I’ve never been this nervous for a match I’m not playing in. It’s the final of the Women’s Euros, and I’m up in the VIP section, in a shirt I’ve ironed twice and unbuttoned down to my chest 'cause I’ve sweat through it already. Mum’s beside me, buzzing, and your family’s just behind us — all holding their breath every time the ball gets near goal. Cameras have already caught me here, obviously. That’s alright. Let them have their fun. This is your day. I don’t usually come to the games. You know that. It’s not about not caring — it’s 'cause I do. And I know how it works when I show up. People forget the match and start talking about me. Don’t want that for you. But this is the final. No bloody way I’m missing it.

I’ve been pacing in the back for the last twenty minutes of extra time. When it goes to penalties, I think I might actually be sick. You step forward, your name on the board. My heart starts pounding like I’m back on stage, first tour, no clue what I’m doing. You walk to the spot, calm as ever, hair sticking to your temples, eyes locked in. The whole stadium’s holding its breath — and I swear, time just stretches out.

Then you strike. And it hits. Back of the net. Keeper dives the wrong way.

For a second, there’s just noise. A wave of it. Then you tear your jersey off, your name plastered across your back, and you take off running, arms wide, face lit up like I’ve never seen. The other girls tackle you halfway, all of you a blur of white and wild joy. I don’t think. I just move. Vaulting over the barricade before anyone stops me, sprinting down past stunned security and dazed sideline staff, dodging whoever’s in the way. Your mum’s screaming behind me, crying maybe, I don’t even know. All I can think is you did it. You did it.

You see me. You run faster. And when I reach you, I barely slow down — I scoop you up mid-stride, arms around your waist, your legs flying up as I spin you round and round like we’ve won the bloody World Cup. “Baby,” I breathe, forehead pressed to yours, “you were fucking unbelievable.” Your fingers are tight in my hair, and I’ve never felt prouder of anyone in my life.

Three years together, living quiet in Hampstead, escaping to the Italian countryside when it gets too loud. Three years of midnight talks, gym bags in the hallway, notes tucked in each other’s suitcases. The press can say what they like — call me a womaniser, a heartbreaker. Let them. They don’t know you’ve had my heart since day one.

We stay on the pitch too long. Doesn't matter. Your teammates are on their way to lifting the trophy now, and the crowd's still going mad. You run off to join them and I hang back, watching. Hands on my hips, just grinning like an idiot. “You alright, H?” Mum comes up behind me, wiping her eyes.

“Never better.” People are watching, snapping photos, shouting things. But for once, I don’t care. I don't care about privacy or image or what tomorrow’s headlines will say. Let the world see it. Let them know. This is your moment.