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‘For now,’ I say, like that makes it better.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

There is nothing rude about the question. He looks genuinely baffled, and I get that. Most people with jobs also have homes – homes away from their jobs.

‘It’s a long story,’ I say simply.

‘Well, I’m stuck here all night,’ he replies. ‘In fact, maybe you can help me out. What does a person do for dinner here?’

‘Well, I generally get mine delivered,’ I tell him.

‘Fancy some company?’ he asks. ‘I’d kill for a pizza.’

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t want to have dinner with him – that’s the problem. The company would be nice. He is easy to talk to, and the prospect of eating pizza with an actual person is infinitely more appealing than lying on my bed watching a true crime documentary or old episodes of Gossip Girl I know by heart.

It is harmless, right? Just two colleagues having dinner. I mean, okay, one of the colleagues plays for a rival team and seems to flirt on autopilot, while the other is pretending to date his supposed enemy… but apart from that, it’s very straightforward. Plus, Eddy and I did say we shouldn’t let our arrangement affect our dating lives so if it were a date, which it absolutely is not, it’s fair game.

‘Okay,’ I say.

‘Great,’ he replies. ‘I’m starving. The pizza is on me, for keeping me company.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply – not only for dinner, but for the company too. Not that I itemise my gratitude for him.

The biggest green flag for me is when we agree on ordering a Hawaiian, because that’s my favourite – his too. Ron used to tease me about it. Honestly, the way he reacted, you’d think I was eating a pizza I’d found in the bin.

‘Your place or mine?’ he asks.

I give him a look.

‘For the food,’ he insists with a grin.

We go into my room, which I know has the superior view of the pitch, because it’s on the other side of the corridor to Jamie’s.

When Jamie sees the pitch through the window, he wolf-whistles.

‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Shame it’s for a shit club, but still nice.’

I just laugh.

He walks closer to the glass, looking down at the empty stands and the wide-open pitch. The floodlights aren’t on tonight, but it’s not so dark you can’t see.

‘Competitors could spy from up here,’ he muses.

‘I’m pretty sure they train in an open field anyway,’ I reply.

‘So, you’ve no gossip for me?’ he checks. ‘No one down there does anything weird, says anything controversial, no one’s having affairs…?’

I know he’s just joking around but my face falls.

‘Oh, man, who’s having an affair?’ he asks.

‘No one,’ I insist.