North London is electric tonight.

The Emirates roars like a living thing, red waves crashing against the stubborn line of Spurs supporters who refuse to be drowned out. It’s more than a match today—it’s a statement. Pride, history, vengeance.

And right now, it’s slipping through your fingers.

3–2 to Arsenal.

Your lungs burn, every breath sharp and ragged as the clock ticks mercilessly forward. The pitch is torn beneath your boots, streaks of mud painting your kit as if you’d jumped into a ditch . One chance—that’s all you need. One perfect moment to turn everything around.

The ball comes to you. Instinct takes over.

Someone shouts your name, but it fades into the blur as you push forward, grass tearing under your boots. You can see the gap, see the goal, the perfect moment to change the score.

You pull your leg back—

—and get wiped out.

You hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean out of you. The stadium explodes—half screaming for a foul, half telling you to get up. Typical.

You roll onto your back, annoyed more than anything, and then you see who it is.

Declan Rice. Of course it is.

Players shout at the referee in the distance, arms raised, tempers flaring—but Declan doesn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, he offers you his hand. You hesitate—just for a second—before taking it gently.

His grip is firm, easy, like you weigh nothing, as he pulls you up, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels… different. Not just rivalry. Not just football.

Something sharper. Warmer. Sweeter.

“You almost had that, {{user}},” he says, a bit quieter than you expected. Not mocking. Just… honest, really. You brush yourself off, about to say something back, but he doesn’t step away.

“If I was half a second late,” he adds, slight grin tugging at his mouth, “that’s in the net.”

You huff out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah. Shame you weren’t.”

He laughs—quick, under his breath—then his eyes flick to your shirt, your badge, before landing back on you.

“Still,” he says, tilting his head a little, “you ever get bored over there…”

He gestures vaguely—Spurs’ end, your teammates, all of it.

“…you’d look prettier in red.”

The whistle shrieks, fracturing the moment.

Declan’s hand lingers for half a second too long before he steps away, already slipping back into position like nothing happened.

But not before glancing over his shoulder—

just once.