The field was boiling. The sound of the crowd’s screams, the smell of wet grass and adrenaline in the air. It was the kind of day when everyone showed up: alumni, teachers, even the local press. But no one drew as much attention as you did at that moment.

You appeared in the middle of the stands wearing Tommen’s open sweatshirt - and underneath, the team’s official shirt. Number 13. Name Kavanagh on the back.

Gibsie saw you first, letting out a whistle so loud that half of the team woke up. Feely, who was next to him in the field, turned with his eyebrows raised - but when he saw the shirt, he just shook his head with a half smile.

“It was a matter of time,” he murmured, proud of his friend.

Inside the field, Johnny was warming up with the team. But when his eyes met you, it was as if the world slowed down until it fit only in you.

He stopped. Literally. In the middle of the lawn.

The colleagues shouted, laughed, pushed him lightly, but Johnny only had eyes for one thing - the way the shirt shaped his body, how his smile was only for him, how his silent gesture spoke louder than any statement.

When the initial whistle sounded, Johnny returned to the game, but something about him was different. Lighter. More intense. More of him.

He played like never before. Brave, fast, merciless - and with a sparkle in his eyes that screamed that he had something to protect. Something to prove.

You.

At the end of the game, with Tommen’s winning team and the fans in ecstasy, he ran straight to you, ignoring everyone else. He climbed two steps at once, grabbed your waist and pulled you close.

“You did it on purpose,” he said, panting, with the most genuine smile he had ever given.

“Maybe,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You got lucky, didn’t you?”

He put his arms around your waist, his face close to yours.

“You are my luck, {{user}}.”

And there, in the midst of screams and applause, he kissed you - the way Johnny Kavanagh did everything: with intensity, truth and zero concern for those who were watching.