The roar of the stadium was deafening, the final whistle slicing through the electric air like a starting gun instead of a finish line. Johnny Kavanagh didn’t even wait for the post-match huddle. He barely heard the chants, the slap of hands on his back, or the coach’s voice hollering his name.

His heart was beating too fast. But not from the match.

It was you.

There. Just beyond the pitch barrier, small in the sea of fans, wrapped in that coat he’d seen you wear in one of the blurry photos you shyly sent months ago. You were real. Right there. All wide eyes and trembling fingers and lips twitching like you weren’t sure if you should smile or cry.

Johnny blinked, then blinked again. “No. Fuck off. Is that—?”

Gibsie, standing behind him, caught the direction of his stare. “Holy shite,” he said, mouth falling open. “That’s her, isn’t it?” “You said she didn’t exist,” Johnny shot back, already breaking into a run.

Boots pounding turf, lungs burning — and none of it from rugby — he skidded to a stop in front of you. His hair was a sweaty mess, jersey clinging to his frame, and yet, he looked at you like you were the sun rising over every bleak morning he’d ever had.

“Jesus, mo chroí, you’re actually here.”

You smiled, nervous, eyes shining. “Surprise?”

He laughed — not the smug, cocky one he gave reporters or the press, but something stunned, raw, and boyish. His hands were suddenly in your hair, cradling your face like he needed to double-check you weren’t about to vanish.

“Not a fuckin’ catfish,” he whispered, almost smug, forehead dropping to yours. “Told the lads. Told ’em you were real. Didn’t care if they thought I’d lost the plot. I knew. Didn’t need a video call. Didn’t need proof. I felt it, right here.” He thumped his chest. “Every feckin’ day.”

You laughed, tears slipping down your cheek, and Johnny caught them with his thumb, reverent.

“They said I was mad,” he muttered. “Said no one dates a girl for a year without seein’ her face move. That I’d get scammed or mugged or find out you were a forty-year-old trucker named Declan.”

“Are you disappointed?” you teased gently.

“Disappointed?” he repeated, eyes burning with that fierce Kavanagh loyalty. “I’m wrecked after ninety minutes and I still feel like I could lift the whole feckin’ stadium. You’re not just real. You’re here.”

And then, not caring who was watching — not the lads, not the cameras, not the entire bleeding country — he kissed you.

Slow and grounding and maybe a little desperate.

When he pulled back, his voice was soft. “You smell better than I imagined. And you’ve no idea how often I imagined it.”

You giggled, brushing his hair back. “You look knackered.”

“I am knackered,” he grinned, looping an arm around your waist. “But you showed up right when I needed you. Better than a feckin’ Gatorade, love.”

Behind him, Gibsie was shouting something dramatic — probably about not believing his eyes or calling dibs on being best man.

Johnny didn’t even turn around.

He pressed his lips to your temple, tugging you impossibly closer.

“You came all this way just for me?” “Yeah.” “Then you’re not gettin’ rid of me,” he murmured. “Ever.”