CHAPTER TWELVE A Night Without Cameras

Alexander had spent the entire week telling himself that Isabella Reed was simply a journalist.

An intelligent journalist.

An infuriating journalist.

A journalist who could somehow turn an ordinary conversation into something he replayed in his head long after it ended.

But still a journalist.

He repeated this to himself while getting dressed on Friday evening.

He repeated it while checking his reflection in the mirror.

And he repeated it when his phone vibrated with a message from Daniel.

Where are you going tonight?

Alexander typed back:

Dinner.

Daniel responded immediately.

With Isabella?

No.

Liar.

Alexander ignored him.

He had not invited Isabella on a date.

He had invited her to dinner because they needed to discuss the investigation, and because she had mentioned that she wanted to examine the club's historical records with him.

That was all.

The fact that he had spent twenty minutes choosing a shirt was irrelevant.

He left his apartment before Daniel could send another message.

Isabella was waiting outside the restaurant when Alexander arrived.

She wore a dark green dress beneath a long black coat, her chestnut hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

Alexander stopped walking.

For one unguarded moment, he forgot what he had intended to say.

Isabella noticed.

“What?”

He blinked.

“Nothing.”

“You're staring.”

“I'm deciding whether you're going to spend the entire evening arguing with me.”

“Depends on how irritating you are.”

He smiled.

“Then I suppose I'm doomed.”

She laughed, and the sound settled something inside him.

He opened the restaurant door.

“Shall we?”

The restaurant was small and warmly lit, tucked away on a quiet London street. It had been recommended by Daniel, who had insisted that Alexander needed somewhere he could eat without being interrupted by supporters.

They were seated near the back.

For the first twenty minutes, they discussed the investigation.

Isabella told him that the newspaper's legal team had identified inconsistencies in the documents sent by the anonymous source. Some details appeared authentic, but the signature on the payment record remained unverified.

Alexander told her that a former colleague had agreed to help identify people who worked at Westbridge during the period Daniel Mercer disappeared.

Neither had enough information to make a public accusation.

Then the conversation drifted toward football.

Alexander told her about the first time he had played in front of a full stadium.

“I was eighteen,” he said. “I thought I was prepared. I'd played in youth tournaments, trained with the first team, done everything they told me to do.”

“And?”

“And the moment I stepped onto the pitch, I forgot how to breathe.”

Isabella smiled.

“You?”

“Me.”

“What happened?”

“My manager shouted at me to stop looking at the crowd and start looking at the ball.”

She laughed.

“That's terrible advice.”

“It worked.”

“Did you score?”

“No.”

“Assist?”

“No.”

“Did you at least play well?”

He shook his head.

“I was substituted after sixty minutes.”

Isabella burst out laughing.

Alexander watched her with a smile.

“You're enjoying this far too much.”

“I'm sorry. I just find it difficult to imagine you being bad at something.”

“I'm very bad at plenty of things.”

“Such as?”

He considered the question.

“Cooking.”

“That's not surprising.”

“Driving in central London.”

“Also not surprising.”

“Talking about my feelings.”

Her laughter softened.

She looked at him across the table.

“Why?”

Alexander turned his glass between his fingers.

“Because I've spent most of my life believing that if I showed people where I was weak, they'd use it against me.”

“Who taught you that?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“My father.”

Isabella waited.

“He left when I was twelve,” Alexander continued. “He'd been promising to take me to football matches for years. He'd say he'd come to my school games, then something would happen. Work. Money. Another emergency.”

He smiled without humour.

“One day, he stopped making promises altogether.”

“I'm sorry.”

Alexander shrugged.

“It happened a long time ago.”

“That doesn't mean it stopped hurting.”

He looked at her.

She had said the words gently, without pity.

He found himself wanting to tell her more.

“My mother worked two jobs to keep us going. I used to think that if I became successful enough, I could give her a life where she never had to worry again.”

“Did it work?”

“Not entirely. She still worries about everything.”

Isabella laughed softly.

Alexander smiled.

Then he asked, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why did you become a journalist?”

She hesitated.

“Because I wanted to understand why people lie.”

He waited.

“My father worked for Westbridge. When he left, everyone had a different explanation. Some people said he had been dishonest. Others said he had been unfairly treated. Nobody could agree on what happened, and my family was left with the consequences.”

Alexander listened without interrupting.

“I was seventeen,” she continued. “I didn't know what to believe. So I decided that if I ever had the chance to investigate a story, I would make sure I had the facts before I judged anyone.”

“Is that why you questioned me so aggressively during our first interview?”

“Yes.”

He smiled faintly.

“I thought you simply hated me.”

“I did hate you.”

“Past tense?”

She looked down at her plate.

“Don't ruin the moment.”

He laughed.

For a while, they ate in comfortable silence.

When the waiter brought dessert, Alexander ordered two portions of chocolate cake.

Isabella raised an eyebrow.

“Planning to share?”

“I was planning to eat both.”

“Of course you were.”

He pushed one plate toward her.

“Try it before you judge me.”

She took a bite.

It was delicious.

She refused to tell him that.

“This is acceptable,” she said.

“High praise.”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

He smiled.

After dinner, they walked through the nearby streets.

The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement shining beneath the streetlights. London moved around them in its usual evening rhythm: buses passing, people hurrying toward underground stations, music drifting from a nearby pub.

Alexander kept his hands in his coat pockets.

Isabella walked beside him.

Neither seemed eager to end the evening.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Do you ever wish you weren't famous?”

He thought about it.

“Sometimes. I miss being able to walk into a shop without someone taking a photograph. I miss going out with friends without wondering whether someone will invent a story about it.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

“Because I love football.”

He looked at her.

“And because the good parts are worth it.”

“What are the good parts?”

“The matches. The team. The feeling when thousands of people believe in something together.”

He paused.

“And sometimes, meeting someone who doesn't care how many goals you've scored.”

Isabella looked at him.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I'm still deciding.”

She laughed.

They reached a quiet bridge overlooking the river.

Alexander stopped at the railing.

“Isabella?”

She turned toward him.

“Thank you for tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven't had an evening like this in a long time.”

She felt her heart tighten.

“What kind of evening?”

“One where I don't have to be the captain.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“You don't have to be the captain with me.”

He studied her face.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

He stepped closer.

The space between them became almost unbearable.

For one brief moment, Isabella thought he was going to kiss her.

She wanted him to.

That was the problem.

Alexander looked at her lips, then back at her eyes.

His hand lifted slightly, as though he wanted to touch her cheek.

Then his phone rang.

They both startled.

He stepped back and answered it.

Daniel's voice came through loudly enough for Isabella to hear.

“Where are you? The team dinner started twenty minutes ago!”

Alexander closed his eyes.

“Daniel, I'm busy.”

“With what?”

“Something important.”

A pause.

Then Daniel said, “Are you with Isabella?”

Alexander ended the call.

Isabella burst out laughing.

“I think your friend knows.”

“Daniel knows everything. It's a curse.”

She smiled, but the moment had passed.

They walked back toward the main road.

At the station entrance, Alexander stopped.

“Can I see you again?”

Isabella looked at him.

“For the investigation?”

He smiled.

“If that's the excuse you need.”

She tried to appear thoughtful.

“I'll consider it.”

“Cruel woman.”

“Goodnight, Captain.”

“Goodnight, Isabella.”

She went down the station steps, trying not to smile too broadly.

Alexander waited until she disappeared into the crowd before turning away.

He had not kissed her.

But for the first time in years, he had wanted something that had nothing to do with football.

And he was beginning to fear how much he wanted it.