As I leave her office a single thought follows me back into the newsroom.
Yesterday I asked one question and I struggled.
Next time, I will have to ask many.
And there will be nowhere to hide.
And, if I am being completely honest with myself, a small part of me is not entirely sure I want to.
The training centre is larger than I expected.
Glass. Steel. Clean lines. Everything looks purposeful. Even the reception area feels like it belongs to people who know exactly where they are supposed to be.
I am not one of those people.
“I'm Ava Morgan from the Carlisle Gazette. I’m here to see Jack Westland,” I say to the receptionist, trying to sound like this is a normal part of my working day.
She gives me a professional smile. “Of course. He’s expecting you. If you head down that corridor and turn left someone will point you in the right direction.”
The first corridor leads to another corridor. That one leads to a gym. The gym leads to a physio room where a man is having his leg manipulated in a way that makes me instinctively wince.
He looks up.
I say, “Sorry,” even though I have done nothing wrong.
He gives me a thumbs up.
I leave.
The next person I ask sends me toward the analysis suite. The analysis suite sends me toward the indoor pitch. The indoor pitch sends me toward what someone callsthe players’ side, which I take to mean offices.
It does not mean offices.
The door I open is not an office.
It is a changing room.
There is a split second where nobody moves. Then someone laughs. Someone else keeps pulling on socks like this is completely normal.
Half the team is there.
And half the team is wearing very little.
My brain reacts in a very Ava way.
Error. Wrong room. Exit immediately.
“I am so sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for Jack Westland.”
One player looks up from tying his laces, completely unfazed.
“Love,” he says. “not in here.”
Another grins. “You want the gaffer’s office. End of the corridor.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
I am still standing there.
