Epilogue
Erin bent at the waist, gasping for breath, and glanced hopefully at the clock as the ball rolled out of play for a goal kick.
Five minutes of extra time left.
Exhaustion ran through Erin’s body, every muscle screaming in protest as she made herself move. She couldn’t afford to be still—couldn’t risk seizing up when so much hung on the line.
One goal, and Albion would win their third trophy of the season. Not quite a quadruple, but a treble was nothing to sniff at.
If Erin could just carry on.
She’d played the whole match, the most minutes she’d had since her return from injury. Ayla had asked, at the start of extra time, if Erin could continue. She was starting to regret saying yes.
Across the pitch, Lia caught her eye. “You okay?” She had to mouth the words, too far away to shout.
Erin nodded, too tired to do anything else.
Five minutes to prevent a penalty shoot-out.
She could do this.
Two minutes later, Albion got their chance. Shanice passed a ball through the Wanderers’ defence, and the final player slipped at the last second, unable to clear the ball before Lia raced onto it.
Sensing the blood in the water, Erin followed a few paces behind, tearing past the still-prone defender. Lia rounded on the goalkeeper—was one-on-one—but instead of shooting, she squared the ball.
Right into Erin’s path. She didn’t need to look, knowing exactly where Erin would be.
It floored both the goalkeeper and the quickest member of the Wanderers’ defence, who raced back to make the tackle. As the ball left her foot, Lia was wiped out, but it didn’t matter because Erin had already collected the pass and rolled the ball into the empty net.
Around her, Wembley Stadium erupted as thirty thousand Albion fans screamed and cheered. But the crowd noise was drowned out as Erin was mobbed by her teammates, nine of them leaping on her and shaking her so hard, her teeth rattled.
But Erin only had eyes for Lia, who was slow to get to her feet. Erin’s heart was suddenly in her throat.
The area of the pitch was similar to where Erin had gone down a year ago. Panic clawed at her throat and buzzed in her ears until Lia was again upright. With the tiniest of winces, Lia jogged over, seemingly uninjured, a beaming smile on her face.
“You should’ve taken the shot,” Erin said as a warm arm wrapped around her back. “What if I wasn’t there?”
Lia shrugged. “I knew you would be. And you deserved a goal after what happened last year.”
And, oh, how much had changed in that year.
Erin looked at Lia—at her easy smile at securing that third trophy so selflessly—and couldn’t resist.
There, in front of the corner flag at Wembley, in front of all of their teammates—not to mention the sixty-two thousand spectators, which included not only Maisie and Jessica but, astonishingly, Lia’s stepbrother and father—Erin kissed her square on the mouth, heedless of the flashing cameras.
No doubt they’d be plastered all over social media within seconds, but Erin didn’t care. All that mattered was Lia, grinning against her lips, hands warm on Erin’s waist, a greater prize than any trophy.
It had taken her thirty-one years, but in the most difficult season of her glittering career, Erin had realised something for the first time: There were more important things than football.
More important things than winning.
Though lifting the FA Cup—her hand on one of the trophy’s handles and Lia’s hand on the other—was something special.
She already couldn’t wait to do it again next year.