Chapter 2: Second Choice
The stadium cafeteria hummed like a tired engine. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their cold glare reflecting off the greasy linoleum floors. It was a cavern of echoes and cheap food—the scent of reheated pasta sauce and stale pretzels hanging in the air, underpinned by the evergreen aroma of industrial cleaner.
Clare shuffled forward in the coffee line, the fatigue of the late game settling in her bones. Her notebook, with its three sparse lines about MacAlister, felt heavy in her bag.
“Thompson. Survived your date with the silent statue?”
Liam Finch from the sports desk sidled up beside her, his trademark smirk already in place. He had the polished look of someone who’d never been elbowed in the ribs chasing a story.
“He’s a person, Liam. Not a statue,” Clare said, focusing on the menu board. ‘Today’s Special: Regret’ she thought wryly.
“A person who says about five words per season. I heard you got stuck with him. Brutal. Bet you’d rather be covering Holmes’s abs for the weekly spread, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “The people want what the people want.”
Clare felt a prickle of irritation. She didn’t deny it. That was the assignment she’d wanted, the glossy, easy access piece on the team’s heartthrob winger. Instead, she was nursing a nascent idea about a man who said more with a wince than with words. But admitting that to Liam felt like exposing a nerve.
She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “An assignment’s an assignment.”
Behind them, a tray clattered onto the laminate of a long table, the sound sharper than the ambient noise. Clare turned.
It was Mac. He was already walking away, his broad back a rigid line retreating toward the hall, his full tray of untouched food abandoned. He moved with a stiff, deliberate gait, the slight hitch in his left leg more pronounced.
He must have heard them.
A hot flush climbed Clare’s neck. It wasn’t embarrassment, exactly. It was something sharper—the shame of being caught in a carelessness she didn’t even fully feel. She watched his figure disappear through the double doors.
“See?” Liam murmured, oblivious. “Spooky. Anyway, coffee’s on you if you want my notes on Holmes’s preferred protein powder. It’s gripping stuff.”
“I’ll pass,” Clare said, her voice tighter than she intended. She abandoned her place in line, leaving Liam mid-snicker, and followed Mac.
The corridor outside was cooler, dimmer. The sound of his footfalls—a heavy, measured tread—echoed ahead of her. He was headed toward the training rooms, a concrete-walled labyrinth under the stadium stands.
“Mac! Eamon, wait!”
He didn’t slow. If anything, his stride lengthened.
She broke into a jog, her flats slapping against the concrete. “Mac, please.”
He stopped near a blue door marked ‘HYDRO’. He didn’t turn around, just stood there, a monolith in the half-light. His shoulders were up near his ears.
“What do you need, Miss Thompson?” The formality was a wall.
“I…” She caught her breath, rounding to face him. His expression was closed, his jaw set. “About what you heard back there. Liam’s an idiot. He thinks a story is just a collection of quotes.”
Mac’s eyes were on the middle distance, somewhere over her head. “You don’t have to explain. You can like Holmes all you want. I don’t mind.” He said it flatly, a simple statement of fact. He began to turn the door handle.
“I don’t,” she blurted out.
That stopped him. His gaze drifted down to meet hers. There was a skeptical crease between his brows.
“I don’t like Holmes,” she clarified, the words tumbling out. “I mean, he’s fine. He’s a good player. But I asked for Finley, remember? Not Holmes. And after talking to you…” She took a breath, choosing honesty over professionalism for a beat. “I don’t want to write about Holmes’s abs. I want to write about the player who tapes his own knuckles after everyone else has left. Who tightens a defensive line just by being there. Who’s clearly playing through an injury no one’s talking about.”
The air between them changed. The rigid line of his posture softened, just a fraction. The defensive hunch of his shoulders eased. He studied her face, looking for the trap he was so accustomed to.
“Why?” The word was quiet, genuine.
“Because it’s a better story,” she said simply. Then, softer: “And because no one else is asking.”
He leaned back against the wall, the concrete groaning slightly under his weight. He looked down at his taped hands, flexing the right one slowly. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t the empty silence from the press conference. This was full, charged with something being considered.
“My leg’s fine,” he said finally, not looking at her. “Just an old thing that acts up.”
“Okay.”
He glanced up, surprised by her easy acceptance.
“I believe you,” she said, though she didn’t, not entirely. “But ‘just an old thing’ is still a thing. That’s part of the job, right? Playing through the old things?”
A faint, rueful smile touched his lips. “Yeah. It is.”
“Can I buy you a coffee?” she asked, gesturing vaguely back toward the cafeteria. “Since you left your lunch. And your tray. The cleaning staff probably hates you.”
He snorted, a short, surprised sound that was almost a laugh. “I’ll get another one.”
“Or,” she pressed, sensing a narrow window opening, “I could interview you. Properly. Not for filler. For a profile. On the record, but… different.”
“Different how?”
“Like a conversation. Not a soundbite.”
He pushed off the wall. He was so tall she had to crane her neck. He looked down the empty corridor, then back at her. The wariness was still there, but it was mingled with a curiosity that mirrored her own.
“I’m not interesting,” he stated.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
He was silent for another long moment, weighing it. Then he gave a single, slow nod. “Not here. Not… in this building.”
“Where, then?”
He thought. “There’s a place. A cafe. Called Bower. On Grafton Street. Opens early. I’m there tomorrow, seven a.m., before training.”
“I’ll be there,” she said quickly, before he could change his mind.
He nodded again, more to himself than to her. “Good.” He turned to the hydrotherapy room door, then paused, his hand on the handle. He didn’t look back. “And Clare?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Mac.”
A small, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest. “See you tomorrow, Mac.”
He slipped inside, the door shutting with a soft click, leaving her alone in the quiet hallway. The echo of her own heartbeat felt loud. She had her interview. Not just a few minutes at a press table, but a real, proper interview.
She pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen, adding to her earlier notes.
Bower Cafe. Grafton St. 7 a.m. Plays through pain. Hates being called a statue. Doesn’t like to be seen, but maybe wants to be understood. Has a laugh like a door creaking open.
She hit save, a new kind of momentum carrying her back down the corridor. This was no longer just a story. It was a door she’d been invited through, and she had no idea what she would find on the other side, only that she was determined to see it.