Johnny Kavanagh told himself he was focused on the ball, on the drills, on the shouting of Coach echoing sharp across the damp grass. He told himself that because that’s what he was supposed to be doing. But if he was honest—brutally honest—his eyes kept dragging toward the sideline, where she sat like she always did.

She shouldn’t even stand out. Half the lads had mates or girls hanging around after training, but none of them pulled his attention the way she did. She had this way of looking comfortable no matter where she was—perched on a concrete wall, a notebook on her knees, humming at nothing. Her shoes swung just above the muck, laces undone like she hadn’t a care in the world. And Johnny, sweaty and aching, felt a kind of calm every time he glanced over.

It wasn’t dating. It wasn’t anything, not yet. But she was always there, and he was always drifting toward her, like his compass had been reset. The boys noticed, he knew they did, but they didn’t say much. Maybe they were smart enough not to.

After practice, when the floodlights clicked off and the field sank into darkness, she was waiting like she always did, leaning against the fence with her hood up against the chill. Johnny slung his gear bag over his shoulder, falling into step beside her without thinking. It was routine now, this walk to his car.

They didn’t need big talk. Just the quiet sound of trainers scuffing pavement, the soft puff of her laugh when he muttered something about how brutal drills had been. Sometimes their arms brushed, shoulders bumping close in the dark, and neither of them moved away.

Johnny kept telling himself it was nothing. Friends. That was all. But when she looked up at him with that tired-night smile—the one that made his chest twist and his throat go tight—he knew he was lying. He wanted her there. He wanted her always.