“Gaffer,” one of the lads calls, “sign her up. Best shot all week.”
More laughter.
I stop in front of the assistant coach, mortified. “I really didn’t mean—”
He waves it off. “Relax. I’ve had worse.”
“From them?” I ask.
“Mostly from him,” he says, jerking his thumb toward Jack.
That earns another round of noise from the players.
One of them shouts, “She didn’t even aim that way!”
Jack, who has been taking this in with remarkable calm, bends down, picks up the ball and without even looking throws it back toward the group. It lands neatly at someone’s feet.
Then he says, completely deadpan, “So just like you last Sunday then.”
There’s a collectiveooohfrom the squad.
“That was deflected!” someone protests.
“Was it?” Jack replies mildly.
“Gaffer, that’s out of order.”
“Hit row Z, that did.”
“Pitch was bobbly!”
Jack just folds his arms. “Always is when you miss.”
The attention shifts instantly from me to the unfortunate striker, who is now defending his honour while the rest pile in with helpful analysis of his finishing technique.
Jack turns back to me then, the teasing gone from his face.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
I blink. “I’ve just taken out part of your coaching staff.”
“He’ll live.”
“I should apologise again.”
“You already did.”
“I feel like I should apologise properly. Possibly with baked goods.”
That earns a small smile.
“Dave would never say no to cake,” Jack says. “Or biscuits. Or anything sweet.”
“I heard that!” Dave calls from behind him.
“Only speaking the truth,” Jack replies without turning.
I huff out a laugh.
