This is probably—
I cannot see him.
Of course I cannot see him.
He is now just a slightly blurry tall shape in a suit.
I hold the pose for another second anyway because it feels like commitment matters here.
Then I put my glasses back on.
Jack is still answering a question about a player picking up another yellow card. Completely professional. Completely composed.
Except there is the faintest hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
Very small.
Very controlled.
But definitely there.
I stare at him for half a second but that little grin is all I get.
What on earth am I doing?
I am supposed to be working.
I am supposed to be listening.
Instead I am apparently trying to seduce a football manager using techniques learned entirely from films and absolutely no real-world experience.
Nerdy femme fatale is clearly not a recognised journalistic skill.
I force myself to actually listen to the next answer. Write down a quote. Underline it.
There.
Professional.
Mostly.
Except when I look up, his eyes find mine again.
This time there is no wink.
Just that same quiet look from last night. Warm. Interested. Like whatever this is did not end in that hotel room.
My stomach flips.
I look back down at my notes before I can do anything else ridiculous.
Because I am here to write an article.
Not… whatever this is turning into.
And yet.
When he glances at me again a minute later, I cannot quite stop the small, private smile that answers him.
