Page 73 of How To Tackle A Crush
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” I say.
“You like coffee,” he says. “And you look like someone who doesn’t like things that are too sweet.”
“That is an alarming level of observation.”
“I pay attention.”
That lands somewhere I am not prepared to analyse.
There is another small silence, this one easier.
“So,” I say, “will Alfie come to the game tomorrow?”
Jack nods. “Yeah. Mum will bring him about an hour before kick-off.”
“He’ll sit with her?”
“In the VIP box. It’s quieter there. He doesn’t like the noise in the stands.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“He likes watching the warm-up though. And he likes knowing where I am on the pitch.”
That makes sense. Of course he would.
“What should I expect?” I ask. “From the game, I mean. I’ve never really been to one properly.”
He leans back slightly, thinking how to explain it without jargon.
“Noise,” he says first. “More than you think. Even before kick-off. Then everything speeds up.”
“How?”
“People see ninety minutes. But for us it starts hours before. Meetings. Last adjustments. Checking who’s nervous even if they say they’re not.”
“And during?”
“I don’t sit much,” he admits. “You’ll see a lot of pacing. Shouting. Tomorrow you’ll see that I didn’t lie when I said I do shout.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“There are also moments where everything goes quiet in your own head,” he says. “Even with fifty thousand people there.”
That surprises me. “Quiet?”
“Just before something important happens. You learn to recognise it.”
Luis returns with the desserts before I can ask more.
Mine is placed in front of me like it is something fragile. Layers of dark chocolate mousse, something glossy on top, a small perfect shard of caramel.
Jack watches my face instead of the dessert.
“If this is terrible, I’m blaming you,” I say.
“That seems fair.”
I take a bite.
