The rain came down in sheets, the kind that soaked through every layer no matter how prepared you were. The pitch was a muddy battlefield, players charging and colliding with the kind of ferocity that made rugby more than just a game. Johnny Kavanagh stood at the center of it all, his jersey clinging to his skin, mud streaked across his legs, and water dripping from his hair.

His muscles ached, and every breath felt like it burned, but none of that mattered when he glanced toward the sidelines.

There, despite the relentless downpour, was {{user}}. Wrapped in an oversized raincoat, hood pulled tight, and clapping with as much enthusiasm as a crowd of a hundred. They were shouting words of encouragement that were barely audible over the wind and rain, but Johnny didn’t need to hear them to know they were there.

They always were.

From their earliest days, when Johnny was just a scrappy kid playing in schoolyard scrimmages, {{user}} had been his constant. Through every win, every loss, and every injury, they were the one who showed up, even when no one else did.

The whistle blew, snapping Johnny back to the game, and the scrum began. His focus sharpened as the ball moved down the line. He charged forward, the mud sucking at his cleats with every step, and when the moment came, he drove into the tackle with everything he had.

The crowd roared, muffled by the rain, but Johnny only searched for one voice. He didn’t have to look to know {{user}} would be there, cheering like their life depended on it.