Page 43 of How To Tackle A Crush
“That sounds like something people say shortly before things go very wrong.”
He smiles. “Come on. You can stand near me. I’ll translate.”
“I appreciate the offer of live interpretation.”
We walk out together, down a corridor that smells faintly of coffee and that indefinable mix of sports kit and cleaning products. Through the glass I can already see players drifting onto the pitch, stretching, talking, shoving each other in that very specific way grown men do when they are pretending not to be affectionate.
His hand settles low on my back as we reach the door, light but certain, guiding me through. It shouldn’t register. It absolutely does. Warmth spreads from the point of contact, quick and unexpected, like my body has decided to get involved withoutconsulting me. I am suddenly very aware of exactly where his hand is. And that I don’t want it to move.
The moment we step outside, the dynamic shifts slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough that I see the authority click into place. Players straighten a fraction. Conversations shorten. Focus sharpens.
Interesting.
One of the younger players jogs past and grins at him.
“Gaffer, you’ve brought backup today?”
Jack doesn’t rise to the taunt. “Warm-up starts in two minutes.”
“Yes, gaffer,” the player says, still grinning as he runs off.
“They always like an audience?” I ask quietly.
“They like distractions,” Jack replies.
“That sounds reassuring.”
“Ignore them and they get bored.”
“Solid life advice.”
I stand where he indicates, trying very hard to look like someone who understands what she’s watching. There is a lot of running. A lot of shouting. A lot of things that appear chaotic until Jack quietly points out patterns I would never have noticed.
“That drill is about movement off the ball,” he says.
“They’re all off the ball.”
“Yes.”
“Explains it all… not.”
He laughs softly. “Watch number eleven.”
Jack is right. The movement of the player isn’t random. It’s… organised chaos.
“Okay,” I admit. “That’s actually impressive.”
“I told you.”
Jack is explaining something about spacing when one of the assistant coaches calls his name from the far side of the pitch. He excuses himself with a quick, “Back in a second,” and jogs over, leaving me standing on my own.
Which is fine.
I am perfectly capable of standing still and not interfering with professional athletes.
For almost thirty seconds everything goes exactly to plan.
Then a ball rolls out of a drill and heads directly toward me like it has personally decided I am involved now.
