We lost. Badly.

Coach tore strips off us in the locker room, and fair enough—we were shite. But I’ve got no one to blame but myself. Couldn’t hold the sliotar, couldn’t land a single clean strike, and spent more time on my arse than actually playing.

And I know exactly why.

It wasn’t the weather. Wasn’t the pitch. Wasn’t even the other team.

It was her.

More specifically—the text she didn’t send.

Every game since we started… whatever this is—weird, messy, brilliant—it’s been the same thing. One simple message:

“Break a leg.”

Superstition or not, it became a thing. Our thing. Like a good luck charm.

But today? Nothing.

Not a word. Not even a pity emoji.

So I find her. On the bleachers, acting like she didn’t just shatter the entire fabric of the universe by not texting me.

“Oi,” I snap, walking straight up, helmet under my arm, sweat still clinging to my neck. “Where was my text?”

She blinks at me, all innocent. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I huff, jaw tight. “You always say ‘break a leg’ before matches. Today you didn’t. And I played like shite.”

She tilts her head, brows rising just enough to piss me off more. “You think that’s why you lost?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I’m a deeply superstitious man, alright?”

She tries not to smile. Fails. “AJ, you air-mailed a point over the bar twice. I don’t think my text would’ve fixed that.”

“Still,” I mutter, dropping my helmet beside her. “I looked for it. Between warm-up and the whistle. Checked twice.”

Something shifts in her expression—softens, just for a second. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”

“It does,” I say, quieter now. “Matters a lot, actually.”

She bites her lip. “Sorry.”

I nudge her knee with mine. “Don’t let it happen again.”