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‘That’s a lot to learn before Monday,’ he replies.

‘I’m hoping I can learn on the job,’ I say.

‘I’m sure you can,’ he replies. ‘Well, if we’re colleagues, can I give you a lift somewhere?’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you. If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’

He opens the passenger door of the big black SUV and closes it behind me. It’s a nice car – spacious, clean. The only thing out of place is the coffee cup in the cup holder, probably from the journey here. I don’t know why, I don’t think of professional athletes drinking a latte before a big game. Then again, I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do better with a coffee in me.

It’s a big car but I guess he’s a big bloke. He fills the driver’s seat when he gets in.

It smells like leather and whatever aftershave he’s wearing. Something woody and warm with a hint of spice. I like it.

‘So,’ he says. ‘Where to?’

‘I’m supposed to be meeting Ron,’ I explain. ‘But I don’t think he will have gone straight home. Do you know where Freddiez is?’

‘The burger place?’ he checks.

‘Yeah. Ron always goes there after a game.’

‘Always?’ Eddy says with a snorty laugh as he pulls out of the space. ‘And he calls me fat. You can tell he’s not playing any more.’

I turn to him, my mouth wide open.

‘He calls you fat?’ I blurt.

Eddy keeps his eyes on the road.

‘Old and out of shape, technically,’ he replies. ‘Although I think he might have used the F-word off-screen once or twice…’

I stare at him.

He is big, yes. Massive, even. But fat? Out of shape? The man just spent eighty minutes being bashed into by other enormous humans and still looks capable of pushing his SUV all the way home. He’s, like, a caricature of the world’s sexiest man – technically, just going off his physique, I mean. I’m not checking him out, honest.

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s harsh. I’m so sorry.’

‘A lot of the pundits talk crap,’ he replies. ‘But Ron is by far the worst. You have nothing to apologise for, do you?’

‘Hmm,’ I reply – although I still feel oddly responsible for his actions. I know nothing about being a pundit, but that feels really harsh.

We head towards the bright lights of the city, leaving the stadium behind us.

‘So Ron’s your…’ Eddy starts.

‘He’s my…’

The word stops in my throat. I’m not supposed to tell anyone – definitely not someone he works with.

Eddy glances at me for a second.

‘Ah,’ he says simply. ‘So, that’s why you’re apologising for him…’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean what he says,’ I insist. ‘He’s probably just trying to paint himself as someone with controversial opinions, so he can play a pantomime villain role.’

‘He was never a very good player,’ Eddy says casually. ‘He’s a worse pundit.’