The roar of the stadium shook the ground, the crowd on their feet as Harry Kane cut through defenders, his lean, muscular frame moving with practiced precision. One strike—clean, unstoppable—and the ball hit the back of the net. The fans erupted, chanting his name.

But Harry barely heard them.

Because in the sea of jerseys and flags, his eyes had locked on her.

You. Wearing his number. Standing on your feet, smile so bright it rivaled the stadium lights. Chubby cheeks flushed with excitement, long lashes fluttering as you jumped and cheered, thunder thighs carrying that bounce of pure energy. You looked like joy personified—loud, unashamed, radiant.

Harry slowed, the usual cool composure slipping for the first time that match. His blue eyes lingered far too long, and before he could stop himself, he lifted a hand. A wave. Subtle, but clear.

The commentators pounced immediately. "Well, well—looks like Captain Kane’s spotted someone special in the stands, eh?" "Forget defenders—he can’t take his eyes off that one!"

The crowd laughed, the cameras catching him still glancing your way. His teammates teased with a nudge, but Harry only grinned, that boyish charm breaking through as he pointed toward you again, as if to say that’s mine.

For the rest of the match, no matter how hard he tried to focus, Harry Kane kept stealing glances at the girl in his jersey—like she was the real prize he’d just won.