Read Chapter 6: The Assistant's Secret

The West London FC media office smelled of stale coffee and desperation, the kind that clung to carpet and lingered long after the lights went out. Elena had been waiting twenty minutes for Grace Okafor, the club's head of media relations, who was currently engaged in a whispered phone call that had her pacing behind her desk like a caged animal.

"Right, sorry about that," Grace said, finally dropping into her chair. She was younger than Elena expected, maybe late twenties, with the hollowed-out look of someone whose job had become a hostage negotiation. "Welcome to the circus. I'm told you need to ask me some questions."

Elena smiled, keeping her notebook open but her pen still. "Just trying to piece together the timeline of the Tommy Mercer story. How did the details about his gambling get out?"

Grace's fingers drummed against her keyboard. "We've been through this with the gaffer. The club has strict protocols. Player financial information doesn't leave this building without authorization."

"But it did leave."

A pause. Grace's eyes flicked toward the door, then back. "There was one person who had access to the files. Greg Ashworth. He handles player welfare admin. He'd have seen Tommy's records when he filed the support paperwork."

"You're telling me an admin staffer had access to gambling records?"

"Greg updates the confidential player files. Medical, personal, everything sensitive goes through his desk before it reaches the board." Grace lowered her voice. "Look, I'm not accusing anyone. But if you're looking at access logs, he's the one who pulled Tommy's file three days before that story broke."

Elena scribbled in her notebook, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Why would he do that?"

"Why does anyone do anything in this place?" Grace stood, signaling the conversation was over. "I've told you what you need to know. Just... be careful with it. Greg's been here twelve years. He's family."

Family, Elena thought as she walked out of the media office, was exactly the kind of word people used when they wanted to protect someone. She'd learned that covering football clubs was like entering a village where everyone knew everyone's secrets but pretended they didn't.

She found Greg Ashworth in the corridor, a wiry man in his forties with thinning hair and a nervous habit of checking his phone every few seconds. He was stacking match programmes by the reception desk, moving with a haunted efficiency that made Elena's journalist instincts prickle.

"Greg? Elena Marsh, I'm doing a piece on the club's season. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

His head snapped up. "I— I don't really talk to press. Club policy."

"Just about the atmosphere. Player welfare. Nothing sensitive."

Greg glanced around, sweat beading at his temples despite the cold. "I've got to finish these. Maybe another time."

He practically fled, leaving Elena with the distinct impression of a man trying to outrun something. She thanked the receptionist and made her way outside, but instead of heading to her car, she found a bench across the street with a clear view of the staff entrance.

She waited forty minutes. Her fingers numbed in the December cold, but she stayed focused, watching the door. When Greg finally emerged, he was wearing a long coat and carrying a briefcase, moving with a purposeful stride that didn't match his earlier nervousness.

Elena followed at a distance, keeping to the shadow of shop fronts as Greg walked toward the high street. He turned into a pub called The Crown and Anchor, a grimy establishment that looked like it hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since the 1980s.

She waited two minutes, then slipped inside.

The pub was dimly lit, with sticky tables and a jukebox playing something from an era before she was born. Greg was already seated in a corner booth, and across from him sat a familiar figure—a lanky man in a Corduroy jacket whose face she recognized from too many bylines in the tabloid section.

Marcus Webb. The journalist who'd published the Tommy Mercer story.

Elena slid into a booth two tables over, her back to them but her ears straining. The noise of the pub made it difficult, but she caught fragments: "—told you not to call me here—" and "—need more, the editor wants the full picture—"

She risked a glance over her shoulder. Greg was hunched forward, his voice a low murmur. Marcus Webb was shaking his head, tapping his phone on the table.

"—was supposed to be one story," Greg was saying, louder now. "One story and I'm done. That was the deal."

Marcus leaned in. "The deal changed. Someone at the club is paying a lot of money to make sure the captain takes the fall for this mess. I'm just the one writing the checks."

Elena's breath caught. The captain. Jack.

Greg's face went pale. "I didn't sign up for that. I gave you Tommy's records because—"

"Because you needed the money. I know. We all know." Marcus's voice was cold. "But here's the thing, Greg. You're in it now. The only way out is through. So tell me what you know about Jack Reid's movements on match day. Who he talks to. What he does when he thinks no one's watching."

Elena's hands were shaking. She reached for her phone to snap a photo of the exchange, but her movement was too sudden. Marcus's eyes flicked toward her, sharp as a hawk, and recognition flashed across his face.

"Well, well," he said, loud enough to carry. "The lady journalist finds our little meeting. Fancy that."

Greg turned, his face draining of what little color remained. "You— you followed me?"

Elena stood, refusing to show fear. "You're leaking club information to the press, Greg. Files you had no right to access. Tommy's gambling records. And now you're talking about the captain like he's a target."

"I didn't—" Greg started, but Marcus cut him off.

"She's got you good, mate. Better start thinking about your next move." Marcus stood, tossing a few bills on the table. He walked past Elena, pausing just close enough that she could smell his cheap cologne. "One piece of advice, darling. You're digging in the wrong direction. The story you're chasing isn't about Tommy or the club. It's about who's been running this team from the shadows for years. And they're not going to let some journalist from a dead-end paper stand in their way."

He was gone before she could respond, the door swinging shut behind him.

Greg remained frozen at the table, his hands wrapped around a pint he hadn't touched. When he finally looked up at Elena, his eyes were wet.

"You don't understand," he said. "You think you're the good guy in this story. But everyone's got a price. Everyone's got something they're trying to protect."

"Then tell me what you're protecting."

Greg laughed, a hollow sound. "I've got a daughter with a medical condition that costs more than I make in a year." His voice cracked. "The club cut my hours. Said it was budget constraints. But they still found money to refurbish the chairman's box."

He stood, shoulders slumped. "Marcus pays me enough to keep her in treatment. You want to judge me? Go ahead. But when you're a parent, you'd do worse than leak a few files to keep your child alive."

He started toward the door, then stopped. "If I were you, I'd watch my back. Marcus Webb doesn't work alone. There's someone above him, someone with real money and real power, who's been pulling strings at this club since before you were born."

Elena stood alone in the dim pub, her mind spinning. She'd found her leak. But Greg had just handed her a much bigger thread—and it led far beyond a benched midfielder's gambling habit.

The story she'd come here to write was no longer the story at all.