I don’t even realise until I see the date on my phone.

I’m sitting in the locker room, scrolling mindlessly while the lads are chucking towels and shouting over each other, and there it is—the date.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It’s the fifteenth. Yesterday was the fourteenth. Her birthday.

Two years in a row.

My gut drops. I don’t even change—I grab my jacket, shove my boots in my bag, and leg it out the back exit before the press can catch me. I ring her. It goes to voicemail. I text. Nothing.

I know what that means.

She’s home. She’s ignoring me.

By the time I get there, I don’t even have a plan. No flowers, no gift, just me and a gnawing guilt that feels bigger than the career I’m chasing.

I knock. She answers. And she looks— She looks like she’s already made peace with it.

“You remembered,” she says, dead flat.

“Babe,” I start, but she raises her hand.

“Don’t. I’m not doing the whole ‘oh but football’s really hectic’ speech again.”

“I’m not gonna say that.” I step inside anyway, closing the door behind me. “I forgot. That’s on me. I’m not gonna bullshit you.”

She crosses her arms. “Two years, Aidan.”

“I know.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I thought about it, like, a week ago—I was gonna call, I swear, but then—”

“Training. Media. The lads. Yeah. I know.”

She’s not shouting. That’s worse.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping closer. “I don’t have an excuse. I don’t even have a cake, or— or anything, but if you tell me what to do, I’ll do it. Right now.”

She shakes her head, eyes glossy but defiant. “I didn’t want stuff, Aidan. I wanted you to remember me. That’s it.”

I swear my chest caves in. I reach for her hand, and thank god she lets me take it.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” I mutter. “I know that. I’m trying, baby, I swear. I just—I don’t know how to do this and football and you. But I want to. I don’t wanna lose you.”

She looks up at me, tired. “You say that. But I feel like you already picked.”

I shake my head, gripping her hand tighter. “Then let me show you I didn’t. Please. I’ll do anything.”