He looks up. He tilts his head back, letting the sun shine on his face. His chest rises and falls with pure release. Beside me, his mother gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. We both know what this means.
Henry.
He feels him here. He’s not just playing for promotion or for pride. He’s playing for his brother, for the ghost that followed him for years. And right now, maybe for the first time, he’s not running away from it. He’s running alongside it.
Oliver’s mother leans in close to my ear as she chokes back tears. “Thank you,” she whispers. “He used to look for Henry in every crowd, in every dark corner.” She nods toward the pitch. “Now he just looks up.”
I squeeze her arm tighter, and we both join the crowd chanting for Oliver.
As we reach the ninetieth minute, the fourth official raises the board.
Seven agonizing minutes added on.
The stadium groans and swells again. Every clearance is met with cheers as Rockford chants break through the tightening nerves. Every time the ball gets near our box, the entire stadium holds its breath. We’re all going mad, but at least we’re not doing it alone.
I can’t feel either of my arms because Pippa holds on for dear life while Oliver’s mother digs her nails into the other. Maybe it hurts, but I don't even feel it. All I feel is being surrounded by love and support. The pain reminds me that someone is there, holding me up.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper, like it’s a prayer, a wish, maybe even a demand.
Rockford defends like their lives depend on it. Carlos transforms into a brick wall. Brennan is everywhere. Hell, even Sebastian is tracking back like he’s a man on a mission. And then, in the thick of it all, there’s Oliver—barking orders, pushing everyone where they need to be, leading his team like he was born for this moment.
If this wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, an opposing player breaks off toward our net, rocketing a shot toward Harry.
Everyone sucks in a breath, and the stadium goes deathly quiet. Harry gets his fingers to the ball and shoves it away. The crowd loses it for a moment until they realize another player is there waiting for the rebound.
And Oliver clears it.
I have no idea where he came from, or where he found one last ounce of fight.
The whistle blows.
Full time.
The stadium explodes. It’s bedlam. There’s no better word for it. There are flares going off, billowing red and blue smoke through the stadium. Fans are screaming, laughing, crying, and hurling their bodies into each other.
They’ve done it. They’re promoted.
Oliver’s mother and I are in each other’s arms, laughing and crying all at once. Neither of us can let go.
“My boy,” she shouts, voice hoarse. “He did it.”
On the pitch, the players are piling on top of each other. Sebastian sprints towards the fans and jumps into a supporter’s section. Carlos practically body-slams Gaffer when he hugs him and lifts him up. Stan collapses to the ground and just sobs. Brennan and Harry are running along the touchline, applauding the fans.
And then I see him. Oliver.
On his knees, hands over his face, teammates swarming him. Even surrounded by the chaos, it’s the way he looks up—eyes skyward, full of something deeper than joy—that just strikes me through the chest.
And when he rises, our eyes lock immediately, and it’s like the rest of the stadium hushes. He sprints, pushing past players, waving off cameras, until he reaches the touchline.
“Get down here!” he yells.
Pippa practically shoves me forward through the crowd. I take a step forward, and then I hesitate.
I look over my shoulder at his mother. This is her moment too.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my hand. “It should be you.”
“No,”she says, smiling warm and proud. “He’s reaching for you.”
