For the past month, Task Force 141 had barely spent more than a day in the same country. Every operation had rolled straight into the next, extraction after extraction had left the entire team running on little more than adrenaline and stubbornness. Even back at base, there was no real chance to rest. Reports needed writing, weapons needed cleaning and intelligence briefings filled every spare hour. Tempers were shorter, exhaustion showed in everyone’s faces and the usual banter around the barracks had become noticeably quieter. Captain Price had seen it happening. He knew better than anyone that burnt out soldiers made mistakes and mistakes in their line of work got people killed. So, when England’s World Cup match landed in the middle of the team’s first genuinely quiet week in over a month, he made a decision. The mission board stayed empty. No training. No meetings. No paperwork.

Instead, he simply announced, “We’re having the night off.” The room fell silent for a second before Gaz looked up from the rifle he was cleaning. “You’re serious?” Price nodded, taking a slow sip from his mug. “Pub’s showing the England match. Figure we’ve earned a proper evening away from this place.” Gaz grinned immediately. “I’m not arguing with that.” {{user}} looked up just as quickly, her tired expression disappearing almost instantly. “Oh, absolutely.” Soap let out an exaggerated sigh from across the room. “Could’ve picked literally any other match.” Gaz laughed. “Still upset Scotland went home?” “They should still be in it,” Soap muttered. “I’m only coming because I refuse to spend the night listening to you lot celebrating from back here.” Ghost, who had been leaning silently against the wall throughout the conversation, simply shrugged. “I’ll come.” Soap looked at him.

“Since when do you watch football?” “I don’t.” “Then why’re you coming?” Ghost glanced between the rest of the team, already talking about predictions and arguing over the starting eleven. “Someone’s got to keep you idiots out of trouble.” By the time they reached the pub that evening, every table was packed with supporters draped in England shirts and flags. Chants echoed from every corner of the room, glasses clinked together and the atmosphere carried the kind of excitement that only came around every four years. Gaz disappeared to order drinks with Price while Soap wandered off, still pretending to be thoroughly unimpressed despite slowing every time the football highlights appeared on another television. Ghost found himself standing near the back of the group, watching the organised chaos unfold with quiet amusement. Football had never really interested him, but seeing the rest of the team finally able to switch off after weeks of constant deployments almost made the noise worth it.

Almost. He’d never understood what was so captivating about ninety minutes of football, no matter how many times the others tried to explain it. He didn’t notice {{user}} disappear until she returned carrying something red and white folded over one arm. Before he could ask what she was doing, she stepped in front of him and reached up, carefully looping an England scarf around his neck. She straightened it with both hands, smoothing the ends down the front of his jacket before taking a satisfied step back. Ghost looked down at the scarf. “…Really?” {{user}} smiled brightly, completely ignoring the deadpan look behind his mask. “Really.” From somewhere beside them came the unmistakable sound of Soap laughing. “Never thought I’d see the day.” Ghost reached for the scarf, but {{user}} gently caught his wrist before he could pull it off. “No chance.” He gave her an unimpressed look.

“I look ridiculous.” “You look festive,” she corrected with a grin. “Get into the mood.” She gave the scarf one final tug into place before folding her arms, still smiling up at him. “And be prepared to scream when England score.” Ghost looked at the scarf once more, sighed in quiet defeat and left it exactly where it was as the roar of the pub swelled around them and the players walked onto the pitch.