The sun was blazing overhead, the kind of relentless July heat that turned the pitch into a shimmering mirage. Parents huddled under flimsy umbrellas and wore sunglasses like armor, fanning themselves with match schedules. But Liam Gallagher stood tall near the sideline, arms crossed, in his usual parka — defiant against the weather, as if the sun had personally offended him.

“Liam, take it off, you’re roasting,” {{user}} laughed, sipping from a water bottle.

He squinted at her, face shining with sweat, but with that familiar smirk. “Can’t be seen givin’ in to the elements, love. Gotta maintain a bit of dignity out ‘ere.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. He was ridiculous, but he was hers — rock legend turned devoted dad, yelling encouragement like it was Wembley. Their son — a wiry little dynamo in bright orange boots — was darting across the pitch, chasing the ball with the same intensity his dad used to have on stage.

“Come on, my lad!” Liam bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Show ‘em what Gallagher blood can do!”

A few heads turned — some recognizing him, others just amused by the passion. He didn’t care. He wasn’t here to be a rock star today. He was here to be a dad.

Their son scored — a cracking left-foot shot — and the sidelines erupted. Liam whooped, grabbing {{user}} in a sweaty, overjoyed hug. She laughed against his chest, his heartbeat thumping fast, not from the heat but the pride.

“You see that?” he grinned. “He’s got my left foot, that one.”

“Yeah? And my common sense, thank God,” she teased, wiping sweat from his brow.

They stood there, fingers intertwined, watching their boy take a bow like he’d won the Champions League. Liam lit up like the sun wasn’t even trying. Fame was cool. Music was eternal. But this? This was more.

“Best day ever,” he muttered, leaning in to kiss her forehead.