Page 21 of How To Tackle A Crush
I stand, shake Martin’s hand, exchange a few routine words with the club staff.
Then I glance towards the back row.
She’s gone.
I scan the room again, slower this time, pretending I’m just taking in the journalists as they leave.
No sign of her.
That’s unexpected.
Most would hang around. Try for a follow-up quote. A quick extra question. A handshake. Something.
She’s just… left.
I find myself mildly disappointed by that even if I’m not sure why.
I walk towards the exit more slowly than necessary, nodding at a few journalists as they pass. Professional autopilot.
Still looking.
Nothing.
Only now I realise I don’t even know her surname.
Just Ava.
Tall. That was obvious even sitting down. Long frame she seemed determined to fold into smaller spaces. Glasses she pushed up absent-mindedly when she was thinking. Hair that wasn’t bright dramatic red. It was softer. Somewhere between copper and brown. The kind of colour that probably looks different in sunlight.
Brown eyes, I think.
Her voice comes back to me instead.
You are very… football.
I almost smile again.
Not flirtation. Not trying to impress. Just honest observation that slipped out before she could edit it.
That might be what it is.
No performance.
Everyone else in that room was trying to get something from me.
She just wanted to understand something.
I step out into the corridor, still half expecting to spot her waiting by the exit or talking to someone from the club.
Nothing.
Just staff moving equipment and journalists already on their phones filing copy.
Martin appears beside me.
“Good session,” he says.
“Yeah.”
