coming home
Epilogue
A BEAUTIFUL GAME BY ED SHEERAN
Five Years Later
Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Even the air in the tunnel feels thick.
There’s always a charge before kickoff, always that electric hum that settles into your bones if you’ve been in enough big matches. But this… this is different. This is heavier. Sharper. Like the air itself knows what’s at stake.
Even my kit feels heavier than usual.
England.
I’m not just playing for a team. I’m playing for my country.
That thought alone should steady me. It should settle me into focus. But instead it opens something wider in my chest—something older.
Because this isn’t new. This isn’t sudden. This has always been there.
I can see it so clearly it almost overlays itself over the present—the cold air biting at my fingers, the uneven grass that barely counted as a pitch but felt like Wembley to me at the time.
I remember it all.
Running down the wing like my life depended on it. My brother laughing as he slid into tackles he absolutely didn’t need to make, just so I’d have to dodge him.
“Go on then, England,” he’d shout, arms out like he was the entire opposition line.
And I’d take it seriously. Too seriously. I always did.
I’d score in my head before I even kicked the ball. Late winner. Injury time. Crowd going mad. I’d run straight to the corner flag like I knew exactly what I was doing. Like I belonged in stadiums like this.
And Henry would be the crowd. The commentator. The defender. Whatever I needed him to be that day.
Then I’d lift imaginary trophies in front of invisible fans while he’d laugh so hard he could barely breathe.
Back then, it felt like pretending.
Now it feels like prophecy.
I close my eyes for a second, letting it all settle. The noise of the stadium beyond the tunnel bleeds into something softer, something rhythmic, like a heartbeat disguised as sound.
Chants roll through the walls, unified and endless.
“It’s coming home. It’s coming home. Football’s coming home.”
The words don’t feel like a song anymore. They feel like a memory being passed between strangers who’ve never met but somehow believe in the same thing.
This is it.
The match of my life. The Euros final. Ninety minutes from history.
England has never won it.
Someone calls my name, and I take a step forward. The national anthem is just moments away. I’m standing here in the tunnel, with three lions across my chest, and something even stronger in my heart.
The official waves us forward. It’s time.
We’re all lined up shoulder to shoulder, boots planted on concrete that feels colder than it should. No one is talking much. There’s no need. Everything that needs to be said is already happening inside each of us.
And then, as tradition dictates, the mascots file down the tunnel. One child for each player, hand-in-hand, walking us out to the roar of the crowd.
A little lad in a miniature England kit stops next to me, fists balled up like he’s about to play the match himself. He’s barely up to my knee, all brown hair and enormous blue eyes that lock with mine like he’s not afraid of anything.
I crouch down, bringing myself level with him. The noise of the tunnel fades just slightly.
“Alright, mate?” I say softly, offering my hand.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t overthink it. Just takes it. Firm grip. Serious face. Like this is the most important handshake of his life.
“Ready?” I ask him.
“Ready,” he says immediately. No wobble. No fear.
And then we walk side by side into history.
Every fan is on their feet. Every voice is screaming. Red and white drowning the stands. But all I feel is the warmth of his hand in mine. How small his hand is, but how big this moment feels.
Thousands of voices merge into one, and I sing with them.
My voice rough, barely controlled, chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to gratitude.
The anthem ends, and the crowd roars. I bounce slightly on my feet, trying to channel everything into movement. Into purpose. Into focus.
I look down at the little boy still standing in front of me, taking in every detail of his England kit. His tiny shoulders squared like a warrior, like he’s heading up the starting eleven. And across his back? Not Kane. Not Rashford. Or even Freeman.
Just five letters.
Daddy.
The world tilts for a second. Just slightly.
Not because it surprises me.
Because it reminds me exactly who I am underneath all of this.
The ushers start moving in, gently guiding the mascots away toward the sidelines. I crouch down in front of him. My hands find his cheeks, and I press a kiss to his forehead.
“Henry, I’ve got something to win,” I say softly. “Go sit with Mummy, yeah?”
He nods, flashing the same cheeky grin his mum wears. Then he runs off, little legs flying toward the sideline like he’s playing in his own final.
I stand back up, roll my neck once, and exhale slowly.
This is the match I’ve been chasing my entire life.
For my country. For every version of me that ever believed a broken patch of grass could become a stadium.
For Henry.
For everything I’ve lost. And everything I’ve built in its place.
But most of all—for the little boy who calls me Daddy.
And for the woman who feels like home.
I think about the way I read Henry The Wind in the Willows before bed every night. The way Addison still calls me Captain when she’s winding me up.
My eyes lift and I find her, wearing my England kit, hands clutched tight to her chest, tears already in her eyes.
Suddenly, the nerves are gone.
There’s just peace.
She’s my home.
She’s my entire goddamn heart.
Addison fucking Bradshaw.