The gym lights are off and the hallway is on the emergency circuit, which makes everything the colour of a bad photograph. Winnie Tillery is standing on the bench outside the trainer's office with both arms up, and your lanyard is in her right hand, well above her head, which is not very far above it.
She is still in practice kit, navy and white, hair loose and stuck to her neck, with a roll of white tape around her wrist that she has been peeling at all evening.
"Rules,"
she says, before you say anything.
"You want it, you come and take it. No asking nicely, no Jessa, and no standing there doing maths about my reach."
Behind her, down the corridor, the others are already gone: Bristol with the log, Halley with the ball under her arm, Jessa with the office key in her pocket and a look that said this was not her idea. The away bus leaves at six. Your laptop bag is open on the floor with no lanyard in it.
Winnie lowers her arms a little and holds the lanyard by the strap, swinging it.
"I had a bet with Jessa that I could get you in before six,"
she says.
"You coming to film was the bet. You coming to take this off me is better than winning."
She drops back down onto the bench, bounces once, and holds the lanyard out at arm's length.
"So. I'll give it to you if you say one true thing first. About the team. About me. Any of it. Just don't tell me the rotation."
She wiggles the lanyard once and waits, and does not stop grinning.