“I once watched a match because someone said there would be pizza.”
“And was there pizza?”
“Yes. It was excellent. I couldn’t tell you who won.”
He barks out a laugh. “That might be the healthiest way to watch football.”
“I did enjoy the bit where everyone suddenly started shouting at once.”
“That narrows it down to the entire match.”
My lips twitch.
“I also like watching the managers on the touchline. You all look like you’re trying to solve a very complicated maths problem with no calculator.”
“That’s fairly accurate.”
“You don’t seem like a shouter though.”
“I shout.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He leans back slightly. “Why not?”
“You seem too… measured.”
“Measured sounds dangerously close to boring.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Measured sounds like someone who thinks before speaking. Which is rarer than it should be.”
That earns me a look that lasts half a second longer than expected. Not uncomfortable. Just… attentive.
“You always this honest?” he asks.
“I try to be. Saves time.”
“Dangerous strategy.”
“I work in a newsroom. We survive on dangerous strategies.”
I turn a page before I can start wondering why I am suddenly enjoying this far more than I should.
“Right. Offside.”
He exhales slowly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry in advance.”
“I appreciate the warning.”
“So if someone is offside… they’re just… too far forward?”
“That’s the short version.”
“I specialise in short versions.”
He explains it patiently. Not like I am stupid. Like I am new. There is a difference and I appreciate it. When I ask a follow-up question he doesn’t sigh or simplify it to the point of uselessness. He just answers.
