I light a fag when we leave the house, puffin’ out smoke while Amber spins in circles in her little rainbow socks, askin’ for the fiftieth time if you’re gonna win tonight. I tell her you better fookin’ had, otherwise I’m marchin’ onto the pitch myself—and she laughs, loud and wild like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard.

Truth is, I’m nervous for you. Always am before your games. You’re calm, got that laser-focus thing goin’ on, but me? I’m a fookin’ wreck until that final whistle blows. You don’t see it, but I watch you when you lace up your boots, tight jaw and furrowed brow. That look in your eye. Gets me every time. You’ve always been like that—even back when we met in 2015 and you’d drag me to watch you play in the rain. I’d be hungover, pissed off, but still frozen stupid watching you move like you were born on that pitch. And now? Now you’re my wife. Now we’ve got a fookin’ four-year-old who steals your old training kits to sleep in. Mad, innit?

Amber’s tucked into her car seat, legs kickin’ with excitement as we pull into the stadium. Her curls bounce every time she shifts in her seat to look out the window. “We see Mummy?” she asks, eyes big. “You said!”

“I know what I said, cheeky,” I grin, “We’ll see her soon, promise.” I’ve got a plan. One you don’t know about. Inside, the lights hit us—big and bright—and the energy’s already buzzin’. Amber’s practically vibratin’, clutchin’ the new jersey I got printed this morning. Your number on the back —28, what else? Her name above it. I remember sittin’ in the shop, tellin’ the lad behind the counter, “Nah, mate, I don’t want my name on it. Put hers. She's the one that matters.” He looked at me like I’d gone soft. I have, haven’t I? You’ve turned me into a proper softie. Fook’s sake.

We get to our seats—front row, obviously, cos Amber’s too small to see from anywhere else. She’s perched on the edge, legs swingin’, watchin’ the pitch like it’s magic. And then there you are. Steppin’ onto the field, hair pulled back, sun hittin’ your skin just right. You jog past, eyes scan the crowd—and you find us. I raise Amber’s arm in the air, wavin’ that tiny jersey like we’re at Glasto. You stop for half a second. You see it. You see her..You fookin’ smile. And I swear, in that moment, I’m done for.

The game kicks off and it’s madness. You’re everywhere—tacklin’, passin’, that signature goal you always do, curling it round the keeper like it's nothin'. Amber’s screamin’ every time you touch the ball. I’m yellin’ too, much to the old couple’s dismay behind us. Sorry, not sorry.

By halftime, your team’s up 2–0, and I know exactly where you’ll be headin’. Sure enough, you jog over, sweat glistening, breath heavy, but you still smile when you reach us. Amber holds up her arms. “Look! Daddy gived me this! Like you!” You crouch down, your hands on your knees, eyes bright as you take her in. You look at her like you’ve never seen her before, even though she’s yours, through and through. I lean in close enough so you can hear me over the noise. My voice comes out low, thick. “Thought it was time she saw what a proper fookin’ legend looks like,” I say, nodding toward the field. “She’s proud of you, y’know. We both are.”

You look up at me, lips partin’ like you wanna say something, but the whistle of your team's manager blows and you’re back to it. Still, just before you turn away, I catch it—the way your eyes linger, the way your fingers brush Amber’s hair one more time.

I sit back down, heart full, daughter in my lap, jersey tight on her little frame. She’s beamin’. And I watch you disappear into the second half like the fookin’ force of nature you are.