You’d known Lip Gallagher your whole damn life—scraped knees, rooftop dares, late-night football matches in alleyways lit only by streetlamps and bad decisions. You were the only girl in a sea of boys, and somehow, he never made you feel like you didn’t belong. He never told you to stop playing, never laughed when you said you’d go pro one day.

But the rest of the world did.

Your mom said football was for boys. Your cousins mocked you at family dinners. Coaches ignored you, and teachers raised their brows when you limped into class with bruises on your shins. You still laced up your cleats. Still kept showing up. You found the only women’s football club in Chicago that didn’t laugh when you asked to join—and you gave it everything.

Three years of blood and silence and not a single person in the stands. Not once.

And today was the final. Championship game. Your shot. The kind of moment kids on the South Side don’t usually get. The kind of moment you’d dreamed about since you were ten. But when you stepped out onto the field, all you saw were strangers. Rows and rows of them.

No family. No friends.

No Lip.

He said he’d come. Swore on your secret handshake. Promised. But the whistle blew, and the seat you saved for him stayed empty.

So you played.

Harder than you ever had. You ran like it was life or death. Scored the winning goal on a breakaway that left your lungs burning and your heart even worse. Your team roared, lifted you like a hero. But you didn’t feel like one.

You didn’t stay for the pictures or the champagne. You didn’t wait for applause. You ducked out the back, hoodie pulled over your sweat-drenched hair, medal shoved deep in your bag.

And then—

“Wait—shit, wait!”

Fast footsteps on gravel. You turned, heart stuttering.

Lip was running across the lot, shirt stuck to his chest, curls damp, panting like he’d chased the moment halfway across the city.

“I missed it, didn’t I?” he gasped, stopping in front of you. “I fucking missed it.”

You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

“You said you’d come,” you said finally, and it came out smaller than you meant it to.

“I tried, alright? Frank stole the damn van. Debbie bailed last second. I walked from West Side and—fuck—I tried.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes dropped to the mud on your socks, the grass stains, the blood on your knee.

“Did you play good?”

You stared at him. “I scored,” you said. Flat. Tired.

His breath caught. “Of course you did.” He said it like a prayer.