“Great,” I say. “We’ll rush you through these so you can get to your interviews mostly on time.”
He lets out a long sigh and nods. “Fine. Sorry, I’m a bit out of sorts.”
“Go out on the booze last night, then?” Phil asks from behind the camera.
He snorts, a rueful chuckle. “I wish. That would be far better.”
I’m dying to ask what the real cause of his mood is, but he doesn’t seem to be fishing for follow-ups, so I brush it aside. “Well, don’t worry about it. Phil can Photoshop you to look like, you know, an athlete in the prime of his life and not a Detroit beat cop on the brink of retirement.”
Lachlan doesn’t seem to have heard me, or if he has, he doesn’t seem to have found it funny. He’s just staring into the middle distance, sipping his coffee. Deep in the recesses of my mind, alarm bells ring. Was our fun Friday dinner an aberration? Am I an idiot for not realizing he’d be more formal and standoffishwhen we’re actually around other people? Is this friendship that I’ve gotten myself so excited about all in my head? And how’s that going to affect my plan to distract myself into happiness again?
Phil raises his eyebrows at me and I shrug. But the clock is ticking, so I quash whatever doubts I have and kick into gear. “All right, Lachlan, you’ve just scored a goal, show us what you’ve got.”
He drains the coffee and hands me the cup, then catches the ball Phil tosses his way. He sighs again, deeper this time. “You want me to prance around and pull stupid faces, right?”
My hand flies to my bangs and I brush them aside. “Uh, not necessarily. I think something funny or lighthearted would be a good reflection of your usual personality,” I say, then rush to contradict myself as I see his brow furrow. “But then again, serious is also good. Intensity. Whatever feels right to you.”
We do a couple of takes and it’s awful. The video captures every angle of his dour attitude, so he looks like he’s on his way to the electric chair, not celebrating scoring for his dream club. The negative vibes actually radiate out of the monitor. This is bad. This is really bad. Of course, I can’t say that to him, so I put on my best placating voice, which hopefully stays on the right side of patronizing. “Okay, that’s a really good start. Now let’s try an excited reaction. You grab the badge, you turn to the camera and scream or pump your fist or whatever.”
He tries a few, none of which are usable, because now, in addition to his general malaise, there’s a palpable sense of mortification coming through the camera. It’s like I’ve asked him to strip naked and run through Parliament. Next to me, Phil glances at his watch and raises his eyebrows at me, like “Are you going to handle this?”
I’m not sure what to do: Conflict avoidance has been my guiding ethos for thirty years, and it’s never failed me (except for that whole broken engagement thing, but who’s counting). But what are my options? Clearly something has gotten under Lachlan’s skin and I don’t want to pry, but his sulkiness is now ruining multiple people’s days. I have to be more direct. I tuck my hair behind my ears and straighten up. “Okay, Lachlan, these are coming across as sullen and uninspiring. They’re unusable.”
Lachlan’s shoulders droop even further and he runs a hand through his hair. “Abby, I feel like the world’s biggest arsehole doing this.”
“Well, here’s a tip: How about you remember how many zeros there are in your paycheck and see if that helps you move past your discomfort? Because those of us with considerably fewer in ours have to do this for the rest of the squad before lunchtime or we get fired.”
For a second he just stares at me and I’m worried I’ve crossed a line. My palms prick with sweat as I remember the cardinal rule: Do not piss off the athletes. But then his mouth twists into the first smile I’ve seen all day, a smile that says he knows he’s been beaten. He closes his eyes and claps his hands a few times, then hops up and down. When he looks at me again, he’s serious, but not sulky. “Okay, boss. I was being a little twat before, but that’s done. Tell me what you need and let’s fucking do this.”
Phil and I coach him through all the poses, and he nails it. With each new video the dark clouds circling his head part, until by the end, he’s dancing and goofing around and looking happy as a clam. Phil gives me a nod of approval and I exhale a long, relieved breath, both for the fact that the work got done and that Lachlan’s coldness toward me was a blip.
As we scan the footage to make sure we got everything, we hear a shout from the other side of the room. “Oi, you absolute bellend!”
When Lachlan sees who it is, his face lights up. “Matty!”
He holds out an arm for a bro hug, but Matt Fletcher pushes it aside and slaps Lachlan full on the face. “That’s for making me wait.” He’s got a deadly serious look in his eyes, and though I’ve not yet met the man, I know the captain of Mersey F.C. is not someone to be messed with. I cut my eyes to Phil, who looks just as surprised as I do. I scan the room to make sure there are no journalists here to get an incredible scoop about intrasquad brawling; luckily, it’s only Mersey staff. Still, the relief I felt at getting Lachlan’s footage has completely evaporated, and my stomach has clenched right back up into a knot.
“Fuck off, you radge,” Lachlan says. “I’m here right when you told me to be.” He’s gingerly touching his cheek, his eyes somewhere between confused and enraged.
“No, you’re three years late,” Matt says.
Lachlan thinks for a second, then his expression melts from anger into amusement. He smiles wide and pulls Matt into a giant bear hug. “Forgive me, brother.”
Matt holds his nerve for a millisecond before relenting, throwing his arms around Lachlan and lifting him clear off the ground. “Missed you, Lockie.” He shakes Lachlan around a bit before depositing him back to earth.
Phil and I eye each other as Lachlan and Matt continue their playful sparring, with Lachlan now trying to get a shot at slapping Matt, but the captain bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali in his prime.
“Is Claire in town yet?” Matt asks as he parries a blow.
My ears perk up and I pretend to fiddle with the camera inorder to watch Lachlan’s reaction. Am I imagining it or does he visibly tense at the mention of her name?
“No, she’s still in Spain.” He smiles like it’s nothing, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Interesting. Could Claire Ramsay be the cause of this morning’s foul mood?
“When’s she getting here? Evie is dying to see her.”
Lachlan is saved by the bell—literally—when his phone starts beeping. He pulls it out and shows it to Matt. “See? Set my alarm for you and everything.” It’s a smooth deflection, and Lachlan builds on it by turning to Phil and me. “Matty, have you met Phil, cameraman extraordinaire?”
“ ’Course—Phil and I are mates.” They bro-hug, which I’m learning is a standard greeting between men around these parts.
