You never cared much for football. It wasn’t that you hated it—you just never understood the obsession. But working at a coffee shop near the stadium meant you saw your fair share of die-hard fans, players, and journalists rushing in for their caffeine fix.

And then there was her.

Leah Williamson.

The first time she walked in, you didn’t even realize who she was. Just another customer, dressed in a hoodie and joggers, her blonde hair still damp from what you assumed was training. She ordered a black coffee, her voice low and casual, and you nodded, scribbling her name onto the cup before she could say it.

When you handed it back to her, she glanced at the writing, then back at you, amusement flickering in her blue eyes.

“You know who I am?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged. “I work near a football stadium. It’d be embarrassing if I didn’t.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Fair enough.”

That could’ve been the end of it, just another forgettable interaction. But she started coming back. Sometimes alone, sometimes with teammates, always with that same easy confidence. She’d linger at the counter, making conversation, teasing you about not being a football fan, about the way you always seemed to mess up the foam hearts on her cappuccino when she switched drinks.

One evening, when the shop was nearly empty, she leaned against the counter and grinned.