gia 💌🕯️🎀 @g1rld1ary - Tumblr Blog

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!!!!!

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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. They’re polite, but can’t 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.

Can’t believe you didn’t come with me James’ 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 England’s 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 isn’t worth the risk of everyone knowing.

I know, I know his reply comes after hesitation, and you know exactly what he’s 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 isn’t in conflict, a secret it is, as much as it sucks. I’ll 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. It’s 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 you’re 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, there’s no rest for the wicked, and as your conscience keeps reminding you, what you’re 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, you’ve 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 it’s quite nice. The women’s bathroom is clean, which is more than you can say for some of the stadiums in the UK that you’ve worked in.

It doesn’t take long to find the players out on the field, already warming up for training even though they’ve only just touched down. Your job is tough, and often entails long hours and ridiculous overtime, but at least you’re not a footballer. If someone tried to make you run after touching down from a ten hour flight, you’d probably commit a crime. James couldn’t look happier though, which is one of the things about him you’re 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 it’s nice to see that the pressure hasn’t bowled him over. Yet, anyway.

James spots you as he’s 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 can’t just run up and kiss him now. Instead you only smile back, hoping he knows that it’s 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, you’re England’s 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 you’re supposed to get with the England players.

It’s just hitting dusk as the players are released, swarming towards their water bottles with speed which hadn’t shown on the pitch just thirty seconds earlier. You take the moment, climbing down the stands to meet with them.

“Hey, boys,” 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. “How are we feeling after the first training session?” You hold the voice memo out so they know they’re on the record.

“Feeling great,” Amos Diggory says, “Ready to win.” You laugh a little at the media-trained answer, though you don’t expect any different.

“I, for one, am fucking exhausted.” 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.

“Shall I go ahead and take out the profanity?” You tease, greeting him with a warm smile.

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Mm, but who would terrorise my post-match interviews if I didn’t have to look out for you and your language?” 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 can’t blame them for not trusting that you’d 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 England’s 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.

“You’re sweaty.” You grin.

“I missed you,” He disregards the jab with a smile, bending to press three more quick pecks on your lips.

“Alright, alright,” You laugh, pulling yourself out of his hold, “You’re going to get us caught.” James groans, his least favourite reminder.

“Will you come over tonight?”

“Will you be awake?” You tease, taking in his tired eyes. You’re sure you look the same, though you don’t have much sympathy given you were the one fighting for your life in economy seating.

“Seven-fifty,” Is all he says, squeezing your hand one more time before turning back to his team.

You’re knocking on the door only a few short hours later, praying one of his teammates doesn’t decide to go on a night walk before James lets you in. You’re lucky this time, and his grin is so bright that you forget what you were worried about.

“Are you here to proposition me?” He waggles his eyebrows in the way you can when you know you’re already hot, and you don’t dignify him with an answer, ducking under his arm where it’s stretched across the doorframe.

“For an exclusive scoop, please.” 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.

“How was the flight?” He murmurs into your neck, arms tightening around your middle.

“As good as you’d expect,” You stare up at the ceiling, “I was sitting between two Americans, so they didn’t recognise me, at least.”

“Mm,” James tuts, “You’re not as famous as me.”

“Thank god.” Your tone is light but it’s the complete truth — fame was never the goal of being a reporter, “Imagine if I couldn’t go to Pret anymore.”

“I still go to Pret, love.”

“Not without getting at least two numbers.” James laughs, especially loud in the stillness of the huge hotel room.

“Yeah, but I don’t want anyone else’s number.” You kiss James for his flattery, and he’s 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.

“Fuck,” 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 who’s there.

Sirius barges in without being invited, going on about something Remus said on their last call. It’s ridiculous, really, something silly about Wales versus England, even though Wales didn’t even qualify for the World Cup.

“I mean, really, it’s like he’s doing this on purpose — hi, love,” He barely takes a breath between addressing you and continuing on his story, and you sit up with a huff.

“How’d you know I was here?” You brush yourself off, sitting cross legged on James’ bed.

“Your perfume, obviously, Prongs would never have anything rose scented in his hotel room. As I was saying…” You and James share a pointed look, what are you gonna do?

At least it was just Sirius, who’d been in on your little secret since almost the start, after an unfortunate barging in when you weren’t as decent as you are now.

Sirius talks for three minutes about the silly fight he’s having with Remus cross-continentally, you and James gradually inching towards each other until you’re leaning against his chest at the headboard.

“Sirius?” He stops for a moment, looking at you. “I 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?” James’ fingers caress your midriff under your comfy pyjama top.

Sirius’ eyes bore into your soul. Then, slowly, he grins.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go.” He leaves without another word, already fishing his phone out of his back pocket.

“Smart girl,” James laughs, eyes bright as he pulls your legs across his lap.

“Yeah, well, needed my man to all myself.” You both realise the implication at the same time, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” He sighs, “I just hate having to hide you.”

“I know, I know. Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to compete with all your fangirls. But I’d be fired, blacklisted, probably. It’s not fair.”

A heavy silence settles across the both of you. James shrinks beneath you, head settling on your shoulder as you consider the situation.

“C’mon,” You try to draw him from any upset, especially this week, “Do you wanna watch the rerun of the Barcelona GP?” 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: it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s 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.

“Fuck, Jamie,” You mumble, moving a piece of hair out of his face as he sleeps, “Things would be so much easier if I didn’t love you.”

A few days later is the England — Croatia game.

The energy is overwhelming, people rushing and yelling everywhere you turn. Thank god you’re in the press box, anywhere else and you’d 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.

“Congratulations!” You pull the captain, Frank Longbottom, aside as the team celebrates on the pitch. You’re almost as breathless as each other, though Frank has done significantly more physical exertion than you. “How does it feel to win your first match in the group stage?”

“I mean, it’s bloody amazing, obviously, but we’re all keeping in mind that this is only one game. We haven’t won the cup yet.” You both laugh, letting the camera in on your friendliness.

“Spoken like a true captain.” 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 don’t need to look up to know it’s James.

“James Potter.” He pecks you on the cheek so sloppy you squeal in the way any reporter does when they don’t 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. “Sirius Black, our two youngest players. How are we feeling post game one?”

Sirius takes the mic, talking very much to the camera and not to you. You don’t mind, too busy shooting James a warning look as he retreats, throwing his arm instead around Frank’s shoulders.

“So, boys, how do you think you’ll be celebrating tonight? Or will it be straight back to training?”

“Well, 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.” You have to consciously control every muscle in your face so it doesn’t fall, a reminder that you can’t be like that with James, though you suspect your night may go somewhat the same.

“And Sirius? I suspect your night may not go quite the same.” Not only because Remus couldn’t get the time off work, but Sirius’ 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 you’re finishing up, sending it off to the editor back in London to go out in an hour or so.

“I hope you’re not too critical of my game,” He says, coming up from behind to press a kiss to your hair, “I know I missed an easy goal.”

“I’m only fair, you know that. Besides, Weasley played a way worse game than you.” James laughs loudly, offering a hand so you’ll follow him to bed. It doesn’t take much convincing.

A few celebratory rounds later, the bedsheets pool around both your waists as James scooches up to lean against the headboard.

“James,” 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. “You have to be more careful about us. It was lucky that Sirius was there.”

James’ face falls and you want to forget the whole ordeal, if it wouldn’t mean certain termination.

“I’m sorry,” He groans, hands running down his face, “I just — what am I supposed to do? You’re right there and we won, and it’s not fair that everyone else gets to kiss their girlfriends without worrying who’s watching.”

“I know.” Your eyes a hot and itchy, tears building up despite the fact that you’re not fighting. “I’m sorry Jamie, but we’ll both get in trouble. I’ll lose my job, and —”

“I know, lovely, I don’t want you to lose your dream job. I know how hard you worked for it. It’s just frustrating, that neither of us can do anything about it.”

You let him curl up against you, fingering through his curls as your breathing fell into sync. It’s 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 it’s 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 it’s 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 you’ll 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 you’re both faced with a woman probably about your age, holding a comically tiny microphone as she sits in a gorgeous apartment.

“Now, I don’t know if y’all are tuning into the World Cup or just me…” 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.

“But I noticed instant chemistry between one of the England players and the reporter.”

A clip plays of James twirling and kissing you from last night’s game.

“So I started looking into it because y’all 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 she’s been to almost every one of his games. There’s so much content of them and they have fucking great chemistry so I thought there’d be more of a fanbase, but there’s not a single compilation or anything. Like, British girlies, come on what are you doing? Anyway, for all my US girls who haven’t heard of them before, I’d say it’s 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.”

James laughs against your neck, biting until you yelp with a laugh, swatting him away before he can leave a hickey.

“Don’t open the comments,” He says, taking your phone before you can do it anyway. He’s right, of course, but you’re desperate to know what people are saying — if they suspect anything.

It’s 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.

It’s 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 you’re being watched now. The internet has fixated on you as the people’s princess — a pretty, young, female reporter in a male dominated industry. It’s flattering in a way, knowing you’re 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, there’s no chance you won’t be found out.

Six days later, you’re in Boston for the next England game. You’re already beginning to get sick of travelling, and there’s a long road ahead of you yet. Still, you get to see James tonight, so it’s 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 isn’t jumping all over you, so you think you’ve given him enough time for the adrenaline to start dropping.

You’re 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 it’s a tether to your professionalism.

“So, James, how does it feel to be the internet’s favourite football player right now?”

James looks down from where he towers above you, eyes giving away any attempts at establishing platonic boundaries.

“Can’t say no to positive attention, can I?”

“Especially not, and I quote, ‘the best thing England has ever produced’.” James tips his head back laughing, clutching his abdomen.

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll let other people say it.” You look at him for just a moment, watching his eyes crinkle as they meet yours.

“You heard it here, James loves being thirsted over.”

Content of the both of you still comes from the game, but it’s not as bad as the first time. You’re not sure how you feel, being a niche internet figure now. Lily, your coworker who’s covering the other American games, tells you to get online and profit off the opportunity, but you think you’d rather stay as anonymous as possible. Content creation isn’t your passion, sport is.

This virality isn’t without consequence, either, and you’re not sure you like the newfound attention. People ask for pictures with you at matches, which is unexpected and doesn’t quite make sense. You don’t 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. That’s a plus, at least, though sometimes they’re a little too friendly.

England is playing France, and you’ve been at the stadium for what feels like all day. Alongside the pre- and post-match interviews, you’re expected to be writing twice as many articles as usual to capitalise on the world’s public interest in the Cup. Today’s is about pre-match rituals and superstition (seriously), so you’re buzzing around the stadium trying to find convenient moments to pull players and coaches aside.

You got James’ answer this morning — though you could have written it without any input from him you’ve spent so many game mornings with him — and cornered Sirius as he walked through the doors so he didn’t get distracted with performing his own rituals.

You’re 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 you’ve interviewed him before after matches, but nothing spectacular sticks about the exchanges. He, however, is looking at you rather like you’re prey.

“Morning!” Your smile is bright despite it all, “Have time for a quick talk?” 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 stadium’s hallway seats.

“Thanks for speaking to me, Evan, this should be super quick. I’m doing a piece on pre- and post-match rituals and superstitions. Do you have any to share?”

Evan makes a noncommittal noise at first, thinking. Then his mouth curls into a wicked smile, eyes narrowing to snake-like slits before you.

“Well,” He says, “I like to start the day with a little exercise, to get my blood pumping.”

“Good idea,” You agree, “Did you hit the hotel gym this morning?”

“That is… not the exercise I meant.” Evan’s french lilt makes it sound even more scandalous, and your eyes widen as you realise what he’s saying. You stutter out something that sounds like a response, glad you’ll be able to edit it out in your own piece.

“Um, you’re not publicly tied to anyone at the moment,” You redirect, deciding at least to be a kind journalist, “Are you sure you want that shared?”

Evan doesn’t look away once and you’re sure he can read your soul. “I am not privately tied to anyone, either. How’s that?” He hardly waits for a response, “It is important to feel important before playing a big game, get your blood flowing.”

“And, um, is it Americans who are helping you get into the match headspace? Or, or someone else.” You have no idea what you’re doing or saying; this is terrible journalism and you know it.

“I have no preference,” He shrugs, leaning in so you’re only inches apart. “I like Americans, I like Brits… Tell me, have you ever been loved by a Champions League winner?”

Your mouth goes dry, like Evan already knows the answer, though he couldn’t possibly. He’s just being an arsehole, trying to flirt or mess with you, and you can’t let it work.

Before you have to come up with your answer, James rounds the corner with a sharp “Hey!” Evan looks up, unperturbed by James’ presence. “She’s doing her job, Rosier. Don’t be an dick and hit on her while she’s on duty.”

Evan leans back slowly, like he’s not in trouble at all. “Forgive me for noticing the beauty surrounding our sport.” When he sees how rigid you’ve gone, unable to look at either man, Evan stands, hands out by his sides in gentle surrender.

“You know where to find me if you want to know how a real winner fucks.” The word sounds especially vulgar in his mouth, and you don’t say anything as he and James trade glares until he’s 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.

“Are you alright, lovely?” You smile up at him, lost momentarily in the depth of his honey-brown eyes.

“Yeah, ‘course,” It comes out before you can be sure you mean it, “Just a bit unnerved.”

“He’s an arse, just using you to fuel his own ego,” James reassures you, thumb caressing your skin gently.

“I know.” It’s more of a grimace than a smile, but it’s not a frown, which James takes as a good sign.

“What about you just hang by our team until the game? I don’t want him or anyone else making you uncomfortable just so you can get an interview.” 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.

“Nobody gets to treat my girl like that,” 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 don’t think either team is playing their best, and you’re not one to lie. Still, it’s fun to play fan when you’re 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 you’re not sure why. The tackles are increasing in frequency and ferocity, and you’re getting the feeling that it’s 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 aren’t sparing each other a glance, and you watch Sirius shoulder-check a French player he’s 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 you’re sure you see a punch thrown in under the guise of him trying to steady himself.

The instant replay on the huge screen shows James’ boots swinging straight into Evan’s 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 Evan’s direction, though you can’t lip read what it is.

James gets a yellow card, and he’s lucky it’s just that. If you were the referee, you have no doubt you’d give him a red for excessive force and endangering Evan’s safety. He doesn’t have to go off, thankfully, but you already know he won’t 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. It’s subtle, and probably doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, but it’s the last piece in your puzzle. James is still mad about earlier.

In the back of your mind you’re 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 you’re used to.

Alice looks over in your direction, and you’re sure she’s going to say something. Frank has been playing professionally, and for England, since before you broke into your industry, and you’re pretty sure they’ve been together for years before that. She was one of the first people who was kind to you at games, and you wouldn’t mind grabbing a coffee with her sometime, strictly off the record. But she doesn’t know about you and James, or isn’t supposed to. If she knows then Frank knows, and if Frank knows then he can tank James’ 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.

It’s half time and you’re 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 you’re here strictly off the record.

The coach is drawing his talk to a close when you hover by the door, and it’s not long before everyone is staring at you.

“Don’t sacrifice this game for petty revenge,” You say carefully, “I appreciate that after all these years you’ve got my back, but I’d rather you win and knock them out instead.” 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, it’s strangely quiet. For all the noise and chaos of the game, you’re completely alone, for the time being anyway.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper, mindful that you may not be as alone as you seem.

“I know,” James groans, hand running down his face. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you should have gotten a red card,” You argue back, arms crossed over your chest.

“He was saying shit about you!” James’ voice raised a few decibels, sounding like a yell when it bounced off the walls of the corridor. “I told him to knock it off and have a bit of decency and he doubled down. Then Frank got involved, and the French captain didn’t even have the decency to act like Evan had done anything wrong! It’s not fair.”

“I know.” Your anger had fizzled out, hand coming up to cup his face softly. “I don’t want you to bring that into the game. I’m used to this, Jamie, people underestimate me all the time, but it doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. I would never forgive myself if you got a suspension or the team lost a player because of a silly non-issue.”

“It’s not silly.” James didn’t miss a beat, letting himself take a step toward you.

“It’s not,” You agree, “But I can handle it. I don’t need you to fight this battle for me, especially not at your detriment. ‘Kay?”

James nods, leaning further into your hand and twisting to kiss your wrist.

“I’ll see you tonight.” 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 Amos’ girlfriend’s sweet greeting this time.

The game continues cleaner. You can still tell the players are mad, but at least now they’re 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. It’s Evan, looming over you without a care in the world.

“Sorry about the loss,” You say politely, “That was a great effort.”

“It is okay,” He says in his accent, like he hasn’t a care in the world, “Will you help me to get over my loss?”

“I, um, I,” You drown in your words, suddenly unsure of how to handle the situation. It’s unlike you, which makes it all the worse. You’re trained to deal with anything and everything without breaking a sweat, yet here you are, falling apart over a few unwanted advances.

“Actually, I’ve already promised her an exclusive post-match interview. Sorry, mate.” You’re saved by the bell in the form of Sirius, stepping protectively between the two of you.

Evan sends you a lingering look, and you can’t 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 doesn’t have the presence and stature of a god. He straightens up when he sees you, nervous energy thick in the air.

“I’m sorry,” He starts, and your resolve crumbles into dust, “I know it was stupid, but I just wanted to show him that he can’t get away with treating women like that, especially not you.”

“James, I appreciate it, I do, but it’s not worth it. I get hit on all the time when I’m working. It’s not worth risking these games. If you get knocked out because of me, neither of us would be able to handle it.”

“You don’t get it, honey, I care about you more than I care about any of this. I can play football anywhere, you’re the only one I’ve ever felt this much for.”

Tears are already putting pressure behind your eyes, and you aren’t even arguing. It’s just not fair. You’re falling into James’ arms without hesitation, hardly waiting to kick off your shoes.

“I don’t want you to have to move for me, I’d feel like such a burden. Your family is in Britain, your friends are in Britain, you don’t want to leave your parents, I know that. Besides, it’d be so unlikely I could get a job wherever you move, so we’d either be long distance or in the same situation we are now. Just stay here for as long as they want you.”

James slumps into you, the situation hopeless.

“We’ll figure it out,” He says eventually, “Either I’ll get transferred to another team, or you can get another job, or you don’t even have to work! You know I can support us both.” This earns him a pointed look. You don’t 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 James’. Neither of you should have to give that up to be together.

“I know.” The tears have started falling, and you know it’s ridiculous. It’s 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.

“One day it’ll be all fine, my girl,” He soothes, hand running through your hair as you cry into him. “One day we’ll be married, and live in a nice house, and laugh at the fact that we were ever worried about all this. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” 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 you’ll 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 you’re both drifting off to sleep, you glance up at him.

“No one’s ever tackled a man for me before,” You hum happily, delighted when James’ arms tighten around you.

“’d do anything for you,” He slurs, eyes still closed. At least amongst everything that you’re worried about all the time, you’ve never doubted how much James loves you.

You wake the next morning wrapped in James’ arms, which is blissful until you check your phone. It’s 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.

It’s 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 wouldn’t want to be him right now. You’re not sure you want to be yourself, either, though.

There’s pity for you, the start of a conversation about how female reporters are treated — 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 that’s not so bad, if you had to do damage control it would be easy to write it off as a character reference for James, he’s 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 there’s 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 you’ve 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.

It’s kind of funny, you think once you know nothing is awful. People making edits of you and your boyfriend, not even knowing that you’re 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 it’s 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 don’t even know is correct.

James wakes slowly, and you relish his sleepy whimpers.

“People are saying you have a little crush on me,” 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.

“Yeah?” His voice reverberates against your skin, “They’re right.”

You giggle as James puts the moves on you, manoeuvring your bodies until he’s on top, pressing wet kisses up the column of your throat until he makes it up to your mouth.

You’re just getting lost in the pleasure, James’ hand sneaking down under your sleep shorts, when his phone rings. You both groan, the moment ruined. He can’t afford to not check it in case it’s his coach, captain, or similarly important training information. It’s Frank, and James reluctantly picks up.

“Hey, mate,” 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.

“Do you?” Frank asks, and you feel James’ breath falter rather than hear it, “Have a crush, I mean.”

James takes a minute before replying, surely thinking through how badly this could go.

“Yeah,” He mutters, “Something like that.” You can barely contain your laughter, but it’s honestly not a bad move from James. It gives a simple explanation to the team, at least, and will probably reassure your worries if it’s all positioned as one-sided.

James gets Frank off the phone soon after, convincing him that he’s not worried by the attention, refusing to look at you as you laugh.

“Someone’s got a crush,” You sing lightly, not anxious for the first time in weeks.

“Shut up,” James says, flipping you onto your back in an instant, “Now, where were we?”

It’s 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.

It’s your turn to be guilty and tense when James walks in later that evening.

“I have to tell you something.” 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.

“Alright,” He says carefully, perching on the edge of the bed.

“I’m swapping some games with Lily.”

“Thank god.” James goes through a million feelings at once. “I thought you were breaking up with me. Why?”

“I just think it might be good to have a bit of distance for a bit. Not us, I mean, there’s 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.”

“Oh.” Your heart breaks all over again, and you almost call the whole thing off. “That makes sense, I suppose. Probably for the best. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“I promise, Jamie. We are perfect. It’s everyone else who’re the problem.”

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. You’re not utterly miserable, you’re still having one of the most amazing experiences of your career, but you miss him, plainly. The worst part is, you can’t 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.

“I just don’t understand, darling,” Your mother says over the phone, “You never have to work another day in your life with the way James’ career is going — why not just enjoy that?”

“It’s not what I want, Mum,” You groan, making faces because she can’t see them, “I like my job, I love being a journalist. I don’t want to lose it all for a man.”

“Why don’t you just apply somewhere else?” You dad says from somewhere in the background; you didn’t realise he was there. “Football’s not the only sport you love, and it’s not like you’re not already a bit long distance with you both travelling so much.”

You think about what he said. It’s true, mostly. Both your jobs require travel, and you often spend days and weeks away from each other at a time. It’s not usually so bad when you’re not under pressure like the World Cup. Plus, football isn’t your only love. You keep up with at least three other sports over the year, and occasionally cover them when there’s no football for you to write about. It’s not a bad idea.

At the next game you cover, the Australia — Egypt match, you meet a reporter from the Australian ABC, who invites you to watch England’s next match in a bar down the street from the stadium. She’s 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.

It’s nobody’s fault, a good faith tackle, but the slow motion replay show’s the other player’s boot jamming into James’ knee in painful clarity. You gasp, as do many crowded around the screen, but you’re sure you’re feeling more anguish when the tears involuntarily spring to James’ eyes.

You know immediately that it’s serious when he doesn’t pop up like usual. He’s the youngest on the team alongside Sirius, and recovers quicker than most of his teammates. The fact that he’s 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 doesn’t 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 don’t 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 you’re not careful you’ll burn out in everything else. Lying to everyone isn’t natural, and somehow you’re ostracised from everyone on earth because of it. You didn’t know that was possible before now.

What is it all for? All this lying and hiding, and you can’t even be there for your boyfriend when something happens. You’re 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 won’t pick up a call right now, but you can’t let there be nothing from you when he’s allowed to check.

Are you okay?????

That was so scary

I love you so much I’m sorry I’m not there right now

Call me when you can

I’m sorry

It’s not your finest work, desperate and afraid when he probably needs you to be confident, but you can’t manage much else.

It’s 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 can’t wait around for much longer.

James’ injury turns out to be better than you expected. It’s 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 it’s 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 hasn’t happened since 1966.

You’re kept busy, anyway, a historic event garners more than a handful of articles, and there’s much to write about.

The world can hardly believe it when England wins the semi final. It’s ridiculous, honestly. They’ve never been very good, and it’s 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.

“The 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 — Frank, how are you feeling?”

“On top of the world.” Frank lays an arm around your shoulder, leaning in as you extend the mic, “I’m so proud of the boys, everyone’s really giving one-hundred-and-ten percent every single game, and this year it’s really paying off which is incredible.”

“It really is, it’s so great to see you all — ah! Hi, James.” James approaches your other side, caging you in between the two huge athletes.

“Hello, love.” He beams, “Enjoy the game?”

“How could I not?” You laugh, launching into technical questions so you don’t fall into banter with him. You try to keep it even, turning between James and Frank so you don’t appear like you have favourites. You can feel Frank looking between you like you’re all in school again and crushes are the end of the world, but you pretend you don’t notice it.

“It was so great to talk to you both, congratulations again, and hopefully the next time I talk to you, you’ll be World Cup winners.” Frank gives you a quick, friendly hug before leaving, and James dares to press a quick kiss to your cheek — squeezing your side privately — 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.

It’s an hour later when you make it back to the hotel you’re 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.

“Hello?” You pick up without looking, hoping you can get rid of whoever’s calling quickly.

“Hey gorgeous, you asleep yet?” James’ voice is deep and honey-smooth, and it brings a smile to your lips.

“Almost,” You groan for good measure. “Why?”

“The team and partners are going out for celebratory drinks, d’you wanna come?”

“Can I?” The rest of the sentence hangs in the air — you’re not a partner, publicly.

“Don’t even worry about it, lovely. Now they think I have a crush on you, the boys are so on board it’s a bit laughable.”

A half hour later you’re freshened up and ready to go. The team and their partners all greet you kindly, though you’re 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 everyone’s 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.

“Hey!” You grin, placing your glass carefully on the table, “Thanks for letting me come, this has been so lovely.”

“Of course, we’re glad to see you off the record,” Frank jokes and you all laugh, the energy in the room bright and easy.

“You know, we heard something interesting,” Alice leans forward conspiratorially, and you mirror her as if you don’t know what’s coming. Someone should put you in a movie, or something. “A little birdie told me James Potter has a crush on you.”

“What?” You gasp in faux-surprise, and as far as you can tell, they can’t tell the difference. “That’s crazy.”

“To be honest, I’m not surprised. You two have always gotten along far better than the rest of the team — not that anybody dislikes you, of course. I thought you’d have gotten together already, if I’m speaking candidly.”

“Alice!” Frank chides, and his wife doesn’t look a bit ashamed.

“Oops, too candid?” She asks coyly, the two of you sharing a giggle.

“Anyway,” Frank looks at you, “How does that make you feel?” It all feels very adolescent, though you don’t mind at all. You know it’s just because they still see James as a bit of a kid, though they’ve 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 they’re protective.

“He’s such a sweetheart,” You give a non-answer, and the couple pick it up right away.

“Spoken like someone well-media trained.” There’s no malice or frustration in his voice, just enjoyment.

You only wink, bringing your glass back up to your lips.

“Well, guess I’d better go find the reason I’m invited then.” You excuse yourself finally, approaching the bar where Sirius and James are in a very solemn conversation about something no doubt ridiculous.

“Hi boys,” You sing, arm just brushing against James’. James breaks out into a huge grin, whatever they were bickering about long forgotten.

“Baby!” He leans his head on your bicep, staring up at you with doe eyes. It’s this kind of face that always makes you want to kiss him, though you know that’s not appropriate here.

“What’ve you guys been doing?” The question is more directed at Sirius, who seems to be in better shape.

“Well, we were talking shop, but it quickly devolved into how amazing you are, love.” Sirius’ eyebrows waggle like he’s the one singing your praises which makes you laugh.

“How much has he had?”

“Enough to be like this, hopefully not so much he’ll be hungover tomorrow.”

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.

“Mm, kinda fun pretending in front on your friends.” You straddle him, tossing your hair to one side so you can kiss down his throat. James’ eyes roll back immediately, his hands flying to your hips.

“Yeah fun for you,” He all but moans, gently untucking your blouse from your shirt, “Everyone thinks I’m just yearning and pining for you.”

“Aren’t you?” 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.

“Obsessed with you.” 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. It’s 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 you’ll be damned if you don’t oblige.

“You’ll be great today,” You say from the basin as James takes a shower, “Just take it slow.”

“Easy for you to say.” It’s somewhere between joking and sincere as he rubs soap over his chest.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the celebrity, I get it.” You pass him the razor through the shower curtain. James huffs a laugh, and you’re 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. You’ve 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 you’ve 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. It’s the most tense and most fun game you’ve ever been to.

James is a star. They all are, really, but James is playing the best you’ve ever seen him. He finds every space, and is always where he needs to be for an intercept or pass or shot at goal. You’re 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 you’re still on the clock and do need to know what’s going on.

The clock ticks down and it’s still a draw. You might pass out. The people on either side of you look exactly the same. It’s down to the wire.

When it gets to the five minutes of overtime, you’re white-knuckling the railing in front of you. It sails up England’s 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 don’t think you’ve breathed in the last three minutes. Finally, it looks like there’s a real shot at goal in the last minute of the game, Frank dribbling cleverly past the opposing defenders, flushed red with effort. He’s an experienced captain and a great shooter, and you really think he’ll 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 he’ll choke. It’s unlike him, but the pressure he must be feeling is unreal, and you couldn’t 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 don’t have long to ruminate on it. The ball soars into the goal, breezing past the keeper’s 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 they’re still streaming down your cheeks as you’re ushered down to the field to get on camera.

“Um, England hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966, so you can imagine the atmosphere in the stadium tonight. And, I imagine, every pub in England.” You can’t even pretend to be using your reporter voice right now, overwhelmed with euphoria. “Forgive me for crying, but I never thought I’d see a result like this in my lifetime, and I’m one of thousands sharing the same feeling tonight.”

You turn to watch where you’re 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.

You’re in the air before you know it, James’ 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.

It’s 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 you’re still in James’ arms.

His eyes fill with fear, but you can’t bring yourself to feel anything similar. Slowly, you bring the mic back up to your lips.

“I hope you’ll 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, I’ll be moving away from football into covering mainly Formula One. And that I’m hopelessly, utterly in love with James Potter, and have been for some time.”

“Are you serious?” James doesn’t bother to speak into the mic, zeroing in on you, “Since when?”

“Like, two days ago.” Your grin is huge, all your teeth showing as James’ mouth drops open. He doesn’t wait before kissing you again, this time pulling you in so you’re chest to chest.

When you watch the scene later as it goes viral on every platform, you’ll see the reactions of his team behind you, cheering and jumping on each other in disbelief. You’ll 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.

“So,” You recover, despite James and your cameraman both being in a bit of a daze, “How does it feel to have won the game and a hat trick in your first ever World Cup?”

The consequences of James’ little stunt are immediate. You’re 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.

You’re of course invited to the team’s 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 don’t 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 it’s her mother you’re interviewing, decked out in red and white and gushing over how much it means to her to see England win the Cup.

“I want to be just like you when I grow up,” The little girl says, a tiny English flag painted on her cheek.

“Yeah?” You ask, getting down so you’re level with her, “You want to write about sports?”

“Yep,” She says proudly, hands on her hips, “And I want to marry James Potter.”

You burst out into laughter. “Never ever give up on your dreams.”

You take a picture with her on her parents request, then figure it’s probably time to freshen up before heading out to party.

James hardly lets go of you all night. Even then, it’s 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 you’re all severely drunk, Sirius finally gets close. Coming from behind, he lays an arm over both your shoulders.

“You know I love you guys?” He lays his head on James’ shoulder, eyes glazed over, “I’m so happy you guys are together.”

“Thanks, buddy,” James laughs, exchanging entertained looks with you.

“Yeah, maybe we can go for a real double date when we get back home.”

Alice approaches you in the girls bathroom with similar sentiments.

“I cannot believe you managed to keep this a secret for so long,” She laughs, fixing her makeup in the mirror, “How long has this been going on?”

“Well,” You think back, trying to remember exactly how long you’ve been going out, “A little over three years?”

“You’re terrible!” She cries without any malice. “When we go home you and I are having a long chat over some drinks.” 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, it’s already playing on the television, news reporters giving their two cents. Not to mention the internet, but that goes without saying. It’s 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.

“Don’t mind the fact that I’m rooting for the coloniser, this was solely for the romance that y’all motherfuckers should have told me about! This is the most romantic thing I’ver ever seen in my whole life, and I need six books and a movie adaptation like right fucking now. I read on Instagram that she’s moving to the F1 so they can be together publicly, but honestly I’m so sad that we’re not gonna get more post-match interview content from them as a couple.”

The video goes on for longer, with the woman analysing your interactions over the last month, but you don’t 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. You’d 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.

“Hey,” He says, soft and uncharacteristically quiet, “Are you happy?”

“Yeah, ‘course I am. How could I not be?” You swipe a thumb gently across his cheek.

“I just mean… This is a lot all at once. A new job, the whole world knowing we’re together. Are you going to be happy when you’re not working in football anymore? Will you resent me for it in a few years?”

Your heart breaks more and more as he speaks. This is probably the best day of James’ entire life, and he’s bringing it down by worrying about you.

“James,” You say slowly, “This is all I’ve 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 I’ll have a ball, I’m sure. And I love football, true, but I can love it just as much as a spectator. I can’t love you from afar.”

James studies you for a minute, trying to decipher whether you’re only appeasing him. He’s comforted as you stand strong, eye contact unbroken.

“Okay,” He says finally, “As long as you don’t go falling for Piastri.” You break into giggle, shuffling in so your bodies are pressed together. Oscar may be your favourite driver, but he doesn’t compare to James Potter.

You snuggle in together, James’ arms around you.

After a long few minutes, just as you’re dozing off, James speaks again.

“Fuck,” He says, voice croaky with exhaustion, “I just won the World Cup.”

“I know.” You reach up to kiss his mouth three times, “My magic boy.”

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