Chloe nods slowly.
“That’s actually… quite attractive.”
I glance up.
“I did not say attractive.”
“You didn’t need to.”
I look back at my notes before she can see my reaction.
It is annoying how easily she reads me sometimes.
“What else?” she asks gently.
For a moment I say nothing. I turn a page in my notebook instead, more to give myself something to do than because I need to. The rest of the press conference had gone back to football questions. Formations. Injuries. Transfer windows. Things I had written down because they were happening, not because I understood them.
“Nothing else really,” I say eventually. “It went on for a few more minutes. Then I left.”
“You didn’t hang around?” Chloe asks.
I shake my head. “I had what I needed.”
That is the part I don’t say: staying would have meant conversations. Introductions. Small talk. The things that exhaust me faster than actual work.
Leaving had felt like control again.
AJ, who has been pretending not to listen while very obviously listening, leans an elbow on the divider between their desks.
“Well,” he says, “with that groundbreaking interview performance I think we can safely say Marie-Louise won’t be calling on Ava again any time soon.”
I feel an immediate, very genuine sense of relief.
“That would be ideal,” I say.
Chloe laughs. “Most people would take that as a challenge.”
“I am not most people.”
AJ looks disappointed. “You’re supposed to discover hidden ambition now. Start chasing bylines. Demand a press badge.”
“I would like to return to commas,” I say.
“That is the least rock-and-roll career aspiration I’ve ever heard.”
“Commas matter.”
“They do,” he admits. “But they don’t usually come with free sandwiches.”
“I do not want sandwiches.”
“That’s because you’ve never had a press conference sandwich.”
“That is not a compelling argument.”
Chloe shakes her head, amused. “You’ve traumatised her. She’s going to proofread harder now.”
“That is exactly what I intend to do,” I say.
