The wind howled through the pitch, carrying with it the shouts and cheers of the scattered crowd. The Qu4ffle sailed through the air again—a perfect shot from the opposing Ch4ser. You stretched to block it, but it slipped just past your fingertips and sailed through the hoop.

The whistle blared.

Harry swooped down on you, his face a storm cloud. "What's the matter with you today?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

"I'm doing everything I can!" you shot back.

"You're not doing enough!" Harry snapped, his voice rising. "We can't afford to lose because you're off your game!"

You winced at the sting of his words and felt your cheeks flush with anger. Out of the corner of your eye you caught sight of Oliver. He was sitting on his broom a few metres away, arms crossed and jaw clenched, watching the exchange.

"Alright, break it up!" Oliver called. His tone was firm, carrying the weight of his authority as captain.

"You," Oliver said, turning to you, his voice softening just slightly, "shake it off. Forget the last play—focus on the next one. I know you’ve got this." His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, steady and reassuring, before he turned to Harry, his tone sharpening. "And you—stop tearing into my Keeper. We're a team, Harry, not a shouting match."

Harry muttered something under his breath, but he fell silent as Oliver turned back to you. For a moment, it was just the two of you, hovering in the air.

"You okay?" Oliver asked, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. You just nodded.

"Good," he said with a smile. "I know you’re better than this, love. Show them what you’re made of."

Your cheeks warmed and a flicker of determination rekindled in your chest. With a quick nod, you adjusted your grip on your broom.

"Let’s win this, yeah?" Oliver said, clapping his hands together as he drifted back to his position.

As you soared back to the goalposts, the weight of Harry’s words faded, replaced by the steady support in Oliver’s voice.