c30: Maybe I'm Moved
That night, Everton's squad flooded into one of Manchester's hottest nightclubs. The victory over Manchester United had lit a fire in the dressing room, and now it spilled into the city streets with uncontainable energy. Vardy, eager to celebrate with them, was quickly left behind.
Despite scoring the winning goal at Old Trafford, the teenager was still under 18 making him legally too young to enter the nightclub. This wasn't a casual pub near Goodison; it was a real VIP club with security that didn't care how many goals you'd scored.
"Just drink your milk back at the hotel, kid!" Gravesen grinned, his broad Danish accent stretching the words into a taunt.
"Don't worry, I'll try to bring back three girls tonight keep two for myself, and gift you one. Don't thank me too much!" laughed Carsley, throwing an arm around Vardy's shoulder and jabbing at his fragile teen ego.
"If you really can't take the loneliness," Leon Osman added solemnly, handing over a glossy business card with a provocative image and a phone number printed in bold red ink, "call this number. Guaranteed... special services."
Vardy flushed crimson. He was livid. What a bunch of degenerates!
He wasn't naive. He knew most English players were magnets in the nightclub scene status, fame, and Premier League salaries made them irresistible. Even average-looking players got lucky most nights. It was part of the culture.
But Vardy, whether by youth or timing, had tasted none of it. Not even a kiss since arriving in Merseyside. The only thing he'd been close to was the smell of deep heat ointment in the physio's room.
Where am I supposed to vent all this teenage energy? he grumbled. Is it time to practice Qilin Arms like some old martial arts monk from a fantasy novel? I've crossed timelines to become a striker and I'm living like a monk? Disgraceful!
"I hope every girl you meet tonight is a transsexual," Vardy muttered bitterly under his breath, cursing his teammates as they disappeared down the hotel corridor, howling with laughter.
Left behind, Vardy slumped in front of the TV in his hotel room his match-winning moment now replaced by reality: alone, damp, and annoyed.
---
Meanwhile, across town, the editorial office of The Echo was in uproar.
"Who is this Vardy kid?" barked the editor-in-chief, pacing across the room after watching the extended highlights of Everton's upset at Old Trafford. "He scored the winning goal against Manchester United! This isn't just a highlight—this is headline stuff! We need an exclusive!"
But the reporter dispatched to Old Trafford had returned empty-handed. Like every other media outlet, they failed to get a quote from the elusive teen hero. Vardy had slipped past them all.
The editor-in-chief, red-faced and agitated, scratched his bald head.
What do we have on this kid? There's something familiar about the name... Vardy...
He paused. A flicker of recognition flashed behind his eyes.
Wait a minute... wasn't there a report about a new Everton signing from our trainee journalist a few days ago?
It struck him like a thunderclap.
"Yes!" he shouted, startling the night staff. He grabbed his coat and bolted out the door, driving straight to the newspaper's main office even though it was well past midnight.
Bursting into his own office, the editor dug through the pile of overlooked submissions and drafts. Thankfully, the article hadn't been discarded. It was still tucked in a side folder untouched.
He yanked it out, scanned the opening lines, and slapped his thigh in triumph.
It was all there: Annie's draft from earlier that week, describing a little-known Manchester United youth product named Jamie Vardy, recently loaned to Everton. Her article had predicted he could shake things up with his pace and aggression, even though he'd yet to debut.
Now, that same player had just stunned the football world with a debut goal at the most iconic stadium in England.
The editor didn't waste a second. He arranged for the article to go straight to the next day's sports section rewritten with a new intro, but retaining Annie's original insight.
He drove home feeling like a genius.
And while steering through quiet streets, he called Annie from the car.
"Annie, you've got good eyes. This Vardy piece? Sharp, instinctive, and ahead of the curve. You're not just an intern anymore. Start preparing for more field work I think you're ready."
"Annie, I've arranged for your article to go on tomorrow's front sports page. Excellent work. From now on, you'll continue covering Everton!" said the editor-in-chief of The Echo, his voice beaming with satisfaction.
Annie had just finished watching the match. Vardy's dramatic winner at Old Trafford had stunned her. She was both shocked by his clinical finish and genuinely thrilled for him. The call from her boss made the moment even sweeter.
"Thank you, Editor-in-Chief! I'll definitely work hard!" Annie replied, her voice bubbling with excitement.
Not only had she secured her internship, but she'd also been officially assigned to cover Everton full-time. That meant sticking close to the club and close to him.
Vardy really is my lucky star, she thought, her heart fluttering.
She quickly decided she had to share the good news with him.
"You know what, Jamie? The editor-in-chief just called me. He's putting the report about you in tomorrow's paper, and he wants me to keep covering Everton!"
Her bright voice came through the line, cheerful and full of gratitude.
Vardy was lying on his hotel bed, still processing the whirlwind of emotions after scoring the winner against his parent club, Manchester United. Hearing from Annie added a warm glow to his evening.
Though he hadn't had much experience dealing with journalists neither in this life nor his previous one—he already knew how toxic most of them could be. Manipulative, sensationalist, always spinning your words. But Annie was nothing like that. She was honest, gentle, and her questions never came with a trap. Talking to her felt easy.
Also, Annie was... beautiful.
"That's amazing. I told you you'd make it. We're both just getting started," Vardy said, smiling to himself.
Annie's voice softened, filled with shy sincerity. "Thank you, Jamie. Honestly, if you hadn't accepted my interview that day, I probably would've been out of a job by now."
"No, no, this is your own effort. I was just lucky to be around."
"I watched the whole match... Your goal it was incredible. The moment you scored, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. It was the most beautiful goal I've ever seen!"
As Annie spoke, Vardy's mind drifted somewhere else entirely not to the curling shot past Van der Sar, or the stunned silence at Old Trafford but to the image of Annie's tight blouse from that first interview... her confident smile, and those long legs crossed in front of him.
"I think it was beautiful too," Vardy said absentmindedly. Only he knew what kind of "beautiful" he was talking about.
Annie giggled, her voice lowering. If Vardy had seen her now lounging on her couch in pajamas, hair down and cheeks flushed he might have started drooling again.
"Now you're becoming a proper football star, Jamie. What's next? Red carpets? Magazine shoots?" she teased. "But tell me honestly, will this humble journalist still get the honor of interviewing you back in Liverpool?"
Vardy snapped back to reality, laughing as he shook his head to chase away the thoughts. "Of course! I've decided starting now, I'm done with interviews. Unless it's club-mandated, I'm not talking to any reporter again. Only you. Just you."
There was a brief pause on the line.
Annie's smile faded into something softer. She didn't know what to say. Moved? Embarrassed? Flattered?
She wasn't sure.
Why was she suddenly blushing?
The silence lingered between them. It was awkward. But not unpleasant.
"I'll be waiting for you to come back," Annie said quietly, almost whispering.
After the call ended, Vardy lay motionless, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe... I'm actually moved?
---