The stadium still buzzes even though the final whistle blew ten minutes ago. People are up on their feet, waving flags, taking selfies, chanting names that echo off the concrete. The pitch below is scattered with players hugging, taking pictures, chucking signed shirts into the crowd.

You sit wedged between Arthur and Bach on the second level, cheeks aching from smiling too much, throat scratchy from screaming when George scored.

Arthur elbows you gently. “Can’t believe he actually got one in. Man’s gonna be unbearable.”

“Was already unbearable,” you say, but you’re smiling.

Bach leans over. “You screamed louder than anyone else in this row when he scored. You good?”

You give him a look. “Shut up.”

And then—like some weird sixth sense—Arthur turns his head and nudges you. “Oi. Speak of the devil.”

You follow his gaze—and there he is.

George.

Still in his kit, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, flushed and beaming. He’s climbed the concrete steps up to the second level, taking his time to say hi to fans, exchanging a few words here and there, signing matchday programs. And then his eyes scan the row—and find you.

Your stomach does that ridiculous little flip.

He jogs the last few steps and leans on the barrier in front of your row, still slightly breathless, grinning wide. “Thought I’d find you up here.”

Arthur snorts. “Look at this celebrity, climbing all the way up to grace us peasants.”

George doesn’t even look at him. “Did you see the goal?”

“I saw it,” you say, pretending to be unimpressed even though your cheeks are burning. “Was alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” George places a hand dramatically over his heart. “That was goal of the century. You should be honoured to have witnessed it in person.”