top flight
THE ANGEL (NORTH LONDON FOREVER) BY LOUIS DUNFORD
I walk alone through the streets of North London. I’ve walked these streets a thousand times before, but today feels different. Today they feel like my streets.
I used to walk this route with my head down, hands shoved into my pockets, eyes focused on an email or an incoming public relations disaster. I counted steps like they were borrowed time. I told myself not to settle in, not to look at this place enough to love it. Just stick to the plan.
But now? I look up.
Luckily, life had a better plan for me than the one I made, because now I see this place, and it sees me. Red and blue scarves drape from the windows lining the streets. Painted faces skip down the road. Every corner echoes with the clink of glassware at pubs already packed at midday.
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. The supermarket 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.
They are the 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.
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.”
I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “But he’s your son.”
“And you’re his heart now,” she says gently. “Go on, love.”
I throw my arms around her, overwhelmed by the weight of everything she’s just given me. When I pull back, she smiles and gives me the tiniest push toward the stairs.
As I reach the pitch, I glance at Oliver, his eyes locked on his mother’s.
He doesn’t say a word, just lifts his hand and taps it over his heart.
She touches her fingers to her lips and then her heart.
Maybe there’s a crowd putting distance between them, but I’ve never seen two people say “I love you” so clearly.
And then he turns back to me, and I’m in his arms. He wraps me up and lifts me clean off the ground, spinning me into his chest.
I laugh through my tears, giddy and soaked in his sweat and joy. He puts me down slightly, his hands framing my face like he still can’t believe what’s happened.
He kisses me right there—on the pitch, in front of thousands. He kisses me like we’re the only two people here, like we fought for this moment all season.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, Addie.”
Before I can reply, he grabs one of the Rockford flags and wraps it around my shoulders. The crowd is screaming and chanting, but all I hear is the beat of my heart crashing with his.
I blink at him. “What are you doing?”
“Sharing everything with you,” he says, like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “The club, the city, the future. It’s all yours.”
Before I can say a word, the team is on us. Brennan, Carlos, Sebastian, Harry, all of them—wild and shouting, drenched in champagne and triumph as they break out into a chant.
She’s one of our own,
She’s one of our own,
Addison Scott. She’s one of our own!
My heart breaks wide open. I laugh, stunned and moved at the same time.
Oliver kisses me again before Brennan tugs on his arm, calling him toward the podium. It’s time to receive their medals and take their place in club history.
He squeezes my hand one more time before turning to lead his brothers up the steps. I stay back, still wrapped in the flag, trembling as I watch the pride exuding from his body in every step he takes.
And in that moment, I realize the truth.
It’s not just the win.
It’s this. This club. These people. This corner of London.
This messy, beautiful place, full of loyal people who show up for each other, screaming their hearts out as they give every last ounce of hope in their bodies.
I stand here in the middle of chaos, finally still.
Because this is home.
Rockford.
North London.
Oliver.