I breathe in through my nose, force the air to fill my lungs. One half to go. We can take this. Glasgow’s good, but they’re not unbeatable. Not when we’re playing like this.
And I’m not losing to Callum fucking Fraser.
He was giving me that smug grin all through the first half. I know he’s waiting for me to crack, to boil over and throw a punch so he can gloat while I get sent off and then whine in the press. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not giving anyone a reason to write us off. We’re in this fight. I didn’t come this far to fuck it up.
I let out a slow breath and knock my knuckles against Jamie’s.
He grins. ‘Game to shut these arseholes up?’
‘Born ready. Let’s fucking maul ’em to death.’
We jog back onto the pitch. The cold hits harder than the crowd noise, but there’s more of it tonight. Muffled cheers, claps, a low thrum of energy building in the stands. End of December and freezing, but folk still showed up.
Aye, we’re getting somewhere with the Stirling Rebels. Bit of respect in the air now.
I lock eyes with Callum for just a second. He sneers, but I don’t take the bait. He’s nothing. Dust under my feet.
The noise dips. A lull between the chants and shouts, the kind of break that feels like the stadium’s holding its breath. I’m wired, blood fizzing with adrenaline, prepared to show the world we’re not just here to make up the numbers.
We’re here to win.
Finn ruffles my hair, muttering about smashing those dickheads into next week. I nod, shoulders braced. Need to keep my concentration, keep from throwing Callum to the ground and grinding his face into the turf.
Then, in the hush before the whistle, a voice slices through the stillness. Bright. Clear. Unmistakable.
‘Goooo Brodiiie!’
I whip my head up, searching. My brain’s a second behind my body. Because my heart stops for half a beat, then slams back to life so hard it rattles my ribs and plunges straight to my gut.
Charlie?
Yes.
Standing in the grandstand, next to Theo, both of them grinning like they’ve just pulled off the heist of the century.
She’s wearing my Rebels shirt – my fucking shirt – like a damn proclamation.
My number.
My name.
Everything goes quiet.
The breath rips out of me like I’ve taken a hit. For one perfect moment, it’s only her. Standing there, making the universe brighter. The banner is a pink monstrosity with glitter bleeding off the edges.‘Go Brodie!’sprawled in loopy letters, and the ten smack in the middle of a glittery heart. It’s garish and loud and entirely too much – and it’s perfect. I suspect Hannah had a hand in the design.
Charlie’s here.
For me.
In public.
I don’t know if I want to laugh or scream or collapse. Boots welded to the turf. The world shifts on its axis, and all I can hear is her voice.
My girl. My fucking girl.
Scottie elbows me, and I barely notice it. ‘Looks like you took my advice, mate.’
I blink at him, brain too scrambled to make sense of anything, but he only grins like a madman and points at the grandstand.
