I feel a small, unpleasant question forming in my chest.
Is this about me?
“Yes,” she says finally. “Leave it with me. I’ll speak to her.”
Her tone is neutral. Professional. Impossible to read.
She ends the call and sits back slightly, studying me for a moment.
I prepare myself.
“Ava,” she says, not unkindly, “let’s start with yesterday.”
I nod.
“I understand you were stepping in at short notice,” she continues. “And I appreciate that you did that.”
I wait.
“But,” she adds gently, “those notes were… unconventional.”
I feel heat creep up my neck.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have written down the football details.”
Because I know how this works. You do the job you were given, not the one that feels easier.
“Yes,” she says. “That would usually be the expectation.”
“I’m sorry.”
And I am.
I don’t like doing things badly. Even accidentally.
I also don’t like disappointing people. That part lands harder than the mistake itself.
Marie-Louise watches me for a second, then her expression softens slightly.
“Ben tells me what youdidwrite was useful,” she says. “Just not what he expected.”
“I wrote what I noticed.”
“I gathered that.”
There is the faintest hint of amusement in her voice now.
“You essentially profiled him.”
I’m not sure whether that is praise or criticism.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she says. “I don’t think you did.”
She folds her hands together.
“Which brings me to the reason you’re here.”
