There’s something electric pulsing through the air.Hope.
The coffee shop I duck into has a little chalkboard sign out front that reads “Come on, Rockford!” in messy block letters. Thesupermarket on the corner has flowers in team colors spilling out of the front display.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending like I was visiting or just passing through. I stopped guarding every inch of myself. I’m not even sure when it happened. One day I just felt more alive somehow, more free. I just looked up. I found people who saw me—even the parts I tried to hide. And they didn’t flinch.
The noise builds as I get closer to the stadium. I know Pippa is waiting for me inside, but I want to linger out here among this commotion. The crowd gathering outside is laughing, chanting, and blowing horns, but all I hear underneath is a heartbeat. And I realize—this match, this team, this community—it’s bigger than any of us. It’s these people. It’s every supporter who’s waited a lifetime for a season like this, and every player who’s fought to make it happen.
They give everything they have to this team. Every last pound. Every bit of belief. They hand it over without asking for anything in return, except maybe this: just one more win, just one moment to belong to something greater than themselves.
These people, this community, they don’t just support the club.
Theyarethe club.
And I think that’s what hit me hardest this season. I came here thinking I was just selling a story, getting a job done. But somewhere along the way, their story and mine became one, woven together like they belonged that way. I don’t know when it happened, but now I feel it in my bones.
This is who we do it for.
If we win today, everything changes.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of that.
It’s scoreless after the half. I don’t know if my heart can handle another forty-five minutes of this—plus stoppage time, and god forbid, extras.
The stadium is buzzing. Every chant feels like a prayer. I grip the edge of my seat without even meaning to.
Pippa’s beside me, chewing nervously on her fingernails. She’s muttering under her breath like she’s negotiating with the football gods for just one goal. On my other side, Oliver’s mother slips her arm around my shoulders.
“Breathe, love,” she says softly, gentle and grounding. Her eyes are on the pitch, but her words are for me.
I nod, though the knot in my chest is wound tight. “I’m just so nervous.”
“Ollie’s got this,” she says with unshakeable certainty in her voice. Her eyes break away from the pitch, and she looks at me. “He’s different since he met you.”
“Yeah?” I ask, though I already feel it too.
“He’s lighter.” She shifts a little, her gaze returning to the pitch. “It’s like he’s finally stopped looking over his shoulder for ghosts and started seeing what’s right in front of him. He’s happy.”
My throat tightens because I know what she means. I’ve seen it too. When we met, Oliver would barely even look me in the eye, or anyone else. He was direct, to the point, and said only what he needed to. But now he laughs. He lives. He’s not just playing football anymore, he’s belonging to it.
I press my hand to my kit, the one with his name and number on it. “Come on, Ollie,” I whisper, like he can hear me over the roar of thirty-thousand voices.
Then the energy shifts, like a current rippling through the stadium. The play builds quickly. Carlos makes a tackle to take back the ball, threading it to Brennan who moves it through midfield. Sebastian makes a dummy run up front to distract, and then—
Oliver.
He appears out of nowhere, perfectly timed, perfectly placed. The ball comes to his foot, and he strikes it low and lethal.
Goal.
The sound is deafening. The stadium erupts in a way that swallows everything. I’m on my feet before I realize it, screaming, laughing, and probably crying too.
Oliver sprints to the corner flag, arms wide, face lit up like I’ve never seen. The team piles on top of him in a glorious swarm of red and blue.
Oliver doesn’t dial it down. He celebrates openly, letting himself feel it. He belongs to this moment, and he knows it.
I clutch at my chest like it might explode. Oliver’s mother is crying beside me, holding on to my arm for dear life.
As the team rise to their feet, Oliver does something so simple, but so beautiful.
