15. He’d be a fantastic lover, I’m sure of that.
"He’d be a fantastic lover, I’m sure of that."
Archie
Training has gotten easier with each passing day.
A week has passed, and I’m now buzzed for our first match of the season.
We’re playing Wexford, which is not our biggest threat.
A nice way to kick things off. Kat and Gilly both confirmed they’re coming—Oscar is apparently out of the picture already—and they should be arriving in the VIP box right about now.
I resist the urge to text her, though. She said she’d come. She’s here, I’m sure of it.
I yank on my boots, then glance down to double-check my socks: one white, one blue.
Callum grunts from two stalls down, taping up his ankle like he’s preparing for war. “You do realise it doesn’t actually change anything, eh?”
“Sure it does,” I say, adjusting my laces. “We’ve never lost a home opener when I’ve worn mismatched socks.”
“Actually, one was a draw,” Wade points out from across the room, stretching with annoying ease.
“Still counts,” I mutter.
Finn grins as he swings a leg up on the bench beside me. “Honestly, I respect the commitment. Could be worse. You could be like Cam and eat the same blasted pasta every game day.”
Cameron lifts his head from where he’s organizing his gear with surgeon-like precision. “It’s called consistency. You guys should try it sometime.”
Finn scoffs. “I don’t need it. I’ve got enough confidence to know I can get the job done.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Cameron shoots back. “Anyways, it’s science. Carbs and routine calm the nervous system.”
“Sure,” Wade drawls. “And Archie’s socks scare off the football gods. We’re a very scientific bunch.”
Callum snorts under his breath, then reaches for his shin guards with a grunt. “I swear, it’s like babysitting a kindergarten in here.”
“You love us,” Finn sings, winking at him.
Callum just glares.
Then, the door swings open, and all the noise tapers off as if someone just hit mute.
Francois marches into the room, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit. His hair is slightly windswept, a notebook tucked under one arm. He pauses, scanning the room with dramatic weight, then drags the whiteboard into place like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.
“Messieurs,” he begins, putting his dry erase marker to the board.
He begins drawing… some kind of creature.
“We’ve been asleep for weeks, and it’s time to awaken the sleeping dragon within us.
” He adds wings and a very long tail. Good thing he told us what it was straight away.
I would have guessed chicken with avian influenza.
Callum coughs discreetly into his hand. From my left, Finn nudges me, barely containing his laughter.
Francois adds “flames” shooting from the mouth of the creature.
“It has been slumbering,” he continues, eyes fixing on each of us in turn. “Conserving its fire, its power. But now, it is time to roar! It is time to breathe fire! Our passes are the flames; our tackles are the claws.”
He slams the marker down on the tray.
“We start this season strong, messieurs. Wake up the dragon! Burn our opponents to ashes. Go!”
The room erupts with cheers, applause, and a few animal noises (thanks, Finn), our adrenaline bubbling up like it always does. We jog out of the tunnel, where we’re greeted by staff. They hand us off to the kids who will escort us onto the pitch.
I spot Millie in the distance, her camera flashing as she steps backwards in front of Wade, a tiny boy holding his hand like this is the best day of his life. Wade ruffles the kid’s hair and leans down to say something that makes him beam.
Callum is already crouched next to his matchday kid, giving him a serious pep talk, like he’s about to sub in for defence. The boy nods solemnly, clearly taking his words as gospel.
Finn’s got a little girl with pigtails who keeps peppering him with questions, which he answers diligently.
Meanwhile, Cameron is actively listening to what his kid is telling him, giving the little one his full attention.
My own kid is around seven—big eyes, hair too long for school rules, and a massive Regents flag painted on his cheek.
“Hey, mate,” I say, crouching to match his height. “You ready for this?”
He nods like a player negotiating his contract. “Do we get to win today?”
I smirk. “Absolutely. You brought the luck, didn’t you?”
“I brought snacks,” he says, completely serious.
“Even better.” I grin. “That’s how we do it.”
“Is it scary to play in front of a big crowd?” He glances down at the grass, then back at me.
“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 those shoulders. 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 absolute panther. ”
“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?”
“No, although I really wish it would have worked out with you and Oscar. I actually liked him—which is more than I can say for most of your boyfriends. What happened, anyway?” She has suspiciously avoided answering that question a few times already, which only makes me more curious.
“Oh, Katherine. You’re so hard on people. They weren’t all bad. Frederick was nice.”
I give her the pointed look. “Oh, yeah. The guy who cheated on you in your own bedroom was a real stand-up guy.”
She looks away for a second, then swings back to face me, regaining her composure. “Fine. I’ll admit, I haven’t been the best judge of character when it comes to men, but I’m sure I’m not mistaken about Archie.”
“And Oscar?”
She sighs. “He was nice, but honestly, he was just too weak for me. He said that my vehement refusal to go to the doctor’s was a red flag for him because he lost his wife that way. She hated doctors, but who loves them, anyway? It’s ridiculous.”
“Poor Oscar,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s terrible, and it must have opened up old wounds for him.” I try to meet her eyes. “That’s not weakness, Mum. He cares about you. You need to call him and make things right.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. I could—oh!” she exclaims as Finn starts to sprint on the pitch, zipping toward the Wexford goal. He breezes past the first defender, then cuts around the second with a flick so smooth it sends a collective gasp through the crowd.
“He’s fast,” Mum breathes beside me.
Finn barrels toward the box, scanning the playing field. Wade is charging in from the other side, arms waving—but Finn doesn’t pass it to him. He dummies once, twice, then launches a low, curling shot with his left foot that zips toward the far post…
And crashes into the net with a satisfying thunk.
The crowd erupts, the home side cheering at the top of their lungs. The stadium itself seems to shake with the clamour. Finn pumps both fists in the air, then takes off toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees with the unshakable grin of someone who just scored an undisputable goal.
Mum flies to her feet and cries out, shawl flailing like a victory flag. I clap for Finn, but my eyes flick sideways—to Archie. He’s way down at the opposite end of the pitch, his gloves in the air as he joins the celebration from afar.
A smile pulls at my lips. Yeah. Maybe football is kind of exciting after all.
Halftime rolls in faster than I expected, and I leave our seats to grab Mum a drink.
The VIP lounge is bustling, a blur of navy shirts, clinking glasses, and amateur match analyses from every direction.
When I return, I spot Mum near the railing, animatedly chatting with two women.
One has bouncy blonde curls and striking blue eyes; the other has sleek black hair and fair skin, her arms crossed casually as she laughs at something Mum just said.
Dread creeps up my spine, and I brace myself.
“Hey,” I say, slipping back into the row. “Here’s your drink, Mum.”
“Ah, there’s my daughter,” Mum says to the girls, then turns to me. “Kat, this is Roxy and Fallon. Fallon is Finn’s sister. You know, the one who just scored. And Roxy is married to Wade, the captain.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I say, offering a polite smile as I pass Mum her drink.
“You’re the neighbour, right?” Roxy’s smile is warm but definitely amused.
“I am,” I admit, already wincing. “You’ve probably heard awful things about me.”
They exchange a look that confirms my suspicions.
“Yeah,” Fallon deadpans. “But it’s over now. Just like I knew it would be. Statistically speaking, feuding neighbours are more likely to resolve their differences than other people. Proximity forces civility. Most neighbour disputes last under a year anyway.”
“Fallon’s a risk analyst,” Roxy says, as if to explain Fallon’s weird outburst of stats.
I nod. “I guess we’re pretty predictable, then,” I say, my lips curving into a reluctant smile.
Mum, naturally, steers the conversation from there, gushing about skin products, the team, her new shawl—apparently hand-dyed by a ‘textile witch’ in Cornwall—and at some point, asking if Roxy’s shoes are custom-made.
And honestly, I’m grateful for her. I’ve never been much of a social butterfly.
That said, there’s something easy about talking to Fallon and Roxy, and I find myself chiming in more and more.
When the second half of the match starts, I’m actually a bit sad we have to halt our conversation.
But the moment Archie steps back onto the pitch, adjusting his gloves, jaw set with focus, everything we were just talking about vanishes from my mind.