Jamie groans. "It's fine, Jo. I can play through it."
"Like hell you can. Get on the table," I demand.
He grumbles but complies. I work through the tightness in his leg. Feel the knot and apply pressure.
"Fuck," he hisses.
"Told you it wasn't fine."
"Can I play in the friendly this weekend?"
"Depends. If you rest it today and tomorrow, maybe. If you push it in training today, definitely not."
He sighs. "Coach is going to kill me."
"Coach will be fine. He understands. He'll be more pissed if you tear your hamstring completely. That's a six-week recovery. Your choice."
He nods. "Fine. I'll sit out."
"Good." I smile.
I finish the session and send him off with ice and instructions. The rest of the morning is a blur of ankle taping, shoulder assessments, ice baths, and stretching routines. By lunchtime, I'm exhausted. I grab my phone and check my messages.
Three texts from Polly.
Polly: Wine tonight when you get home.
Polly: Please say yes.
Polly: I need to talk to you about something.
That sounds serious.
Jo: Yes. I'll grab a bottle on the way home.
Polly: You're a lifesaver.
I stop at the shop on the way home and grab two bottles of wine and some crisps. Polly is already there when I walk in, still in her work clothes, her blazer discarded on the couch, heels kicked off by the door.
"You look ... different," I say.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Excited? Stressed? Both?"
She grabs the wine bottle from my hand. "Both."
I hand her a corkscrew. "What happened?"
She pops the bottle open, pours two generous glasses, and takes a long drink.
"I got headhunted."
I blink. "What?"
"A football club. They want me. Head of Social Media and Fan Engagement."
"Polly, that's amazing!"
