meels

my requests are open!

[meels7478]

not her day

The football squad gets a rare chance to watch the hockey team train. While everyone else is impressed by Floss's performance, she walks away frustrated, giving Anthony his first glimpse of the pressure she quietly puts on herself.

2.3k words

au masterlist

Training finished earlier than I'd expected.

We'd only just wrapped up the final possession drill when Tommy called us into a huddle in the middle of the pitch. Around me, everyone was already peeling off GPS vests, kicking footballs absent-mindedly between each other and reaching for water bottles while we waited to hear what he had to say.

"The hockey squad are running a tactical session this afternoon," Tommy said once we'd settled. "If you've finished your recovery work, head over and watch for a bit. You're all representing England. Doesn't matter what sport you're playing, there's always something to learn."

That was all the encouragement Jordan needed.

By the time we'd showered and changed, the idea had somehow turned into half the squad making the walk across together. Jude was convinced hockey couldn't be as difficult as people made it look, while Jordan insisted that if he'd picked up a stick as a kid, he'd probably have ended up playing for England anyway.

Declan looked across at him without missing a beat.

"You couldn't even catch a tennis ball yesterday."

"Different skill."

"You tripped over a cone."

"That cone shouldn't have been there."

"It was literally part of the drill."

Jordan ignored him completely.

I laughed, letting the conversation carry on ahead of me as we crossed the training complex. It still caught me off guard how quickly everyone had settled into camp. A few days ago we'd all kept to our own groups without really thinking about it. Now it felt perfectly normal to spend an afternoon watching another England team train.

The hockey pitch came into view just as their warm-up was getting underway.

I'd watched hockey on television before, but standing beside the pitch was completely different. Everything happened at a speed I'd never really appreciated. The ball seemed to spend barely a second on anyone's stick before it was gone again, and every player was constantly scanning, talking and moving into another position before the next pass had even been made.

Jordan folded his arms beside me and watched for less than a minute before quietly shaking his head.

"I've changed my mind."

Bukayo glanced across at him.

"About?"

"I thought the stick would've made it easier."

I couldn't help smiling.

"What part of that looks easy?"

He pointed towards the far side of the pitch where one of the girls had just brought an aerial ball under control without breaking stride before slipping it first time into the path of a teammate.

"That."

Nobody had an answer.

We all just kept watching.

Without really meaning to, my eyes found Floss.

She was exactly where you'd expect her to be, right in the middle of everything. Every few seconds she was pointing someone into position, asking for the ball or opening up another passing lane. The session seemed to revolve around her. Whenever the tempo increased, she increased with it, and somehow everything still looked controlled.

I'd always known she was a good player.

Watching from the side of the pitch, though, was different.

For the first time, I understood why everyone spoke about her the way they did.

As the session moved on, the intensity changed.

The warm-up drills disappeared and the coaches split the squad into smaller units, throwing different scenarios at them with barely enough time to reset between each one. The pace lifted immediately. Every decision had to be made instinctively, every pass carried purpose, and every player seemed to be processing three things before the ball had even reached them.

I found myself following Floss almost without thinking.

She was everywhere.

One minute she was dropping deep to collect the ball, the next she was bursting into space thirty metres further up the pitch. She never seemed to stop talking either, constantly pointing, encouraging and directing the players around her. It wasn't loud or overbearing. It was just... constant. You could tell her teammates trusted her.

Then something changed.

It wasn't obvious enough for anyone to comment on. In fact, if I'd been watching anyone else, I'm not sure I would've noticed it either.

She took a touch that drifted a little further away from her than she'd intended.

Nothing came of it. She recovered immediately and the drill carried on exactly as before.

But she reacted.

Her jaw tightened for the briefest moment before she jogged back into position.

A few minutes later she tried threading a pass through a narrow gap that wasn't quite there. The defender intercepted it, play switched the other way and everyone simply got on with the next repetition.

Floss didn't.

She let out a slow breath, glanced down at the turf for a second and clapped her stick against her glove before demanding the ball again.

Jordan nudged my shoulder.

"She's ridiculous."

I nodded automatically.

She was.

The strange thing was, she didn't seem to think so.

As the drills became more competitive, I noticed little things that probably meant nothing to anyone else. She started rushing back into position after every mistake as though she was trying to erase it before anyone had seen it. Every missed pass was followed by another one that was just a fraction too ambitious. She wasn't falling apart, not even close. From where we were standing, she was still comfortably one of the best players on the pitch.

The difference was that she'd stopped looking free.

It was a feeling I recognised before I could explain it.

I'd done the same thing after matches more times than I cared to admit. One heavy touch or one misplaced pass would creep into the back of your mind, and suddenly you weren't reacting anymore. You were thinking. Trying to force yourself back to the level you expected instead of simply playing.

Most people never noticed.

Athletes always did.

The final conditioned game started, and for a few minutes Floss looked more like herself again. She picked off a pass in midfield, accelerated through a gap that barely existed and created a chance that had the football boys around me muttering under their breath.

"There she is," Bukayo said quietly.

I found myself smiling.

So did she.

Only for a second.

Then she missed a pass she would normally make without thinking, and the smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

Nobody else seemed to register it.

I couldn't stop noticing it.

By the time the final whistle echoed across the pitch, I wasn't entirely sure how long we'd been standing there.

The football boys stretched, chatted amongst themselves and began making their way towards the gate, still talking about how much faster and more physical the session had been than any of us had expected. Jordan was adamant that he could learn the basics within a month, a claim that was immediately met with enough laughter to tell him exactly what everyone thought of that idea.

"I still don't understand how they keep the ball that close to the stick," Jude admitted as we started walking. "If I tried that, it'd end up halfway across the pitch."

"You'd last about thirty seconds," Declan replied.

"I'd last at least a minute."

"Generous."

The conversation carried on around me, but I wasn't really listening anymore.

I looked back towards the pitch instead.

The hockey girls had gathered around their coaches for a quick debrief, most of them chatting as they walked over. A few laughed at something one of the assistant coaches had said, while others balanced sticks over their shoulders as they headed towards the dugout.

Floss stood slightly apart from the group.

Not far enough away for anyone else to notice, just enough that it caught my attention.

She wasn't talking. Her stick rested against one shoulder while she listened to the coaches, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. Every now and then she gave a small nod, but there was none of the energy I'd watched during the first half of the session.

"Coming?" Bukayo called.

I turned around.

The lads had almost reached the path leading back towards the accommodation block.

"Yeah," I replied, quickening my pace until I caught up with them.

For a few minutes I managed to let the conversation pull me back in. Someone had started debating which sport required the best hand-eye coordination, and opinions were flying around with absolutely no evidence to support any of them. It was exactly the sort of argument that would probably continue over dinner.

Even so, my mind kept drifting back to the pitch.

I'd seen that look before.

Not on Floss.

On teammates.

On myself.

It wasn't disappointment with the result. It wasn't even frustration with a particular mistake. It was the quiet annoyance that came from knowing you hadn't quite played to the standard you expected, even if everyone else thought you'd been brilliant.

I knew that feeling far too well.

By the time we reached the accommodation block, the rest of the lads had already started heading inside. I slowed for a moment, glancing back towards the hockey pitches in the distance.

"Go on then," Bukayo said, following my line of sight.

I looked at him.

"You've been thinking about going back there since we left."

"I have not."

"You have."

I didn't bother arguing.

He smiled to himself and nudged my shoulder.

"Go and check on her."

There wasn't anything smug about the way he said it. If anything, it sounded completely matter-of-fact.

I let out a quiet breath before shaking my head.

"I'm just going to see if she's alright."

"I know."

He headed inside without another word, leaving me standing outside for a second longer than I probably needed to.

Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I turned back towards the hockey pitches.

The hockey pitch was almost empty by the time I made it back.

Most of the squad had already disappeared inside, leaving only a few members of staff packing away cones and collecting stray balls from around the edge of the turf. The late afternoon sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows across the pitch, and the place felt strangely quiet after the intensity of the session.

I spotted Floss sitting on the low barrier outside the changing rooms, her hockey stick resting beside her and her laces half undone. She wasn't on her phone or talking to anyone. She was simply staring back across the pitch as if replaying the last two hours in her head.

For a second, I considered turning around.

Then she looked up and noticed me.

A faint smile appeared on her face.

"I thought you'd have escaped by now."

"So did I."

I walked over and leaned against the barrier beside her, leaving enough space that it didn't feel like I was intruding.

"You waiting for someone?"

She shook her head.

"Just taking five minutes."

I nodded.

"I get that."

The silence that followed didn't feel uncomfortable. We watched one of the coaches roll a trolley full of hockey balls towards the equipment shed before the gate clanged shut behind him, leaving the pitch almost completely still.

After a while, I glanced across at her.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You've already started."

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"Were you happy with today?"

She laughed quietly, although there wasn't much humour in it.

"Not even slightly."

"I thought so."

That made her turn towards me.

"You did?"

"I don't think anyone else did."

She looked away again, rubbing her thumb absent-mindedly along the grip of her stick.

"I hate days like that."

"You weren't bad."

"I know."

It wasn't the answer I'd expected.

She noticed the look on my face and smiled to herself.

"That's the frustrating part," she said. "If I'd genuinely played badly, I'd know exactly what needed fixing. Today was just... almost right. Close enough that everyone says you played well, but far enough away that you know it wasn't you."

I nodded slowly.

"I know exactly what you mean."

She looked at me properly then, as though checking whether I was only saying it to make her feel better.

"I had a match last season," I said. "We won comfortably. Everyone was buzzing afterwards." I let out a quiet laugh. "I got back to the hotel and watched one clip of the game. It was a run I'd mistimed in the first half. Nothing came from it, nobody mentioned it, but it annoyed me for about three days."

Her shoulders relaxed for the first time since I'd arrived.

"That's exactly it."

"You replay it over and over."

"Trying to work out why it happened."

"When realistically..." I shrugged, "...you'll probably never do it again."

She smiled.

"I still will."

"I know."

Another comfortable silence settled between us.

This one felt different.

Not because either of us had solved anything, but because neither of us had tried to. There wasn't any advice or motivational speech waiting to be given. We both knew that tomorrow she'd be back out on the pitch demanding more from herself than anyone else ever would.

Eventually she stood, picking up her stick and swinging her backpack over one shoulder.

"I'll stop feeling sorry for myself by breakfast."

"I never thought you were."

She laughed softly.

"Good."

We started walking back towards the accommodation block together, neither of us in any rush to fill the quiet between us. As we reached the path, she nudged my arm lightly with her elbow.

"I'm glad you came back."

I looked across at her.

"I'm glad I did too."

[meels7478]

just a coffee

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

An unexpected coffee run offers Anthony and Floss their first real chance to spend time together away from the structure of camp. Somewhere between the café and the walk back, conversation becomes effortless and friendship begins to feel like routine.

2.6k words

au masterlist

Thursday afternoon arrived with something neither team had experienced since the start of camp.

Free time.

The final whistle brought training to an end just after lunch, and instead of being directed towards another meeting room or recovery session, everyone gathered on the edge of the pitch while the coaches wrapped up the day. A few reminders about hydration and recovery were followed by the words every athlete had been hoping to hear.

"The rest of the afternoon is yours."

The reaction was almost instant. Conversations erupted across the group as people began making plans before the coaches had even finished speaking. A handful of the football boys were already discussing a round of golf on the putting green, while several of the hockey girls had decided that an uninterrupted afternoon in the sun sounded significantly more appealing than doing anything remotely active.

Harriet linked her arm through mine as we wandered back towards the accommodation block, our boots slung over our shoulders and training bags bouncing against our backs.

"I refuse to spend one more minute inside a gym today," she declared.

"I don't think anyone was asking you to."

"Good."

"You were the one suggesting an extra stretch session this morning."

"That was before training."

I laughed.

"So what's changed?"

"My opinion."

Back at the accommodation building, the atmosphere was completely different to every other afternoon we'd had that week. Doors were propped open, music drifted out from different rooms and people wandered through the corridors in hoodies and sliders instead of England kit. It felt less like a national team camp and more like a university halls on a sunny afternoon.

I had barely made it upstairs before there was a knock at my door.

Harriet didn't wait for an answer before letting herself in.

"I'm going for a coffee," she announced, already rummaging through the small crossbody bag hanging from the back of my chair. "Fancy coming?"

"Always."

"Thought so."

I pulled on a fresh hoodie while she searched for her sunglasses, neither of us paying much attention to the chatter coming from the corridor outside.

Just as we were about to leave, Harriet's phone buzzed.

She glanced down at the screen before letting out a quiet groan.

"The physio wants to see me."

"For what?"

"My ankle. Apparently they've finally looked at the GPS data and want to check something." She sighed dramatically before slipping her phone back into her pocket. "Typical."

"I can wait."

"No chance," she replied, shaking her head. "You'll be waiting forever. Go and get one anyway. I'll catch you later."

"Are you sure?"

She smiled.

"I'm sure. Besides, it'll save me from buying yours as well."

With that, she disappeared back into the corridor, leaving me standing in the middle of my room wondering whether I could really justify walking all the way to the café for one coffee.

About thirty seconds later, I decided I probably could.

The café sat just beyond the main training complex, tucked away beside one of the walking trails that wound through the grounds. It wasn't far enough away to need a car, but it was just enough of a walk to feel like you were escaping camp for a little while.

I stepped out into the warm afternoon sunshine, taking the path that cut across the front of the High Performance Centre. The place looked completely different without athletes hurrying from one session to the next. A few people had spread towels across the grass, making the most of the weather, while others sat on benches with recovery boots strapped to their legs, chatting as though they had nowhere else to be.

"Coffee?"

I turned at the sound of my name to find Anthony jogging lightly down the steps behind me, one hand tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

"I was hoping I'd catch you."

"You heading to the café too?"

He nodded. "Saka's decided he wants an iced latte but apparently couldn't be bothered walking to get one himself."

I laughed.

"Harriet had the same idea until the physios kidnapped her."

"So we're both running errands."

"Looks like it."

For a second we both stood there, glancing towards the path ahead.

"Might as well walk together?" Anthony suggested.

"Works for me."

The conversation came easily from the very beginning, helped by the fact that there wasn't any pressure for it to be particularly interesting. They'd reached the point where silence didn't need filling immediately, and the gaps between conversations felt just as comfortable as the conversations themselves.

The path curved through a line of trees before opening out into a stretch of fields that surrounded the training centre. The noise from camp faded behind them, replaced by birdsong and the occasional cyclist passing in the opposite direction.

"I don't think I've properly appreciated how nice it is here," I said, taking a deep breath.

"You've been too busy training."

"True."

He looked out across the fields.

"I've mostly only seen it from the football pitches."

"I've mostly only seen the hockey pitches."

"We've been missing half of it."

We continued walking, taking our time now that neither of us was in any real hurry. Anthony picked up a fallen pinecone from the edge of the path, absentmindedly tossing it between his hands before throwing it towards a nearby bin. It bounced off the rim and landed several metres away.

"Terrible effort," I said.

"I wasn't trying."

"Liar."

"I wasn't."

"You absolutely were."

He grinned, walking over to retrieve it.

"One more."

This time it dropped neatly into the bin.

"There we go."

I folded my arms.

"You couldn't let it go, could you?"

"I'm an athlete."

"That's not an excuse."

"It's a perfectly good excuse."

"It really isn't."

He laughed, shaking his head as we carried on towards the café.

By the time the building came into view through the trees, neither of us had noticed that we'd slowed to little more than a leisurely stroll. The coffee had been the reason for leaving camp, but somewhere along the way the walk itself had quietly become the better part of the afternoon.

The café was busier than either of us had expected.

A steady queue stretched from the counter almost to the door, made up of dog walkers, cyclists, families and a handful of people making the most of the sunny afternoon. The smell of freshly ground coffee filled the room, mixing with the buttery scent of pastries that had only just come out of the oven. It felt comfortably removed from camp, as though we'd wandered into a completely different world for an hour.

"Looks like we weren't the only ones with this idea," I said, glancing around the café.

Anthony smiled. "At least it smells worth the wait."

We joined the back of the queue, neither of us seeming particularly bothered by how slowly it was moving. For the first time all week there wasn't a timetable dictating where we had to be next, and the absence of any urgency made the whole afternoon feel strangely relaxed.

"What do you normally order?" he asked after a moment, studying the menu board overhead.

"A flat white."

He looked back at the menu.

"That's very decisive."

"I've had enough bad coffees to know what I like."

"I wish I was that straightforward."

"You don't know what you want?"

"I never do. Every time I get to the front, I panic and order the first thing I recognise."

I laughed.

"Surely that's not true."

"It absolutely is."

"So you've been staring at the menu this whole time for nothing?"

"Pretty much."

By the time we reached the counter, he still hadn't made a decision.

The barista greeted us with a friendly smile, asking what we'd like.

"I'll have a flat white, please."

She nodded before looking towards Anthony.

He glanced at the menu one last time, let out a quiet breath and smiled.

"I'll have... whatever she's having."

I looked across at him.

"You've had ten minutes."

"I know."

"And you've copied my order."

"It seemed like the safest option."

The barista laughed as she entered the drinks into the till.

"I've seen worse strategies."

Before I could reach for my purse, Anthony had already tapped his card against the reader.

I looked at him.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

"I was planning on paying."

He tucked his wallet back into his pocket as though it wasn't even worth discussing.

"I'll let you get the next one."

The words landed so casually that neither of us gave them much thought.

The next one.

I smiled despite myself.

"Fine," I said, shaking my head. "But only if you promise not to suddenly develop expensive taste."

"I think I can manage that."

A few minutes later our names were called, and Anthony collected both coffees before I had the chance. We stepped back outside into the sunshine, where a small table beneath the shade of an old oak tree had just become free.

Without saying anything, we headed towards it, neither of us in any particular rush to leave. The coffee had given us a destination.

Now, it simply gave us an excuse to stay a little longer.

For a while, neither of us said very much.

The gentle buzz of conversation from inside the café drifted through the open windows, while somewhere across the road a cyclist rang the bell on their handlebars as they passed. It was one of those quiet afternoons where nobody seemed to be in a hurry, and for the first time since arriving at camp, it felt as though the world had slowed down.

I wrapped both hands around my coffee, enjoying the warmth against my fingers.

"I don't think I've sat still for this long all week."

Anthony smiled. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"It's strange, isn't it? You spend all year wishing you had more time to train, then when someone gives you an afternoon off, you realise how tired you actually are."

"I think we've all needed it."

We sat in comfortable silence for another moment, watching people wander in and out of the café. A golden retriever trotted happily past with a tennis ball in its mouth, stopping every few metres to make sure its owner was still following behind.

"I miss my dog," I admitted, watching it disappear around the corner.

"You've got one?"

"A golden retriever called Archie. He's convinced he's a lap dog even though he's far too big."

Anthony laughed.

"My mum's always sending me pictures of ours."

"What have you got?"

"A cockapoo. Teddy."

I smiled.

"That suits him."

"It really does."

"Does he get ridiculously excited every time you go home?"

He nodded.

"He loses his mind. Doesn't matter if I've been away for two days or two months."

"They never forget, do they?"

"No."

The conversation drifted naturally from there. We talked about the little things we missed whenever we were away from home, the meals our families always cooked when we came back, and the strange feeling of unpacking a suitcase only to fill it again a few days later. It wasn't the sort of conversation that changed your life, but it was the kind that made someone feel familiar.

"I've always wondered something," Anthony said eventually.

"What?"

"Do you actually enjoy travelling?"

I thought about it properly before answering.

"I love seeing new places. I don't always love how quickly you have to leave them."

He nodded immediately.

"Exactly."

"You?"

"I think airports have become my least favourite place on earth."

I laughed.

"Even with lounge access?"

"Especially with lounge access."

"That's a bold statement."

"They all start looking the same after a while."

"I suppose they do."

A comfortable quiet settled between us again as we sipped our coffees. It didn't feel like either of us was searching for the next topic anymore. The conversation had found its own rhythm, wandering wherever it wanted to go without either of us forcing it.

Eventually Anthony glanced down at his watch and let out a quiet sigh.

"I've got a feeling we were supposed to be back a while ago."

I checked the time on my phone and laughed.

"I think you're right."

"We should probably head back."

"Probably."

Neither of us stood up immediately.

Instead, we both took one last sip of coffee before gathering our cups and making our way back towards the path, falling into step beside each other as naturally as if we'd been doing it for years.

The walk back felt shorter than the walk there.

Neither of us could really explain why. Maybe it was because we already knew the way, or maybe it was because the conversation had never really stopped. We wandered along the tree-lined path at an easy pace, coffee cups in hand, talking about whatever happened to come to mind. One topic blurred into another so naturally that by the time we'd finished discussing our favourite places to visit in the UK, we somehow found ourselves debating the best meal to order from a takeaway after a late-night match.

"I don't trust anyone who says they don't have a go-to order," I said.

Anthony looked across at me. "You've definitely got one."

"Every single time."

"What is it?"

"Chicken katsu curry."

He nodded approvingly.

"That's a strong choice."

"I know."

"What about you?"

He looked almost embarrassed.

"I get the same thing every time."

"You've already told me you're indecisive."

"I am."

"So how does that work?"

"I spend ten minutes pretending I'll try something new, then order a pepperoni pizza."

I laughed.

"That's incredibly predictable."

"I never claimed to be interesting."

"I think setting fire to garlic bread proved otherwise."

He groaned.

"I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."

"Not a chance."

"You'll be bringing that up for years, won't you?"

"I haven't decided yet."

As the training centre came back into view through the trees, the familiar buildings slowly replaced the quiet countryside around them. A few members of staff crossed between the accommodation block and the performance centre carrying clipboards, while groundskeepers worked on one of the nearby pitches in preparation for the following morning's sessions.

Anthony reached over to the bin beside the entrance and dropped both empty coffee cups inside before pulling open the door for me.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The reception area was almost empty compared to earlier in the day, the calm atmosphere making it feel as though everyone was still making the most of their free afternoon. We had barely stepped inside when Harriet appeared from the opposite corridor carrying an ice pack over one shoulder.

"There you are," she said, looking between the two of us with an amused smile. "I was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"I think we just walked slower than we meant to," I admitted.

"Clearly."

She glanced towards Anthony.

"Did she make you stop every five minutes to look at dogs?"

"I did no such thing."

Anthony considered it for a moment.

"There were... one or two."

I looked at him in disbelief.

"You're unbelievable."

He smiled, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Harriet laughed as she linked her arm through mine.

"I knew it."

"I've been stitched up."

"You absolutely have," Anthony agreed.

I shook my head, trying not to laugh as Harriet steered me towards the staircase.

"I'll remember this."

"I'd expect nothing less."

I looked back over my shoulder just before we disappeared upstairs.

"Thanks for the coffee."

He gave a small nod.

"Anytime."

For reasons I couldn't quite explain, that simple answer lingered with me for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn't because of the coffee.

It was because somewhere between leaving camp and walking back through the front doors, spending time together had stopped feeling like a coincidence and started feeling completely natural.

[meels7478]

bombshell

Harriet and Floss settle in for their nightly Love Island fix, only to discover that the villa is much closer to camp than they ever imagined.

882 words

au masterlist

The common room was unusually full for a Wednesday evening.

Someone had managed to claim the television before dinner, and by the time everyone drifted back with mugs of tea and bowls of cereal, the sofas had filled up surprisingly quickly. A few of the football boys had settled around the pool table, while others wandered in and out of the kitchen in search of dessert.

Harriet and I had far more important plans.

"Hurry up," Harriet whispered dramatically as I returned from making tea. "It's starting."

"I was gone for thirty seconds."

"Exactly. Thirty precious seconds."

I rolled my eyes, handing her a mug before dropping onto the sofa beside her. We'd somehow convinced Freya and Lily to join us, although neither of them seemed nearly as invested as we were.

The familiar Love Island theme music filled the room.

Harriet clapped her hands together.

"Oh, this is going to be good."

Across the room, Jordan looked over from the pool table.

"Please tell me we're not actually watching this."

Harriet didn't even glance up.

"We absolutely are."

"I've never understood the appeal."

"You don't have to understand it," I replied. "You just have to appreciate greatness."

Jordan looked horrified.

"It's people sitting around talking."

"Exactly."

"That's literally all they do."

"And yet here we are."

A few more football boys wandered over, drawn in more by curiosity than genuine interest. Anthony sat down in the armchair opposite, Bukayo claimed the floor with a cushion and Elliot appeared a minute later carrying what looked like enough popcorn to feed the entire squad.

"What have we walked into?" Bukayo asked.

Harriet looked at him as though he'd just insulted her family.

"Culture."

"It's reality TV."

"It's Love Island."

"Difference?"

"A massive one."

Anthony laughed quietly.

"I'm assuming you two watch every episode."

"Every single one," Harriet answered proudly.

"Without fail," I added.

The episode had barely started before questions began flying across the room.

"Who's she with?"

"Why's everyone booing him?"

"Hang on... weren't they together yesterday?"

Harriet paused the episode with a dramatic sigh.

"Right."

She pointed at the screen like a teacher preparing a lesson.

"We're starting from the beginning."

For the next ten minutes, the football boys received what was possibly the most passionate recap in television history. Harriet explained every couple, every argument and every betrayal with the seriousness of someone analysing match footage, while I occasionally interrupted to correct details she had conveniently left out.

"No, because you've skipped the entire Casa Amor situation."

"I'm getting there."

"You've missed vital context."

"There is too much context."

"There is never too much context."

Anthony sat back in his chair, watching us with an amused smile.

"You've both thought about this far too much."

"We've invested weeks of our lives," Harriet replied. "You can't expect us not to care."

Jordan looked genuinely baffled.

"I still don't understand why anyone would willingly watch people argue about who kissed who."

"Because it's entertaining."

"It's exhausting."

"It's brilliant."

Elliot, who had remained suspiciously quiet throughout the whole conversation, reached into the popcorn bowl.

"This is exactly why I don't tell people my brother went on it."

Harriet froze.

"So did I," I said at exactly the same time.

The room went silent.

Elliot looked up.

"What?"

I stared at him.

"...Your brother."

"Yeah?"

"Your brother."

He frowned.

"Will."

Harriet slowly turned towards me.

"No."

I looked back at her.

"No."

Elliot's confusion only deepened.

"What?"

"You mean..." Harriet began carefully, "...Will Anderson?"

"Yeah."

"The Will Anderson?"

He blinked.

"How many do you think there are?"

I felt my jaw drop.

"Oh my God."

Harriet grabbed my arm.

"Oh my God."

"The one with Uma?"

"THE one with Uma!"

Elliot burst out laughing.

"I knew that reaction was coming."

"You never told us!" Harriet exclaimed.

"You never asked."

"You are literally related to Will and Uma."

"I'm related to Will."

"Same difference."

"It is absolutely not the same difference."

Harriet was already pulling her phone out of her pocket.

"I need photographic evidence."

"I promise you," Elliot laughed, "he's still my brother whether you Google him or not."

Anthony looked between the three of us, completely lost.

"Am I missing something?"

"Yes," Harriet and I replied in perfect unison.

"Massively."

For the next fifteen minutes, Elliot reluctantly answered every question we could think of. What had it been like watching the show? Had he met Uma? Were the family group chats completely chaotic? Had Will always been like that? Every answer seemed to create three more questions.

"I've never seen anyone this excited," Anthony admitted quietly, leaning across towards me.

I smiled.

"You've just witnessed every girl's dream conversation."

"I'm beginning to understand."

By the end of the episode, the football boys were somehow discussing bombshells and recouplings as though they'd been watching all season, Jordan had confidently declared himself an expert despite understanding almost nothing, and Elliot had officially sworn never to mention his brother again.

As everyone eventually wandered upstairs for the night, Harriet looked across at me with complete satisfaction.

"Best episode yet."

I nodded.

"And it wasn't even because of the villa."

[meels7478]

my requests are always open for any ideas you have about anthony and floss! also please note my posts will be slowing down as i am going back to uni after break so please bear with 🙏🙏

[meels7478]

finding routine

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

As camp settles into a comfortable routine, breakfasts, walks between sessions and quiet evenings in the common room begin turning strangers into genuine friends

2.1k words

au masterlist

7:30am

By the fourth morning, camp had already settled into a rhythm.

Breakfast was at half past seven. Training started at nine. Lunch was always busy, afternoons disappeared in a blur of meetings and recovery, and by the evening everyone somehow found themselves back in the common room before wandering upstairs to bed.

It had only been a few days, but it already felt normal.

I wandered into the dining hall with Harriet, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes as we joined the queue for breakfast. Around us, the room buzzed with the same familiar sounds it had every morning. Coffee machines hissed in the background, cutlery clinked against plates and conversations drifted between tables as people compared training schedules or complained about how sore they were.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to those Yo-Yo tests," Harriet said, stretching one shoulder before reaching for a plate. "My legs still hate me."

"You say that every year."

"Because every year they're awful."

"They're supposed to be."

"I know," she sighed dramatically. "I just don't have to like them."

We filled our plates in comfortable silence, adding far more fruit than either of us probably needed before making our way through the dining hall. Without really thinking about it, my eyes scanned the room for a familiar table.

"They're over there," Harriet said casually, nodding towards the windows.

I followed her gaze.

Bukayo was halfway through what looked like his second bowl of cereal, gesturing animatedly as he told a story I couldn't hear from across the room. Anthony sat beside him, listening with the same quiet smile I'd started noticing more often over the last couple of days. Morgan was shaking his head, clearly unconvinced by whatever Bukayo was saying.

It hadn't even crossed my mind to sit anywhere else.

"Morning," Bukayo called as we reached the table. "Perfect timing. Morgan's accusing me of making this whole story up."

Morgan looked at us expectantly.

"He says he once convinced his Year Six teacher he was allergic to cross-country."

"I never said allergic."

"You implied it."

"I implied I physically couldn't run."

"Which wasn't true."

"It felt true."

Harriet pulled out the chair beside him. "I'm with Morgan."

"Thank you," Morgan said.

Bukayo looked at me. "Floss?"

"I think you're both missing the important question."

"And what's that?"

"Did it work?"

A grin spread across his face.

"For one week."

Harriet let out a disappointed laugh.

"I've backed the wrong side."

"I told you," Bukayo said triumphantly.

I slid into the empty chair opposite Anthony, setting my mug on the table.

"You've started something now."

"I usually do."

Anthony looked up from his breakfast.

"I can believe that."

It caught me off guard.

Not because of what he'd said, but because he'd said it at all.

A few days ago, he probably wouldn't have joined the conversation. Now the comment came so naturally that nobody even paused to acknowledge it.

I smiled across the table.

"He's getting brave."

"I've spent enough time around you lot," Anthony replied, taking another bite of toast. "I figured I had to start defending myself."

Bukayo nodded approvingly.

"See? Character development."

"I think that's the first funny thing you've ever said," Harriet told Anthony.

"I'll take that."

The conversation rolled on as breakfast usually did, jumping from one completely unrelated topic to another. Before long we were debating which sport had the earliest starts, whether pineapple belonged on pizza and why the coffee machine only seemed to break whenever Jordan wanted one.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realised something.

None of us had chosen these seats.

Nobody had suggested sitting together.

At some point over the last few days, this had simply become our table.

8:15am

The walk from the dining hall to the training pitches had become almost as much a part of the routine as breakfast itself. Every morning, clusters of athletes spilled out onto the pathways at roughly the same time, coffee cups in hand, hoodies zipped up against the cool Staffordshire air. Some conversations lasted only a few minutes before teams split off in different directions, while others carried all the way to the changing rooms.

Our little group always seemed to end up together.

Nobody ever suggested it. It just happened.

Bukayo walked a few steps ahead with Harriet, passionately arguing that cereal should be eaten at any time of day, while Anthony and I followed behind at a more relaxed pace. The conversation drifted comfortably between us, never feeling like either of us had to fill the silence.

"My brothers would agree with him," I said, nodding towards Bukayo. "There was a phase where one of them ate Weetabix for dinner every night."

Anthony laughed. "How many brothers have you got again?"

"Four. Three older and one younger."

He looked at me with genuine sympathy.

"That explains a lot."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"I imagine you had to fight to get a word in."

"I still do."

He smiled. "I'm one of three."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"That also explains a lot."

He frowned, amused.

"What does?"

"You're very patient."

"I don't know if my brothers would agree."

"I bet they would."

Before he had a chance to reply, Bukayo slowed his pace and looked back over his shoulder.

"Are you two coming, or have you started your own walking club back there?"

"We're coming," I called, laughing as Anthony shook his head.

"We're never going to hear the end of that, are we?"

"Definitely not."

Without either of us realising it, we'd already fallen into step again as we crossed the final stretch towards the training pitches. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but it no longer felt as though we were making conversation because we happened to be in the same place.

It was simply becoming part of the day.

7:30pm

The common room had quickly become my favourite place to end the day. Nobody ever organised it, but after dinner everyone naturally drifted there, drawn in by the promise of comfortable sofas and nowhere else they needed to be. The television played quietly in the background, though hardly anyone seemed interested in it. A game of pool had claimed one corner of the room, someone was shuffling a deck of cards near the windows, and every few minutes laughter erupted from the kitchen as another group discovered whatever snacks had been left behind.

I had claimed the far end of one of the sofas, curled beneath a blanket with a novel resting open on my lap. I wasn't getting much reading done. Every time I reached the bottom of the page, another conversation nearby caught my attention, and before I knew it I'd forgotten everything I'd just read.

"You're definitely not on that chapter anymore."

I looked up to find Anthony standing beside the sofa, a bottle of water in one hand and the faintest smile on his face.

"What makes you say that?"

"You've turned the same page three times."

I glanced down at the book and laughed.

"I've been caught."

"I was wondering how long it'd take you to notice."

He nodded towards the empty armchair opposite me. When I gestured for him to sit, he dropped into it with a tired sigh, resting his elbows on the armrests as he looked around the room.

"It's weird how quickly this has become normal," he said after a moment.

"What has?"

"All of this." He motioned vaguely around the common room. "A week ago none of us knew each other. Now it feels like everyone ends up in here every night."

I smiled because I'd been thinking exactly the same thing.

"I know. It already feels strange imagining everyone eating separately."

Across the room, Jordan celebrated potting a ball on the pool table as though he'd just scored a ninety-third minute winner. Declan's groan carried across the room a second later, followed by at least three people telling Jordan to calm down.

Anthony shook his head.

"He celebrates everything."

"I've noticed."

"He celebrated finding a clean towel this morning."

I laughed.

"That sounds about right."

"He'll celebrate anything if there's an audience."

"I feel like Harriet's exactly the same."

He looked genuinely surprised.

"Really?"

"Oh, absolutely. She acts all sensible until there's any sort of competition, then she becomes unbearable."

"I'd pay to watch those two on opposite teams."

"They'd both claim the referee was against them."

We sat watching the latest disagreement unfold around the pool table, both of us trying not to laugh as Jordan attempted to explain why the black ball had somehow been in the wrong place.

After a few moments I closed my book properly and set it beside me.

"Right, I've got a question."

Anthony looked over.

"Go on."

"What's one thing people always assume about footballers that's completely wrong?"

He thought about it for a second before answering.

"That we're all obsessed with football all the time."

"You mean you're not?"

"I love it," he said, smiling, "but I don't go home and watch four matches every night."

"I don't know. I thought you all slept in full kit."

He laughed properly at that.

"Only on special occasions."

"I knew it."

"What about hockey players?" he asked. "What's the biggest misconception?"

I pretended to think.

"That we're sensible."

His eyebrows lifted.

"You're not convincing me otherwise."

"Exactly."

Before I could elaborate, Bukayo wandered over carrying an almost empty bowl of popcorn.

"There you are," he said, dropping onto the sofa beside me without waiting for an invitation. "Morgan's trying to convince everyone he could beat Harriet in a fitness test."

Anthony looked at me.

"He's brave."

"He's delusional," I replied.

Almost as if she'd heard her name, Harriet appeared from the kitchen balancing two mugs of hot chocolate. She handed one to me before settling into the space Bukayo had made beside me, immediately looking between the three of us.

"What have I missed?"

"Morgan thinks he's fitter than you."

She took a slow sip of her drink.

"That's adorable."

"I'm serious!" Morgan called from the other side of the room.

"No, you're not," Harriet shouted back. "You're just confident."

Laughter spread across the room as Morgan launched into an enthusiastic defence of himself, dragging half the football team into the argument. Before long everyone had an opinion, stories were flying across the room about the morning's training, somebody had produced a packet of biscuits from somewhere, and the conversation drifted from one ridiculous topic to another without ever really settling.

At some point I noticed my book was still sitting exactly where I'd left it.

I hadn't read another page all evening, and for once, I didn't mind in the slightest.

10:45pm

The corridor was noticeably quieter by the time everyone finally started calling it a night.

Doors opened and closed one after another as people peeled away in twos and threes, offering sleepy goodnights before disappearing into their rooms. Somewhere further down the hall someone was still laughing loudly enough that it echoed off the walls, quickly followed by a chorus of shushing that only made them laugh harder.

I had just escaped Harriet's room after what was supposed to have been a "quick chat" that somehow turned into nearly an hour when another door opened a few rooms down.

Anthony stepped out of Bukayo's room at the same time I pulled mine shut behind me.

He spotted me almost immediately.

"You survived?"

"Barely," I replied, smiling. "Harriet and Freya started debating whether cereal counts as soup."

He looked genuinely confused.

"...What?"

"Exactly."

He laughed, falling into step beside me as we headed down the corridor.

"I've just spent forty-five minutes listening to Bukayo explain why he thinks he'd win Love Island."

I turned to look at him.

"Please tell me nobody agreed."

"Not one person."

"I've suddenly got a lot more respect for Morgan."

"He was trying to convince him otherwise."

"Wasted effort."

We walked the rest of the way at an unhurried pace, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one ridiculous story to another. There was no awkwardness anymore and no pressure to keep talking. Every now and then one of us would remember something that had happened during the day, laugh about it for a minute or two, and then let the silence settle again.

We reached my room first.

"Well," I said, pulling my key card from my pocket, "I'll see you at breakfast."

"If Jordan hasn't already eaten everything."

"He'll definitely have eaten everything."

Anthony smiled.

"Night, Floss."

"Night, Anthony."

I stepped inside, waiting until I heard his footsteps continue down the corridor before closing the door behind me.

It had been a completely ordinary conversation.

For some reason, it was the one I'd smiled about the most all day.

[meels7478]

baseline

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

Fitness testing pushes every athlete to their limit, revealing strengths nobody expected and quietly reshaping first impressions.

3.7k words

au masterlist

The following morning started considerably earlier than anyone would have liked.

By quarter to seven the paths leading towards the High Performance Centre were already busy, a steady stream of athletes making their way across the grounds with coffee cups in one hand and backpacks slung over the other. The usual chatter was noticeably quieter than it had been the previous morning. Whether that was because everyone was still waking up or because nobody quite knew what to expect from the day's testing, I wasn't sure.

Harriet walked beside me, suppressing a yawn as she took another sip of coffee.

"If they make us run before I've finished this," she said, lifting the cup slightly, "I'm going home."

"You can't go home."

"I know."

"You don't even have a car."

"I'll borrow one."

I laughed. "That's your solution?"

"It's the only one I've got."

By the time we reached the entrance to the High Performance Centre, the courtyard outside was already filling up. Long rows of testing equipment had been set up across the athletics track and adjoining indoor training hall. Timing gates stood in neat pairs along the sprint lanes, stacks of force plates had been positioned beneath a covered marquee, and sports scientists moved between stations carrying clipboards and tablets, checking equipment before the athletes arrived.

It looked less like a training session and more like a science experiment.

Bukayo wandered over as we stood taking it all in, adjusting the GPS vest draped over his shoulder.

"Morning," he said. "Please tell me one of you knows what half of this stuff does."

"I know what some of it does."

He looked hopeful.

"I wish I hadn't asked."

Harriet smiled into her coffee.

"I've missed this already."

A whistle cut through the conversations gathering around us.

David Ralph and Thomas Tuchel stood together near the centre of the track, surrounded by members of the sports science team. Once everyone had gathered into a rough semicircle, David waited until the last few conversations died away before speaking.

"Morning, everyone. Today is about gathering information. Every athlete in this camp comes from a different sporting background, with different physical demands and different strengths. These assessments help us understand exactly where each of you is starting from."

He paused for a moment, looking around the group.

"This isn't about comparing football to hockey."

There was barely a second of silence before Jordan Pickford's voice carried across the crowd.

"So... we're absolutely comparing football to hockey?"

Laughter rippled through the group.

Even David smiled.

"I had a feeling someone would say that."

Jordan shrugged innocently.

"I'm just asking the questions everyone else is thinking."

Thomas stepped forward, folding his arms across his chest.

"If you spend more time worrying about somebody else's results than your own, you've already failed today's objective."

"Right," Jordan said with a dramatic nod. "I'll compare quietly."

That earned another round of laughter, the last of the early morning nerves disappearing almost instantly.

One of the sports scientists began handing out heart rate monitors while another demonstrated how to fit the GPS units that would be worn throughout the testing. Around me, conversations started up again as everyone adjusted straps and compared the unfamiliar equipment, the atmosphere shifting from uncertainty to quiet anticipation.

I clipped the monitor into place beneath my training top and glanced towards the first testing station. Sprint lanes stretched out ahead of us, perfectly marked and waiting.

This was going to be interesting.

Once everyone had been fitted with heart rate monitors and GPS units, the sports scientists split us into small mixed groups and handed each team a rotation schedule. Every twenty minutes we would move to a new station, working our way through a series of assessments before finishing with the Yo-Yo test later that morning.

I glanced down at the sheet in my hand.

Station One: Vertical Jump.

Station Two: Agility.

Station Three: Reaction Time.

Station Four: Sprint Testing.

Station Five: Grip Strength.

Harriet leaned over my shoulder. "Well, that's reassuring."

"What is?"

"They've left the running until later. I can mentally prepare."

"You'll be fine."

"I know I'll be fine. I just don't want to do it."

The first hour passed quicker than I expected. At each station we were greeted by another sports scientist armed with a clipboard and an alarming amount of technology. Every jump, sprint and change of direction was measured, timed and recorded before we were quietly moved on to the next assessment. It was efficient without feeling rushed, and before long everyone had settled into the rhythm of listening, performing and rotating.

The vertical jump station was exactly what it sounded like. We each took turns launching ourselves off the force plates while the coaches monitored power output and landing mechanics. Unsurprisingly, the footballers seemed determined to outjump one another, celebrating every extra centimetre as though it had won them a cup final.

"I definitely got higher than that," Jordan insisted, peering at the tablet in disbelief.

The sports scientist didn't even look up.

"You definitely didn't."

"I'm telling you, the machine's broken."

"The machine's worked perfectly for the last three hundred athletes."

"Maybe it broke on me."

Harriet nudged my shoulder as we walked towards the agility station. "He's going to question every single result today."

"He questioned gravity."

"I know."

By the time we reached the reaction testing area, everyone was noticeably more relaxed. The awkwardness that had lingered during the first morning of camp seemed to have disappeared altogether, replaced by the kind of easy conversation that came naturally when people had spent hours moving from one challenge to the next.

Anthony happened to be in my group again, along with Bukayo and Harriet. I wasn't sure if the sports scientists had planned it that way or if we'd simply fallen into the same rotation by chance, but nobody seemed to question it.

The reaction test looked deceptively simple. Five coloured lights were fixed to a curved board, flashing at random intervals while we raced to hit them as quickly as possible. It lasted less than thirty seconds, but by the end of it my legs felt as though I'd been chasing a hockey ball around for an entire quarter.

Bukayo stepped away from the board, shaking his head.

"That's harder than it looks."

"You've only just realised that?" Harriet asked.

"I thought it'd just be pressing lights."

"You were pressing lights."

"They kept moving."

"They're lights."

"They were very fast lights."

Anthony laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair as he stepped up for his turn. Unlike the rest of us, he barely seemed flustered. He simply waited for the first light to flash before moving with calm, efficient precision, never rushing but never wasting a movement either.

I found myself watching for longer than I'd meant to.

He was different when he competed.

Not louder or more animated. If anything, he became even quieter. Every movement seemed deliberate, every decision made without hesitation. It reminded me of the players I'd grown up admiring in hockey. The ones who never looked rushed because they'd already worked out what they were going to do before anyone else had.

"Floss."

I looked up to find one of the sports scientists smiling in my direction.

"You're up."

I stepped forward, rolling my shoulders back as I took my place at the board.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded.

By the time we reached the sprint testing station, the sun had climbed high enough to warm the track, and the relaxed atmosphere that had settled over the group disappeared almost instantly. Sprinting was different. There was nowhere to hide behind teamwork or tactics. Once your foot crossed the start line, the stopwatch did all the talking.

The sports scientists had set up timing gates every ten metres along the lane, with tablets connected to each one displaying split times almost immediately after each run. Athletes gathered along the fence while they waited for their turn, watching the numbers appear on the screen with far more interest than anyone cared to admit.

"Twenty metres," one of the coaches called out. "Two attempts each. Give yourself a few minutes between runs."

Jordan stretched theatrically beside us.

"I'd just like everyone to know I've already decided the timing gates are unreliable."

"You haven't even run yet," Harriet pointed out.

"I'm getting my excuses in early."

"I respect the commitment."

A few footballers went first, posting exactly the sort of times everyone expected. Quick, explosive, efficient. Every result was met with a few nods from the coaches before the next athlete stepped up to the line.

I barely paid attention to the numbers.

Sprint training had never really been about comparing yourself to anyone else. You focused on your own execution, trusted the work you'd done, and let the result take care of itself.

When my name was called, I jogged over to the start line and crouched into position, blocking out the conversations behind me. The rubber surface beneath my spikes felt familiar beneath my feet. I took one slow breath, fixed my eyes on the timing gate twenty metres ahead and waited.

"Ready?"

I nodded.

The whistle sounded.

My first three strides were all about power. Then everything settled into rhythm. The finish line came almost as quickly as it had disappeared beneath me, and I slowed gradually, turning back towards the coaches as one of the sports scientists frowned at the tablet in his hand.

He looked at the screen again before glancing up at me.

"Florence, would you mind running that again?"

For a split second my stomach dropped.

Had I clipped the timing gate?

Started too early?

"I've done something wrong?"

The sports scientist smiled, shaking his head.

"Not at all. We'd just like to confirm the result."

"Oh."

I walked back to the start line, trying not to overthink it. Behind me, Harriet gave me an encouraging thumbs up.

"Go again," she called. "You've got this."

The second run felt almost identical to the first. I crossed the line, slowing to a jog before looking back towards the tablet. This time two sports scientists were looking at the screen instead of one.

One of them gave a short whistle.

"Almost identical."

"Within two hundredths," the other replied.

A few heads turned.

"What'd she run?" someone asked.

The coach read the number aloud.

There was a brief silence before Bukayo looked from the tablet to me.

"Hang on."

He frowned.

"Seriously?"

I shrugged, still trying to catch my breath.

"I just ran."

Harriet didn't even look surprised.

"She does that."

"You say that like it's normal," Bukayo replied.

"It is normal."

"For her."

I looked over towards the rest of the group, where Anthony had just finished his own run. He wasn't looking at the scoreboard anymore. His attention had shifted across to me, a hint of surprise written across his face before he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

It wasn't admiration.

It wasn't disbelief.

It was the look of another athlete recognising something exceptional when he saw it.

For reasons I couldn't quite explain, that meant more than the number on the screen ever would.

The Yo-Yo test was saved until last.

A collective groan spread through the group as one of the sports scientists carried a speaker onto the track and placed it beside a line of cones. It didn't matter what sport you played or how fit you were. Nobody enjoyed the Yo-Yo test.

"I've been dreading this all morning," Harriet admitted, rolling her shoulders as we waited for instructions.

"You've been dreading everything all morning," I pointed out.

"Exactly. This is just the final hurdle."

David stepped forward once everyone had gathered.

"You all know the format," he said. "Run to the marker before the beep, turn, run back before the next beep and keep going until you can't make the line in time. Pace yourselves early. Don't race each other. This isn't about beating the person next to you."

Jordan raised a hand.

"So we're definitely racing each other?"

A few people laughed.

David smiled patiently. "I knew that was coming."

The first few levels felt almost too easy. Conversations stopped as everyone settled into their own rhythm, feet striking the track in near perfect unison as the steady beeps echoed across the athletics field.

Back and forth.

Turn.

Back again.

The pace increased gradually, almost without you noticing. The recovery between each shuttle became shorter, conversations replaced by heavier breathing as the first athletes began dropping out.

One footballer missed the line by half a step and peeled away with a frustrated shake of his head. A few shuttles later, another followed, then another. The sports scientists quietly recorded scores without saying much, offering the occasional nod of encouragement as athletes stepped aside.

I stopped paying attention to who had already finished.

At this point, the only thing that mattered was making the next line.

The beep sounded.

Turn.

Run.

Again.

The field had thinned considerably by the time I finally looked up. Harriet had already finished and was standing with her hands on her hips, recovering alongside a growing group of athletes watching from the side. Further down the line, Anthony was still running, his stride controlled and unhurried. Across from him, one of the other hockey girls was matching the pace comfortably.

The next level began.

Another athlete dropped out.

Then another.

Without anyone really noticing, only three of us were left.

The beep came quicker now, forcing us into sharper turns and longer strides. My lungs burned, my legs felt heavier than they had all morning and every instinct was telling me to slow down, but years of hockey had taught me to trust that feeling rather than fear it.

One more shuttle.

Then another.

The hockey player beside me pulled up first, hands resting on her knees as she laughed at herself.

"I'm done."

Anthony and I kept going.

The next beep sounded.

I made the line.

Turned.

Made it back.

The following shuttle was the one that got me.

I crossed the line a fraction too late, hearing the whistle before I even had the chance to turn around again. I slowed to a walk, bent over with my hands on my knees and let out a breathless laugh that was somewhere between relief and complete exhaustion.

"I hate that test," I managed, still trying to catch my breath.

"I don't think anyone likes it."

I looked up to find Anthony stopping beside me, just as out of breath as I was. A sheen of sweat clung to his forehead and he was still breathing hard enough that the sentence came out in pieces.

"You make it look... a lot easier... than it is."

I laughed again, shaking my head.

"I promise you it isn't."

For a moment neither of us said anything. We stood side by side, trying to recover enough oxygen to form proper sentences while the sports scientists noted down the final scores.

Anthony glanced across at me, a small smile appearing despite how exhausted he looked.

"I was hoping you'd stop before I did."

"So was I."

That earned a proper laugh from both of us.

It lasted no more than a few seconds before Harriet wandered over, offering me my water bottle.

"You two finished trying to kill yourselves?"

"I think so," I replied, taking a grateful drink.

"Good," she said. "Because recovery's next, and if Jordan complains about ice baths for the next hour, I'm making him sit in one fully clothed."

Somewhere behind us, Jordan's voice carried across the track.

"I heard that."

"I'm glad."

Anthony chuckled quietly, and together we started walking back towards the High Performance Centre with the rest of the group, everyone equally exhausted and, somehow, a little more familiar than they had been that morning.

By half past eight, the camp had settled into a much slower pace.

Most people had showered and changed into hoodies and tracksuit bottoms, the competitive edge from the day's testing replaced by the familiar tiredness that came after a full day of training. The common room had become the unofficial meeting place. A football match played quietly on the television in one corner, though only a handful of people were actually watching it. Someone had started a game of pool near the windows, while a few others hovered around the kitchen making protein shakes or raiding the snack cupboard.

Harriet and I wandered in with mugs of tea, scanning the room for somewhere to sit. Every sofa seemed to be occupied until I spotted four empty seats tucked away near the bookshelves. We headed over without thinking too much about it, only for Bukayo to appear a moment later carrying two bowls of popcorn.

"Perfect," he said, dropping onto the sofa opposite us. "I was hoping someone sensible would be here."

Harriet raised an eyebrow.

"You came to the wrong place."

Anthony arrived a minute later with a bottle of water in one hand and nodded towards the last remaining seat.

"Anyone sitting here?"

"Go for it," I said, tucking my feet underneath me. "Unless Jordan suddenly appears."

"I'm everywhere," Jordan called as he wandered past, helping himself to a handful of Bukayo's popcorn without so much as asking.

"You know that's stealing, don't you?" Bukayo said.

Jordan shrugged. "Sharing."

"You didn't ask."

"I knew you'd say yes."

"I absolutely wouldn't."

Jordan grinned and continued across the room as though he'd won the argument.

I pulled my laptop onto my knees, intending to spend twenty minutes making a start on a lab report before calling it a night. I had barely opened the document when Bukayo leaned forward.

"You're actually studying?"

I looked up from the screen and smiled.

"I've got a lab report due next week."

"At this time of night?" Jordan asked, reappearing as if he'd somehow heard the conversation from the other side of the room.

"I don't get extensions because I play hockey."

He looked genuinely surprised.

"That feels harsh."

"It would be if everyone else on my course wasn't in exactly the same position."

Anthony glanced across from the armchair opposite, his attention shifting from the football on the television to the assignment on my screen.

"What do you study?"

"Biochemistry."

There was a beat of silence.

Morgan Rogers, who'd wandered over midway through the conversation with a protein shake in hand, frowned.

"Sorry... what?"

I laughed.

"Biochemistry."

"I thought hockey was your full-time job."

"It is."

"So how does that work?"

"I study part-time through Loughborough," I explained, closing the laptop for the time being. "Most of it's online. I watch lectures whenever I can, write assignments in the evenings and usually end up taking coursework with me whenever we're travelling."

Morgan blinked.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It can be."

"So why do it?"

I thought about it for a second before answering.

"I've always loved science. Hockey won't last forever, so I wanted something I'd enjoy after I finish playing."

Anthony nodded thoughtfully.

"I don't know how you fit it all in."

"I ask myself the same question sometimes."

The conversation drifted naturally after that, moving from university to schools, then somehow onto childhoods. I couldn't even remember who asked the question first.

"So where did you go to school?" Bukayo asked.

"Cheltenham Ladies' College."

He frowned for a moment before his eyes widened.

"The posh one?"

I laughed.

"...Probably."

"I've seen that on TikTok," Jordan announced, dropping onto the arm of the sofa as though he'd been invited.

Harriet immediately looked at me with a grin that told me exactly where this was heading.

"Oh, don't let her fool you."

I groaned.

"Hattie."

"No, no. They need the full picture."

"There is no full picture."

"There absolutely is."

She looked around the group.

"She could've done horse riding."

"I didn't do horse riding."

"You could have."

"I chose hockey."

"You had the option."

"I was twelve."

Bukayo looked between the two of us, thoroughly entertained.

"So you actually boarded?"

"Yeah."

"From twelve?"

I nodded.

"It sounds worse than it was. After the first few weeks it just became normal. You live with your best friends, you play sport every day, you're all going through the same thing together." I smiled to myself. "Honestly, I loved it."

Anthony had been listening quietly for most of the conversation, but this time he spoke up.

"I couldn't imagine leaving home that young."

"No?"

He shook his head.

"I grew up in Liverpool. My family's always been close. I think I would've really struggled."

"I probably would've if I'd left any earlier," I admitted. "But by twelve, I was desperate to play as much hockey as I could. It felt like the right place for me."

Jordan folded his arms dramatically.

"So what you're telling me is... you basically lived in Hogwarts."

The room burst into laughter.

"It wasn't Hogwarts."

Harriet pointed at me.

"It kind of was."

"There weren't moving staircases."

"There might as well have been."

"I never once saw anyone carrying a wand."

"You had Latin."

"I wasn't any good at Latin."

"You still had it."

The conversation carried on for another half an hour, jumping from school stories to childhood holidays, embarrassing injuries and the strangest places we'd ever travelled for sport. Nobody seemed in any rush to leave until someone glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Ten o'clock," Morgan said, standing up with a groan. "I'm done."

One by one we all climbed to our feet, collecting empty mugs and water bottles before heading towards the door.

As we stepped into the corridor, Bukayo shook his head.

"I still can't believe you had a Latin teacher."

"I never said I was good at Latin."

Harriet laughed.

"She definitely wasn't."

I looked at her in mock offence.

"Traitor."

She only laughed harder as we started back towards our rooms together, the conversation carrying on all the way down the corridor as though we'd known each other for years instead of a handful of days.

[meels7478]

getting acquainted

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

The first full day of camp begins with an early start, a shared breakfast and the announcement of a Team England scavenger hunt designed to break down barriers between the football and hockey squads. What starts as a simple team-building exercise quickly becomes the perfect way to discover that first impressions aren't always accurate.

4.3k words

au masterlist

I woke up a few minutes before my alarm, which wasn't unusual. Years of early training sessions had done that to me. For a second I lay still, staring at the ceiling while my brain caught up with where I was. Then I spotted the England hoodie hanging over the back of my chair, the neatly folded kit on the desk, and the view of the training pitches beyond the curtains.

Camp.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth before I could stop it.

I reached across to silence my alarm just before it buzzed and climbed out of bed, padding over to the window. The grounds were already coming to life. Grounds staff were making their way across the pitches, sprinklers hissed quietly in the distance, and every now and then a buggy rolled between buildings carrying equipment for the day ahead.

There was something about mornings here that I loved. Everything felt calm before the schedules took over and every minute of the day was accounted for.

A quick shower later, I pulled on my England training kit, braided my hair and clipped on the accreditation pass that had somehow already become another thing I was responsible for not losing. I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror, deciding I looked awake enough to face the world, before grabbing my room key and phone from the desk.

Just as I reached for the door, three quick knocks sounded from the other side.

I smiled to myself.

Only one person knocked like that.

Pulling the door open, I found Harriet exactly as expected, coffee in one hand and her room key twirling absent-mindedly around her finger.

"Morning," she said. "Please tell me you're ready because Freya's threatening to leave without us."

I stepped into the corridor and locked my door behind me. "Freya? Leaving on time? I don't believe you."

"I don't either," Harriet replied. "She's just discovered the breakfast buffet exists, so she's suddenly become the most punctual person in England."

That made me laugh.

The corridor was already busy. Doors opened every few seconds as athletes drifted out into the hallway wearing matching England kit, greeting teammates they hadn't seen since the previous evening or comparing schedules for the day ahead. It felt oddly comforting, like the organised chaos that always came with the first proper morning of camp.

By the time Harriet and I reached the lifts, Bea and Freya were already waiting.

"There you are," Freya said dramatically. "I was moments away from starving."

"You've been awake for twenty minutes," Harriet pointed out.

"Exactly. That's basically fasting."

Bea shook her head, laughing quietly as the lift doors opened. "She's been talking about breakfast since half past six."

"I have not."

"You asked if the dining hall would have hash browns before you'd even brushed your teeth."

"I like to be prepared."

The four of us stepped into the lift together, and as the doors slid shut, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. Four girls in matching white England hoodies, still laughing before eight o'clock in the morning.

It struck me then how lucky I was.

There was nowhere else I'd rather have been.

The dining hall was already buzzing by the time we stepped inside. Conversations bounced off the high ceilings as athletes wandered between the buffet stations carrying trays piled with everything from fruit and yoghurt to full English breakfasts. Fresh coffee filled the room, mixing with the smell of toast and scrambled eggs, and somewhere in the background a member of staff was trying, with little success, to stop someone from walking away with an entire bowl of bananas.

Freya's eyes lit up.

"I've been thinking about this breakfast since yesterday."

"I know," Harriet replied dryly. "You mentioned it at least six times."

"I appreciate good catering."

"You appreciate unlimited food."

"Also true."

I picked up a plate, laughing to myself as we joined the queue. The spread was almost ridiculous. Fresh pastries, porridge with every topping imaginable, fruit platters, eggs cooked three different ways, pancakes, cereals, smoothies and more varieties of bread than I thought existed. It was exactly what you'd expect from a national performance centre.

"Blueberries again?" Harriet asked as I reached for another spoonful.

"They're good for recovery."

"You've said that every camp."

"Because it's true."

"I think you just like blueberries."

"I definitely just like blueberries."

By the time we'd filled our trays, almost every table in the dining hall was occupied. There weren't separate areas for football and hockey like I'd half expected. Instead, athletes seemed to be dropping into whichever seats were free, conversations flowing easily between sports.

"Looks like we're over there," Bea said, nodding towards the only table with enough empty chairs.

As we walked over, I recognised a few faces from yesterday's introductions. Jordan Pickford was halfway through a plate of toast, Declan Rice was deep in conversation with one of the strength coaches, and Bukayo Saka was laughing at something Morgan Rogers had just said. Anthony Gordon sat a couple of seats further down, quietly eating his breakfast while listening to the conversation around him.

"No escape now," Freya murmured with a grin.

Harriet nudged her lightly with an elbow. "Behave."

"We are behaving."

"Barely."

Jordan looked up as we approached and shifted his chair slightly to make room.

"Morning," he said with an easy smile. "We've been told we're all one big happy family now."

"Morning," Bea replied, setting her tray down. "Might take a day or two."

"I'll win you all over."

"I'm sure you think you will."

A few quiet laughs circled the table as we settled into the empty seats. I found myself opposite Saka, with Harriet beside me and Anthony a couple of places further along. It wasn't awkward like I thought it might be. If anything, everyone seemed curious. We all knew who each other were, but this was the first time we'd actually shared a conversation rather than a room.

"So," Morgan Rogers said, looking between the hockey girls. "We've got a question."

Freya pointed her fork at him.

"That sounds dangerous already."

"Settle an argument."

He leaned forward, completely serious.

"Does hockey count as a contact sport?"

Harriet didn't even hesitate.

"Only if you're doing it properly."

The table erupted into laughter.

Breakfast seemed to disappear far quicker than any of us expected. By the time the last mugs of coffee had been emptied, athletes were beginning to return their trays and make their way towards the conference centre. The easy conversation from earlier carried into the corridors as footballers and hockey players walked together in small groups, no longer separated quite so clearly by sport.

"Any guesses what we've got first?" Freya asked as we stepped outside into the warm morning air.

"I'm hoping it's not another lecture," Harriet replied.

"I'll take a lecture over fitness testing."

"You'd take anything over fitness testing."

"I absolutely would."

The conference theatre felt noticeably different from the day before. People no longer hesitated over where to sit, instead dropping into the nearest empty seat beside whoever happened to arrive at the same time. I ended up between Harriet and Bea while the footballers filtered into the rows behind us, the room gradually settling as David Ralph and Thomas Tuchel walked onto the stage.

David waited until the chatter died away before smiling at the room.

"I hope everyone's had a good first evening."

A chorus of nods and murmured agreement answered him.

"Good, because we're throwing you straight in at the deep end."

A ripple of curiosity spread through the room.

"This morning isn't about training," he continued. "It's about getting to know the people you're going to be sharing this camp with. You'll be taking part in a Team England challenge that will send you all over St George's Park."

The screen behind him changed to a map of the grounds, dotted with coloured markers.

"You'll complete a series of challenges at different locations across the site. Some are physical, some require problem solving, and others are simply designed to test how well you communicate as a team."

Thomas stepped forward, folding his hands in front of him.

"Winning isn't everything."

Jordan Pickford's voice carried from somewhere near the back.

"That's easy for you to say."

Laughter echoed around the theatre, including from Thomas himself.

"I was hoping somebody would say that," he replied. "Of course winning matters. Just don't forget why you're here."

David picked up a clipboard from the lectern.

"The teams have been chosen carefully. You've been mixed across sports, positions and personalities. Some of you will know each other already. Others may not have spoken before this morning."

Freya leaned towards me.

"If I'm not with you lot, I'm lodging a formal complaint."

"You'll survive," Harriet whispered back.

"I'm not convinced."

David glanced down at the first page.

"When I call your team, collect your pack from the front and head outside."

The room became noticeably quieter.

"Team One..."

Names were read out one after another as athletes stood, waved to their new teammates and crossed the room. Every announcement was followed by a mixture of cheers, playful complaints and the occasional dramatic groan when friends found themselves split up.

I watched Hattie's shoulders relax when her name hadn't been called after the first few teams.

"You're actually nervous," I murmured.

"I don't want to end up babysitting Jordan Pickford."

I laughed.

"You'd survive."

"I'd survive. He might not."

David looked back down at his clipboard.

"Team Four."

My attention snapped back to the front.

"Anthony Gordon."

Anthony stood from the row behind us before slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Florence Sutton."

I pushed myself to my feet.

"Harriet Lawson."

Hattie looked at me with a grin.

"I can work with that."

"And Bukayo Saka."

Saka turned in his seat, spotted the three of us and offered an easy smile.

"Looks like we're a team then."

The moment David dismissed us, the lecture theatre erupted into conversation. Chairs scraped across the floor as everyone stood, maps and timetables were shoved into hoodie pockets, and the neat rows we'd been sitting in dissolved into a sea of white England kit. Some teams were already debating strategy before they'd even made it out of the room, while others wandered aimlessly, trying to work out who they were actually meant to be with.

Harriet and I drifted towards the doors, waiting for the crowd to thin out before following everyone into the courtyard. The morning sun had burned away the last of the cloud, and the pathways between the accommodation blocks were quickly filling with athletes heading in every direction. It felt strange seeing footballers and hockey players mixing so naturally already. Yesterday we'd all sat on opposite sides of the room, unsure of where we fitted into this new idea of "Team England." This morning, those invisible lines already seemed to be fading.

"I still think this is unfair," Harriet said as she adjusted the strap of her backpack. "You've got an unfair advantage."

I frowned. "How?"

"You've been coming here since you were a teenager. You actually know where things are."

"I don't know where everything is."

"You know enough."

"I got lost yesterday."

"You ended up in the café."

"I maintain that wasn't getting lost. I was simply... taking a different route."

Harriet looked at me blankly.

"You accidentally found coffee."

"Exactly."

Before she could reply, Bukayo made his way over, the brown envelope for our team tucked under his arm.

"I was hoping I'd find you two," he said, smiling. "Thought we'd better stick together before everyone disappears."

Anthony followed a couple of steps behind him, noticeably quieter than Bukayo but looking far more awake than he had over breakfast. He gave us both a polite nod before glancing around the courtyard, taking in the organised chaos with an expression that suggested he was already trying to work out the quickest way to the first checkpoint.

"There she is."

Harriet pointed towards a long table set up near the entrance to the conference centre, where staff members were handing identical envelopes to each team.

"Looks official."

"It probably is," I said.

"That usually means there are rules."

"And penalties if you break them."

"I wasn't planning on breaking any."

Harriet raised an eyebrow.

"You absolutely were."

We joined the back of the queue, shuffling forward every few seconds as teams collected their packs and headed off. Every now and then another group would let out a cheer after opening their envelope, while somewhere behind us Jordan Pickford could be heard insisting that his team already had an unbeatable strategy despite not having read a single clue.

When it was our turn, one of the volunteers smiled as she handed the envelope across.

"Team Four?"

I nodded.

"Everything you need is inside. The instructions are on the first page, and don't forget the camera. You'll need it for proof at several checkpoints."

"Thank you."

Rather than opening it there, we moved away from the growing queue and found an empty picnic table overlooking the training pitches. For a moment, nobody reached for the envelope. It sat in the middle of the table between us, still sealed, as though we were all waiting for someone else to take charge.

Bukayo broke the silence first.

"Go on then, Floss. You picked it up."

"So that automatically makes me responsible?"

"I think that's how these things work."

Harriet leaned back against the bench with an amused smile.

"I'm happy with that. Less paperwork for the rest of us."

I laughed, peeling back the Team England sticker before tipping the contents onto the table. A laminated map slid out first, followed by a Polaroid camera, four coloured wristbands, a marker pen and a folded sheet labelled Challenge One.

Anthony reached over and flattened the map before it had the chance to curl back up.

"I'd probably keep that open," he said. "We'll need it."

It was the first thing he'd said in a while, but it made perfect sense. Quiet as he was, he didn't seem like someone who spoke unless he actually had something worth saying.

I unfolded the first clue and smiled as everyone leaned in a little closer.

"Right," I said. "Let's see what they've got planned for us."

I smoothed the folded sheet across the table and read the first clue aloud.

Your first destination is where recovery begins before performance does. Find the building where every athlete, regardless of sport, spends time becoming stronger. Once you arrive, complete the challenge waiting for you before collecting your next clue.

Harriet looked up first.

"So... the recovery centre?"

Anthony gave a small nod. "Has to be."

"That was almost disappointingly easy," Bukayo said, reaching for the map. "I was hoping for something cryptic."

"You've got all morning for cryptic," Harriet replied. "Let's enjoy the easy one while it lasts."

Anthony rotated the map so we could all see it properly before tracing a finger along one of the footpaths. "If we cut across here, it's quicker than following the road."

I glanced at him.

"You've been studying the map already?"

He looked up, almost caught out.

"I like knowing where I'm going."

"I respect that."

Harriet stood, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. "Well, our navigator has spoken."

"I thought Floss was navigating," Bukayo said.

"I can multitask."

"Can you?"

"I've managed twenty-two years so far."

"You've also admitted to getting lost yesterday."

"That was one time."

"It was literally yesterday."

I laughed, shaking my head as we started walking. "I'd appreciate it if everyone could stop bringing that up."

The path wound between the accommodation blocks before opening out towards the performance centre. Around us, other teams were setting off in different directions, some walking with quiet determination while others had already turned the whole thing into a competition. Across the lawn, Jordan was attempting to convince his team to run to the first checkpoint.

"They're going to regret that in about five minutes," Harriet observed.

"They'll regret it sooner," Anthony said quietly.

Bukayo smiled. "You're assuming Jordan's thought that far ahead."

The four of us fell into an easy rhythm as we walked. Conversation drifted from one topic to another without anyone really trying to force it. Bukayo seemed to know how to fill every silence naturally, asking Harriet about hockey before admitting he'd watched the Olympics but still wasn't entirely sure what half the rules were.

"I've got a question," he said after a moment. "How hard is it actually to hit one of those balls?"

Harriet looked at me.

"You tell him."

I grinned. "Hard enough that the first time I tried, I nearly took my own ankle out."

"You?"

"I was eight."

"That somehow makes it funnier."

"I've improved since then, thanks."

"I'd hope so."

"I'd appreciate a little faith."

Anthony let out a quiet laugh beside us.

It was small enough that I almost wondered if I'd imagined it, but when I glanced across, there was the slightest hint of a smile before he looked back towards the path ahead.

Interesting.

Yesterday I'd assumed he was just reserved. This morning I was beginning to think he simply chose his moments carefully.

The recovery centre came into view a few minutes later, its glass frontage reflecting the bright morning sun. A volunteer in an England polo shirt was already waiting outside with a clipboard tucked under one arm, smiling as each team approached.

"Team Four?" she asked.

"That's us," I replied.

She ticked something off on her sheet before stepping aside and holding the door open.

"Your first challenge is inside."

We exchanged quick glances before following her into the building, none of us quite sure what was waiting on the other side.

The volunteer led us into one of the performance studios before gesturing towards a table in the middle of the room. Waiting for us was a tray of wooden blocks, lengths of rope, elastic bands and a laminated instruction card.

Harriet picked it up first.

"'Without crossing the marked line, build a free-standing structure capable of supporting a one-kilogram medicine ball. Every team member must contribute before the challenge can be completed.'"

She looked up.

"That's oddly specific."

"I was hoping for something easier," Bukayo admitted, already picking up one of the blocks. "Maybe a quiz."

"You'd complain if it was a quiz."

"I absolutely would."

For the first couple of minutes, nobody really knew where to start. We all stood around the table throwing out different ideas, none of which seemed particularly convincing.

"What if we use the rope as a brace?" I suggested.

"It'll slip," Harriet replied.

Anthony had been quietly turning one of the wooden pieces over in his hands, studying the grooves cut into either side.

"What if it isn't supposed to stand on its own first?" he asked.

The rest of us looked at him.

He set the block back down and arranged two more beside it.

"If these lock together first, the rope becomes reinforcement instead of support."

There was a brief silence before Harriet nodded.

"That actually makes sense."

"Only one way to find out," Bukayo said.

The next few minutes passed surprisingly quickly. Harriet tied the rope with the confidence of someone who had clearly spent years around sports equipment, Bukayo somehow kept morale high despite contributing an almost constant stream of commentary, and I held the frame steady while Anthony adjusted the final pieces into place.

"Ready?" I asked.

Nobody answered straight away.

Anthony looked at the structure one last time before giving a single nod.

"Go for it."

The volunteer carefully placed the medicine ball on top.

For a split second, nothing happened.

The structure dipped slightly under the weight before settling back into place.

"It counts," the volunteer announced with a smile.

Bukayo punched the air.

"I never doubted us."

"You doubted us five minutes ago," Harriet reminded him.

"I was building suspense."

The volunteer handed me another envelope.

"Well done. You're off to a good start."

The rest of the morning passed in much the same way. We deciphered clues, wandered across almost every corner of St George's Park and completed challenges that ranged from practical problem solving to memory games and communication exercises. Somewhere between the sports science building and the athletics track, we stopped feeling like two hockey players and two footballers who had been thrown together by chance.

Instead, we simply became a team.

By the time we reached the final checkpoint, all four of us had started talking over one another without thinking. Harriet and Bukayo had somehow developed the habit of arguing about absolutely everything, Anthony had quietly become the person everyone looked to whenever there was a puzzle to solve, and I seemed to have inherited the role of keeping us moving whenever we risked getting distracted.

Our final clue led us back to the courtyard outside the conference centre, where teams were already beginning to arrive. Some looked triumphant. Others looked completely defeated. Jordan Pickford was in the middle of passionately explaining to anyone who would listen that his team had definitely been given the hardest route.

"I refuse to believe we finished behind Team Two," he declared.

One of the volunteers smiled as we handed over our completed answer sheet.

"You'll find out soon enough."

Harriet folded her arms.

"I don't actually care where we came."

I looked at her.

"That is the biggest lie you've ever told."

She smiled without even trying to deny it.

"Fine," she admitted. "I'd quite like to win."

"So would I," Bukayo said.

Anthony glanced towards the scoreboard staff were beginning to put together outside the conference centre.

"I think we've got a decent chance."

It was such a simple comment that none of us really thought anything of it.

Looking back, it was probably the first time all morning that he'd sounded completely comfortable around us.

By the time every team had made it back to the conference centre, the courtyard had transformed into organised chaos once again. Athletes were scattered across the lawn with water bottles in hand, comparing routes, swapping stories and insisting their challenge had been far more difficult than anyone else's.

Jordan was, unsurprisingly, the loudest.

"I'm telling you," he said, throwing his hands in the air as his teammates tried to interrupt him, "our map was wrong. There is absolutely no way the recovery trail is that long."

"Or," Thomas Tuchel called from a few metres away, "you went the wrong way."

A chorus of laughter rippled through the courtyard.

Jordan looked genuinely offended.

"We took the scenic route."

"You got lost," Declan corrected, shaking his head with a smile.

David Ralph stepped onto the small stage that had been set up outside the conference centre, microphone in hand. The conversations gradually faded as people drifted closer, some sitting on the grass while others leaned against the benches surrounding the courtyard.

"I've got to say," he began, looking out across the crowd, "we've been watching your teams all morning, and it's been exactly what we hoped for. There was plenty of competition, a fair bit of questionable navigation and, thankfully, nobody ended up in the lake."

Jordan quietly lowered his hand.

"I said thankfully," David added, smiling in his direction.

More laughter followed.

"The results were actually incredibly close." He paused, glancing down at the scoreboard beside him. "Close enough that one missed challenge would have changed the final standings."

A few people shifted forwards.

"In third place..."

There were mock cheers and dramatic groans as the final placings were announced. Our team finished second, less than a minute behind the winners.

Harriet let out a disappointed sigh.

"So close."

"You say you don't care about winning," I reminded her.

"I know."

"And yet..."

"I care deeply."

Bukayo laughed. "Second's not bad."

"No," Harriet admitted, folding the results sheet before tucking it into her pocket. "But first would've been better."

David waited for the applause to die down before speaking again.

"That's enough competition for one morning. Your schedules are on the app, but you'll all have an hour to yourselves before lunch. After that, you'll split into your sport-specific training sessions for the afternoon."

Around us, people immediately began standing, stretching and making plans for the break. Some headed back towards the accommodation blocks while others wandered across to the café, already debating whether they had enough time for another coffee.

"I vote café," Bukayo said.

"I thought you would," Harriet replied.

"You coming?" he asked, looking between the three of us.

"I need to grab my hockey stick before this afternoon," Harriet said.

"I should probably unpack the rest of my room," I added.

Bukayo looked towards Anthony. "What about you?"

"I'm going to head back as well."

"Exciting bunch, aren't you?" Bukayo said with a grin, earning himself a gentle shove from Harriet.

We left the courtyard together before naturally splitting at the path that led towards the accommodation blocks. Harriet and I peeled off towards the hockey wing while Bukayo and Anthony continued along the main path.

As we walked away, Harriet bumped my shoulder.

"They seem nice."

"They do."

"Bukayo talks enough for all four of them."

I smiled.

"And Anthony?"

I thought about it for a second.

"He doesn't say much."

"No."

"But when he does, it's usually worth listening to."

Harriet hummed in quiet agreement.

Neither of us realised it then, but the awkwardness of yesterday had disappeared somewhere between a laminated map, a handful of clues and a very questionable wooden structure.

For the first time since arriving at camp, it no longer felt like two teams learning how to share the same space.

[meels7478]

welcome to camp

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

After arriving at St George's Park for the start of England's six-week High Performance Integration Camp, Florence settles into her new home before meeting the football squad for the very first time.

2.6k words

au masterlist

The black England Hockey minibus rolled slowly through the gates, and despite having made this journey more times than I could count, I still found myself sitting up a little straighter. Endless green pitches stretched across the Staffordshire countryside, England flags lined the driveway, and athletes in every direction hauled oversized kit bags towards the main lodge.

I couldn't stop smiling.

Six weeks.

Six weeks of training.

Six weeks of representing England.

Six weeks doing what I loved most.

"Right then, Floss," Pete called from the driver's seat as he pulled into the drop-off area. "Home sweet home."

I laughed, slipping my headphones into my backpack before climbing out of the minibus. The warm June air hit me instantly as I stretched my arms above my head.

"Cheers, Pete."

"No worries. See you in six weeks."

I swung my hockey stick bag over one shoulder and reached into the back for my suitcase, nearly losing my balance as the wheels caught on the edge of the pavement.

"Graceful."

A few familiar England staff members laughed as I wrestled it free.

"Morning, Floss."

"Morning!"

I recognised faces everywhere. Physios. Performance staff. Nutritionists. A couple of strength coaches I'd worked with over the years. Camp always felt a bit like coming back to school after the holidays—everyone happy to see each other, everyone pretending they hadn't spent the last few weeks stalking each other's training sessions on Instagram.

The whole place buzzed with excitement.

Athletes drifted in and out of the main entrance, conversations bouncing around the courtyard as luggage rolled over the paving stones. Somewhere behind me someone shouted another player's name, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a reunion hug.

God, I'd missed this.

Inside, reception was even busier.

A huge banner stretched across the wall behind the registration desk.

TEAM ENGLAND – HIGH PERFORMANCE INTEGRATION CAMP

Rows of staff sat behind laptops, checking athletes in one by one and handing over accreditation passes, room keys and thick welcome packs.

I joined the queue, rocking slightly on my heels as I waited my turn.

When I reached the front, the woman behind the desk looked up and smiled.

"Morning. Name?"

"Florence Sutton."

She clicked through the registration list before nodding.

"Welcome back."

She slid a navy lanyard, a room key and a welcome folder across the desk.

"Room 214. Second floor. Your kit's already been delivered."

Perfect.

Inside the folder was everything I could possibly need for the next six weeks—a colour-coded timetable, site map, gym access card, meal schedule and enough information sheets to keep me busy for an entire afternoon.

"The opening briefing starts at eleven in Conference Hall A," she continued. "Everyone's expected to be there."

"I'll be there."

I clipped my accreditation pass around my neck before grabbing the handle of my suitcase.

Camp hadn't even properly started yet, and I already couldn't wait.

The accommodation block felt more like a boutique hotel than a national training centre.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows as I wheeled my suitcase across the polished wooden floors, following the signs towards the lifts. Every corner of the building carried the same clean, modern feel I'd remembered—glass walls, light oak finishes and England branding everywhere.

The second-floor corridor was already alive with people.

Doors were propped open, suitcases littered the hallway and voices bounced from room to room as athletes unpacked and caught up after weeks apart.

I couldn't help but smile.

This was my favourite part.

I glanced down at the room numbers as I walked.

210...

211...

212...

Each door had a small white plaque fixed beside it.

212Jordan Pickford

I raised an eyebrow.

Right.

So they really weren't separating us.

A couple of doors later

214Florence Sutton

Finally.

I swiped my room key, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Wow."

It was nicer than I'd expected.

A huge bed sat against one wall, perfectly made with crisp white bedding and a navy England throw folded neatly across the bottom. A desk overlooked the training pitches through floor-to-ceiling windows, while a wardrobe stood open beside the ensuite bathroom.

At the foot of the bed, my England kit had already been laid out.

Training tops.

Shorts.

Gym kit.

Recovery gear.

A fresh pair of trainers.

A navy backpack embroidered with the Three Lions.

Someone had even left a welcome note and an England water bottle on the desk.

I dropped my rucksack onto the chair and wandered over to the window.

From here I could see almost everything.

The football pitches stretched into the distance on one side, the Olympic-standard hockey pitch on the other, separated by little more than a line of trees and a network of walking paths.

For the next six weeks

This was home.

I barely had time to unzip my suitcase before a familiar voice echoed down the corridor.

"Floss?"

Another knock.

"Don't even think about unpacking without us."

I laughed.

"Come in."

The door swung open before I'd even finished speaking.

Of course it did.

Harriet was the first through the door.

"About time."

I barely had a second to put my suitcase down before she pulled me into a hug.

"It's been three weeks," I laughed.

"Exactly."

She stepped back, looking me up and down dramatically.

"You've definitely got tanner."

"I went outside once."

"Must've been terrifying."

Before I could reply, the rest of the girls piled in behind her.

"FLOSS!"

Bea wrapped me in another hug.

Izzy immediately threw herself onto my bed.

"I call this side."

"It's a single bed," I pointed out.

"Exactly. More comfortable."

Freya walked straight over to the welcome basket sitting on my desk.

"Ooh... snacks."

"Freya."

"What?"

"Those aren't your snacks."

"They are now."

I shook my head, laughing as she opened a packet of chocolate-covered almonds without an ounce of guilt.

Nothing had changed.

And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Within minutes my room looked like we'd been living there for weeks instead of five minutes.

Harriet had claimed the desk chair.

Izzy was still sprawled across my bed.

Freya was halfway through my welcome snacks.

Bea leaned against the windowsill, watching the organised chaos unfold with an amused smile.

"I've missed this," I admitted.

"You say that now," Harriet replied. "Give it three days and you'll be sick of all of us."

"I was sick of you before camp even started."

"That's the spirit."

Laughter filled the room.

It felt easy.

Comfortable.

Like slipping straight back into a routine we'd never left.

"So..." Freya said, tossing another chocolate into her mouth.

"They're here."

I frowned.

"Who?"

She looked at me as though I'd asked the world's stupidest question.

"The footballers."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Izzy repeated. "That's all you've got?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know..." she shrugged. "'Oh my gosh, Jude Bellingham is breathing the same air as me.'"

I snorted.

"I think I'll survive."

Harriet rolled her eyes.

"Ignore them. They've been gossiping about it since we got on the minibus."

"We have not," Freya protested.

"You absolutely have."

"I simply said it'd be interesting."

"You made a ranking."

"That was private."

Bea laughed into her coffee.

"I'm just interested to see how this actually works. Two squads, six weeks... it's a long time."

"It'll be fun," Izzy said. "Apparently we've got joint gym sessions, leadership workshops, recovery... the whole lot."

"And meals together," Harriet added.

Freya wiggled her eyebrows.

"I wonder who we'll be sitting with tonight."

"I'll sit with you," I said.

"Aww."

"I wasn't being sentimental."

"No?"

"I just don't want strangers stealing my chips."

Before anyone could reply, a chime echoed through the corridor, followed by a voice over the speaker system.

'Good morning, athletes. The opening camp briefing will begin in fifteen minutes in Conference Hall A. Please make your way downstairs.'

Izzy groaned dramatically.

"I've only just got comfortable."

"You've done absolutely nothing," Harriet replied.

"I've been resting."

"You've been horizontal."

"Recovery starts early."

I laughed as everyone climbed to their feet, grabbing accreditation passes and England hoodies.

First meeting.

Conference Hall A was already half full by the time we arrived.

Round tables filled the room instead of rows of chairs, each set with notebooks, pens and bottles of water. A giant screen at the front displayed the Team England crest alongside the words:

HIGH PERFORMANCE INTEGRATION CAMP

The football team were already there.

Some stood chatting in small groups while others helped themselves to coffee from the refreshment table at the back of the room. Despite recognising almost every face, I found it strangely refreshing that no one from our squad seemed remotely starstruck.

They were just... athletes.

The same as us.

"Over there," Bea nodded towards a cluster of empty tables.

We settled ourselves near the middle of the room, the girls immediately slipping back into conversation while I looked around, taking everything in.

This was definitely different to any England camp I'd been on before.

Normally, every face in the room would be familiar.

Today, almost half of them weren't.

The low hum of conversation disappeared as two figures walked onto the stage.

David Ralph.

Thomas Tuchel.

Almost instantly, everyone turned their attention to the front.

"Morning, everyone," David began, smiling around the room. "It's brilliant to have you all here."

"For those of you I haven't met," Thomas continued, "welcome."

Behind them, the screen changed to a photograph of St George's Park before displaying the words:

ONE TEAM ENGLAND

David stepped forward again.

"For the next six weeks, this facility is your home. While you'll continue training within your own sports, everything else has been designed to bring both programmes together."

The next slide appeared.

Shared Meals.

Shared Recovery.

Shared Gym Sessions.

Leadership Workshops.

Media Training.

Community Projects.

Evening Activities.

"You'll be spending a lot of time together," David said. "Some of your closest friendships over the next six weeks may come from a completely different sport."

Thomas nodded in agreement.

"Different sports. Same standards."

The room remained completely silent.

"This camp isn't about football or hockey," he continued. "It's about representing England. Learn from each other. Challenge each other. Respect each other."

A final slide appeared.

ONE TEAM.

There was a ripple of applause.

"Before we finish," David said, "we'd like everyone to know who's in the room. When I call your name, simply stand."

Easy enough.

The footballers were first.

One by one, names echoed around the room.

"Jordan Pickford."

He stood, gave a small wave and sat back down.

"Declan Rice."

Another wave.

"Bukayo Saka."

A grin from somewhere across the room was met with a few laughs.

"Jude Bellingham."

"Anthony Gordon."

I glanced up almost instinctively.

He stood for no more than a couple of seconds.

Tall.

Blonde.

Quiet.

A quick nod before sitting straight back down.

Then the names moved on.

Eventually David looked towards our side of the room.

"Harriet Lawson."

Hattie stood.

"Beatrice Whitfield."

Bea.

"Florence Sutton."

I pushed my chair back and stood.

A quick smile.

Then I sat down again.

Simple.

Nothing more.

The introductions continued around the room, but one thing was already obvious.

For the next six weeks, these weren't going to be the footballers and the hockey players.

They were just the people I'd be spending every day with.

As the applause died down, chairs scraped against the floor as people began reaching for their water bottles and notebooks.

"So..." Jordan Pickford said from somewhere behind me. "Lunch?"

A few people laughed.

David Ralph smiled knowingly.

"Not quite."

An almost synchronized groan swept through the room.

"I knew it," someone muttered.

Thomas Tuchel folded his arms, looking far too amused by everyone's disappointment.

"For the next hour," David continued, "you're going to be completing a series of team challenges."

Another groan.

"They're designed to test communication, leadership, problem solving and teamwork. The whole purpose of this camp is learning from athletes outside your own sport, so every team has been mixed."

The screen behind them changed.

TEAM ONE

Jordan Pickford

Anthony Gordon

Bukayo Saka

Elliot Anderson

Florence Sutton

Harriet Lawson

Freya Morgan

Beatrice Whitfield

I looked across at Hattie.

"This could either go really well..."

"...or really badly," she finished.

"Exactly."

"Right," David said. "You'll rotate around three stations. Your first challenge starts now."

The first station looked deceptively simple.

A table covered in dry spaghetti, masking tape, string and one oversized marshmallow.

The instructions were printed on a laminated card.

Build the tallest free-standing tower. Twenty minutes.

Jordan clapped his hands together.

"Right, troops."

Hattie raised an eyebrow.

"Troops?"

"I'm motivating us."

"You've been speaking for five seconds."

"I've got natural leadership qualities."

"You've got natural volume."

A laugh rippled around the group.

"I vote we actually make a plan first," I suggested.

Anthony, who hadn't said much since we'd sat down, nodded once.

"If the base isn't stable, it'll collapse before we even get halfway."

I glanced over.

"Good point."

He gave a small shrug before reaching for a handful of spaghetti.

No fuss.

No trying to take over.

Just quietly getting on with it.

Within minutes everyone had somehow found a role.

Jordan was convinced he should be in charge despite repeatedly snapping pieces of spaghetti in half.

Freya had become chief tape dispenser.

Bea somehow kept everyone focused.

Saka was laughing so hard at Jordan's commentary that he could barely hold the structure steady.

Elliot silently reinforced the base whenever nobody was looking.

Anthony worked carefully, saying very little but somehow making every suggestion at exactly the right moment.

"You'll need another support here," he said, pointing towards one side.

He was right.

Again.

I pressed another strip of tape into place before stepping back.

"Okay..."

Everyone held their breath.

The tower wobbled.

Jordan reached out instinctively.

"Don't touch it!" six of us shouted at once.

"I wasn't!"

"You absolutely were."

He held both hands in the air in surrender.

The tower settled.

Still standing.

"Yes!" Freya cheered.

We all high-fived each other as though we'd just won Olympic gold over a pile of uncooked pasta.

"This is ridiculous," Hattie muttered.

"You loved it," I grinned.

"I absolutely did."

The second challenge was somehow even more chaotic.

Anthony drew the card.

One team member will be blindfolded. The remaining team members must guide them through the obstacle course using verbal instructions only.

Jordan immediately took a step backwards.

"No."

"You don't get to volunteer someone else," Bea laughed.

Freya reached into the bag and pulled out a folded slip of paper.

"...Anthony."

He sighed dramatically as Jordan burst out laughing.

"You'll be fine, mate."

A black blindfold was tied around Anthony's eyes before he was led to the start line.

David called across the room.

"Only one person may give instructions."

Everyone looked at each other.

Jordan looked at me.

"You do it."

"Me?"

"You've got teacher voice."

"I don't have teacher voice."

"You definitely have teacher voice."

I rolled my eyes.

"Fine."

Anthony stood waiting.

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Okay..." I laughed. "Take two steps forward."

He did.

"Now one step to your left."

He paused.

"My left?"

"There is only one left."

"I just wanted to check."

Jordan snorted behind me.

"Confidence is key, Gordon."

Anthony ignored him.

"Two more steps."

He walked straight past the next cone.

"No—your other left!"

"I've only got one left!"

The whole team dissolved into laughter.

Even Anthony smiled beneath the blindfold.

Somehow, despite the questionable directions and constant interruptions from Jordan, he made it to the finish line without knocking over a single obstacle.

"I'd like everyone to know," he said, pulling off the blindfold, "that those instructions were terrible."

"They got you there."

"Barely."

I couldn't help laughing.

For the first time that morning, the room no longer felt like footballers and hockey players.

It just felt like one team.

[meels7478]

St Georges Park.

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

Every summer, England's elite athletes disappear behind the gates of St George's Park.

Usually, they do so separately.

Footballers prepare with footballers. Hockey players prepare with hockey players. Each sport follows its own schedule, its own routines and its own path to international competition.

This year, however, things are different.

In collaboration with UK Sport, The Football Association and England Hockey have launched a six-week High Performance Integration Camp, bringing together two of the country's most successful national programmes ahead of one of the biggest international summers in recent history.

The purpose is simple: to create One Team England.

While each squad continues to train separately in their own sport-specific sessions, every other aspect of camp is shared. Athletes complete strength and conditioning sessions together, recover side by side in the High Performance Centre, attend leadership and performance workshops as one group, share every meal and spend evenings taking part in organised team-building activities.

The belief behind the programme is that excellence isn't limited to one sport.

Footballers can learn from hockey players.

Hockey players can learn from footballers.

For six weeks, more than fifty elite athletes will live under one roof, following the same daily schedule, wearing the same England crest and representing the same country.

Each athlete has their own private room within the residential village, but accommodation is deliberately mixed rather than divided by sport. The dining hall, café, player lounge, recovery centre, lecture theatre and social spaces are all shared, encouraging relationships to develop beyond the boundaries of their respective teams.

Mornings begin with breakfast together before the squads split for sport-specific training. Afternoons are filled with shared gym sessions, recovery, sports psychology, nutrition workshops and leadership seminars, before everyone comes back together each evening for dinner and a rotating programme of social activities, ranging from quiz nights and padel tournaments to guest speakers, charity initiatives and team challenges.

For six weeks, football and hockey stop existing as separate worlds.

There is simply Team England.

No one expected the camp to become one of the most successful high-performance initiatives UK Sport had ever introduced.

No one expected it to change lives either.

[meels7478]

roll call.

On England Time - Anthony Gordon x Florence Sutton

MEET FLORENCE LOUISE SUTTON!

AKA: FLOSS, FLOSSY, FLO

QUICK FACTS:

Birthday: 18th June 2003 - 22 Years of Age Hometown: Winchester, Hampshire

Sport: England Women's Hockey international | Attacking midfielder

Part-time Biochemistry student at Loughborough University

Attended Cheltenham Ladies College as a Boarding Student from the age of 12

One of England's brightest young hockey talents

Made her senior England debut at 18 after progressing through the junior pathway

Known for her speed, vision and relentless work rate

Future England captain according to pretty much everyone except herself

THE SUTTON FAMILY

Known around Hampshire as the family that somehow produced four rugby players and one England hockey international. Family gatherings are loud, competitive, and usually end with someone suggesting a game in the garden.

OLIVER SUTTON – Age 30, Oldest brother, professional rugby player; calm, dependable, quietly intimidating, and fiercely protective of Florence. The sibling she turns to for advice, even if she'll never admit it.

HARRY SUTTON – Age 28, Older brother, professional rugby player; loud, charismatic, endlessly competitive, and determined to embarrass Florence at every opportunity. Constantly winding her up, but her biggest supporter when it matters.

CHARLIE SUTTON – Age 25, Older brother, professional rugby player; dry sense of humour, observant, and impossible to faze. Gives the best advice, asks the hardest questions, and is the brother most likely to interrogate anyone Florence brings home.

ARCHIE SUTTON – Age 17, Younger brother, rugby academy player at school; energetic, cheeky, and completely idolises Florence. Despite towering over her, he'll always be her little brother.

CAROLINE SUTTON – Mum, former competitive hockey player; warm, elegant, endlessly supportive, and the reason Florence first picked up a hockey stick. The calming influence in an otherwise chaotic household.

RICHARD SUTTON – Dad, property developer and former county rugby player; hardworking, quietly funny, and incredibly proud of all five of his children. Encouraged each of them to follow their own path, even when Florence chose hockey over rugby.

MEET ANTHONY GORDON!

AKA: ANT, ANTO, GORDS

QUICK FACTS:

Birthday: 24th February 2001 - 24 Years of Age Hometown: Liverpool, Merseyside

Sport: England Men's Football international | Left winger

Plays for Newcastle United in the Premier League

Progressed through Everton's academy before making his senior debut

Made his senior England debut in 2024 after representing England at every youth level

Known for his blistering pace, relentless pressing and fearless attacking play

One of England's most exciting young forwards

Quietly competitive with an unwavering work ethic

Happiest when he's on a football pitch

THE ROSTERS

ENGLAND WOMENS HOCKEY TEAM

David Ralph | 53 | Head Coach

Calm, experienced and highly respected throughout international hockey. Encourages his players to take ownership of their performances while creating an environment built on trust, accountability and consistency. Known for developing young talent and bringing the best out of his squad.

Harriet "Hattie" Lawson | 23 | Centre Defender

Vice-captain of the team. Dry humour, brutally honest and impossible to intimidate. Floss' best friend and unofficial bodyguard who has a sixth sense for spotting trouble.

Sophie Bennett | 24 | Defender

Highly organised, dependable and the reason the team is never late. Usually found reminding Floss where she left her room key, phone or hockey stick.

Isabelle "Izzy" Clarke | 26 | Goalkeeper

Loud, chaotic and permanently hungry. The self-appointed mum of the team who somehow knows everyone's business before they do.

Freya Morgan | 22 | Forward

Confident, witty and the biggest gossip on the squad. Lives to tease Floss, especially whenever a certain footballer starts hanging around.

Beatrice "Bea" Whitfield | 25 | Centre Midfielder | Captain

Calm, respected and the heart of the squad. The teammate Floss looks up to most and the one constantly reminding her that she doesn't have to carry everything alone.

THREE LIONS - ENGLAND MEN'S FOOTBALL TEAM

Thomas Tuchel | 52 | Head Coach

Intense, meticulous and relentlessly demanding. Every training session has a purpose, every detail matters and every player is expected to meet his exceptionally high standards. A perfectionist who believes preparation wins championships.

Jude Bellingham | 23 | Midfielder

Confident, charismatic and mature beyond his years. Gets along with everyone and quickly becomes one of the first footballers to befriend the hockey team. Loves winding Anthony up whenever Floss is involved.

Declan Rice | 27 | Defensive Midfielder | Vice-Captain

The natural leader of the squad. Calm, dependable and protective, with serious older-brother energy. Treats Floss like a little sister from the moment they meet.

Bukayo "Saka" Saka | 24 | Right Winger

Kind, humble and impossible not to like. Always laughing, always smiling and somehow ends up becoming Floss' favourite footballer to tease because he's so easy-going.

Morgan Rogers | 24 | Attacking Midfielder

Confident, witty and effortlessly sociable. The first person to realise Anthony has a thing for Floss and never misses an opportunity to mention it.

Jordan Pickford | 32 | Goalkeeper

The oldest of the group. Loud, passionate and constantly trying to keep everyone entertained. Treats both squads like one big family and loves getting involved in any camp competitions.

Elliot Anderson | 23 | Midfielder

One of Anthony's closest mates. Quiet, funny in a deadpan way and happiest when staying out of the spotlight. Gets on brilliantly with the hockey girls and accidentally becomes the bridge between the two teams.

[meels7478]

On England Time - Masterlist

anthony gordon x england hockey player au

In which two England teams spend six weeks under the same roof, an elite hockey player keeps accidentally finding herself in the same places as a certain footballer, and neither of them expects their toughest challenge to happen off the pitch.

Find all things related to the au here:

roll call.

st georges park

welcome to camp

getting acquainted

baseline

finding routine

bombshell

just a coffee

not her day

[meels7478]

so uh like anthony gordon au anyone? 😛😉