EPILOGUE ONE
Hardy
One Year Later
E lation.
It’s like a second skin as I stand in the middle of the field while the last few seconds of the clock tick away.
The crowd counts down with it. My lungs burn, and my legs ache. I’ve never been more exhausted before and at the same time, have never felt more alive than this moment.
My dream has been realized. Achieved .
The head referee blows his whistle, and I collapse to my knees.
I put my face in my hands, squeeze my eyes shut, and draw in a ragged sob as a tidal wave of emotions hits me. I did it, Dad. I finally did it. I hope I made you proud.
I only have seconds to process the thought before my teammates surround me. They fall on top of me, hands patting, arms hugging, and elation overflowing as we take in the moment. The victory.
Champion’s League winners.
Finally.
I allow myself the moment—to sink into it, to remember it, to own it—but it’s not complete yet.
“I need to—guys, I need to find her,” I say above the continuing roar of the stadium. I know they can’t hear me, but I say the words anyway as I push my way out of the pile of my teammates.
When I look up, I’m momentarily blinded by the camera flashes directed my way. I stagger toward the sidelines. She was supposed to be around the midfield line, but the stands are a mass of fans that all blur together in their black and red fan gear.
Whit? Where are you?
I put a hand over my eyes to search, to try and find another black and red jersey amid the stands. It feels hopeless, the victory less complete.
“Alexander!” My name is a shout above the fray.
I turn and see her there. Our eyes meet and hers are filled with tears like mine are.
But it’s then that I notice it—the reason I couldn’t see her.
She’s not wearing my team colors. No. I was skimming right over her. She’s wearing blue. A specific blue of an old jersey that I’ve held on to for most of my life. The one that was framed on my wall and saved so I could feel close to him. My dad’s old kit . I can’t see the back of it but know there is H-A-R-D-Y emblazoned across the back.
“The one thing I remember most about my dad was how when he was on the pitch, the pride that owned him when he’d look in the stands and see my mum and me in our Hardy jerseys. It sounds stupid, but he’s out there living his dream, and he’d look over at us like we were the best things that ever happened to him.”
My breath catches in my throat as she’s helped over the barrier and down to the pitch with the other wives and girlfriends.
I’ve never felt prouder in my life. I’ve never felt more complete. I’ve never felt so bloody loved as I do right now.