Chapter 16
Ava
Iarrive early enough to secure my preferred survival position. I could have headed back to the hotel straight after the game. I don’t actually need to be here. The article is about Jack, not this particular match.
Instead I join the pool of journalists filing into the small press room.
Because apparently I am now the kind of woman who shows up.
Still, bravery does not mean stupidity. I weave through the rows of chairs.
Back row. End seat. Minimal visibility. Maximum escape routes.
Perfect.
I am halfway through sitting down when I hear my name.
“Ava.”
I look up.
Martin is standing there with the polite but immovable smile of a man whose entire job is managing people who think they have options.
“Hi,” I say cautiously.
“Jack asked if you could sit nearer the front today.”
I blink.
“I’m quite comfortable here.”
“I’m sure you are,” he says pleasantly. “Nevertheless.”
He gestures towards the front row.
I consider arguing. Briefly. Then remember he controls access badges and probably the Wi-Fi.
I stand.
“Of course,” I say, in the voice of a woman who is absolutely not plotting revenge.
He guides me to an empty seat in the front row like I am a slightly reluctant VIP.
“There you go.”
“Thank you,” I say politely.
What I think is: Oh, you are absolutely going to regret this, Mr Westland.
Not in any meaningful way.
But I am a very creative proofreader and I have weapons.
Martin leaves. I open my notebook and pretend to be extremely busy while internally making plans that mostly involve mild embarrassment and plausible deniability.
Nothing dramatic.
Just… consequences.
Jack walks in.
He sits, adjusts his microphone, thanks someone to his left.
Then he looks at me.
And winks.
A small, quick thing. Gone immediately.
Heat floods my face so fast I am certain it is visible from space.
I glance around quickly.
No one is looking. Two journalists in the second row are already arguing about who had their hand up first. Someone else is checking recordings. Laptops open. Phones ready.
No one saw.
Good.
Right.
Game on.
I straighten slightly in my chair.
You wanted me in the front row.
Now you have to deal with the consequences.
I try flicking my hair casually.
Unfortunately I do not really have flickable hair. It sort of… moves a bit and then settles back exactly where it was.
Also he is currently answering a question and does not see it.
Typical.
I wait.
Another question starts. I try again, a slightly bigger movement this time, and end up elbowing the person next to me.
I mumble an apology and look up at Jack.
Still nothing.
This is harder than it looks in films.
Jack licks his lips while listening to a question and I decide this is clearly some sort of unspoken flirtation code.
I attempt to copy it.
This turns out to be a mistake.
I do it far too deliberately and immediately become aware the journalist next to me is looking concerned.
“Do you want some water?” he whispers. “The air’s really dry in here.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper back, mortified.
I write something in my notebook purely so I have something to look at.
Right.
New plan.
I wait until he is answering another question, then casually take off my glasses. Slow. Thoughtful. Like I have seen women in films do.
I hold one arm of them lightly between my lips.
This is probably sophisticated.
This is probably mysterious.
This is probably—
I cannot see him.
Of course I cannot see him.
He is now just a slightly blurry tall shape in a suit.
I hold the pose for another second anyway because it feels like commitment matters here.
Then I put my glasses back on.
Jack is still answering a question about a player picking up another yellow card. Completely professional. Completely composed.
Except there is the faintest hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
Very small.
Very controlled.
But definitely there.
I stare at him for half a second but that little grin is all I get.
What on earth am I doing?
I am supposed to be working.
I am supposed to be listening.
Instead I am apparently trying to seduce a football manager using techniques learned entirely from films and absolutely no real-world experience.
Nerdy femme fatale is clearly not a recognised journalistic skill.
I force myself to actually listen to the next answer. Write down a quote. Underline it.
There.
Professional.
Mostly.
Except when I look up, his eyes find mine again.
This time there is no wink.
Just that same quiet look from last night. Warm. Interested. Like whatever this is did not end in that hotel room.
My stomach flips.
I look back down at my notes before I can do anything else ridiculous.
Because I am here to write an article.
Not… whatever this is turning into.
And yet.
When he glances at me again a minute later, I cannot quite stop the small, private smile that answers him.
Which is probably a bad sign.
After the press conference I'm still pretending to be very interested in organising my notes when Martin appears again at my shoulder like a very polite ghost.
“Ava.”
I look up.
“Jack asked if you could come through. He wants a quick word about the article.”
“Now?” I ask, trying for neutral and probably landing somewhere near hopeful.
“If that’s alright.”
It very much is not alright for my heart rate, but I stand anyway.
“Of course.”
I follow him through a side corridor, away from the media area. The noise fades quickly. Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights. The faint smell of deep heat and wet grass.
We stop outside a door and Martin pushes it open slightly, then gestures for me to wait just inside.
Jack is standing in the middle of the changing room.
Manager Jack again.
But different from the press conference version. Less polished. More direct.
The players are half dressed. Some already in hoodies. One still pulling a shirt over his head. Someone sitting on a bench with an ice pack balanced on his knee.
No one looks surprised I’m there. Just a few quick glances before their attention goes back to Jack.
“Right,” he says, voice calm but carrying easily. “That’s a good result. Not because of the scoreline. Because of the response.”
A few nods.
“We weren’t good enough first half. You know that. I know that. But you fixed it.”
He points briefly towards one of the defenders.
“You kept your head when it would’ve been easy to panic.”
Another player.
“You kept running when your legs had every right to stop.”
A small grin from someone at the back.
“And whoever decided we were losing before the ninety minutes were over, clearly doesn’t know this team.”
That gets a few quiet laughs.
Jack’s expression softens slightly.
“That’s what I want from you. Not perfect football. Proper reactions. You trust each other, you trust the work, you get results like that.”
He pauses to give them time to feel proud of themselves.
“Well done. Travel safe. Recovery tomorrow. Then we go again.”
A general murmur of agreement. Shoulders relaxing. The tension clearly shifting from match to home.
Jack turns slightly.
“Dave. Thanks for covering tonight.”
“Course,” Dave says. “How can I stand between you and T-rex?”
Jack chuckles. “Appreciate it.”
He glances around the room again.
“Bus leaves in twenty. Don’t make Dave hunt you down.”
More laughter. Someone says something I don’t catch.
Then, just like that, it’s over.
Players start grabbing bags. Someone switches music on quietly. Conversations restart like a normal workplace at five o’clock.
Jack steps aside to let one of the younger players pass, claps him briefly on the shoulder.
“Good work tonight.”
“Cheers, gaffer.”
Another quick word with someone else. A quiet well done. A text me when you get back. Small things.
Normal things.
Not the distant authority figure from the press conference. Just… someone making sure his people are alright.
Eventually the room begins to empty. A few nods in my direction as they pass. One curious look.
Dave gives Jack a thumbs up on his way out.
“See you Monday.”
“I probably won’t get back before two but I’ll be there for the afternoon training,” Jack replies.
The door closes behind the last of them and the room suddenly feels much bigger.
And much quieter.
Jack turns.
And now he is just Jack again.
He closes the distance between us like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
One second I’m trying to think of something sensible to say. The next his hand is at the small of my back and he pulls me against him, solid and warm and very, very real.
His mouth finds mine like he’s been thinking about doing that since the press conference ended.
I melt a little.
Okay maybe a lot.
The kiss is slow. Familiar already. His thumb brushing lightly along my side like he’s checking I’m really there. Like he’s allowed to touch me now.
When he finally pulls back I’m slightly breathless and very aware of exactly how his body feels against mine.
Jack’s mouth curves faintly as he reaches up and nudges my glasses back into place with ridiculous gentleness.
“Jack,” I murmur, my hands still resting against his chest because apparently they have no intention of moving. “I’m not sure my nerves can cope with sex in a changing room if that’s what you’ve got planned.”
His laugh is soft and warm against my skin.
Then he does something completely unfair.
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.
I sway a little.
No one warned me about that. About how something that small could feel more intimate than half the things I’ve read in books.
“I have absolutely no intention of shagging you in a changing room,” he says. “I’m forty-three. I like beds. And privacy. And not pulling a hamstring.”
I laugh relieved.
“That’s very reassuring.”
“I did want to ask you something though.”
His hands are still on my waist. Mine are still on him.
“What?”
“Would you stay tonight?” he asks quietly. “With us. Come to the museum with Alfie tomorrow.”
My stomach flips.
“You sure?” I ask softly.
“Very.”
There’s something steady in his voice that makes me believe him immediately.
“Alfie asked me to make sure I invited you.”
I raise an eyebrow slightly. “So this is just Alfie’s doing?”
Jack’s cups my face.
“No,” he says, voice lower now. “I was also hoping we might order some room service later. After he’s asleep.”
This simple statement sets off a thousand butterflies in my stomach. I honestly thought that was something you left behind in your twenties.
“I should probably check if my room is still available,” I say, trying to sound sensible while very aware I am still standing between his arms.
“I already booked you one.”
I blink. “You what?”
“In case you said yes.”
Okay and now I’m swooning. What the fudge?
“You’re very prepared.”
“I was optimistic,” he says.
That stupid shy feeling sneaks up on me again. Not nerves. Not awkwardness. Just that strange softness that comes when someone clearly wants you there.
“Okay,” I say.
His grip on me tightens just slightly. Not possessive. Just pleased.
“Okay?” he repeats.
“Okay,” I confirm.
I can’t think of anything I would rather do.