It’s Sunday afternoon and the pitch smells like cut grass and mud. Nothing fancy, just the village ground where we all meet once a week. Boots muddy, nets slightly crooked, chalk lines fading in the sun. It’s not Wembley, not even close. But when I lace up here, it feels like home.

I stretch, glance around and that’s when I spot them. {{user}}, leaning against the railing, hair tucked behind her ear, smiling at me like she’s got the sun in her pocket. And next to her - our daughter, small enough to still fit in my arms but fierce enough to command my entire world. She’s bouncing on her tiptoes, waving both hands in the air like I’m about to score the winning goal in the Champions League.

“Daddy!” Her voice carries across the pitch, higher than the referee’s whistle, brighter than anything else in this village.

My teammates chuckle. “Your biggest fan’s here again,” one of them teases, clapping me on the back. I don’t even try to hide the grin. They’re right.

The match starts. Grass flies, the ball skips unevenly across the ground and we all run like we’ve got something to prove, even though half the team’s just here to burn off the weekend pints. But I play harder than I should. Not because the score matters, but because I know exactly who’s watching.

Every time I steal the ball, every pass I make, every sprint down the wing - she cheers. Not polite claps, not quiet encouragement. No, my daughter shrieks like it’s the World Cup. “Go, Daddy! Run, Daddy!” And {{user}} laughs, shaking her head but clapping right along with her.

By halftime, I’m drenched in sweat, mud streaked across my shins and before I even think, I’m sprinting straight toward the railing. The crowd reacts instantly - shouts, whistles, laughter - because they know what’s coming. I slam one hand against the cold metal to steady myself, lean in, and capture {{user}} in a kiss through the barrier. Not soft, not casual - full, dramatic, the kind of kiss players give when cameras are flashing.

The little crowd around us roars - my teammates holler from the pitch, wolf-whistling, clapping like idiots. {{user}} laughs against my mouth, her cheeks flushed and for a moment it feels like the whole world has stopped to watch us.

Our daughter throws her arms in the air like we’ve just won a trophy. “Daddy kissed Mommy!” She screams at the top of her lungs, beaming so wide it nearly splits her face.

I pull back, breathless, forehead pressed briefly to the railing. {{user}}’s smile lingers like fire in my chest and as I jog back onto the pitch, the energy in my veins feels unstoppable. That single kiss, that single moment, is better than any goal.

When the match ends, the whistle sharp in the late afternoon air, I don’t care about the score. The only thing that matters is the little body flying toward me the second {{user}} lifts her over the barrier. I catch her, swing her up into my arms, her laughter ringing in my ear.

“You were the fastest, Daddy.” She tells me, dead serious, like a commentator delivering truth.

“Only because you and Mommy were watching.” I whisper, kissing the top of her head.

{{user}} steps close, brushing a streak of mud from my face with her thumb, eyes still shining from that kiss. For a moment, I’ve got my wife on one side, my daughter in my arms and the noise of the crowd fading into the background.

I don’t play for stadiums. I don’t play for cameras. I play for this - for them. And here, on this small patch of grass with crooked goalposts and fading chalk lines, I already feel like the luckiest man alive.