12. Chapter 12
Ava
This is ridiculous.
I talk to colleagues every day. I correct their grammar. I send polite but firm emails about formatting. I can knock on a hotel door without behaving like I’m about to sit an exam.
I take a deep breath and knock.
The door opens almost immediately.
The woman in front of me has Jack’s eyes. Same calm steadiness. Same quiet way of taking someone in without making them feel inspected.
“You must be Ava,” she says warmly. “I’m Miriam.”
“Hi,” I say, suddenly very aware of my hands and not knowing what to do with them. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Come in, love.”
She steps aside and I walk in.
This is not just a hotel room. It’s an impressive suite.
A large living room opens up in front of me, all soft lighting and one enormous glass wall overlooking London like the city has been put there as decoration.
A balcony sits beyond it. Two corridors lead off on either side toward bedrooms, I assume.
It feels oddly lived in already. A small pair of trainers near the sofa. A jumper thrown over the back of a chair. A half-finished colouring book on the coffee table.
“Jack said you might come up,” Miriam says. “Alfie’s been briefed.”
“Briefed?” I repeat.
“Oh yes. You’re apparently a dinosaur expert.”
Before I can ask what that means, I hear a small voice from the back of the suite.
“—but does she like velociraptors or T-Rex more?”
Jack appears from the corridor, carrying a five-year old against his chest like it is the most natural thing in the world. One arm secure around his back, Alfie’s legs hooked comfortably around his waist.
Alfie really does look like a miniature version of him. Same dark hair. Same thoughtful eyes. Just smaller. Softer. Wearing a dinosaur T-shirt and little cargo trousers like he’s about to lead a fossil expedition.
“—because if she likes T-Rex more then—” Alfie starts, then notices me.
Jack follows his gaze and then smiles when he sees me.
“There she is,” he says.
There is something about the way he says it that makes my stomach do something unhelpful.
Jack sets Alfie down gently and Alfie immediately stands very straight, like this is a formal introduction.
“This is Ava,” Jack tells him.
Alfie studies me with complete seriousness.
“Do you like velociraptors or T-Rex more?” he asks.
No hello. No small talk. Straight to the important matters.
I crouch slightly so I’m closer to his height.
“That depends,” I say. “Are we talking scientifically accurate velociraptors or film velociraptors?”
Jack makes a small surprised sound behind him.
Alfie’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” I say, “scientists think velociraptors probably had feathers.”
Alfie turns slowly to look at Jack.
“They had feathers?”
Jack lifts his hands. “I did not know that.”
Alfie turns back to me with new respect.
“I think I like velociraptors now,” he decides.
“Excellent choice,” I say.
I stand again and my eyes land on Jack. He isn’t standing like the man I saw at the training ground. He isn’t the composed football manager. He isn’t the man everyone watches when he speaks.
He’s just… a dad.
Barefoot. Sleeves pushed up. A faint crease on his T-shirt where Alfie had been clinging to him. Completely at ease in a way that feels far more intimate than anything I saw on the pitch.
And something about seeing him like this does something to me I am absolutely not prepared for.
This is the version of him that makes something warm and slightly terrifying settle in my chest.
Jack looks up and catches me watching him.
Just for a second.
And whatever he sees on my face makes his expression soften.
I have the sudden, deeply inconvenient thought that seeing him like this might be more dangerous than any flirting.
A little while later we are sitting around the dining table, room service spread out in that slightly over-ambitious way hotel food always is. Too many plates. Too many little metal lids. Miriam has already rearranged everything into something that looks far more like a proper meal.
Alfie is sitting next to me, staring at a piece of broccoli like it has personally offended him.
“You do realise,” Miriam says calmly, “that vegetable needs to be eaten?”
“I am thinking about it,” Alfie says.
“You’ve been thinking about it for five minutes.”
“It is a big decision.”
Jack presses his lips together, very obviously trying not to laugh.
Alfie turns back to me, completely serious again. “On Sunday we are going to see real dinosaur bones.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” I say.
“The Natural History Museum,” he explains. “Dad says they have a T-Rex.”
“They do,” I say. “And a blue whale skeleton. And lots of fossils.”
His eyes widen. “You’ve been?”
“A long time ago,” I admit. “But I remember the dinosaurs being the best part.”
“I am getting a book,” he tells me. “About all of them.”
“That sounds like a very good investment.”
Jack glances at me over Alfie’s head, that same quiet appreciation in his expression.
“Did you know,” Alfie continues, warming to his subject, “that T-Rex could smell things from very far away?”
“That would make sense,” I say. “Very useful if you are a large predator.”
Alfie nods like we are colleagues.
Miriam nudges the broccoli closer again. “One bite.”
Alfie sighs like a tiny Victorian orphan, eats it, then immediately resumes his dinosaur briefing like nothing happened.
Jack just watches, elbow on the table, his attention moving between his son and me.
Eventually Alfie remembers pudding exists and Miriam takes him off to locate something sweet she clearly planned in advance.
That leaves just the two of us for a moment.
“You’re very good with him,” Jack says quietly.
“I like children,” I say. “They’re usually easier to read than adults.”
“That’s also true.”
I hesitate, then ask, “So you’re staying here with them?”
He nods. “Yeah. We’re making it a long weekend so I can stay and take him to the museum Sunday.”
“The club is okay with that?”
“They knew that was part of the deal when I signed,” he says. “I do the match, I do the debrief, and then Nico or Dave takes the coach back with the lads.”
“And if you lose?”
He looks at me with exaggerated disbelief.
“If we lose?”
I try not to smile. “I am just considering all possible professional outcomes.”
“That sounds very much like you’re planning for defeat.”
“I am being realistic.”
“Have some believe,” he says.
“I am still a Carlisle Gazette employee. Realism is part of the job description.”
That earns a quiet laugh.
“No,” he says more seriously. “Result doesn’t change it. I’ll do the analysis after the match anyway. Most of them will sleep on the way back. Recovery day Sunday. I can join them again Monday.”
There’s something very grounded about the way he says it. No drama. Just priorities arranged in the right order.
Before I can say anything else, Alfie comes back into the room holding a muesli bar like he’s just completed a successful expedition.
“I found one.”
“Well done,” Jack says.
Alfie immediately breaks off a piece and holds it toward me. “Do you want some?”
“That’s very kind—”
Jack gently intercepts. “Not right now, mate. Ava and I have to head down for the team dinner in a minute.”
Alfie’s nose wrinkles. “You have to go?”
“Just for a bit,” Jack says. “Work.”
Alfie considers this, then looks at me instead. “Will you have breakfast with us tomorrow?”
The question is so direct it catches me completely off guard.
I glance at Jack. He just watches, letting me decide.
“I’d like that,” I say.
Alfie brightens immediately. “We go early. Because of the pancakes.”
“Hotel pancakes are serious business,” Jack says.
“They are,” Alfie confirms.
“I will be there for the pancake research,” I promise.
And for some reason, agreeing to breakfast with them feels far more intimate than I care to admit.
By the time the Uber pulls away from us, I am fairly certain this day has taken a turn I did not see coming.
We are standing in a narrow alleyway in Islington, the kind of street you would walk past without noticing. Soft golden light spills from the windows of a small French restaurant. White tablecloths. Small lamps. The quiet hum of people who clearly know this place is a good secret.
This is very much not a team dinner.
“You said dessert,” I say.
“There is dessert,” Jack replies calmly.
“That is not the part I am questioning.”
He gives me that small almost-smile. “Trust me.”
I follow him inside because apparently my judgement has been replaced by curiosity and a craving for pastry.
Inside it smells of coffee, butter and sugar. A glass display holds neat rows of impossibly pretty desserts that look too perfect to eat.
“This is a friend’s place,” Jack says. “Best desserts in this part of London.”
“You bring all your journalists here?”
Jack stops and locks eyes with me. “No,” he says softly.
Oh my.
“You told Alfie we’re heading to the team dinner,” I say.
“I did.”
“But you brought me here instead.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Why?”
He gives a small shrug. “Because if he knows I’m going for dessert he’ll want to come. And then he won’t sleep. And then tomorrow is a disaster.”
That… makes complete sense.
“So, this is about sugar management.”
“This is entirely about sugar management.”
I chuckle. “You just didn’t want to deal with a five-year-old on crème br?lée.”
“Exactly. I like my sleep.”
“That’s sensible.”
“I have my moments.”
A man in his late forties with greying hair and the easy posture of someone who has spent his life in restaurants approaches, wiping his hands on a cloth. He does a brief double take when he recognises Jack.
“Jack? Bloody hell. Didn’t expect you here.”
“Last minute,” Jack says, standing to shake his hand. “Good to see you.”
“You too. Been a while.” His eyes land on me and he gives me a curious smile. “And hello.”
“This is Ava,” Jack says simply.
I smile. “Hi.”
“Luis,” he says. “Welcome.”
Jack nods toward the quieter back section. “Any chance you’ve got somewhere tucked away?”
Luis glances around, then nods. “Yeah, come on. I’ve got just the table for you.”
“This alright?” he asks with a wink when we get to a dark corner.
“Perfect,” Jack says.
Menus appear. Water appears. Luis disappears again with the efficiency of someone who knows when to leave people alone.
For a moment neither of us says anything. It is not awkward. Just different. No team. No Alfie. No noise to fill the space.
Just us.
Jack glances at the menu, then closes it after about three seconds.
“I know what I’m having,” he says.
“That sounds confident.”
“I’ve been here before.”
“That helps.”
When Luis returns, Jack places an order for both of us. I should be annoyed but I am intrigued instead.
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” I say.
“You like coffee,” he says. “And you look like someone who doesn’t like things that are too sweet.”
“That is an alarming level of observation.”
“I pay attention.”
That lands somewhere I am not prepared to analyse.
There is another small silence, this one easier.
“So,” I say, “will Alfie come to the game tomorrow?”
Jack nods. “Yeah. Mum will bring him about an hour before kick-off.”
“He’ll sit with her?”
“In the VIP box. It’s quieter there. He doesn’t like the noise in the stands.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“He likes watching the warm-up though. And he likes knowing where I am on the pitch.”
That makes sense. Of course he would.
“What should I expect?” I ask. “From the game, I mean. I’ve never really been to one properly.”
He leans back slightly, thinking how to explain it without jargon.
“Noise,” he says first. “More than you think. Even before kick-off. Then everything speeds up.”
“How?”
“People see ninety minutes. But for us it starts hours before. Meetings. Last adjustments. Checking who’s nervous even if they say they’re not.”
“And during?”
“I don’t sit much,” he admits. “You’ll see a lot of pacing. Shouting. Tomorrow you’ll see that I didn’t lie when I said I do shout.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“There are also moments where everything goes quiet in your own head,” he says. “Even with fifty thousand people there.”
That surprises me. “Quiet?”
“Just before something important happens. You learn to recognise it.”
Luis returns with the desserts before I can ask more.
Mine is placed in front of me like it is something fragile. Layers of dark chocolate mousse, something glossy on top, a small perfect shard of caramel.
Jack watches my face instead of the dessert.
“If this is terrible, I’m blaming you,” I say.
“That seems fair.”
I take a bite.
I stop.
“Oh.”
“That good?” Jack looks smug.
“That is… unfairly good.”
“Worth fibbing to a five-year old?”
I glance at him.
“Yes,” I say.
And I am not just talking about the dessert.