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‘Brooke York,’ she says, scanning the page. Then she looks up and smiles. ‘Here you are. I’ll take you to Mr Vose’s office.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply.

She hands me a visitor lanyard, which I hang around my neck. I don’t know if I look cool and important or like I don’t belong here. I know which one it feels like.

‘It’s been a busy day,’ she says as she leads me through the grounds.

‘It seems it,’ I reply, not really knowing what I’m talking about.

‘Home games always are,’ she says.

We walk down a wide concourse, past a club shop with a queue of people waiting to get in to buy more merch – most of them are already wearing something in the team colours. Beyond the shop, there are food trucks, also with queues. I can smell the pizzas from the wood-fired oven, and it makes me feel starving all of a sudden.

Then I pass him up close – Leo, the lion. He is tall, fluffy, bright-eyed, and wearing a Lions shirt stretched over his round, padded belly. He’s dancing for a crowd of kids. I swear, as I pass him, he gives me a wave. I suppose I was staring, but also, his eyes aren’t real, so I have no way of knowing where he’s looking.

The only thing I know about Leo the Lion – about the Leeds Lions in general – is that one of the guys in the suit (sorry to break it to you, that’s not a real lion) went on to become a movie star.

‘Leo’s popular,’ she says, reading my mind.

‘He looks like a lot of fun.’

‘He’s trouble,’ she jokes.

‘The fun ones always are,’ I reply.

Well, ain’t that the truth?

She laughs, which makes me feel a little more relaxed – but Bryan Vose is clearly much older than me, and a man, and sportsy. I highly doubt it will be as easy to make him laugh. So far I’ve only managed to make him chuckle by accident.

We head inside the building, away from the noise, into carpeted corridors lined with framed photos of big men holding up trophies, players mid-tackle, the stadium packed with huge crowds from different eras. It’s like the whole place feels proud, showcasing achievements over what appears to be several decades, but it’s a subtle kind of pride. Somehow it feels more sincere for being on the walls behind the scenes.

The woman showing me here knocks on an open office door.

‘Bryan? Brooke York here for you.’

‘Come in, come in, Brooke,’ he says.

Bryan Vose stands up behind a desk covered in folders, coffee cups and a sea of paperwork. He looks like he needs an assistant more than he needs a PR – so if I don’t get the job, I could always put myself forward for that. He is in his fifties, I’d guess, with close-cropped grey hair, a navy suit, and a face that looks like it has seen some stress over the years because his brow furrows over almost anything.

‘Brooke,’ he says, coming around to shake my hand. ‘Bryan Vose. Everyone round here calls me Bravo.’

‘Bravo?’

‘It’s supposed to be my names, mashed together,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I reckon it’s because I always do a good job though – we’ve won a good few leagues and cups while I’ve been running the show.’

‘Then it’s definitely earned,’ I say with a smile.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks.

‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I reply, suddenly so nervous I feel like anything I put down my throat might instantly come hurtling back up.

‘Well, let’s get down to business. Ron speaks very highly of you,’ he says, leaning back in his chair.

I smile. I wonder what Ron did say about me – specifically, what he said I was to him. I wish I’d got around to calling him before I lost my phone. He could have helped me prep, told me what to say, fed me lines to deliver about tonight’s game that made me seem like I knew what I was talking about, because I feel like I have less than nothing.

Bravo glances at a printed CV in front of him. I sent it to Ron, who sent it to him.

‘You’ve been at agencies for a while,’ he points out.