CHAPTER ELEVEN The Girl Behind the Headlines

By Saturday morning, Isabella had convinced herself that she was perfectly capable of spending an entire day without thinking about Alexander Hayes.

She had a new lead to investigate, two interviews to arrange, and an article to submit before Monday's editorial meeting.

There was no reason to think about his smile.

Or the way his expression had softened when he showed her the photograph of Daniel Mercer.

Or the fact that he had stood beside her in silence, as though he understood that some memories were too painful to discuss.

She was a journalist.

She had work to do.

Her phone rang at half past nine.

Alexander.

She stared at the screen before answering.

“Good morning.”

“That's much better.”

“What is?”

“You didn't insult me.”

“It's early. Give me time.”

He laughed.

“I have a proposition.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably not.”

“That's reassuring.”

“There's a charity event at the club this afternoon. The players are helping raise money for a youth football programme. Victoria wants the press there, and I thought you might be interested.”

Isabella leaned back in her chair.

“Is this another attempt to improve Westbridge's public image?”

“Partly.”

“At least you're honest.”

“I try.”

She glanced at the list of tasks on her desk.

“What time?”

“Two o'clock.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It's a professional commitment.”

“Of course.”

She could practically hear him smiling.

“See you at two, Miss Reed.”

The call ended.

Isabella stared at her phone for a moment, then shook her head.

This was becoming ridiculous.

The charity event was held in a community sports centre in west London.

Children in brightly coloured football shirts ran between tables while volunteers handed out refreshments and collected donations. A small stage had been arranged near the main pitch, and several Westbridge players were signing autographs.

Isabella arrived with her camera and notebook.

She expected to spend an hour gathering quotations, taking photographs, and leaving before the event became too crowded.

Instead, she found Alexander surrounded by children.

He was kneeling beside a boy who looked no older than eight, helping him tie the laces of his football boots.

The boy was speaking rapidly, his face animated with excitement.

Alexander listened as though every word mattered.

When the child finally finished, Alexander smiled.

“That's a good goal to have. But you need to practise your passing as well.”

“I do!”

“Every day?”

“Almost.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

“Almost isn't every day.”

The boy laughed.

Isabella found herself smiling behind her camera.

She took a photograph.

Then another.

Alexander looked up at the sound of the shutter.

Their eyes met.

He grinned.

She immediately lowered the camera.

She would not be photographing him simply because he looked attractive.

That would be unprofessional.

Even if the evidence suggested he was unfairly attractive.

“Miss Reed!”

A volunteer waved her toward the registration table.

Isabella spent the next hour interviewing organisers and collecting details about the charity's work. The programme provided equipment, coaching, and transport for children from low-income families who wanted to play football.

It was exactly the kind of story she enjoyed covering.

No scandal.

No hidden payments.

Just people trying to make a difference.

When she finished speaking with the organisers, Alexander approached with two bottles of water.

“You've been working hard.”

“It's what journalists do.”

“I thought you spent most of your time asking irritating questions.”

“That's only whenfootballets are involved.”

He handed her a bottle.

“Then I suppose I should be grateful you've found something else to investigate.”

She accepted the water.

“Thank you.”

He glanced at her camera.

“Did you get any good photographs?”

“Some.”

“Any of me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He placed a hand over his heart.

“I'm wounded.”

“I'm sure you'll recover.”

He laughed.

Then a little girl approached them, clutching a football.

“Alexander?”

He turned immediately.

“Hello.”

“Will you sign this for me?”

“Of course.”

He took the ball and signed it carefully before handing it back.

The girl beamed.

“My brother says you're going to win the championship.”

Alexander smiled.

“Your brother sounds like a very sensible person.”

“Will you?”

He crouched to her height.

“We're going to do our best.”

She nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with the answer, and ran back to her family.

Isabella watched her go.

“You're good with children.”

Alexander stood.

“My mother always said children can tell when you're pretending to care.”

“Was she right?”

“Usually.”

He looked toward the pitch.

“She used to take me to community matches when I was young. We didn't have much money, but she always found a way to get me a pair of boots.”

Isabella's expression softened.

“Does she still watch your matches?”

“Every single one. Even when I tell her not to.”

“Why would you tell her not to?”

“Because she shouts at the referee through the television.”

Isabella laughed.

“Now I want to meet her.”

He looked at her.

“Perhaps you will.”

The words lingered between them.

Alexander seemed to realise what he had said.

He cleared his throat.

“I mean, if you ever cover a family event or something.”

“Of course.”

“Right.”

“Very professional.”

“Extremely.”

They both laughed, and the awkwardness dissolved.

Later that afternoon, Isabella found herself helping the organisers carry boxes of donated football equipment into a storage room.

Alexander appeared in the doorway.

“You know you don't have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because they need help.”

He watched her for a moment before picking up a box.

“Fine. I'll help too.”

Together, they carried the equipment down a narrow corridor.

When they reached the storage room, Isabella set down her box and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face.

Alexander noticed the smudge of dust on her cheek.

“You've got something there.”

She rubbed the wrong side.

“No, the other side.”

She tried again.

He smiled.

“Hold still.”

Before she could object, he reached out and gently brushed the dust from her cheek with his thumb.

The touch was brief.

Harmless.

Yet Isabella forgot what she had been about to say.

Alexander's hand lingered for half a second before he drew it back.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She swallowed.

“It's fine.”

Neither moved.

For the first time, the attraction between them was not hidden beneath an argument or disguised as professional curiosity.

It was simply there.

Quiet.

Uncomfortable.

Impossible to ignore.

Then a volunteer called Alexander from the main hall.

He stepped away.

“I should go.”

“Yes,” Isabella said quickly. “You should.”

He left.

She stood alone in the storage room, staring at the place where he had been standing.

This was becoming dangerous.

Not because Alexander was a footballer.

Not because the press might misunderstand their relationship.

But because she was beginning to care what he thought of her.

And that was something she had never intended to let happen.

That evening, Isabella sat at her desk and reviewed the photographs from the charity event.

She selected several images of the children, the organisers, and the players.

Then she reached the photograph she had taken of Alexander kneeling beside the little boy.

He was smiling, his attention entirely focused on the child.

There was no arrogance in his face.

No carefully managed public image.

Just kindness.

She saved the photograph.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Alexander.

Did you get home safely?

She smiled before she could stop herself.

Yes. Thank you for asking.

His reply came a moment later.

Good. I enjoyed today.

Isabella stared at the message.

She typed:

So did I.

Then she added:

You were surprisingly tolerable.

His answer arrived almost immediately.

I'll take that as a declaration of affection.

She laughed aloud.

Don't push your luck, Captain.

Too late.

She put the phone down, still smiling.

For the first time in weeks, the scandal was not the only thing occupying her thoughts.

And that frightened her more than she wanted to admit.