“Nah. They’re so tiny, you can barely see them. And anyway, I’ve got you on my side to walk me onto the pitch. I’m in good hands.” I wink, and the kid relaxes.
Someone asks us to get into position, and he takes my hand, squeezing it tightly.
“We’ve got this, lad.”
He nods, standing straighter. “Okay, let’s go.”
We line up, stepping into the tunnel, and the roar of the stadium grows louder with each passing second. The pitch lights are blazing onto the turf. I can practically feel the pulse of the place, the breath of thousands of fans building into a chant behind the announcer’s voice.
Girls are screaming names near the end of the tunnel, and as we pass them, Finn bows dramatically and blows a kiss, sending a wave of giggles through the sidelines. It’s ridiculous, and brilliant, and everything I’ve missed.
The pregame ceremonies play out—national anthem, handshakes, the coin toss—and I roll my shoulders, then hop on my toes. It’s second nature. The ground is familiar beneath my boots as I retreat to my cage. I glance instinctively at the VIP box, trying to catch a glimpse of Kat or Gilly, but I can’t really see anything from down here.
I pull myself into focus. Seconds later, the ref blows the whistle, and the match kicks off.
Wexford hits fast—not exactly what we expected, but I’m ready for them. The first few minutes are all about finding our rhythm. Cameron’s already dictating pace in the midfield, Wade is weaving like he never left, and Finn is flying down the wing like a man with a vendetta.
We press high, dominating possession.
But then—too soon—Wexford finds an opening. A moment of miscommunication between Callum and one of the new centre-backs leaves a sliver of space, and their striker seizes it. It’s a clever through ball, and before I know it, their number nine is tearing toward me, boots hammering the turf, just him and me.
But I don’t wait.
I sprint forward to narrow the angle, hands low, eyes locked. He tries to chip it.
Bad idea.
I leap sideways, arms outstretched, and slap the ball out of the air like I’m swatting a fly. It ricochets hard, landing just outside the box, where Callum clears it with a venomous boot.
Cheers erupt from the stands—along with an audible release of breath.
As I get back to my feet, my adrenaline is spiking, heart thundering. My gaze instantly roams over the stands, gravitating toward the VIP box. I see a mass of people chanting and jumping, and my heart kicks harder. Is Katherine one of them?
Kat
“Woo-hoo!” I’m on my feet, clapping as Archie deflects the shot like a superhero with gloves. But I’m not making nearly as much noise as Mum is. She’s shouting and whistling like her life depends on it, her long, silky orange shawl contrasting against the Archie Wilcott jersey she’s wearing. Yes, we stopped at the team store when we arrived, and she insisted on getting us both a jersey. Since she actually went to the doctor and had the biopsy, I obliged.
“He’s fabulous,” she says, sitting back down as play resumes. “So nice, and funny, and handsome. And just look at thoseshoulders. That man’s built like a sculpture. Broad, solid—like he could lift a car if he felt like it. And have you seen his thighs? Like tree trunks. Yet so graceful! Like a dancer—an absolutepanther.”
“Okay, Mum, I got the gist.” I glance around, hoping no one else is hearing this. As if I need her to spell out how perfect Archie is. Everything she said is true, although, what I find most distracting is the way his hair sticks to his forehead, giving him that carefree look—or how his smile seems to break through the massive displays.
“He’d be a fantastic lover, I’m sure of that,” she says in a breathy voice.
“It’s not happening, Mum.” I’ve already assured her, at least five times, that Archie and I are not dating.
“Boyfriend, then,” she counters with a casual wave of her hand. “You’d make a lovely couple.”
“Mum. I said no.”
She throws me a side glance, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Hmm. He’s not your lover, and he’s not your boyfriend… Then what is he?”
I let out an exhausted sigh. “The world isn’t divided into two categories.”
“At your age, it should be,” she replies with a wink.
I shake my head. “We’re just friends.”
“Well, that’s a waste. Do you see me being friends with handsome men?”
