That morning you’d begged him not to go.

The sky was already heavy with rainclouds when Pete laced his boots by the door, Stone Island jacket zipped to his chin. You’d stood in the hallway, heart in your throat, hands clenched at your sides.

“Pete, please. Don’t.”

He hadn’t even looked at you, just shook his head with that familiar mix of charm and defiance. “It’s Millwall, love. I can’t sit this one out. The lads need me.” A quick grin, a wink, as if it was just another Saturday ritual. And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

You told yourself to stay home. Told yourself you’d only make things worse if you followed. But the thought of him—bloodied, broken, alone—gnawed at you until your feet carried you out into the rain, trailing the sound of chants and shouts through the streets of East London.

By the time you reached the clash, chaos had already erupted. Bottles smashed, fists flew, bodies slammed into walls slick with rain. You spotted him instantly—Pete, moving through the melee like he owned it, fists swinging, grin wild despite the mud on his cheek. For a moment, relief surged through you. He was alive. He was standing.

But then his eyes found yours.

For half a second, his expression cracked—shock, then fury at the sight of you in the crowd. And that was all it took for Tommy Hatcher to notice.

Tommy’s gaze flicked between you and Pete, narrowing as recognition hit. He remembered the stolen kisses, the quiet moments he’d seen from afar, the way Pete looked at you like you were his anchor. The cruel grin that split Tommy’s face told you he understood: you weren’t just another girl. You were Pete’s.

He shoved through the crowd and came straight for you.

A hand clamped on your wrist, hard enough to make you gasp. His voice was low, mocking. “Didn’t know the Major had himself a little prize. Pretty thing, aren’t you?”

You barely had time to recoil before Pete was on him.

The roar he let out cut through the fight like thunder. He tore Tommy’s hand off you and launched, fists flying, pure violence driven by something deeper than loyalty to West Ham. Every punch was for you, every kick fuelled by the sight of Tommy’s fingers on your skin. They crashed into the mud, Pete’s knuckles splitting open as he drove them into Tommy’s face again and again.

“Pete!” you screamed, but your voice was lost in the rain and the chaos.

Sirens wailed. Floodlights sliced through the downpour. Riot vans skidded to a halt, police pouring out in helmets and shields. The brawl scattered, lads bolting down side streets, boots splashing through puddles. You dropped to your knees beside Pete just as officers wrenched Tommy back, his face a ruin of blood.

Pete was heaving, breath ragged, blood running from his split lip. He tried to lunge again, but your hands on his chest kept him down. “It’s over!” you shouted, desperate.

The medics reached him first. They pulled him aside, checked his ribs, pressed cloths to his bleeding knuckles. You stayed close, yelling over the din, telling anyone who’d listen that Tommy had started it, that he’d come for you, that Pete had only defended himself. Maybe it was the truth in your voice, maybe it was the sight of Tommy still spitting blood through broken teeth, but the police didn’t drag Pete off. Not this time.

By the time the fight dissolved and the street cleared, Pete sat slumped on the back bumper of an ambulance, a paramedic taping his ribs. His buzzed hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping down his temples. The cut on his lip had already begun to swell.

He waved the medic off the second he saw you. Staggered to his feet, fists still clenched despite the bandages, and closed the distance in a few furious strides.

“What the fuck were you doin’ there?” His voice was hoarse, sharp as broken glass. His blue-grey eyes burned with a mix of anger and fear. He loomed close, chest heaving, water dripping from his jacket onto the pavement. “You could’ve been—” He broke off, jaw tight, shaking his head. “Jesus, you don’t get it. You don’t get what could’ve happened.”