Chapter Text
The train from Truham to London is already half full when I slide into a window seat with my coffee and laptop bag, the carriage carrying that quiet, shared exhaustion of people who make the same journey every morning. Outside the glass, the sky is still a dull November grey, the kind that never quite decides whether it’s properly morning yet.
I’ve been doing this commute for almost a year and a half now, long enough that the routine feels automatic. Coffee from the kiosk by the station, AirPods in before the doors close, an hour to wake up properly before London swallows the day. Most of the carriage is already buried in laptops and newspapers, the low murmur of conversation fading as the train pulls away from the platform.
The houses along the edge of Truham slide past the window, rows of brick terraces giving way slowly to open stretches of countryside, damp fields still clinging to the last of the autumn mist. Somewhere further down the carriage, someone sighs heavily as they open a spreadsheet, which feels like an appropriate way to begin a Monday morning.
I wedge my coffee into the little tray and pull my laptop from my bag, opening the document I’d been editing late last night. The cursor blinks halfway through an article about a community centre in East London that runs a weekly support group and a late-night drop-in for queer teenagers who need a safe place to exist for a few hours.
It isn’t the kind of story that trends online, but it’s the kind I like telling. People building something for each other. Small spaces that matter more than anyone outside them really understands.
I reread the paragraph on the screen, trimming a sentence that feels like it’s trying too hard to sound profound.
A few stops into the journey, the doors slide open again, and a group of men climb into the carriage, loud in the particular way people are when they’re already halfway through a conversation and have no intention of lowering their voices for anyone else’s benefit. They’re all wearing England rugby shirts, the white fabric bright against the dull morning light, the red rose stitched over the chest unmistakable even from the other end of the aisle.
I recognise the symbol because it's hard not to if you live in England, even if you don't actually follow the sport. The rose is everywhere during match season: on pub windows, on billboards, occasionally on the backs of fans who seem determined to make sure the rest of the country is as equally enthusiastic as they are.
One of them laughs loudly enough that half the carriage looks up. I lower my eyes back to my screen and scroll down the document, hoping they continue further down the train instead of deciding this is the perfect place to sit.
Thankfully, they disappear through the connecting doors a moment later, their conversation fading as they move further along the train. The carriage settles back into its earlier quiet, the soft rhythm of typing and the low hum of the tracks returning to fill the space.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s over-the-top sports fans who make it their entire personality.
The office is already buzzing when I step inside, the low murmur of conversations and the steady clatter of keyboards filling the open-plan floor. Someone near the news desk is arguing about a headline, a phone rings somewhere behind me, and the smell of burnt coffee hangs stubbornly in the air.
I shrug out of my coat and drop into my chair, setting my bag beside the desk before opening my laptop. The familiar morning routine kicks in almost automatically; emails first, then headlines, a quick scan to see if anything has happened overnight that might derail the day before it properly starts.
Most of it is the usual mix of politics, culture pieces and whatever minor controversy has decided to trend before nine a.m. Nothing immediately looks like it’s going to explode, which means I can go back to the article I was editing on the train.
The document opens where I left it, the cursor blinking patiently halfway through a paragraph. I reread a sentence, delete three unnecessary adjectives and replace them with something that actually sounds like a human being wrote it.
“Charlie.”
My head turns automatically at the sound of my name.
“Can I have a word, please?” Rachel asks, standing a few feet away.
I push my chair back and follow her to the small conference room. This is never good. Rachel only ever pulls me aside when something I’ve written can’t be saved by editing, and I need to rewrite the whole thing.
She perches on the edge of the table as I close the door behind us, folding her arms loosely across her chest.
“I need you to fill in for Jack. He was supposed to interview Nick Nelson, but had to pull out at the last minute.”
“Who?” I ask, frowning.
She chuckles, shaking her head.
“Nick Nelson. Medway RFC captain. Rugby, Charlie.”
I feel my face drop.
“Rugby?” I repeat. “I’m not a sports journalist.”
“I know,” she says calmly. “But the interview can’t be rearranged, and I don’t have anyone else available for the slot tomorrow.”
My eyes widen. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. You’re good with people, Charlie. You’ll be fine.”
“What do I even interview him about?”
“That’s down to you,” she says with a small shrug. “I suggest you do your research.”
Talk about being thrown in at the deep end.
“He’s about your age,” she continues. “Unfortunately, I don’t know anything else about him. If this goes well, it’ll be really good for your career. Showing initiative, proving you can cope well under pressure. Those are essential skills for a successful journalist.”
I stare at her for a moment, trying to decide if that was meant to be reassuring.
“You realise this would be significantly easier if I knew literally anything about rugby.”
Rachel smiles faintly, the kind of smile that suggests my problem is not particularly high on her list of concerns today.
“You have the internet,” she says. “Use it.”
That feels unhelpfully logical.
“When is the interview?”
“Tomorrow at ten thirty,” she replies. “The club’s media team have already confirmed the slot. You’ll go to the training ground in Gillingham, they’ll film it, and the video will go up on our social channels.”
“Right,” I say slowly.
Rachel slides a thin folder across the table toward me. “Everything they sent over is in there. Background information, contact details, that sort of thing.”
I glance down at the front page. Nick Nelson. The name still means absolutely nothing to me.
“You’ll be fine,” Rachel says, pushing herself off the edge of the table. “You’re good with people. Just make him talk.”
She opens the door before I have time to think of a response, already halfway back to the chaos of the office.
I linger in the conference room for a second longer, staring at the name on the folder like it might suddenly start explaining itself.
I’ve only interviewed three people before, and I had something in common with all of them. ButI know, with absolute certainty, that I won’t have anything in common with a rugby captain.
I return to my desk and drop into my chair, opening a new Google tab and typing in his name.
The search results appear instantly, and the first headline reads: Medway RFC captain Nick Nelson publicly announces sexuality.
I pause, curiosity getting the better of me, and click the article.
A photo sits directly beneath the headline. The man in the picture is younger than I expected a professional rugby captain to be, broad-shouldered and unmistakably athletic, auburn hair falling across his forehead like the photo was taken just after a match. I blink at the screen, momentarily thrown by the sudden, completely unhelpful realisation that he’s gorgeous.
I scroll down quickly and skim the opening paragraph instead, focusing on the text before my brain can wander off in a direction that has absolutely nothing to do with journalism. The article explains that Nick Nelson recently came out publicly as bisexual, releasing a short statement thanking fans and teammates for their support.
I wasn’t expecting that at all. Of course, I know athletes can be queer, and being a rugby player has nothing to do with sexuality, but at the same time, it’s still surprising, especially for him to come out publicly. Professional sport isn’t exactly known for making that easy.
I scroll back up to the photo without meaning to. In the picture, he looks relaxed and happy. He doesn't look like someone who's just made a statement that half the internet will have an opinion about.
I realise I’ve been staring at the screen for longer than is strictly necessary for research.
I close the tab before I can fall any further down the rabbit hole. My half-finished article is still open in the other window, the cursor blinking patiently where I left it earlier.
If I’m going to do this properly and turn it into an interview that doesn’t ruin my career before it’s even begun, I need to focus on something else for a while, just until my brain stops picking apart every detail of his annoyingly perfect face.
It’s dark by the time I’m back in Truham, and I have to use the torch on my phone so I’m not stabbing the door aimlessly with my key.
When I finally get it open, I’m hit with warmth and the smell of something cooking.
“Charlie’s home!” Isaac announces from the living room.
“I’m making a chicken and mushroom pie. Do you want any?” Tao calls from the small kitchen at the back of the house.
I grimace slightly at the thought. Tao’s cooking isn’t great at the best of times. Thankfully, he can’t see my face.
“No. I’m okay, thank you,” I call back.
“Suit yourself,” Tao replies.
I shrug out of my coat and kick my shoes off by the door before stepping into the living room.
“How was work?” Isaac asks, glancing up briefly from the book in his hands.
I cross the room and drop into the chair at my desk in the corner.
“I’ve been asked to interview a rugby captain.”
Isaac slowly lowers his book onto his lap.
“You? Interviewing a rugby captain?”
I laugh under my breath as I open my laptop.
“Exactly. I’m filling in for the person who was supposed to be doing it. The interview’s tomorrow, and I don’t know the first thing about rugby.”
Isaac snorts.
“Good luck.”
I open Google and type Nick’s name again, scrolling through articles and making notes of anything that looks remotely useful.
A moment later, Tao appears in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“He’s researching a rugby player,” Isaac says without looking up from his book.
Tao frowns. “Why?”
“It’s for an interview tomorrow,” I reply, not looking away from the screen.
“Which rugby player?”
“Nick Nelson.”
Tao pauses. “I’ve seen him on TikTok.”
I turn slowly in my chair and raise an eyebrow at him.
Tao shrugs. “What? I follow sports.”
Isaac snorts quietly and turns a page.
I look back at the screen.
“He came out as bisexual recently.”
“I know,” Tao says. “It went pretty viral.”
I skim another article.
“He’s twenty-five. Fourth of September. That makes him a Virgo.”
Tao stares at me. “How is any of that relevant?”
I huff quietly.
“I don’t know. I have no idea what I’m supposed to ask him.”
Tao leans against the back of the sofa, amused.
“Maybe don’t ask him about his star sign.”
I roll my eyes and keep scrolling.
“He was assigned captain at twenty-four, making him the youngest captain the team’s ever had.”
“Everyone already knows that,” Tao says immediately. “You need to ask him questions he hasn’t been asked a million times before.”
I groan and drop my forehead onto the desk.
“He hasn’t done many interviews since coming out,” Tao adds after a moment. “You could ask him about that.”
I lift my head slightly.
“I can’t make the whole interview about his sexuality.”
Isaac glances up from his book. “You could ask him how it changed things. That seems relevant.”
I stare at the screen for a moment longer, the blinking cursor in my notes suddenly looking a lot more intimidating than it did five minutes ago.
Tao tilts his head slightly. “Did Rachel tell you what the interview was supposed to be about?”
“No,” I say. “She literally dropped me in the deep end and basically said work it out yourself.”
Isaac looks up from his book. “That’s incredibly unhelpful.”
“I think she’s testing me.”
Tao shrugs. “You’re a good journalist. You’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” I reply, completely unconvinced.
I stay up long after Tao and Isaac have gone to bed, searching through article after article, making myself a sandwich when my stomach reminds me I should probably eat something. Tao’s right. If I want this interview to be good, it can’t just be a mindless repeat of everything he’s already been asked a hundred times before. It has to stand out. I just don’t know how I’m going to do that yet.
The Medway RFC training ground is a lot more modern than I was expecting. I pull into the visitor car park and switch the engine off, sitting there for a moment longer than necessary while I take in the building in front of me. Glass panels, dark metal cladding, the club crest mounted above the entrance. Beyond the building, I can just make out one of the pitches, bright green even under the dull morning sky
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and step out of the car, the cold air hitting my face immediately as I lock the door behind me. My shoes crunch slightly against the gravel as I head toward the entrance, adjusting the sleeve of my jumper automatically as I walk. Dark grey, white shirt underneath, black trousers. Smart enough to look professional without looking like I’m trying too hard.
The reception area is warm and surprisingly quiet when I step inside.
A woman looks up from the computer in front of her. “Can I help you?” she asks, studying me briefly like I might be lost.
“Um, Charlie Spring,” I say, suddenly feeling very out of place. “I’m here to interview Nick Nelson.”
“Oh, of course,” she replies with a polite smile. “Do you have ID?”
I unzip my coat and pull the lanyard from around my neck, holding up my office ID. I assume that’s what she means.
She glances at it, nods, and presses a button on the intercom beside her desk. “Sam, Charlie Spring’s here for the interview.”
A moment later, the double doors behind the reception desk open, and a man in a suit walks through. He crosses the reception area and offers his hand. “Hi, Charlie. I’m Sam Walker, the club’s media manager.”
I shake his hand quickly, hoping my grip doesn’t feel as nervous as I suddenly feel.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Nick should be ready in a few minutes,” Sam says, already turning back toward the double doors. “We’ll get you set up first.”
I follow him through the doors and into a long corridor that feels very different from the quiet reception area. Framed photos line the walls; team line-ups, action shots from matches, a few players lifting trophies while crowds blur behind them.
We pass a set of large windows that look out over one of the training pitches before Sam turns a corner. "The interview's pretty straightforward," he says over his shoulder. "We'll film it for our social channels. Just a conversation, really."
“Right,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
He pushes open another door and steps into a small room that has clearly been set up for filming. Two chairs sit angled slightly toward each other in front of a backdrop covered with the Medway RFC crest. Three cameras are positioned around them on tripods, with a pair of soft lights casting an even glow across the room.
A woman standing beside one of the cameras gives me a quick smile.
“This is Georgia,” Sam says. “She’ll sort your mic.”
Georgia steps forward, holding a small wireless microphone. “If you could just clip this to your collar for me.”
I nod and hold still while she attaches the mic to the edge of my jumper, the small transmitter tucked neatly out of sight.
“Perfect,” she says, stepping back toward the cameras.
Sam gestures toward one of the chairs. “Make yourself comfortable. Nick’s just finishing up with something, and he’ll be through in a minute.”
I sit down, placing my notebook on my lap and trying very hard not to think about the fact that in a few moments, the captain of Medway RFC is going to walk through that door and expect me to know what I’m doing.
I read through my questions, then read them again. I felt reasonably confident about them last night. Now the doubt is creeping in. He’s probably going to think I’m terrible at this, that I have no idea how to conduct an interview, wondering why they sent someone so barely competent.
The door opens, and my head turns automatically. I genuinely forget how to breathe for a second. The photos were one thing, but he’s on a whole other level in person.
He walks into the room with an easy confidence. Not cocky or arrogant, just relaxed. A calm sort of energy that seems to radiate off him. He’s dressed in grey joggers and a light blue hoodie with the team’s crest printed across the front. I suddenly feel very overdressed.
I stand awkwardly, holding out my hand as he approaches with a warm smile.
“Charlie,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m absolutely dying inside.
“Nick,” he replies, shaking my hand and giving it a firm squeeze.
My stomach flips at the feeling of his warm palm against mine.
“We just need to mic you up, Nick,” Georgia says brightly, stepping over.
Nick lifts the edge of his hoodie slightly so Georgia can clip the microphone to the collar. He stands patiently while she tucks the small transmitter out of sight, glancing over at me with an easy smile that somehow makes the room feel a little less intimidating.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “These things always take a minute.”
“No, it’s fine,” I reply quickly, even though my brain has completely abandoned the idea of forming normal sentences.
Georgia steps back, giving the cable a small tug to make sure it’s secure. “All set.”
Nick thanks her and moves over to the chair opposite mine, sitting down with the kind of casual confidence that suggests he’s done this hundreds of times before. He rests his forearms loosely on his knees for a moment before leaning back slightly, looking over at me again.
“You look nervous,” he says gently.
A nervous laugh slips out. “Do I?”
He chuckles softly. “A bit, yeah.”
“I haven’t done many interviews,” I admit quickly.
Nick gives me a small, reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine.”
Georgia glances up from the monitor beside the cameras. “Alright, we’re ready.”
One of the camera operators adjusts the lens while another gives a small nod.
“Rolling in three… two…”
I straighten slightly in my chair, suddenly very aware of the microphone clipped to my collar and the notebook resting on my lap.
My mind goes completely blank, unsure if I’m supposed to do some kind of introduction or just go straight into the interview. I sit there in silence for a moment, Nick and the camera crew watching me, which only makes everything worse.
“Sorry,” I mutter, glancing down at my notes.
“It’s okay,” Nick says simply. “They can edit this bit out.”
That eases the tension inside me a little, and I let out a small laugh.
“Okay, um… so you became captain quite recently. Has that changed things much with the rest of the team?”
Nick nods slightly, clearly considering the question for a moment before answering.
“A little,” he says. “Being captain means you’re responsible for more than just your own performance. You’re thinking about the whole team, how everyone’s working together, how we communicate on the pitch, that kind of thing.”
He pauses briefly, glancing toward one of the cameras before looking back at me.
“But the core of it stays the same. You’re still playing the same game with the same group of people. My job’s just to help keep everyone moving in the same direction.”
I nod, not really understanding what any of that means. “Do you still enjoy playing the same way you did before you were captain, or does it feel different now?”
“It’s definitely different,” Nick says. “There’s more pressure now. If I don’t play well, it affects the whole team. I think I enjoy it differently now.”
I pause, staring down at my questions. I should probably respond to what he’s actually saying.
“Is this… is this the first time you’ve felt that kind of pressure?” I ask, immediately cringing internally.
Nick chuckles quietly. “It’s the first time I’ve felt it at this level. But I was captain when I played at school.”
“Have you played rugby since you were young?”
“Yeah. I started when I was eight. I didn’t really start thinking about it professionally until after I left university. Growing up in Truham, there weren’t many opportunities.”
I stare at him blankly for a second. “You grew up in Truham?”
He smiles. “Yeah. Do you know it?”
“I grew up there, too. I still live there.”
“Really?” he says with a soft laugh. “That’s so cool.”
I smile, slightly amused by the coincidence. “Yeah. I can’t believe you grew up there, that’s…” I trail off, glancing around the room as the cameras and lights suddenly re-enter my awareness. Right. We’re in the middle of an interview.
“Um.” My eyes drop back to my notes. “When people talk about rugby players, they usually focus on the physical side of it. Is that actually what it feels like when you're playing?”
Nick doesn’t answer straight away. He leans back slightly in his chair, considering the question.
“I’ve never been asked that before,” he says thoughtfully.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
He shakes his head gently. “No, it’s a good question. It’s definitely mental as well as physical.”
He pauses for a moment, searching for the right way to explain it.
“When people watch rugby, they mostly see the physical side of it. The tackles, the running, all of that. But when you’re actually playing, you’re constantly thinking. You’re reading what the other team’s doing, communicating with your teammates, adjusting things as the game changes.”
He gestures vaguely with one hand as he talks.
“You’re trying to stay one step ahead the whole time. If you’re only thinking about the physical part, you’re already behind.”
He glances at me again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“So yeah. The physical part matters, obviously. But a lot of the game happens in your head.”
I hesitate, wishing I had something meaningful to say back to that. But I don’t, so I move on to the next question.
“You spoke publicly about being bisexual earlier this year. Did that feel like a big moment for you, or something that just sort of happened?”
His expression changes instantly. Not annoyed, just slightly caught off guard.
“Yeah. I mean, it was definitely a big decision. My PR team weren’t keen on the idea, but it felt important. In professional sport, people normally see the player, not the person, and I wanted to find a way to connect with the people who support my career. The initial reaction was mixed, but more positive than negative. I’ve had people come up to me and say it gave them the confidence to come out, which feels really special.”
“I think when a public figure comes out as queer,” I say, “it makes people in the community feel seen. Especially when it’s someone people wouldn’t look at and automatically assume they’re anything other than straight.”
Nick nods. “Exactly. And that’s why I wanted to do it.”
I glance down at my notes again.
“Um, my next question was about people seeing the rugby captain first and the person second… but you already answered that.”
He chuckles, amused but not mocking. “You’re a journalist. I’m sure you can think on your feet.”
I laugh quietly at that. “I have another question about what you do in your free time, but that feels like a stupid question.”
The corner of Nick’s mouth turns into a crooked smile.
“It’s not a stupid question. I try to spend as much time with family and friends as I can. My mum has a dog, Nellie. She’s quite old now, but she still loves going to the park.” He shrugs lightly. “When I’m at home, I like to cook or watch Marvel movies. I just try to make the most of any free time I have.”
I nod, glancing around the room. “That was my last question,” I say awkwardly.
Nick smiles, giving me a small nod.
“We have enough to post,” Georgia says. “If you’re happy to round the interview up now?”
“Okay,” I say, looking back at Nick. “Um, thank you for talking to me.”
“It’s no problem at all,” he says easily.
The cameras cut, and Georgia comes over, removing our microphones.
“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” Nick says, holding out his hand with a soft, genuine smile.
“Yeah, you too,” I say quietly, shaking his hand again.
I thank Georgia and the camera crew before gathering my notes from the chair, trying very hard to act like I haven’t just spent the last half hour sitting across from one of the most intimidatingly attractive people I’ve ever met.
The walk back through the corridor feels shorter this time. I barely take in any of it; my mind is too busy replaying the interview over and over again. Every question I stumbled through, every awkward pause, every moment I thought I’d completely embarrassed myself.
I unlock my car and sit behind the wheel for a moment before starting the engine. The interview might not have been perfect, but at least I didn’t completely ruin my career.