13. Chapter 13
Jack
Pudding slows everything down.
No one rushes something like this. Not proper French masterpiece that looks like it belongs behind glass. So we take our time. Small bites. Coffee between. Conversation that starts nowhere and somehow still matters.
She tells me about a headline she once stopped from going to print because one missing letter would have turned public funding review into pubic funding review.
“That would’ve been memorable,” I say.
“That would’ve been my resignation letter.”
“And you caught that?”
“Two minutes before it went to print,” she says. “My editor still mentions it like I prevented a national incident.”
I smile. “That’s like stopping an own goal on the line.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“It is when it happens in front of thirty thousand people.”
“At least yours is over in a moment,” she says. “If ours goes wrong it lives on the internet forever.”
“Fair point,” I admit. “I’d take the goal.”
She smiles at that, then grows a little quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just thinking.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
She hesitates just long enough that I know this isn’t small talk.
“Why did you ask for me to write the article?”
There it is.
I take a sip of coffee, buying myself a second. Not because I don’t know the answer. Because I want to say it right.
“You noticed things,” I say.
“That sounds vague.”
“It isn’t.” I'm not quite sure how to explain it.
“At the press conference,” I say. “You didn’t sound like the others.”
“I didn’t know what I was supposed to sound like.”
“That helped.”
She frowns slightly. “How?”
“You weren’t performing,” I say. “You weren’t trying to trip me up. You just asked what you were actually curious about.”
“I was terrified,” she admits.
“I know.”
That surprises her.
“You know?”
“You held your notebook too tight,” I say. “And you took four deep breaths before you spoke.”
Her ears turn pink.
“That sounds like a very detailed observation.”
“I notice things too.”
She is quiet for a few seconds. Then she asks it quickly, like she might lose the nerve otherwise.
“So you were… intrigued?”
I nod. No point pretending otherwise.
“Yeah.”
She traces the rim of her coffee cup with one finger, thinking.
“And you asked for me because you were curious?”
“Because I wanted to spend a bit more time with you,” I admit. “And that was the only way I could think of that wouldn’t put you on the spot.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly.
“You could have just asked me for a coffee.”
I meet her eyes. “Would you have said yes?”
She opens her mouth.
Stops.
Then laughs quietly.
“Probably not.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s slightly manipulative.”
“That’s strategic,” I correct.
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now.
“This was your elaborate football-manager way of engineering a conversation.”
“I prefer to think of it as creating favourable conditions.”
“That sounds even worse.”
We sit in the small silence that follows. Not awkward. Just… aware.
“Was this… your way of trying to seduce me?” Ava breaks the silence.
She looks like she regrets the sentence halfway through saying it.
“No.”
Her eyes flick back up.
“No?”
“No,” I say quietly. “I wanted to get to know you. Without making it feel like it had to be anything more than that.”
She studies me for a second.
“As a friend?” she asks.
That question does things to my head I don’t show on my face.
Because the truth is, very little about what I’ve thought about her has been particularly in the friend zone.
I’ve thought about her mouth more than once. About the way she blushes when she says something bold and then immediately looks like she wants to hide. About how small she felt when I picked her up on the pitch. About what it might feel like if I actually kissed her instead of stopping myself.
None of that falls into the friends category.
I take a sip from my espresso cup instead of answering too fast.
“I thought we’d start there,” I say eventually. “And see where it leads.”
She nods slowly.
“I didn’t even know if you were with someone,” I add. “Or married. Or very happily single with absolutely no interest in complicating your life.”
“Complicating my life how?” she asks.
I give her a small look. “With a man with a demanding job and a five-year-old who thinks dinosaurs are the best thing since sliced bread.”
That gets a proper laugh. “That is a very honest warning label.”
“I believe in transparency.”
“And what was your conclusion?” she asks tentatively.
“That I didn’t know enough to assume anything.” It’s true. Did I try to research her a bit? I mean… yes. Of course. But I wasn’t surprised I didn’t find a single social media account.
“That’s unusually respectful.”
“I just didn’t want to find out you had a boyfriend by accidentally flirting with you.”
Her cheeks colour slightly at that.
“I’m not married,” she says.
Something in my chest settles.
“And I’m not seeing anyone,” she adds. “Mostly because I didn’t think I wanted to.”
That word sits there.
Didn’t.
She hesitates, then adds with a small, slightly awkward smile, “But aren’t you very busy with all the… models?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Models?”
She gestures vaguely. “Going by the media.”
I can’t help the small exhale of amusement.
“Right,” I say. “That version of me.”
“That sounded judgemental,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt gently. “It’s not completely wrong. Just… outdated.”
She watches me carefully now.
“Before Alfie,” I say, “I dated like an idiot.”
“That sounds very self-aware.”
“I was younger. Peak of my time as a player. Too much money. Too much attention. Not enough sense.”
“And then?”
“And then one of those very clever life choices resulted in Alfie,” I say simply.
She doesn’t react with shock. Just listens.
“And after that,” I continue, “everything changed.”
“How?”
I shrug slightly. “You grow up fast when someone depends on you. The late nights stop being interesting. The wrong kind of attention stops feeling flattering.”
“That sounds… healthy.”
“It’s also practical,” I say. “I’m not a monk. I’ve dated even after Alfie. But nothing serious. And nothing… chaotic.”
She nods slowly.
“And the stories in the media?” she asks.
“I didn’t exactly rush to correct them,” I admit. “A few friends helped with appearances now and then. The occasional dinner where people could take photos. It keeps the narrative simple.”
“You’re saying some of those stories were… strategic?”
“I’m saying sometimes it’s easier to let people believe a version of you than to explain the real one. And it was drawing attention away from Alfie.”
She wipes a few crumbs off the table.
“I haven’t dated anyone since I moved to Carlisle though.”
Her eyes flick up slightly at that.
“Not even casually?”
“No time,” I say. “And no interest.” That part feels important.
She studies me like she’s trying to decide what that means.
“Carlisle doesn’t exactly scream glamorous dating pool,” she says.
I smile slightly. “I wasn’t looking.”
A small silence settles.
Then I add quietly, “Until recently.”
I don’t say her name.
I don’t have to.
The corridor is quiet when she steps out of the lift.
Second floor.
Ava turns towards me, still holding her key card between both hands like she needs something practical to focus on.
“Thank you,” she says. “For dessert.”
“My pleasure.”
There’s a small pause. The kind where normal people would say goodnight and go their separate ways.
She doesn’t move.
Instead she stays half turned toward me, like she’s working up the courage to say something and might still abort the mission.
Then she whispers, almost like she’s confessing something, “Sometimes I wish I was as confident as my friend Chloe.”
I lean one shoulder lightly against the lift wall. “What would Chloe do?”
Ava lets out a small breath that turns into a nervous smile.
“In this situation?”
“In this situation.”
She looks down briefly, then back up.
“In this situation she would probably ask if you wanted to come back to her room for a drink.”
There it is.
My heart starts to race.
“If you had asked,” I say quietly, “I would have said yes.”
Her breath catches.
Colour rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away this time.
Then I lower my voice.
“Do you want me to?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
Just that. Soft but certain.
She turns toward her room then, suddenly all nerves again. When we get to her door she’s fumbling slightly with the key card. It takes two tries and she mutters a quiet “oh for God’s sake” under her breath.
I step closer without thinking. “Here.”
Our fingers brush as I take the card from her. Slide it into the reader. Green light.
The door clicks open and we step inside. The door closes softly behind us.
And then we just stand there.
Close. Not touching. But close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off her.
Her breathing is slightly uneven. Mine probably isn’t much better.
“To be completely truthful,” she says softly, “Chloe wouldn’t actually have said that.”
I can’t help a small smile. “No?”
She shakes her head.
“What would she have said?”
Ava locks eyes with me. Not shy now. Not hiding. Just… decided.
“Nothing,” she says. “She… she would have just done this.”
And then she kisses me.
It’s not clumsy or accidental. It’s soft but deliberate. Her hand comes up to my chest like she needs to check I’m real. Like she can’t quite believe she’s actually doing this.
For half a second, I freeze.
Not because I don’t want it.
Because I very much do.
Then instinct wins. My hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer. Slow enough so she can stop me if she wants.
She doesn’t.
If anything she leans into me.
The kiss deepens naturally. She tastes faintly of sugar and coffee.
My thumb moves slightly against her side without me telling it to. She makes the smallest sound against my mouth and that nearly undoes me.
When we finally pull back, we don’t go far.
Her glasses are somewhat crooked. Her cheeks flushed. Her lips parted like she’s surprised by herself.
“Well,” she whispers.
“Well,” I agree.
Neither of us steps back.