’m very aware of that fact.
Her eyes lift to mine.
And for a second the joking disappears completely.
I notice the tiny things. The way her breath catches slightly. The way she doesn’t step back. The way she looks like she might say something and then doesn’t.
I should let go.
I don’t.
She doesn’t move either.
My thumb shifts slightly against her side without me thinking about it. Just enough to steady her. Just enough to feel the warmth of her through her coat.
I lean forward slightly.
Not much. Just enough to see what she does.
She mirrors it. Just a fraction. Careful. Like she’s testing the same invisible line I am.
I can feel her breath now. Warm. Close. Close enough that if either of us moves another inch—
Her lips part slightly. Like she might say something. Like she might not trust herself to.
And then suddenly she steps back.
Fast enough that I almost fall over.
She straightens her glasses, cheeks bright red now, eyes dropping briefly to the ground before she looks back up again, trying to look composed and not quite managing it.
“Well,” she says, voice a little too bright, “let’s call it one–one then.”
I blink. “One–one?”
“Yes. I scored. You stopped me. That feels fair.”
She gestures vaguely. “Is there a fancy football term for that as well?”
“Draw.”
“That sounds disappointingly boring.”
“That’s because it is.”
She nods like she’s filing that away. Then she tucks her hands back into her coat pockets, putting a small, careful distance between us again.
“I should probably leave,” she says.
Of course she should. Interview done. Training done. Nothing left that requires her to be here. I feel disappointed nevertheless.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you Friday.”
She frowns slightly. “Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“Why Friday?”
I hesitate for half a second, surprised. “Because you’re coming with us.”
Her confusion deepens. “I’m… what? Where?”
“To London. For the away game.”
She just stares at me.
“I thought Marie-Louise told you,” I say. “My press officer cleared it with your editor. You’ll travel with the team, see match day properly. Dressing room before, tunnel, post-match media. Gives you the full picture for the article.”
Her mouth opens slightly.
Then closes again.
“She… did not mention that.”
I can see the calculation starting behind her eyes now. The part of her that likes preparation realising she’s just been handed something she didn’t plan for.
“You’ll leave with us Friday afternoon,” I add. “Back Saturday after the game.”
She pushes her glasses up again, a gesture I’m starting to recognise as her buying time.
“I didn’t know that,” she admits.
“I thought that was the whole point of today.”
“I thought today was the whole point.”
I almost smile at that.
“Well,” I say, “now you get the interesting bit.”
She lets out a slow breath, still processing.
“London,” she repeats.
“London.”
“With the team.”
“With the team.”
She looks at me again then, something new in her expression now. Something that wasn’t there an hour ago.