Page 34 of How To Tackle A Crush
This is not ideal.
My brain is now very loudly reminding me that I am a forty-something woman standing in a professional football changing room surrounded by semi-dressed young lads.
“I will leave now,” I say.
“That’s usually how this part goes,” someone replies with a chuckle.
I step backwards.
Do not look around.
Do not accidentally make eye contact.
Focus on neutral things. The floor. The door handle. My notebook.
My brain, extremely unhelpfully, decides to notice details anyway. The general level of physical fitness. The fact that professional athletes apparently do not experience awkwardness as a concept.
I reach the corridor and close the door behind me.
I stand there for a second.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
That did not happen.
It did happen.
I adjust the strap of my bag like that will somehow restore order to the universe.
New rule: always knock.
New rule: assume every door leads somewhere embarrassing.
New rule: never trust directions that include the wordsplayers’ side.
I start walking again, determined to pretend this was entirely routine.
At the end of the corridor I find a door that actually looks like an office. Frosted glass. Name plate. Order. Sanity.
I check the name.
Jack Westland
My stomach does a small, unexpected shift.
This is not about the changing room anymore.
This is about him.
I suddenly become very aware that I am about to sit across from someone who asked for me specifically.
Me.
That still doesn’t feel entirely real.
I smooth a hand over my notebook, buying myself two seconds to settle.
