“Convenient.”
She folds her arms, smug. “Scoreboard says Ava one, professional football manager zero.”
“Nil,” I correct automatically.
She blinks. “What?”
“Nil. It’s one–nil. Not one–zero.”
“That feels unnecessarily fancy.”
“That’s football.”
She considers that. “I still prefer zero.”
“You don’t get to rewrite the sport because you scored one dodgy goal.”
“History will remember this differently.”
I roll the ball back toward the penalty spot. “Alright. One more.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Rematch?”
“Rematch.”
“Same rules?”
“Same rules. But no cheating”
She smiles slowly. “No cheating?”
“No cheating.”
“That sounds targeted.”
“Well, you asked for it.”
She walks back toward the penalty spot, this time with a little more confidence. Still cautious, but less like she’s about to apologise to the grass.
I watch her go, noticing the way she squares her shoulders like she’s decided she belongs here now.
Interesting how quickly she adjusts.
“Ready?” she calls.
“Whenever you are.”
She starts forward, this time actually trying to dribble. Small, careful taps, tongue briefly caught between her teeth in concentration.
It’s… surprisingly endearing.
She gets closer. Slower than any player I’ve ever faced. But with a determination that makes me take it seriously anyway.
Three metres.
Two.
Then she lifts her hand again and waves brightly behind me.
