obsessed with: lockwood&co, pjo, marauders, stranger things, jatp, criminal minds, anne with an e, DBD, smosh, talking about films, 70s music, conan gray, tsitp, romcoms!!!
1000% anti AI. do not use AI in any relation to any of my works.
thought i missed my ex in the 'lonely and horny' way but turns out it may unfortunately be the 'i'm still very much in love' way. not looking good for me
Girl. Ur latest fic. Works canât even describe the state Iâm in. DELICIOUS. I love how detailed it was and that it wasnât just one or two scenes but a real story with evolution
thank you so much gorgeous!!!! i put lots of time and love into this & im extremely glad u enjoyed <3333
hii, just read your latest footballer!james x journalist!reader fic and immediately felt the need to thank you for this amazing work, it felt like i just watched a whole movie!! the rush of emotions i felt throughout this is indescribable!!! this is the kind of story i just KNOW will stick with me for a long time. everything was perfect from the romance to the sports âœïžđ
as a brazilian, we take the world cup reeeally seriously haha and while i donât like to even think about england winning, your writing made me actually cheer as i read LOL. the moment where james and the team win was sooo emotional and beautiful and the cinema-worthy kiss made me giggle like a middle schooler omg <333 i was so so happy to see everything worked out in the end
youâre such a talented writer ty for this!! hope you have a good day đ
thank you SO much for this gorgeous, i cannot tell u how much it means to me âșïž so glad you enjoyed! and trust me i was just as pained giving england so much credit...
Hi! To the anon who requested the footballer! James and reporter! reader, maybe you requested it because of them but if you didnât know it before, look into Iker Casillas and Sara Carbonero, itâs literally how they announced their relationship in 2010 when Spain won the World Cup!!
hi Iâve been thinking about your footballer!james potter fic x journalist!reader for days now, I seriously need another one especially with the world cup season happening right now, could i request it be a secret relationship trope where the reader is a reporter like from sky tv or something and theyâve been dating for almost a year, but suddenly after a successful match james runs to reader and kisses her shocking everybody
i want the reader to be kind of insecure and scared of what will happen to her life and career if the public found out about their relationship, a little bit of angst and hurt/comfort!!
thank you so much for your request gorgeous i LOVED writing it!!!! changed a few little bits but hope u still enjoy, u can find it here
when the world watches - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader
wc: 12,815
cw: swearing, kissing, fade to black but suggestive moments, minor violence and injury, secret relationship, some hurt/comfort
info: r and james are 24ish but not specified and not super important, unfortunately this is lowkey england propaganda, unrealistic world cup depiction (england doing way too well), some inaccurate football terminology and realism for plot reasons, modern non magic AU
me: this is so close to my heart i hope u guys all enjoy!!!!!
ââââ ââ â ââââ
Your social media feed has already shown you thirty videos of the England team grinning and waving as they board a private jet to get to America. Your heart and legs both wish you were on it too, stretching as best you can in the middle seat of an economy row, bullied in by two men double your size. Theyâre polite, but canât help needing more than a seat each.
Instead of thinking about how sore your body is, your delve into your work, hunched over your laptop propped up on the tray table, blue light disintegrating your irises in the otherwise dark of the plane. There is oodles of work to be done before you touch down in Texas. From beside the keyboard, your phone illuminates. Thank god the man beside you has an eye mask on.
Canât believe you didnât come with me Jamesâ text reads, three bubbles sitting underneath. The WAGs would love you
James. is all you reply. This conversation happens around every game, and never goes anywhere. As a sports reporter, your relationship with James Potter is unorthodox, unethical, and definitely not public. If your viewers, or god forbid your haters, knew you were dating Englandâs new star player, there would be no way you could retain your airtime. Rumours of favouritism, inside information, and plain misogyny would ruin your career, and it simply isnât worth the risk of everyone knowing.
I know, I know his reply comes after hesitation, and you know exactly what heâs thinking. It hurts both of you not to be able to share your relationship, but until either one of you can find a career that isnât in conflict, a secret it is, as much as it sucks. Iâll see you in a few hours, right? I love you.
I love you too.
You switch your phone onto Do Not Disturb, quickly glancing sideways to see if either of your seat mates caught the text exchange. Man number 1 still has the eye mask on, and man number 2 is so deep asleep drool is catching at the corner of his lips. Gross, but lucky for you.
Most of your flight is spent awake, frantically finishing player profiles and question prompts for you to finalise when the World Cup actually starts. Itâs a huge workload, but could truly take your career to the next level. Being one of four reporters from your station sent is a huge deal, and youâre well aware of the responsibility placed on your shoulders.
By the time you touch down in Texas, your legs are sore, your eye bags are more tote than purse, and you kind of just want a hug from your boyfriend. Still, thereâs no rest for the wicked, and as your conscience keeps reminding you, what youâre doing with James is wicked.
From the Fort Worth Airport is a long cab ride to your hotel, to stop for an hour before heading straight to the smaller stadium where England will train and prepare before their first game against Croatia in a few days.
You take the opportunity for a twenty minute nap, a hot shower, and a much-needed change of clothes. Pulling on a crisp white blouse, the plane already feels far behind, and the sliver of Dallas you can see from through the half-closed curtains is sunny and promising. In the back of your head, you wish you could be here under different circumstances; a holiday with James, maybe, but the World Cup is a close second.
The stadium, youâve heard, is supposedly an unimpressive one to Americans, especially compared to the one England will be playing in for the match, but you at least think itâs quite nice. The womenâs bathroom is clean, which is more than you can say for some of the stadiums in the UK that youâve worked in.
It doesnât take long to find the players out on the field, already warming up for training even though theyâve only just touched down. Your job is tough, and often entails long hours and ridiculous overtime, but at least youâre not a footballer. If someone tried to make you run after touching down from a ten hour flight, youâd probably commit a crime. James couldnât look happier though, which is one of the things about him youâre so fond of.
You linger in the walkway into the pitch, watching as your boyfriend darts across the grass, full of smiles even as his captain and coach bark orders his way. You know how much the opportunity means to him, and itâs nice to see that the pressure hasnât bowled him over. Yet, anyway.
James spots you as heâs running with high knees, a thin sheen of perspirant just starting to gather at the high points of his face. His grin widens impossibly and he winks. Torture, you think, that you canât just run up and kiss him now. Instead you only smile back, hoping he knows that itâs special just for him.
Carefully, you alert all the necessary people of your arrival. The coach and a few people from the England team, mostly their internal publicists. Your other coworkers are headed to different cities first, covering the opening ceremonies happening in Los Angeles, Toronto, and Mexico City. Thankfully, youâre Englandâs unassigned-assigned reporter, following them to most of their games. As one of the most prolific Premier League reporters on the scene at the moment, the England players mostly know and like you, so the stories come easier.
You sit in the stands for their two hour training, hardly looking up as the men run wild below you. You have stories to finish and send off before the Cup actually starts, plus questions to prepare for every match. Not to mention the behind the scenes interviews youâre supposed to get with the England players.
Itâs just hitting dusk as the players are released, swarming towards their water bottles with speed which hadnât shown on the pitch just thirty seconds earlier. You take the moment, climbing down the stands to meet with them.
âHey, boys,â You greet with a smile, phone already on record. Nobody speaks for a moment as they guzzle electrolytes, but you do eventually get a kind reply. âHow are we feeling after the first training session?â You hold the voice memo out so they know theyâre on the record.
âFeeling great,â Amos Diggory says, âReady to win.â You laugh a little at the media-trained answer, though you donât expect any different.
âI, for one, am fucking exhausted.â Sirius Black is the only one who can get away with being so crass, and only really because you like him and edit out most of the things that would send the public into a tizzy.
âShall I go ahead and take out the profanity?â You tease, greeting him with a warm smile.
âI wish you wouldnât.â
âMm, but who would terrorise my post-match interviews if I didnât have to look out for you and your language?â The boys laugh at the banter, most of them used to it by now. You all move in the same circles, around each other at games during the season, and occasionally professional events. Not so much social, though you canât blame them for not trusting that youâd keep your mouth closed.
You only ask a few more easy questions before letting them go, knowing the jet-lag is probably hitting them just as hard, and you have more than enough to bullshit a quick piece about Englandâs pre-game feelings. Readers hardly care about the deep stuff anyhow, they just want content, preferably about their favourite hot guy.
Your own favourite hot guy catches you in the hall, grabbing you by the wrist to pull you into a strong kiss. He steals the breath from your lungs like he does every time, and you both smile into it before it can get any heavier. James rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel the droplets.
âYouâre sweaty.â You grin.
âI missed you,â He disregards the jab with a smile, bending to press three more quick pecks on your lips.
âAlright, alright,â You laugh, pulling yourself out of his hold, âYouâre going to get us caught.â James groans, his least favourite reminder.
âWill you come over tonight?â
âWill you be awake?â You tease, taking in his tired eyes. Youâre sure you look the same, though you donât have much sympathy given you were the one fighting for your life in economy seating.
âSeven-fifty,â Is all he says, squeezing your hand one more time before turning back to his team.
Youâre knocking on the door only a few short hours later, praying one of his teammates doesnât decide to go on a night walk before James lets you in. Youâre lucky this time, and his grin is so bright that you forget what you were worried about.
âAre you here to proposition me?â He waggles his eyebrows in the way you can when you know youâre already hot, and you donât dignify him with an answer, ducking under his arm where itâs stretched across the doorframe.
âFor an exclusive scoop, please.â You bat your lashes, skipping over to the great big bed. James is laughing as he follows, darting forward to grab your waist and pull you flying down to the mattress with him.
âHow was the flight?â He murmurs into your neck, arms tightening around your middle.
âAs good as youâd expect,â You stare up at the ceiling, âI was sitting between two Americans, so they didnât recognise me, at least.â
âMm,â James tuts, âYouâre not as famous as me.â
âThank god.â Your tone is light but itâs the complete truth â fame was never the goal of being a reporter, âImagine if I couldnât go to Pret anymore.â
âI still go to Pret, love.â
âNot without getting at least two numbers.â James laughs, especially loud in the stillness of the huge hotel room.
âYeah, but I donât want anyone elseâs number.â You kiss James for his flattery, and heâs quick to take more, kissing you sweetly in the yellow hotel light.
A knock at the door has you both springing apart, panic mirrored on both your expressions.
âFuck,â James hisses, glancing around the room for somewhere to stow you momentarily. You take the initiative, rolling off the bed on the far side of the room, sliding as far under it as your body will go.
Reluctantly, James cracks the door open, suspicious even without seeing whoâs there.
Sirius barges in without being invited, going on about something Remus said on their last call. Itâs ridiculous, really, something silly about Wales versus England, even though Wales didnât even qualify for the World Cup.
âI mean, really, itâs like heâs doing this on purpose â hi, love,â He barely takes a breath between addressing you and continuing on his story, and you sit up with a huff.
âHowâd you know I was here?â You brush yourself off, sitting cross legged on Jamesâ bed.
âYour perfume, obviously, Prongs would never have anything rose scented in his hotel room. As I was sayingâŠâ You and James share a pointed look, what are you gonna do?
At least it was just Sirius, whoâd been in on your little secret since almost the start, after an unfortunate barging in when you werenât as decent as you are now.
Sirius talks for three minutes about the silly fight heâs having with Remus cross-continentally, you and James gradually inching towards each other until youâre leaning against his chest at the headboard.
âSirius?â He stops for a moment, looking at you. âI hate to say it, but have you ever considered that Remus might be picking a fight because he misses you and wants to have phone sex?â Jamesâ fingers caress your midriff under your comfy pyjama top.
Siriusâ eyes bore into your soul. Then, slowly, he grins.
âIâm, uh, Iâm gonna go.â He leaves without another word, already fishing his phone out of his back pocket.
âSmart girl,â James laughs, eyes bright as he pulls your legs across his lap.
âYeah, well, needed my man to all myself.â You both realise the implication at the same time, âSorry.â
âItâs fine,â He sighs, âI just hate having to hide you.â
âI know, I know. Trust me, I wish I didnât have to compete with all your fangirls. But Iâd be fired, blacklisted, probably. Itâs not fair.â
A heavy silence settles across the both of you. James shrinks beneath you, head settling on your shoulder as you consider the situation.
âCâmon,â You try to draw him from any upset, especially this week, âDo you wanna watch the rerun of the Barcelona GP?â James nods silently so you reach for the tv remote.
At least the F1 makes you both perk up, distracted for a while from your ongoing tension. Later, when James has passed out from a tough training, your eyes glaze over alongside the murmur of the tv crowd. Your brain is stuck on an unfortunate loop: itâs not fair, itâs not fair, itâs not fair. Not fair that you and James could be a perfect couple, if one of you had only chosen a different career. Not fair that everyone else on the team gets to show off their partners proudly, kiss them on television when a match is won, walk down the street hand in hand.
âFuck, Jamie,â You mumble, moving a piece of hair out of his face as he sleeps, âThings would be so much easier if I didnât love you.â
A few days later is the England â Croatia game.
The energy is overwhelming, people rushing and yelling everywhere you turn. Thank god youâre in the press box, anywhere else and youâd probably have a panic attack.
Have so much fun!!!! I love you xxxxx You send to James, plus a more polite good luck to Sirius.
When the game starts you can barely think, eyes darting across the pitch as the ball flies from corner to corner, men running all over. The game goes to England, luckily, so the boys are all happy to talk to you afterwards.
âCongratulations!â You pull the captain, Frank Longbottom, aside as the team celebrates on the pitch. Youâre almost as breathless as each other, though Frank has done significantly more physical exertion than you. âHow does it feel to win your first match in the group stage?â
âI mean, itâs bloody amazing, obviously, but weâre all keeping in mind that this is only one game. We havenât won the cup yet.â You both laugh, letting the camera in on your friendliness.
âSpoken like a true captain.â The rest of your thought is interrupted by two strong arms snaking around your middle, swinging you around, mic and all. A giddy laugh leaves your lips without your permission, and you donât need to look up to know itâs James.
âJames Potter.â He pecks you on the cheek so sloppy you squeal in the way any reporter does when they donât quite know how to handle a situation. Luckily, Sirius sees the two of you and races over, placing another kiss on your other cheek, rendering it all platonic. âSirius Black, our two youngest players. How are we feeling post game one?â
Sirius takes the mic, talking very much to the camera and not to you. You donât mind, too busy shooting James a warning look as he retreats, throwing his arm instead around Frankâs shoulders.
âSo, boys, how do you think youâll be celebrating tonight? Or will it be straight back to training?â
âWell, you know recovery is just as important as training hard, so personally tonight I will be finding my gorgeous wife Alice, and a huge meal, and having a quiet night in.â You have to consciously control every muscle in your face so it doesnât fall, a reminder that you canât be like that with James, though you suspect your night may go somewhat the same.
âAnd Sirius? I suspect your night may not go quite the same.â Not only because Remus couldnât get the time off work, but Siriusâ idea of relaxation is often closer to your idea of a wild night out.
The interviews pass in a blur of white and red, and you find yourself back in your hotel room, James due any second after a team dinner. The glow of the laptop is stark compared to the warm light of the room, but you have to get an article about the match out before the deadline and public interest passes.
He enters just as youâre finishing up, sending it off to the editor back in London to go out in an hour or so.
âI hope youâre not too critical of my game,â He says, coming up from behind to press a kiss to your hair, âI know I missed an easy goal.â
âIâm only fair, you know that. Besides, Weasley played a way worse game than you.â James laughs loudly, offering a hand so youâll follow him to bed. It doesnât take much convincing.
A few celebratory rounds later, the bedsheets pool around both your waists as James scooches up to lean against the headboard.
âJames,â You say softly, hating the conversation before it even happens. He looks at you, adoration flooding his doe eyes, making it ever harder to broach the subject. âYou have to be more careful about us. It was lucky that Sirius was there.â
Jamesâ face falls and you want to forget the whole ordeal, if it wouldnât mean certain termination.
âIâm sorry,â He groans, hands running down his face, âI just â what am I supposed to do? Youâre right there and we won, and itâs not fair that everyone else gets to kiss their girlfriends without worrying whoâs watching.â
âI know.â Your eyes a hot and itchy, tears building up despite the fact that youâre not fighting. âIâm sorry Jamie, but weâll both get in trouble. Iâll lose my job, and ââ
âI know, lovely, I donât want you to lose your dream job. I know how hard you worked for it. Itâs just frustrating, that neither of us can do anything about it.â
You let him curl up against you, fingering through his curls as your breathing fell into sync. Itâs a useless conundrum, neither of you willing or able to move jobs at a whim just so you can be together.
The next morning, you wake up to both of your names trending. Not necessarily together, thank god, but itâs frightening all the same. The Americans as a general body have never tuned into the Premier League before, so most of the England players are brand new to them. Including, apparently, their faithful post-match reporter.
You open your social media apps, James next to you, met with a fan edit of you. Slowed down clips of your interview with the boys all put to intense music. James is thoroughly amused, slinging an arm around you as leverage to kiss your cheek from behind on the mattress.
Scrolling quickly, the next one is of James and itâs your turn to laugh. Clips of him kicking what you know is the goal he missed, sweat flicking from his hair, shirt pulling up just enough to show a peek of his abs. You check the comments because you know youâll enjoy them, full of teenagers discovering English footballers for the first time, letting all hell break loose as James gives them their sexual awakening.
James reaches over you to scroll before you can read every comment left, and youâre both faced with a woman probably about your age, holding a comically tiny microphone as she sits in a gorgeous apartment.
âNow, I donât know if yâall are tuning into the World Cup or just meâŠâ She starts, and James clearly loses interest already, turning his attention to the crook of your neck which is apparently begging for his gentle kisses and nibbles. You keep watching, worried by both of your names being the tags.
âBut I noticed instant chemistry between one of the England players and the reporter.â
A clip plays of James twirling and kissing you from last nightâs game.
âSo I started looking into it because yâall know I love a Heated Rivalry, Off Campus sports romance, and apparently these two have been friends for years. Like, I went down a full rabbit hole. The first interview between them I can find is, like, four years ago, and apparently sheâs been to almost every one of his games. Thereâs so much content of them and they have fucking great chemistry so I thought thereâd be more of a fanbase, but thereâs not a single compilation or anything. Like, British girlies, come on what are you doing? Anyway, for all my US girls who havenât heard of them before, Iâd say itâs similar to Mariska Hargitay and Jalen Brunson, or that baseball player and the reporter who went viral a few years ago. Just super a sweet friendship with great chemistry.â
James laughs against your neck, biting until you yelp with a laugh, swatting him away before he can leave a hickey.
âDonât open the comments,â He says, taking your phone before you can do it anyway. Heâs right, of course, but youâre desperate to know what people are saying â if they suspect anything.
Itâs a travel day for both of you, with the England team headed to Boston before their match against Ghana, and you to Atlanta for the Czechia v South Africa match. You hold James tight before he leaves, listening to his heartbeat before you go another few days relying on good morning texts and ten minute phone calls.
Itâs easier in some ways to be covering the other matches. Though you love interviewing James post-match, and of course being there in person to see him play, you know youâre being watched now. The internet has fixated on you as the peopleâs princess â a pretty, young, female reporter in a male dominated industry. Itâs flattering in a way, knowing youâre introducing a whole new generation of girls to the sport, but scary at the same time. Especially when James is around.
The Premier League viewers are somehow more forgiving, not necessarily of your gender, but definitely of your connection with James under the guise of classic British banter. They want personal connections to get the best interviews out of the players, and you give them that. Now the whole world is watching, and if teenage girls latch onto the promise of romance between you and James, thereâs no chance you wonât be found out.
Six days later, youâre in Boston for the next England game. Youâre already beginning to get sick of travelling, and thereâs a long road ahead of you yet. Still, you get to see James tonight, so itâs not all bad.
The camera follows you as you cross the pitch post-match, quickly recounting the key details of the game. You stop for a moment on the journey to interview one of the Ghanian players, professional tone smoothing out your words. This is what you love about your job, talking to players who truly live for the game, letting everyone in on the glory of the sport, even from a thousand miles away.
Finally you reach the England players, and they welcome you with open arms, high off a good game. James isnât jumping all over you, so you think youâve given him enough time for the adrenaline to start dropping.
Youâre polite, if a little distant, with James. Probably nothing perceptible to the untrained eye, but a few TikToks have scared you out of casual physical touch, fingers gripping the mic like itâs a tether to your professionalism.
âSo, James, how does it feel to be the internetâs favourite football player right now?â
James looks down from where he towers above you, eyes giving away any attempts at establishing platonic boundaries.
âCanât say no to positive attention, can I?â
âEspecially not, and I quote, âthe best thing England has ever producedâ.â James tips his head back laughing, clutching his abdomen.
âI donât know about that, but Iâll let other people say it.â You look at him for just a moment, watching his eyes crinkle as they meet yours.
âYou heard it here, James loves being thirsted over.â
Content of the both of you still comes from the game, but itâs not as bad as the first time. Youâre not sure how you feel, being a niche internet figure now. Lily, your coworker whoâs covering the other American games, tells you to get online and profit off the opportunity, but you think youâd rather stay as anonymous as possible. Content creation isnât your passion, sport is.
This virality isnât without consequence, either, and youâre not sure you like the newfound attention. People ask for pictures with you at matches, which is unexpected and doesnât quite make sense. You donât do anything. You talk about what other people did.
Players from other countries know who you are now, and are more willing to be interviewed. Thatâs a plus, at least, though sometimes theyâre a little too friendly.
England is playing France, and youâve been at the stadium for what feels like all day. Alongside the pre- and post-match interviews, youâre expected to be writing twice as many articles as usual to capitalise on the worldâs public interest in the Cup. Todayâs is about pre-match rituals and superstition (seriously), so youâre buzzing around the stadium trying to find convenient moments to pull players and coaches aside.
You got Jamesâ answer this morning â though you could have written it without any input from him youâve spent so many game mornings with him â and cornered Sirius as he walked through the doors so he didnât get distracted with performing his own rituals.
Youâre just finishing up the interview with captain Frank when one of the French players rounds the corner. Evan Rosier, you recognise him. He played for Liverpool in the last season, but was bought for a summer transfer into Manchester City for the next. You know youâve interviewed him before after matches, but nothing spectacular sticks about the exchanges. He, however, is looking at you rather like youâre prey.
âMorning!â Your smile is bright despite it all, âHave time for a quick talk?â You hold your recorder up with a cute shake, enticing him to sit down with you. He shrugs, eyes not leaving you as he sits in one of the stadiumâs hallway seats.
âThanks for speaking to me, Evan, this should be super quick. Iâm doing a piece on pre- and post-match rituals and superstitions. Do you have any to share?â
Evan makes a noncommittal noise at first, thinking. Then his mouth curls into a wicked smile, eyes narrowing to snake-like slits before you.
âWell,â He says, âI like to start the day with a little exercise, to get my blood pumping.â
âGood idea,â You agree, âDid you hit the hotel gym this morning?â
âThat is⊠not the exercise I meant.â Evanâs french lilt makes it sound even more scandalous, and your eyes widen as you realise what heâs saying. You stutter out something that sounds like a response, glad youâll be able to edit it out in your own piece.
âUm, youâre not publicly tied to anyone at the moment,â You redirect, deciding at least to be a kind journalist, âAre you sure you want that shared?â
Evan doesnât look away once and youâre sure he can read your soul. âI am not privately tied to anyone, either. Howâs that?â He hardly waits for a response, âIt is important to feel important before playing a big game, get your blood flowing.â
âAnd, um, is it Americans who are helping you get into the match headspace? Or, or someone else.â You have no idea what youâre doing or saying; this is terrible journalism and you know it.
âI have no preference,â He shrugs, leaning in so youâre only inches apart. âI like Americans, I like Brits⊠Tell me, have you ever been loved by a Champions League winner?â
Your mouth goes dry, like Evan already knows the answer, though he couldnât possibly. Heâs just being an arsehole, trying to flirt or mess with you, and you canât let it work.
Before you have to come up with your answer, James rounds the corner with a sharp âHey!â Evan looks up, unperturbed by Jamesâ presence. âSheâs doing her job, Rosier. Donât be an dick and hit on her while sheâs on duty.â
Evan leans back slowly, like heâs not in trouble at all. âForgive me for noticing the beauty surrounding our sport.â When he sees how rigid youâve gone, unable to look at either man, Evan stands, hands out by his sides in gentle surrender.
âYou know where to find me if you want to know how a real winner fucks.â The word sounds especially vulgar in his mouth, and you donât say anything as he and James trade glares until heâs finally out of sight.
James pulls in close, a hand on either arm as he inspects you, like the interaction had a physical effect on you.
âAre you alright, lovely?â You smile up at him, lost momentarily in the depth of his honey-brown eyes.
âYeah, âcourse,â It comes out before you can be sure you mean it, âJust a bit unnerved.â
âHeâs an arse, just using you to fuel his own ego,â James reassures you, thumb caressing your skin gently.
âI know.â Itâs more of a grimace than a smile, but itâs not a frown, which James takes as a good sign.
âWhat about you just hang by our team until the game? I donât want him or anyone else making you uncomfortable just so you can get an interview.â You nod again, tucking yourself in under his arm as he leads you through the halls.
Before you can rejoin the rest of the England team, James pulls you in for a searing kiss, your legs turning to jelly in an instant.
âNobody gets to treat my girl like that,â He mumbles against your temple as he presses a kiss there too, before reluctantly letting you go and gesturing for you to walk through the door ahead of him.
You sit with the WAGs at the game, cheering alongside them all. The game itself is pretty unimpressive. To be honest, you donât think either team is playing their best, and youâre not one to lie. Still, itâs fun to play fan when youâre so often with other reporters, jumping around when the ball comes close to the goal.
After the first twenty minutes, you notice it getting aggressive, though youâre not sure why. The tackles are increasing in frequency and ferocity, and youâre getting the feeling that itâs personal.
You think at first it might just be because the players all know each other, almost all of them playing the last Premier League season, and often in the Champions too. That starts to make less sense as the game progresses. Men who you know are typically friendly arenât sparing each other a glance, and you watch Sirius shoulder-check a French player heâs friends with on the way off the pitch for the hydration break.
It finally makes sense near the end of the first half. With minutes left on the clock, James tackles Evan hard. They both go down in a tumble of limbs, and youâre sure you see a punch thrown in under the guise of him trying to steady himself.
The instant replay on the huge screen shows Jamesâ boots swinging straight into Evanâs shin, taking them both down as they kick and tumble. The entire stadium hushes, and your hand finds your mouth to mirror the people around you. After what feels like an age, they stand without any sportsmanship. The corner of the camera just catches James spitting something in Evanâs direction, though you canât lip read what it is.
James gets a yellow card, and heâs lucky itâs just that. If you were the referee, you have no doubt youâd give him a red for excessive force and endangering Evanâs safety. He doesnât have to go off, thankfully, but you already know he wonât come back on for the second half, if the slight limp he develops is anything to go by.
Before the game resumes, James spares a lingering glance up to where you and the girls are sat. Itâs subtle, and probably doesnât mean anything to anyone else, but itâs the last piece in your puzzle. James is still mad about earlier.
In the back of your mind youâre touched and flattered that your boyfriend truly cares about you, and gets mad when people wrong you, but most of your head is filled with frustration that James could sacrifice the game to get petty justice over something youâre used to.
Alice looks over in your direction, and youâre sure sheâs going to say something. Frank has been playing professionally, and for England, since before you broke into your industry, and youâre pretty sure theyâve been together for years before that. She was one of the first people who was kind to you at games, and you wouldnât mind grabbing a coffee with her sometime, strictly off the record. But she doesnât know about you and James, or isnât supposed to. If she knows then Frank knows, and if Frank knows then he can tank Jamesâ career.
She clearly thinks twice, and focuses back on the game. Your shoulders relax for a second, before shooting back up to your head as the players rip across the pitch, all motivated by the constructed feud.
Itâs half time and youâre close to an aneurysm, overwhelmed by the noises and the people and the knowledge that James might risk his next few games for you. Sparing a half smile to the ladies around you, you tear through the stadium, flashing your press pass to get into the rooms you need to.
When you make it to the change rooms, the assistant coach thinks about stopping you, but steps out of your way when you flash him a look and an assurance that youâre here strictly off the record.
The coach is drawing his talk to a close when you hover by the door, and itâs not long before everyone is staring at you.
âDonât sacrifice this game for petty revenge,â You say carefully, âI appreciate that after all these years youâve got my back, but Iâd rather you win and knock them out instead.â You shoot a tight lipped smile to the coach as an apology, looking at James in a way that says follow me.
Outside of the change room, itâs strangely quiet. For all the noise and chaos of the game, youâre completely alone, for the time being anyway.
âWhat the hell was that?â You whisper, mindful that you may not be as alone as you seem.
âI know,â James groans, hand running down his face. âYou donât understand.â
âI understand that you should have gotten a red card,â You argue back, arms crossed over your chest.
âHe was saying shit about you!â Jamesâ voice raised a few decibels, sounding like a yell when it bounced off the walls of the corridor. âI told him to knock it off and have a bit of decency and he doubled down. Then Frank got involved, and the French captain didnât even have the decency to act like Evan had done anything wrong! Itâs not fair.â
âI know.â Your anger had fizzled out, hand coming up to cup his face softly. âI donât want you to bring that into the game. Iâm used to this, Jamie, people underestimate me all the time, but it doesnât mean I canât handle it. I would never forgive myself if you got a suspension or the team lost a player because of a silly non-issue.â
âItâs not silly.â James didnât miss a beat, letting himself take a step toward you.
âItâs not,â You agree, âBut I can handle it. I donât need you to fight this battle for me, especially not at your detriment. âKay?â
James nods, leaning further into your hand and twisting to kiss your wrist.
âIâll see you tonight.â You pop up to kiss him, breaking into a giggle when he trails after you, begging it not to end.
You return to the stands calmer than before, able to actually reply to Amosâ girlfriendâs sweet greeting this time.
The game continues cleaner. You can still tell the players are mad, but at least now theyâre channelling it into playing a better game of football rather than pushing each other over like schoolboys.
On the pitch after the match, things are still tense. You hold your mic with a smile, focusing on being professional to the camera instead of the drama behind you. Your intro is going well when someone comes up behind you, slightly too close for comfort. Itâs Evan, looming over you without a care in the world.
âSorry about the loss,â You say politely, âThat was a great effort.â
âIt is okay,â He says in his accent, like he hasnât a care in the world, âWill you help me to get over my loss?â
âI, um, I,â You drown in your words, suddenly unsure of how to handle the situation. Itâs unlike you, which makes it all the worse. Youâre trained to deal with anything and everything without breaking a sweat, yet here you are, falling apart over a few unwanted advances.
âActually, Iâve already promised her an exclusive post-match interview. Sorry, mate.â Youâre saved by the bell in the form of Sirius, stepping protectively between the two of you.
Evan sends you a lingering look, and you canât tell what feeling is behind it. Luckily, Sirius takes over before anything else can take shape, and the interview that unfolds feels easy, rehearsed.
You get back to your room hours later, after briefly joining some of the celebrations around the stadium and the city, plus an hour or so of writing in the hotel lobby.
James is already inside when you swipe your access card, lounging shirtless on your bed as if he doesnât have the presence and stature of a god. He straightens up when he sees you, nervous energy thick in the air.
âIâm sorry,â He starts, and your resolve crumbles into dust, âI know it was stupid, but I just wanted to show him that he canât get away with treating women like that, especially not you.â
âJames, I appreciate it, I do, but itâs not worth it. I get hit on all the time when Iâm working. Itâs not worth risking these games. If you get knocked out because of me, neither of us would be able to handle it.â
âYou donât get it, honey, I care about you more than I care about any of this. I can play football anywhere, youâre the only one Iâve ever felt this much for.â
Tears are already putting pressure behind your eyes, and you arenât even arguing. Itâs just not fair. Youâre falling into Jamesâ arms without hesitation, hardly waiting to kick off your shoes.
âI donât want you to have to move for me, Iâd feel like such a burden. Your family is in Britain, your friends are in Britain, you donât want to leave your parents, I know that. Besides, itâd be so unlikely I could get a job wherever you move, so weâd either be long distance or in the same situation we are now. Just stay here for as long as they want you.â
James slumps into you, the situation hopeless.
âWeâll figure it out,â He says eventually, âEither Iâll get transferred to another team, or you can get another job, or you donât even have to work! You know I can support us both.â This earns him a pointed look. You donât want to be a stay at home girlfriend, or else this issue would have been solved years ago. Being a sports journalist is your dream, just as football is Jamesâ. Neither of you should have to give that up to be together.
âI know.â The tears have started falling, and you know itâs ridiculous. Itâs just overwhelming, knowing that everything could fall apart in a moment. James is quick to notice, as always, hands finding their way to your face, wiping the tears away gently as they fall.
âOne day itâll be all fine, my girl,â He soothes, hand running through your hair as you cry into him. âOne day weâll be married, and live in a nice house, and laugh at the fact that we were ever worried about all this. Yeah?â
âYeah,â You sniffle pathetically, glad that James has never minded.
The silence gets a bit deafening between you, and James turns on the F1 for something youâll both enjoy. It finally feels temporarily normal as the race plays, both of you bickering and cheering for your drivers. James is partial to Lando, while you prefer Oscar Piastri. For almost two hours, you can forget about everything except being here with James.
Just as youâre both drifting off to sleep, you glance up at him.
âNo oneâs ever tackled a man for me before,â You hum happily, delighted when Jamesâ arms tighten around you.
ââd do anything for you,â He slurs, eyes still closed. At least amongst everything that youâre worried about all the time, youâve never doubted how much James loves you.
You wake the next morning wrapped in Jamesâ arms, which is blissful until you check your phone. Itâs busier than normal, and sitting at the top of your notifications is a text from Lily: Check your phone.
Dread drops into your stomach as you unlock the phone, seeing your social media notifications blowing up. Shit. More clips are circulating from last night, you and a myriad of footballers. The biggest by far is the clip of your interview with Evan, people analysing and commenting on your body language and his predatory advances.
Itâs worse for him than you, twitter taking an adversarial stance against him, only heightened by the fact that France has lost and is knocked out. You wouldnât want to be him right now. Youâre not sure you want to be yourself, either, though.
Thereâs pity for you, the start of a conversation about how female reporters are treated â but only on the internet surface level. Most of the clips about you, though, are really about James. Whilst you were oblivious for reason of trying to handle Evan, a tense conversation played out on camera behind you: James and Sirius in stern conversation, gesturing and looking your way which removed any uncertainty on the matter.
James looks mad in the clip, so unlike his usual sunny disposition. Even when he loses games, James is happy, pleased just to have played. Instead, his brows are cemented into a furrow, rage sparking in his usual honeyed eyes. He watches intently as Sirius approaches you, breaking up the unwanted moment between you and Evan.
You think thatâs not so bad, if you had to do damage control it would be easy to write it off as a character reference for James, heâs always been a good guy and this is just him being decent. That is, at least, until clips of the games are watched more closely, and start getting connected to the ongoing undercurrent of tension between the teams.
Anonymous users online are finally beginning to draw the conclusions you hoped would never come, that thereâs something going on between you and James. You hold your breath without realising as you scroll, falling deeper into a rabbit hole.
Thankfully, no one youâve seen is accusing you of anything serious. Yet. You must be better at your job than you think, because all the emotional heat is on James. Accusations of him having a crush on the pretty young reporter fly, his name trending on every app you have.
Itâs kind of funny, you think once you know nothing is awful. People making edits of you and your boyfriend, not even knowing that youâre together. Fans have fallen in love with your interviews together, the same clips of him looking down at you adoringly, or staring down Evan used in almost every video you see. You think itâs especially funny when they play the clip of him kissing your cheek, intentionally cropping out where Sirius does it a second later to create a narrative they donât even know is correct.
James wakes slowly, and you relish his sleepy whimpers.
âPeople are saying you have a little crush on me,â You whisper, despite being the only people in the room. James groans, burying further into your neck, pressing a single open mouthed kiss there just to make you shudder.
âYeah?â His voice reverberates against your skin, âTheyâre right.â
You giggle as James puts the moves on you, manoeuvring your bodies until heâs on top, pressing wet kisses up the column of your throat until he makes it up to your mouth.
Youâre just getting lost in the pleasure, Jamesâ hand sneaking down under your sleep shorts, when his phone rings. You both groan, the moment ruined. He canât afford to not check it in case itâs his coach, captain, or similarly important training information. Itâs Frank, and James reluctantly picks up.
âHey, mate,â He says, glancing back at you with a smile. You sit, kissing the back of his shoulder before leaning your head on it, feeling the blood pumping beneath his skin.
You can vaguely hear Frank through the receiver, talking about the videos. You giggle silently, shoulders jumping as James tries to brush it off, assuring him there are worse accusations than having a crush. He could be Evan, for example.
âDo you?â Frank asks, and you feel Jamesâ breath falter rather than hear it, âHave a crush, I mean.â
James takes a minute before replying, surely thinking through how badly this could go.
âYeah,â He mutters, âSomething like that.â You can barely contain your laughter, but itâs honestly not a bad move from James. It gives a simple explanation to the team, at least, and will probably reassure your worries if itâs all positioned as one-sided.
James gets Frank off the phone soon after, convincing him that heâs not worried by the attention, refusing to look at you as you laugh.
âSomeoneâs got a crush,â You sing lightly, not anxious for the first time in weeks.
âShut up,â James says, flipping you onto your back in an instant, âNow, where were we?â
Itâs only much later, when James is at training, that your worries return. You feel guilty not telling James first, but you call Lily for help.
Itâs your turn to be guilty and tense when James walks in later that evening.
âI have to tell you something.â James face drops, though he tries not to let it show. He tries to never worry you, knowing you do enough of it for you both.
âAlright,â He says carefully, perching on the edge of the bed.
âIâm swapping some games with Lily.â
âThank god.â James goes through a million feelings at once. âI thought you were breaking up with me. Why?â
âI just think it might be good to have a bit of distance for a bit. Not us, I mean, thereâs not trouble with us. This social media stuff is overwhelming, though, and risky. It might be good just to have a few games apart to let things calm down a bit.â
âOh.â Your heart breaks all over again, and you almost call the whole thing off. âThat makes sense, I suppose. Probably for the best. Are you sure thereâs nothing wrong?â
âI promise, Jamie. We are perfect. Itâs everyone else whoâre the problem.â
With gentle reassurance, James perks up a bit. You take his break from training and team activities to establish a schedule for communication. Call in the morning, call before a match, call every evening. Send each other photos. It should be fine.
A few short weeks without James is torture. Youâre not utterly miserable, youâre still having one of the most amazing experiences of your career, but you miss him, plainly. The worst part is, you canât talk to anyone about it.
Sirius needs to focus on the world cup, Remus is on another continent, and hardly any of your own friends know about it, for fear of their blabbermouths. That leaves you with your parents, go figure.
âI just donât understand, darling,â Your mother says over the phone, âYou never have to work another day in your life with the way Jamesâ career is going â why not just enjoy that?â
âItâs not what I want, Mum,â You groan, making faces because she canât see them, âI like my job, I love being a journalist. I donât want to lose it all for a man.â
âWhy donât you just apply somewhere else?â You dad says from somewhere in the background; you didnât realise he was there. âFootballâs not the only sport you love, and itâs not like youâre not already a bit long distance with you both travelling so much.â
You think about what he said. Itâs true, mostly. Both your jobs require travel, and you often spend days and weeks away from each other at a time. Itâs not usually so bad when youâre not under pressure like the World Cup. Plus, football isnât your only love. You keep up with at least three other sports over the year, and occasionally cover them when thereâs no football for you to write about. Itâs not a bad idea.
At the next game you cover, the Australia â Egypt match, you meet a reporter from the Australian ABC, who invites you to watch Englandâs next match in a bar down the street from the stadium. Sheâs sweet, and you both watch with bated breath as the game commences, both teams attacking with ferocity.
You finally feel anonymous in the bar, free to cheer as loud as you want for your boyfriend in real time. Nobody cares about you and it feels amazing. Or it was amazing, until James is injured.
Itâs nobodyâs fault, a good faith tackle, but the slow motion replay showâs the other playerâs boot jamming into Jamesâ knee in painful clarity. You gasp, as do many crowded around the screen, but youâre sure youâre feeling more anguish when the tears involuntarily spring to Jamesâ eyes.
You know immediately that itâs serious when he doesnât pop up like usual. Heâs the youngest on the team alongside Sirius, and recovers quicker than most of his teammates. The fact that heâs still lying on the grass, covering his face from the cameras, means something is really wrong.
Your hand stays at your mouth, blinking rapidly as you try not to cry in front of the bar and your new friend. She glances over for a moment too long, and you think she must know. Has to be aware of what you and James have going on. Yet, she doesnât say anything, rubbing your arm gently and turning back to the screen.
James limps off, accompanied by two physios, and you have to take a minute. In the girls bathroom, you heave over the basin, bile thick in your throat.
This is all too much, and you donât know how much more you can handle. Trying to keep your relationship a secret from the whole world is overwhelming your nerves, adrenaline always at a peak, and you know if youâre not careful youâll burn out in everything else. Lying to everyone isnât natural, and somehow youâre ostracised from everyone on earth because of it. You didnât know that was possible before now.
What is it all for? All this lying and hiding, and you canât even be there for your boyfriend when something happens. Youâre across the country, watching alongside a hundred random people as he may be taken out of the tournament altogether, unable to do anything for him.
With shaking hands, you pull your phone from your pocket. He wonât pick up a call right now, but you canât let there be nothing from you when heâs allowed to check.
Are you okay?????
That was so scary
I love you so much Iâm sorry Iâm not there right now
Call me when you can
Iâm sorry
Itâs not your finest work, desperate and afraid when he probably needs you to be confident, but you canât manage much else.
Itâs a few minutes later when you return, eyes probably puffy, but nobody says anything. Your new friend assures you that things look okay for James, but he might miss the next game. Nothing looks broken, at least, which is a huge relief.
You go home that night, tired and a bit drunk, and open your laptop. Something has to change, soon, and you canât wait around for much longer.
Jamesâ injury turns out to be better than you expected. Itâs a light strain, but the additional hit into the knee made him react bigger. He takes a game off, but is back for the semi-final.
You fly back as soon as you can, spending a few days between matches with him. You go out one night with Sirius so the three of you can play mini golf at midnight, and itâs maybe the best moment of the entire Cup.
The semi final approaches, and neither you nor James bring up any discussion of what will happen with your relationship. You live in the joy of the final week, English people all over the country hoping for something that hasnât happened since 1966.
Youâre kept busy, anyway, a historic event garners more than a handful of articles, and thereâs much to write about.
The world can hardly believe it when England wins the semi final. Itâs ridiculous, honestly. Theyâve never been very good, and itâs the first World Cup for half the squad. Youth seems to be on their side, though, and for once you have players springing across the pitch without exhaustion.
âThe last time England made it to the semifinals it was 2018, and we finished fourth in that cup after losing to Belgium. This squad, though, seem determined to go all the way, with the players giving their all every single game. Here comes captain Frank Longbottom now â Frank, how are you feeling?â
âOn top of the world.â Frank lays an arm around your shoulder, leaning in as you extend the mic, âIâm so proud of the boys, everyoneâs really giving one-hundred-and-ten percent every single game, and this year itâs really paying off which is incredible.â
âIt really is, itâs so great to see you all â ah! Hi, James.â James approaches your other side, caging you in between the two huge athletes.
âHello, love.â He beams, âEnjoy the game?â
âHow could I not?â You laugh, launching into technical questions so you donât fall into banter with him. You try to keep it even, turning between James and Frank so you donât appear like you have favourites. You can feel Frank looking between you like youâre all in school again and crushes are the end of the world, but you pretend you donât notice it.
âIt was so great to talk to you both, congratulations again, and hopefully the next time I talk to you, youâll be World Cup winners.â Frank gives you a quick, friendly hug before leaving, and James dares to press a quick kiss to your cheek â squeezing your side privately â before racing off across the pitch to his team. You smile to yourself as you see Frank hyping up, no doubt believing that he needs the confidence.
You send the camera off quickly, relieved to no longer have those viewers watching, though you still have to make it out of the stadium to be safe.
Itâs an hour later when you make it back to the hotel youâre staying in, falling onto the mattress in exhaustion. You only get five minutes of silence before your phone is ringing again, disrespectfully loud to your fatigue.
âHello?â You pick up without looking, hoping you can get rid of whoeverâs calling quickly.
âHey gorgeous, you asleep yet?â Jamesâ voice is deep and honey-smooth, and it brings a smile to your lips.
âAlmost,â You groan for good measure. âWhy?â
âThe team and partners are going out for celebratory drinks, dâyou wanna come?â
âCan I?â The rest of the sentence hangs in the air â youâre not a partner, publicly.
âDonât even worry about it, lovely. Now they think I have a crush on you, the boys are so on board itâs a bit laughable.â
A half hour later youâre freshened up and ready to go. The team and their partners all greet you kindly, though youâre aware they must be bewildered at your presence. Sirius is finding the whole thing excessively entertaining, and is doing a very poor job of hiding it.
Later, when everyoneâs a bit drunk and more than a bit merry, Alice pulls you over with a laugh. She and Frank have taken over a little standing table in the function room that someone has rented for the team and staff.
âHey!â You grin, placing your glass carefully on the table, âThanks for letting me come, this has been so lovely.â
âOf course, weâre glad to see you off the record,â Frank jokes and you all laugh, the energy in the room bright and easy.
âYou know, we heard something interesting,â Alice leans forward conspiratorially, and you mirror her as if you donât know whatâs coming. Someone should put you in a movie, or something. âA little birdie told me James Potter has a crush on you.â
âWhat?â You gasp in faux-surprise, and as far as you can tell, they canât tell the difference. âThatâs crazy.â
âTo be honest, Iâm not surprised. You two have always gotten along far better than the rest of the team â not that anybody dislikes you, of course. I thought youâd have gotten together already, if Iâm speaking candidly.â
âAlice!â Frank chides, and his wife doesnât look a bit ashamed.
âOops, too candid?â She asks coyly, the two of you sharing a giggle.
âAnyway,â Frank looks at you, âHow does that make you feel?â It all feels very adolescent, though you donât mind at all. You know itâs just because they still see James as a bit of a kid, though theyâve known each other for a few years. He got on the scene early and excelled quick, and Frank has been his mentor for most of it, it makes sense that theyâre protective.
âHeâs such a sweetheart,â You give a non-answer, and the couple pick it up right away.
âSpoken like someone well-media trained.â Thereâs no malice or frustration in his voice, just enjoyment.
You only wink, bringing your glass back up to your lips.
âWell, guess Iâd better go find the reason Iâm invited then.â You excuse yourself finally, approaching the bar where Sirius and James are in a very solemn conversation about something no doubt ridiculous.
âHi boys,â You sing, arm just brushing against Jamesâ. James breaks out into a huge grin, whatever they were bickering about long forgotten.
âBaby!â He leans his head on your bicep, staring up at you with doe eyes. Itâs this kind of face that always makes you want to kiss him, though you know thatâs not appropriate here.
âWhatâve you guys been doing?â The question is more directed at Sirius, who seems to be in better shape.
âWell, we were talking shop, but it quickly devolved into how amazing you are, love.â Siriusâ eyebrows waggle like heâs the one singing your praises which makes you laugh.
âHow much has he had?â
âEnough to be like this, hopefully not so much heâll be hungover tomorrow.â
You let yourself enjoy the night, for once not worried about how other people perceived you. You dance, you drink, you sing along to songs without a care in the world. Somehow, you manage to not make any moves on your boyfriend.
At the end of the night, you wander home arm in arm with James, still miraculously not kissing. You talk nonsense to each other as Sirius leads you back to the hotel, somehow the most sober of the night.
The door closes behind you, and you both burst out into laughter, all over each other. You press kisses to his lips, dragging James by the collar toward the bed with you.
âMm, kinda fun pretending in front on your friends.â You straddle him, tossing your hair to one side so you can kiss down his throat. Jamesâ eyes roll back immediately, his hands flying to your hips.
âYeah fun for you,â He all but moans, gently untucking your blouse from your shirt, âEveryone thinks Iâm just yearning and pining for you.â
âArenât you?â You tease, pulling his t-shirt over his head and reconnecting your lips. He laughs against yours, getting impatient and moving you up toward the pillows.
âObsessed with you.â It comes out mumbled as James busies himself with the rest of you, undressing you with quick precision.
The morning of the World Cup final, you and James wake up together. Itâs risky, you know, to be in his room when so many people will be calling after him soon, but this is the biggest day of his life thus far. He wants you here, and youâll be damned if you donât oblige.
âYouâll be great today,â You say from the basin as James takes a shower, âJust take it slow.â
âEasy for you to say.â Itâs somewhere between joking and sincere as he rubs soap over his chest.
âYeah, yeah, youâre the celebrity, I get it.â You pass him the razor through the shower curtain. James huffs a laugh, and youâre glad you can at least distract him a little from what you imagine must be impending doom.
James kisses you sweetly on the way out, and you wait another fifteen minutes before leaving his room.
The energy in the stadium is fucking electric. Youâve been at Premier League finals, Champions League finals, even an NBA final a few years ago. Nothing compares. There are people from every country in the world buzzing with excitement, packing the stands with life and colour.
Despite the fact that youâve spent a total of four or five hours at the stadium today alone, it feels like only minutes have passed. You watch the game from the press box, eyes glued to the players below. Every person in there, regardless of affiliation, cheers and grimaces and lives for the match playing out in front of you. Itâs the most tense and most fun game youâve ever been to.
James is a star. They all are, really, but James is playing the best youâve ever seen him. He finds every space, and is always where he needs to be for an intercept or pass or shot at goal. Youâre so proud you could burst into tears. A few fall when James scores his first goal, then his second.
The game passes in a flash, and the only reason you can take any of it in is because you keep pinching yourself, a reminder that youâre still on the clock and do need to know whatâs going on.
The clock ticks down and itâs still a draw. You might pass out. The people on either side of you look exactly the same. Itâs down to the wire.
When it gets to the five minutes of overtime, youâre white-knuckling the railing in front of you. It sails up Englandâs end after a well-timed kick from Amos, and everything spurs into action at once.
The boys are beautiful in play, passing and wordlessly communicating as people do after spending months and years working together. You donât think youâve breathed in the last three minutes. Finally, it looks like thereâs a real shot at goal in the last minute of the game, Frank dribbling cleverly past the opposing defenders, flushed red with effort. Heâs an experienced captain and a great shooter, and you really think heâll go all the way and score. Then he passes.
To James.
In the fraction of a second where the ball sails through the air, you worry heâll choke. Itâs unlike him, but the pressure he must be feeling is unreal, and you couldnât be surprised at anything that happened. Or, you think that until James acts without hesitation, springing into the air to scissor-kick it. He looks so beautiful that your heart physically aches, but you donât have long to ruminate on it. The ball soars into the goal, breezing past the keeperâs extended fingers.
Holy fuck.
England won the World Cup. James won the World Cup. In a buzzer-beater, legendary goal that gave him a hat-trick.
The tears pour from your eyes before you can even think about it, and theyâre still streaming down your cheeks as youâre ushered down to the field to get on camera.
âUm, England hasnât won the World Cup since 1966, so you can imagine the atmosphere in the stadium tonight. And, I imagine, every pub in England.â You canât even pretend to be using your reporter voice right now, overwhelmed with euphoria. âForgive me for crying, but I never thought Iâd see a result like this in my lifetime, and Iâm one of thousands sharing the same feeling tonight.â
You turn to watch where youâre walking, the camera following to your side, and your gaze sets on James just as he looks over. The world slows down around you as James starts running, disregarding the seemingly hundreds of people trying to get his attention.
Youâre in the air before you know it, Jamesâ strong arms spinning you in circles as his grins threatens to split the skin of his cheeks. He hardly lets you get your footing on the pitch before he acts without thinking, dipping you low and kissing you hard.
Itâs overwhelming, his huge arms wrapped around you, lips slightly chapped against your own. The smell of his sweat fills your senses, and you can taste a hint of its salt on his upper lip as you move against each other.
You pull away after far too long and the reality of the situation crashes down all at once. The camera is still live and pointed at you, there are still eighty thousand people staring at you, and youâre still in Jamesâ arms.
His eyes fill with fear, but you canât bring yourself to feel anything similar. Slowly, you bring the mic back up to your lips.
âI hope youâll all forgive me for perhaps taking attention off a once in a lifetime event, but this may be a good time to announce that after the World Cup, Iâll be moving away from football into covering mainly Formula One. And that Iâm hopelessly, utterly in love with James Potter, and have been for some time.â
âAre you serious?â James doesnât bother to speak into the mic, zeroing in on you, âSince when?â
âLike, two days ago.â Your grin is huge, all your teeth showing as Jamesâ mouth drops open. He doesnât wait before kissing you again, this time pulling you in so youâre chest to chest.
When you watch the scene later as it goes viral on every platform, youâll see the reactions of his team behind you, cheering and jumping on each other in disbelief. Youâll see Sirius trying not to cry, covering it up by hugging his teammates.
And when you both pull away, faces wet with tears and both beaming like little kids, you hear the screams of thousands of people, celebrating you and their country and the most wonderful sport in the world.
âSo,â You recover, despite James and your cameraman both being in a bit of a daze, âHow does it feel to have won the game and a hat trick in your first ever World Cup?â
The consequences of Jamesâ little stunt are immediate. Youâre both flooded by people, for a multitude of reasons. James must be the most congratulated person in the world right now, you think, as people talk about the win, his goals, and you.
Youâre of course invited to the teamâs official celebration, but you have time before it and take the streets, looking for material for a brilliant final football piece.
Whilst you expect all the joy and excitement surrounding the English team, you donât foresee the positive reception you receive. People cheer and clap as you pass, and even ask for photos with you, which has never happened before these last few weeks.
A little girl, maybe ten, approaches you with her dad. Apparently itâs her mother youâre interviewing, decked out in red and white and gushing over how much it means to her to see England win the Cup.
âI want to be just like you when I grow up,â The little girl says, a tiny English flag painted on her cheek.
âYeah?â You ask, getting down so youâre level with her, âYou want to write about sports?â
âYep,â She says proudly, hands on her hips, âAnd I want to marry James Potter.â
You burst out into laughter. âNever ever give up on your dreams.â
You take a picture with her on her parents request, then figure itâs probably time to freshen up before heading out to party.
James hardly lets go of you all night. Even then, itâs only reluctantly when Frank calls for a toast to the youngest player on the team who won them the World Cup. You cheer louder than them all, jumping for your favourite boy on earth.
Later, when youâre all severely drunk, Sirius finally gets close. Coming from behind, he lays an arm over both your shoulders.
âYou know I love you guys?â He lays his head on Jamesâ shoulder, eyes glazed over, âIâm so happy you guys are together.â
âThanks, buddy,â James laughs, exchanging entertained looks with you.
âYeah, maybe we can go for a real double date when we get back home.â
Alice approaches you in the girls bathroom with similar sentiments.
âI cannot believe you managed to keep this a secret for so long,â She laughs, fixing her makeup in the mirror, âHow long has this been going on?â
âWell,â You think back, trying to remember exactly how long youâve been going out, âA little over three years?â
âYouâre terrible!â She cries without any malice. âWhen we go home you and I are having a long chat over some drinks.â You laugh, squeezing her hand, and the plans are made concrete.
The video is everywhere. When you and James get back the hotel, stumbling and drunk, itâs already playing on the television, news reporters giving their two cents. Not to mention the internet, but that goes without saying. Itâs mostly positive, but neither of you are without haters, and you receive a very conflicted text from your boss.
You giggle together over the videos that come onto your feed, particularly when you see the American woman from all those weeks ago, decked out in red and white.
âDonât mind the fact that Iâm rooting for the coloniser, this was solely for the romance that yâall motherfuckers should have told me about! This is the most romantic thing Iâver ever seen in my whole life, and I need six books and a movie adaptation like right fucking now. I read on Instagram that sheâs moving to the F1 so they can be together publicly, but honestly Iâm so sad that weâre not gonna get more post-match interview content from them as a couple.â
The video goes on for longer, with the woman analysing your interactions over the last month, but you donât stay until the end, your eyes starting to close on their own after such a huge day.
James joins you in bed, the picture of comfort in his patterned pyjama pants. Youâd bought him pink and purple checkered ones a year ago so you could match, and James constantly surprises you by wearing them more often than not.
âHey,â He says, soft and uncharacteristically quiet, âAre you happy?â
âYeah, âcourse I am. How could I not be?â You swipe a thumb gently across his cheek.
âI just mean⊠This is a lot all at once. A new job, the whole world knowing weâre together. Are you going to be happy when youâre not working in football anymore? Will you resent me for it in a few years?â
Your heart breaks more and more as he speaks. This is probably the best day of Jamesâ entire life, and heâs bringing it down by worrying about you.
âJames,â You say slowly, âThis is all Iâve ever wanted. I want to be with you above all else. Covering the F1 is a great opportunity, even outside of everything else going on, and Iâll have a ball, Iâm sure. And I love football, true, but I can love it just as much as a spectator. I canât love you from afar.â
James studies you for a minute, trying to decipher whether youâre only appeasing him. Heâs comforted as you stand strong, eye contact unbroken.
âOkay,â He says finally, âAs long as you donât go falling for Piastri.â You break into giggle, shuffling in so your bodies are pressed together. Oscar may be your favourite driver, but he doesnât compare to James Potter.
You snuggle in together, Jamesâ arms around you.
After a long few minutes, just as youâre dozing off, James speaks again.
âFuck,â He says, voice croaky with exhaustion, âI just won the World Cup.â
âI know.â You reach up to kiss his mouth three times, âMy magic boy.â
i think sports reporter x james will be out at the end of this week and i am soooo excited for you guys to read it!!!!!! needs a bit more editing but should be about 12k words đ€
poolside - college swimmer!james potter x fem!reader
wc: 1028
cw: none, university AU
me: the way this isn't any of the three wips i teased a week ago.......
ââââ ââ â ââââ
The smell of chlorine always calmed you down. Some people thought it was gross, your friends certainly did, but for you it was the one place you could think, no matter what.
No matter what kind of day you were having, being near a pool unfailingly brought back the happiest of memories; swimming lessons with your mum, summer days, tangled hair and melting ice creams. It wasnât the water; you hadnât swum seriously in years, it was just being there that did all the good.
Finals week was not going well, so you made yourself sit down in the one place you could focus on your work â the huge stadium that held the university pool. You took your spot on one of the wooden benches, lumber scratchy on your short-clad thighs. The humidity in the air meant you could always wear summer clothes, another thing you loved about it. Breathing in a lung full of chlorinated air, you focused back on the readings on your laptop, finally feeling like you could take the words in.
Down below, the swim team were fighting through their last laps of the training session, the thrashing of water filling the air. You glanced up from the article you were reading, watching them with pity as they flew up and down the pool, practically floating above the water. Thatâs how you knew they were good, it looked like they didnât even need the water to be swimming.
When the words in the PDF all started blurring together you let yourself watch the athletes below, the sheer magic of it all always entertaining. Plus, swimmers were buff, which didnât make for a bad show. The way their muscles stretched and contorted under their skin was a welcome distraction.
You were lost in a daze, enjoying the show below, when the swimmers all bunched at the end of the lane, coach looming over them on solid ground. You couldnât hear exactly what he was saying over the whir of the fans and the splashing of other swimmers, but it didnât really matter anyway. You werenât so much into the sport that a random coachâs corrections fascinated you.
Suddenly, you locked eyes with one of the swimmers. You couldnât tell much of him; his hair was covered by a red swimming cap and face distorted by orange goggles. If it werenât for the broad shoulders sticking out of the water, heâd be unmistakeable for a little kid at a public pool.
It only lasted a second, and then he was turning back to his coach and you to your reading, pretending you were taking in even a single word.
Practice ended half an hour later, but you only spared the athletes a glance as they laughed and roughhoused their way to the change rooms.
You were finally feeling truly locked in, understanding your subject in a way you hadnât since week one. The focus was broken at the sound of wet, slapping footsteps coming up the stairs toward you.
Before you, you assumed, was the same swimmer as before, though he was more of a wet dream than when he was in the full training attire. He stood before you in all his glory; swimming trunks over speedos, flip flops and no shirt, just a towel strewn across his shoulders. He was too good to even be true, your mouth drying up a little just at the sight.
âWhy arenât you wearing a shirt?â Is what came out of your mouth, and you almost jumped from the stands to the pool. Why the fuck would you say that?
The guy shrugged, looking at you with interest.
âJust wanted to keep the show going.â
âSo you made the effort of going into the change rooms to only get half changed, to come up here and talk to me?â
âWell, when you put it like thatâŠâ He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, still smiling despite it all. âAnyway, why are you hanging around here? Youâre not one of the boysâ girlfriends, are you?â
âNo, definitely not,â You laughed, âI just focus better here.â
âI get it, me too. Hence, the uh, you know.â He gestured down at himself, droplets still falling from his mop of curls. âIâm James.â
You looked up at him for a fraction of a moment, trying to discern what his intentions were. Still, you gave him your name in return, a silence passing between you.
âDo you come here often? I havenât noticed you before.â
You shook your head, glancing down at the laptop which lay abandoned beside you.
âNo,â You said, âOnly when everything else fails and the desperation is hitting.â
âOh, Iâm sorry, then. I didnât mean to stress you out or pull you away from work or anything.â You should have cared more than you did, your final only days away, but you were enjoying the little conversation and admittedly didnât want it to end.
âDonât be sorry. Canât study in a public place without expecting the public.â James laughed, loud and clear through the general buzz of the fans and water.
From somewhere below, someone yelled for him, muffled like you were in a room of your own. James glanced backwards, acknowledging them, but didnât seem in any rush.
âWe train again on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday.â
You nodded slowly, poorly concealed grin matching Jamesâ.
âMy last exam is next Tuesday.â Jamesâ smile widened, eyes gleaming golden as he took small steps backwards.
âIâll look out for my biggest fan.â
You scoffed, unable to produce any other sign of annoyance. James hopped down the stairs easily, greeting his friend with an arm around his shoulder, the two of them joking their way out of the pool. Your eyes followed him as far as you could, lingering when he slipped out of the double doors.
You gave yourself another few seconds to sit in the giddy bizarreness of it all, smile still faint on your lips. Right, you came back down to earth, final tomorrow.
as a football fan your James Potter fic has made me realise that football related fanfiction exist and im so so excited to explore more prepare to be sick of me with incoming requests
so happy that you discovered it honey!! i believe someone else has a footballer!james series too so i hope u find that, & your requests are always welcome !! :-)
summary: when your neighbour's unsuspecting friends catch you trying to pick the lock to your own front door, they feel the need to call you out, but your desperate conversation gets the attention of emily prentiss.
wc: 0.9k+
Derek and Penelope stroll down the hallway towards Emilyâs apartment with post-case bliss. Theyâve just enjoyed a dinner at their favourite chinese place, and Emily and Spencer follow close behind them, carrying parcels that Emilyâs doorman had given her. As the hallway sharply turns, Derek and Penelope pause, waiting for Emily to reach them so she can unlock her door. But while they wait, Derek and Penelope are met with a much more interesting sight.
Just a couple of door down the hallway, hidden from Emily and Spencerâs sight, a woman is struggling against a door, two bobby pins clasped in her hand as she tries picking a lock. âExcuse me!â Derek immediately calls out, grasping your attention. Your eyes go wide at the sight of the stranger, immediately aware of what this must look like. âOh, hi!â You smile at the pair shyly, but keep at your movements in an attempt to force your front door open.
âI donât think youâre supposed to be doing that.â Derek says with a hand held out towards you, looking close to calling the police on you. âNo donât worry, I live here.â Penelope purses her lips in an attempt not to laugh, but Emily and Spencer, who have noticed their conversation with someone, speed up to see whatâs going on. When Emily pokes her head behind the corner, she immediately lets out a loud laugh. Your head snaps back to look at her, and your shoulders instantly slump with relief. âEmily, I locked myself out again.â You whine with a pout, and Emily takes slow steps towards you. She puts a hand on your back, and you instantly lean into her, letting go of your bobby pins.
âDid you call a locksmith?â She asks, and you nod âThey said theyâd call me back in half an hour.â Behind you both, Spencer, Derek and Penelope shoot each other amused glances. So youâre the neighbour Emilyâs told them about. One night, many many drinks ago, a tipsy Emily muttered with rosy cheeks that she wishes she would have the courage to invite you over more instead of relying on hallway conversations with you.
Emily eases your bobby pins out of your door, asking âHow was that working for you?â You huff, muttering âNot well. I even watched a video and everything.â Emily opens her palm to give you the bobby pins back, and you drop them loosely into your purse. Itâs only when Emily catches a glimpse of your little vintage guess bag that she notices the rest of your attire. A short flattering dress with tall boots and large hoops that match with the bangles around your wrists. âCome on, I have a spare, remember?â
Your entire face morphs into one of realisation, and you wrap your arms around Emilyâs waist and rest your head on her shoulder for a short moment before letting her lead you towards her front door. Derek chuckles when you walk past him, jabbing with âI told you I live here.â
Emilyâs coworkers file into her living room, leaving you waiting in her entryway as she retrieves your key from her safety cabinet. She pops into the living room to tell her teammates to help themselves to wine from her kitchen before following you out with a key in hand. You stand by her as she unlocks your door, holding it wide open when she finally pushes it open for you. You thank her as she lets you through, watching as she removes the key from the door and puts it in her pocket.
âGood case?â You ask, trying to get her to stay for a little bit. She nods, leaning against the wall. âYeah, good case. We went out for dinner just now. Good night out?â
âYeah, we went out to a jazz bar downtown. Iâd say we should go sometime but I like our days in.â
Emily smiles, humming in agreement. âYeah, itâs nice to have good company on a lazy day.â You both stand in silence for a long moment, and Emily finally pushes herself off the wall, nodding her head towards the door. âI should probably go.â
You take a step towards her, and Emily puts her hands on your biceps to caress your bare skin softly. âOkay, thank you Emily.â She nods, seeing the way you take the tiniest step towards her, hesitant in your movements. So she stays where she is, giving you the opportunity to say anything if you need. Instead, you lean forward, pressing your lips to hers for a short moment. Emily doesnât even have the chance to flutter her eyes shut before youâve pulled away. She observes you as you swallow thickly, taking a step away from her, but Emily makes up the space by walking to you and cradling your face in her hands.
She sees the glimpse you take towards her lips before she finally kisses you, and she feels her heart swell in her chest at the way you immediately melt against her. She moves her hands from your face to wrap her arms around your torso and keep you close to her, letting out a soft noise when she feels your fingers lace in her hair. You break the kiss to look at her face for a short moment, then step away from her, forcing her arms to loosen around you.
âYour friends are waiting for you.â You tell her, opening the front door for her.
âOkay, Iâll be back tomorrow to help you out with this.â
âDonât expect me to be awake before 2 though.â
Hii i love ur writing so much i was wonder if you can reveal what wips you have which i can look forward to đ specifically any marauders or percy jackson ones
wait i love you and i love this ask !!!!! keep in mind that i literally have 100s of ""wips"" at any one time that are just notion pages with like 3 sentences or a vibe in them, but these are a few heavy hitters which are likely to be actually posted soon !!
footballer!james x sports journalist!reader - james and r have to keep their relationship secret because of ethical concerns regarding reporting on your own boyfriend, but the world cup brings new pressure and many more eyes on them. (unrelated to our names in the paper)
she's not afraid - james potter x reader - university fwb, james is head over heels whilst you resist his advances, despite always ending the night back in his arms. so, what's your problem with falling in love?
percy jackson x dance teacher!reader - estelle brings percy to her 'bring a friend to dance class' day, where he meets the pretty young dance teacher! hope he doesn't trip over his own feet :)
+ a few other bits and pieces here and there!! thank u again for asking gorgeous!