Today’s Book of the Day is Gamify: How Gamification Motivates People to Do Extraordinary Things, written by Brian Burke and published in 2014 by Routledge,
Brian Burke is an international expert in enterprise architecture at Gartner, where he developed research in fields like gamification, innovation management, and IT strategy.
Gamify, by Brian Burke
I have re-read this book in the last few…
i want a summer teaching gig but i don’t wanna be online!!!! and my desire to not be online is so strong that i keep abandoning this easy-to-complete application every ten minutes because i’m like but i don’t wannaaaaaa
“When you set an intention, that’s all you’ve done. You’ve set it. It’s floating around in your Akashic Record, your 5th dimensional aspect, waiting for you to act on it. It isn’t until you act on it at the 3rd dimensional level that your intention is activated and set into motion by the Universe for manifestation. More simply put, ‘faith without works is dead.’”
Photo by Emma Matthews Digital Content Production on Unsplash
Well, it’s been 3 months since I started blogging, and I’ve learned some, and have so much more to learn. Phew, so much.
How did I get started?
As I’ve written in other posts, when COVID-19 sent everyone home, a byproduct of the pandemic was more time. Though I continued to work, the business was/is much slower than normal. I…
summary: The thing about Logan is that he always knew what to say. He just kept finding reasons not to say it.
or: the five times Logan almost confessed and the one time he did.
notes: hii!! lazy sunday inspiration, this one is like sabrina short and sweet, hope you guys like it! enjoy your reading!!
warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, happy ending.
word count: 4k
I've been afraid of changing because I've built my life around you
You had met Logan at a rink.
This was, in retrospect, the most inevitable thing about you, that two people who had built their entire lives around ice would find each other on it. You had been eleven, in the middle of a spin sequence that wasn't working, frustrated enough that you had stopped and put your hands on your hips and glared at the ice like it had personally wronged you. He had been eleven too, sitting in the penalty box with his helmet off, watching you with the focused attention of someone who had forgotten he was supposed to be somewhere else.
"Your left shoulder drops," he said.
You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.
"Did I ask?" you said.
"No," he said. "But it does."
You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.
You had not told him that.
You had skated to the boards and looked at him.
"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.
"Coach," he said, simply.
"What did you do."
"Argued a call."
"Was the call wrong?"
"Obviously," he said.
You had looked at him for another long moment.
"I'm (Y/N)," you said.
"Logan," he said.
Ten years later you were still talking.
one — the competition february, sophomore year
The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.
Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.
He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.
He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.
You were in the middle of your free skate program.
The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.
The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.
He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.
Logan exhaled too.
You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.
He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.
Logan was completely gone.
After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.
You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.
"You came," you said.
"I always come," he said.
"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"
"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."
"You sound like my coach."
"Your coach is correct."
You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.
Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.
"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.
"Mm?" You didn't move.
He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —
"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."
You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."
"It's a small thing, but —"
"I just won," she said.
"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."
You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't," he said.
"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.
You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.
two — the lazy day april, sophomore year
It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.
Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.
You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.
"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.
"What's wrong with the current music?"
"She says it doesn't show enough range."
"What does she want instead?"
"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."
Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.
"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."
"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."
You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.
"That's a nice thing to say," you said.
"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what."
He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.
"About —" he started.
Your phone went off.
The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.
Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.
When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.
"What were you thinking about?" you said.
"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.
three — the boys september, junior year
The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.
Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.
You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.
Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.
"Your figure skater friend," he said.
Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."
"Is she single?"
The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.
Logan's jaw did something.
"Yeah," he said. "She's single."
"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"
"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"
"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"
"She's busy," Logan said.
Dean looked at him.
Logan looked at his equipment bag.
"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"
"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."
Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.
"Okay," he said. "Sure."
He went back to his own locker.
Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.
Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.
Logan texted you that night.
logan: what are you doing
yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up
logan: nothing. just checking in
yn: at 10pm on a tuesday
logan: is that suspicious
yn: a little
logan: go stretch your hip flexors
yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me
A pause. Longer than usual.
logan: be there in twenty
He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.
You stretched your hip flexors.
He was quiet beside you.
It was, somehow, exactly enough.
four — the party november, junior year
Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.
The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.
Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.
The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.
You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.
"He's doing it again," Hannah said.
Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."
"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."
They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.
You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.
"He's going to do it," Hannah said.
"He's not going to do it," Allie said.
"He's leaning in —"
"He never does it."
"There's always a first time —"
Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.
Logan closed his eyes very briefly.
Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.
You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.
Allie looked at Hannah.
Hannah looked at Allie.
"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.
"Same," said Allie.
They looked at each other.
"We're not intervening," Allie said.
"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.
They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.
"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.
"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."
allie: okay so
hannah: i KNOW
allie: the shoulder thing
hannah: and her FACE when he left
allie: someone needs to do something
hannah: we said we weren't intervening
allie: i know what we said
hannah: allie
allie: i'm just saying
hannah: we are not telling them
allie: fine
hannah: fine
allie: ...fine
hannah: goodnight allie
allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something
hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE
five — the almost january, senior year
You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.
You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:
"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."
You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."
Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.
"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."
You put down your tea.
"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.
"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."
"Probably," you said.
Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.
You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.
She's busy, he had apparently said.
You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.
You looked at your tea.
Hm, you thought.
Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.
"Hey," he said. "You good?"
"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."
You looked at him.
"Sure," you said.
You got your coat.
one — the one time he did january, senior year.
The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.
You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.
"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.
A pause.
"Told you what," Logan said.
"About Dean. In September."
The aisle was very quiet.
"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."
Another pause. Longer.
"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."
"Logan."
"What."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.
"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."
He looked up. His jaw did the thing.
"Because," he started.
"Because why."
He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.
"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."
The skate rental shop was very quiet.
"Okay," you said.
"Okay?" he said.
"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."
Logan looked at you for a long moment.
"Not for this," he repeated.
"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.
The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.
He put them back on the shelf.
"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."
"You talked about my shoulder."
"I know," he said. "I know I did."
"And on the Sunday in April —"
"Your coach called."
"And at the party in November —"
"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.
"Five times," you said.
"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."
You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.
"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."
Logan looked at you.
"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."
The blade covers blurred slightly.
You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.
"You talked about my shoulder," you said.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I'm going to bring that up for years."
"I know," he said. "I deserve that."
You pulled him down by the jacket.
He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.
"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."
"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."
"I know," you said. "I'm very good."
He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.
You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.
You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.
"The shoulder thing at the party —"
"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"
"The thing in September with Dean —"
"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."
"How long," you said.
They looked at each other.
"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.
You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.
"You could have said something to me," you said.
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.
You looked at them both.
"I cannot believe," you said.
"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.
Logan told the team at dinner.
Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.
When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.
Except that his hand found yours under the table.
And this time he didn't let go.
allie: so
hannah: SO
allie: we called it
hannah: from the beginning
allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard
Summary: Harry Styles has played football for England his entire life. He knows the pressure, the expectations, and the weight that comes with wearing the captain's armband. What he doesn't think he'll ever get used to is doing it without his favourite person beside him. A story about football, home, and the people who make carrying the weight a little easier.
Author's Note: A little one-shot I put together because I am fully in the swing of World Cup fever right now. ⚽️ A footballer Harry, a very supportive fiancée, some family chaos, and a lot of feelings. Hope you enjoy! ❤️
Masterlist: Here
Kansas felt like somebody had left the oven door open. Harry had stepped off the team bus less than three minutes ago and was already regretting every life choice that had led him to standing in forty-degree heat wearing a navy England tracksuit. The sun hung high above the training complex, relentless and unforgiving, and judging by the expressions around him, the rest of the squad were feeling much the same.
"How is this legal?" Elliot asked, dragging a hand down his face.
"It's summer," Jude replied.
"It's inhumane."
"It's literally summer," Jude threw back.
"I live in Nottingham."
The group laughed as they made their way towards the training facilities, luggage being unloaded behind them while coaches and support staff moved around with the efficiency that only existed at major tournaments. Everywhere Harry looked there was movement. Security. Media teams. Analysts. Grounds staff. Coaches.
A World Cup always felt like a travelling city. It felt bigger than football or any club season. Even now, at twenty-eight, at his third World Cup and more than a decade of professional football behind him, Harry still felt it the moment he arrived. The weight and expectation. The understanding that for the next month, every touch, every pass, every mistake and every goal would be dissected by millions of people who believed they could have done it better from their sofa.
"Captain." Harry looked up to find Declan Rice grinning at him. "You alright?"
"Never better."
"Liar."
"Oh, absolutely," Harry joked.
Declan laughed before nudging his shoulder and continuing towards the entrance. Harry followed, shaking his head. That was the thing about international football — the lads knew.
Club football was intense, but there was a rhythm to it. Barcelona was home. Barcelona was routine. Training grounds he knew better than his own neighbourhood. Staff he'd worked alongside for years. A dressing room that felt like family. The same city. The same apartment. The same coffee shop three mornings a week. The same woman waiting for him when he got home.
International football was different. It was compressed and everything was accelerated. Relationships that normally developed over ten months had to form in ten days. Tactical systems had to be learned quickly. Trust had to be built instantly. And as captain, Harry occupied an even stranger space. Part player, part leader, part spokesperson.
The younger lads looked to him. The media wanted him. The coaching staff relied on him. If England played brilliantly, it belonged to everyone. If England failed, a large portion of the blame landed squarely on the shoulders of the man wearing the armband. He understood that—accepted it even. Welcomed it... most of the time.
But it could be lonely.
His first World Cup had ended in frustration. His second had ended in heartbreak. He still remembered the walk back to the dressing room after the quarter-final loss four years ago, the silence hanging over the squad like fog. The feeling that they'd been close. Close enough to touch it. Close wasn't good enough. Not anymore. Not for England and certainly not for him. Which was why this tournament felt different. Partly because it was his third and partly because England genuinely had a squad capable of competing. And partly because of Thomas Tuchel.
Harry liked him and more importantly, he trust him. There was no theatre with Tuchel. No unnecessary speeches or attempts to manufacture emotion where it didn't exist. He was demanding without being dramatic, intense without becoming exhausting. He treated players like intelligent adults, which Harry appreciated more than he could explain. The manager and Harry expected standards which made life easier.
As he reached the changing rooms, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't need to look at the name — he already knew.
Flight delayed. Again. Sorry bub 😢 xx
Harry stared at the screen for a moment before exhaling quietly. He wasn't angry or upset, just disappointed. The tournament schedule had been released months ago. Flights booked. Hotels arranged. Plans made around training sessions and media commitments and family access windows. And now she was stuck somewhere between Barcelona and Kansas while he was standing in a changing room halfway across the world. His thumb hovered over the screen.
Don't apologise. It's not your fault.
I know but it's still annoying.
Harry slipped his phone back into his pocket before sitting down at his locker. The seat beside him remained empty. The changing room filled steadily with noise as players arrived. Conversations. Music. Complaints about the weather. Somebody arguing about card games. Somebody else looking for a charger. Normal footballer behaviour.
For a moment, Harry closed his eyes and Barcelona appeared instantly.
Their villa in Pedralbes, with breathtaking views of the mountains and overlooking the heart of Barcelona. Open doors and listening to the sound of distant traffic and the pool water. Her attempting to speak Spanish to neighbours while he corrected her mistakes. The way she'd insisted on learning Catalan because, according to her, "if we're living here properly, we should at least make an effort." The fact she'd said we. Always we and never you — despite being the one who had uprooted her entire life. The one who had left behind family and familiarity and a career she loved.
Harry felt guilty about that sometimes. More often than he'd ever admit aloud. She'd never once made him feel guilty for it, complained, kept score. Never even asked for recognition. She simply arrived in each new chapter of his life and found a way to make it feel like home.
The strange thing was that most people assumed she followed football because of him but the reality was the complete opposite. Three football-obsessed brothers had seen to that long before Harry entered the picture. Half the time she understood tactical discussions better than some television pundits. More than once she'd watched a match beside him and pointed out something he'd completely missed — usually followed by an unbearably smug smile... usually followed by her being right. The thought made him laugh quietly to himself.
"What?" Harry looked up to Jude watching him from across the room.
"Nothing."
"That smile says otherwise." Jude was trying to bait him.
"Because you've checked your phone six times since we landed."
A chorus of agreement came from around the room and Harry groaned, "Idiots."
"Captain's gone soft," someone called.
"Captain's engaged," Harry corrected.
Which somehow made everybody laugh harder. The noise echoed around the changing room. For a moment, it felt lighter, then his eyes drifted towards the England shirt hanging in his locker and the captain's armband folded neatly beside it. The Three Lions stitched across the chest. The thing he'd dreamed about since he was a boy.
Tomorrow there would be training. The day after that another meeting. Then another. Then a match. Then another. An entire country waiting. Expecting. Hoping.
Harry looked down at his phone one final time to a photo of her that filled the lock screen. Taken somewhere on the coast outside Barcelona. Wind in her hair. Laughing at something he'd said. Completely unaware of the camera. Home.
A few more hours and then she'd be here. Not in a hotel room or beside him every day — tournament rules didn't allow that. But she'd be close.
Close enough to find in the stands. Close enough to see after matches. Close enough to remind him that beneath the captain, the striker, the headlines and expectations, there was still just Harry. And that, more than anything, was what made the whole thing manageable.
──────────────
By the time the teams lined up in the tunnel, the heat that had greeted England in Kansas nearly a week earlier had settled into something more manageable. The stadium, however, was another matter entirely. Sixty-five thousand people created their own climate — their own atmosphere. The noise followed them from the tunnel and onto the pitch, rolling around the stadium in waves as cameras flashed and national flags hung from every available surface. Harry adjusted the captain's armband against his sleeve before glancing down the line of players standing beside him. Some looked relaxed. Some looked nervous. Some were pretending not to be nervous. A World Cup had a way of exposing everyone eventually.
The opening notes of the national anthem echoed around the stadium so Harry lifted his chin, focusing forward and singing every word. However, his eyes drifted toward the family section anyway. He found Anne almost immediately as she was impossible to miss. One hand pressed against her chest as she sang along, already emotional before a ball had even been kicked. Des to the right of her, murmuring the words, while taking in the amount of people in the stadium. There was no sign of her or her father, which made his stomach tighten slightly.
The flight delays had become travel changes. Travel changes had become last-minute stadium arrivals. It had been one thing after another all week. Still. She'd said she'd make it. The anthem continued and Harry searched again — nothing. The final verse approached — nothing. The music began to fade and then a movement caught his eye. A figure appearing at the top of the stairs, running. There she was.
England shirt on. Hair pulled back. A handbag bouncing against her hip. Her father following closely behind carrying two beers while attempting not to spill either of them. The sight was so ridiculous Harry almost laughed during the national anthem. She was already apologising to people as she squeezed through rows. Shaking hands. Hugging familiar faces. Stopping briefly to wrap Anne in a hug and kiss Des on the cheek before finally reaching their seats.
Her father looked significantly less composed. One beer survived and the other appeared to have suffered casualties. Harry could practically hear her laughing from the centre circle. Then she looked down and found him immediately — she always did. For a moment the noise, cameras and pressure disappeared. She lifted on hand, not waving, just enough for him to see. The engagement ring caught the stadium lights — a tiny flash of a reminder. Harry felt his shoulders loosen. Enough to breathe, to settle. Then she winked. The kind that would've annoyed him if anyone else had done it. His lips twitched and then the referee blew his whistle. Suddenly none of that mattered anymore.
The game had started.
The first fifteen minutes passed exactly how England had planned. Possession, control and territory. Harry spent most of it moving between lines, drifting deeper to create overloads in midfield before spinning back towards the defensive line. The Dutch centre-backs weren't following him, which created space for runners around him. Good. Exactly as expected.
Then the Netherlands scored. One quick transition. One mistake. One finish. One-nil. The stadium erupted and Harry immediately turned towards the halfway line, "Come on..." He wasn't panicking or showing frustration and blame. He was doing a reset because that's what captains did.
The second goal was worse. A deflection. A loose clearance. A finish squeezed through traffic. Two-nil. Only twenty-eight minutes played.
Harry stopped running for a second. Mentally not physically. The scoreline sat in front of him like a punch to the chest. Two-nil. This was the World Cup opener. It was everything they'd discussed working towards. Everything Tuchel had drilled into them. And they were two goals down. He could see that the younger players looked rattled. He could see it in the rushed passes, rushed decisions, nervous glances.
"Look at me!" Harry clapped his hands loudly. Several heads turned. "Look at me!"
The command carried and the noise around them faded.
"We are fine."
Nobody entirely believed him, not yet, but Harry didn't care.
"Next five minutes." He pointed at the ground. "Not the score. Five minutes."
Declan nodded. Jude nodded. Marcus nodded. The message spread. Five minutes. Not sixty. Not the tournament. Five minutes. Football became much simpler when broken into smaller pieces.
By half-time England were still losing, but the panic had gone which definitely mattered. Panic killed football matches faster than tactics ever could. The second half started differently and Harry could feel it almost immediately. The intensity. The aggression. The confidence. Tuchel's words still echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, but more importantly the players believed them. Marcus scored ten minutes after the restart and what a goal it was. Harry saw it developing before anyone else. The run. The angle. The space opening. Marcus shifted the ball onto his right foot and unleashed something outrageous from twenty-five yards. The net rippled and the goalkeeper never moved. The stadium exploded.
One goal. Two-one. Game on.
Harry grabbed Marcus around the shoulders, "Again." Not a celebration — an instruction. Again.
England kept pushing. Kept moving. Kept probing. The Dutch defensive line gradually retreated deeper and deeper. The spaces became smaller. The legs became heavier. The game became chaotic, just like the kind of match Harry loved. They were at eight-two minutes. The ball arrived at his feet just inside the final third. One touch. Half-turn. A defender stepped towards him. Another hesitated. That hesitation was enough. The smallest pocket. Barely visible. The sort of space that existed for less than a second. Harry shifted the ball onto his right foot and hit it. Clean.
No hesitation. No extra touch. No overthinking. Just instinct.
The strike flew through the players. Past one defender and then another. Past a goalkeeper who never even saw it leave Harry's boot.
Then the net moved and for a moment everything stood still. Then sixty-two thousand people lost their minds. Harry turned immediately, running, arms spread and adrenaline flooding every inch of his body. His teammates collided into him from every direction. Someone grabbed his shoulders while the other jumped onto his back. The noise was deafening but Harry was looking somewhere else. Towards the woman standing several rows back with both hands over her mouth. She was screaming and jumping up and down beside her father who looked equally unhinged. Harry laughed and pointed directly at her.
The cameras would catch it and the internet would have a field day but he couldn't bring himself to care. In that moment she wasn't the woman who had crossed continents to watch him play football. She wasn't his fiancée. She wasn't the future waiting for him after the tournament. She was simply the person who had believed he could do this long before sixty-two thousand strangers did. And as the stadium continued to shake around him, Harry pointed at her again, just to make sure she knew.
That one was for you.
──────────────
By the time Harry finally made it back towards the family area, the adrenaline had mostly worn off. The match still hummed beneath his skin. Ninety minutes of running, thinking, reacting, organising, encouraging, demanding. The equaliser. The roar of the crowd. The relief. The frustration. It all sat somewhere beneath the surface, refusing to settle completely.
The post-match interview had taken longer than he'd wanted. Questions about the goal. Questions about the comeback. Questions about the mentality of the squad. Questions about whether a draw felt like a win after being two goals down. Harry had answered all of them — politely, professionally, captain-like. Now he just wanted five minutes where nobody expected anything from him.
As he emerged from the tunnel leading towards the family section, his eyes immediately searched for her. They always did. The space was still busy despite the match having ended nearly an hour earlier. Families clustered together in small groups. Children running around in oversized England shirts. Partners talking amongst themselves while security and stadium staff patiently waited for everyone to clear out.
And there she was. Talking. Harry smiled before he even realised he was doing it.
She stood in the middle of a group consisting of Anne, Ellie Watkins and two other partners, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. Somehow, despite only arriving hours before kick-off, she'd already made herself completely at home, like she always did.
It didn't matter whether it was a restaurant in Barcelona, a family barbecue in Cheshire, a charity event in London or a World Cup stadium halfway across the world. She found a way to belong. She didn't demand attention, she simply listened. Simply cared about people. Genuinely. She remembered names and treated everyone exactly the same.
Harry's gaze drifted beyond her. Des and her father stood a few metres away deep in conversation, both waving their hands around as they spoke — most definitely talking football. The image made him laugh quietly to himself.
Then Anne spotted him, her face immediately lighting up, "Oh! There's my boy!"
Harry barely had time to react before his mother wrapped him in a hug.
"You were brilliant!"
"Mum." His voice sounded muted, spoken onto her shoulder.
"You were!"
"Mum," Harry softly chuckled. "Thank you."
She squeezed his cheeks briefly before releasing him. Des was next with a clap against the back — strong and proud. The kind of thing fathers did when emotions threatened to appear.
"Good goal. Beauty."
"Cheers, Dad."
Her father immediately nodded in agreement. "Absolute beauty. Goalkeeper never saw it."
Harry shook his head. Football dads. There was no escaping them.
Then finally, her. She stepped forward without hesitation — a quick kiss against his lips. And then a hug, a proper one. Longer than the kiss. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as his settled around her waist. And for the first time all day, Harry relaxed completely.
"You did good, Bub." The words were spoken quietly against his ear, just for him.
Harry squeezed her a little tighter. The scent of her shampoo. The feeling of her fingers against the back of his neck. Home.
Eventually they pulled apart, not very far, with Harry studying her face for a second.
"I thought you weren't going to make it," he said quietly. Or so he thought.
"Oh, you should've seen her." Her father appeared immediately.
"Here we go," Harry laughed.
"No, honestly," he continued. "Flight cancelled. She somehow gets us onto another one. Then talks someone into upgrading us."
Her eyes widened. "I did not talk someone into anything. I asked politely."
"You got us business class," her father threw back at her.
"By accident."
"Nobody accidentally gets business class."
Harry was already laughing and she smacked his arm. "Stop! It was just one time. One thing."
"It was today." Harry looked down at her, noticing the slight flush in her cheeks, the embarrassment. The way she immediately tried changing the subject. God, he loved her.
"You being here going to be a problem all tournament?" he asked.
"Stop it." Her hand squeeze his bicep. The smile on her face ruined any attempt at sounding annoyed. "I just wanted to get here."
I just wanted to get here.
Oof. He felt that in his body. Not because it was glamorous or exciting. England was here. This mattered to him and therefore it mattered to her. A familiar ache settled briefly in his chest — the knowledge that in a few hours she'd be leaving for another city. Another hotel. Another stadium. While he climbed back onto the team bus back into tournament mode. Back into the strange isolation that came with being England captain.
"Want to talk later?" she asked quietly.
Harry's smile faded slightly, not because he didn't want to talk later, but because later meant FaceTime. Later meant hotel rooms. Later meant another conversation through a screen.
She noticed immediately and her expression softened.
"Or..." Harry looked up and she tilted her head towards a quieter section of seats. "Talk now?"
The relief was immediate. "Yeah."
A few minutes later they sat side by side several rows away from everyone else. The stadium had emptied considerably with staff beginning to dismantle equipment and ground crew moving across the pitch below. Harry leaned back in his seat while she turned slightly towards him. Neither of them spoke for a moment — he was waiting for her to start the conversation how she always did.
"The first half wasn't great."
Harry laughed, waiting for this moment, "There she is."
"You know it wasn't. You were dropping too deep."
The conversation felt familiar, comfortable and safe.
"The issue wasn't you dropping deep," she continued carefully. "The issue was everybody else reacting to it differently."
That caught his attention immediately. "Explain."
"You dropped to create overloads. Marcus stayed high. Jude followed."
"Yeah," he nodded.
"But then your left side wasn't doing the same thing."
Harry thought about it and then slowly nodded again, "Which meant..."
"The shape stretched."
"Have you been doing tactical analysis while travelling?" Harry laughed softly.
"Obviously." She bumped her shoulder against his. "But the second half was completely different."
"How?"
"You trusted each other." The answer came instantly with no hesitation. "You stopped trying to fix everything yourself."
Harry looked away because she'd caught him. Again.
"The younger lads settled." She counted them off on her fingers. "Your press improved. Your shape improved. Your communication improved. And your captaincy improved. You looked calmer."
"I wasn't."
"I know," she said with certain. "I know exactly how stressed you were. You hide it terribly."
"I do not." He was trying hard not to smile.
"You do. At least from me, you do."
He groaned and she couldn't help but laugh.
"Bub," she said softly. The teasing disappeared. The football analysis dissapeared. "It's a new team. New players. New manager. New tournament."
"You're doing good." She reached across and squeezed his hand. Harry stared at their joined hands — her ring catching the stadium lights again. "Promise."
The word landed somewhere deeper than the praise. Deeper than the interviews. Deeper than the goal. Because it came from her.
He leaned over and kissed her. Once. Twice. Three quick pecks that made her laugh. "I love you."
"I know." Her smile immediately returned.
"Wow," Harry pulled back and stared at her. "Training all day. A full ninety minutes."
"Mm-hm," she was giggling now.
"Scored a goal. And all I get is 'I know'."
Then one of his favourite sounds in the world — her laugh echoed through the mostly empty stand. She leaned forward and kissed him properly this time. Soft. Warm. Familiar.
"I love you too." Another kiss. "And you know that."
"I do." Harry smiled.
Below them, grounds staff continued their work. Around them, families slowly filtered away. In a few minutes somebody would come looking for England's captain. There would be recovery tomorrow. Training the day after that. Another match waiting around the corner. But for now, in a half-empty stadium halfway across the world, Harry rested his forehead briefly against hers and allowed himself a moment he rarely got during tournaments.
Not captain. Not striker. Not England's biggest hope. Just Harry. And that felt like enough.
──────────────
Another city. Another hotel. Another stadium. Another stretch of days spent living out of a suitcase.
The rhythm of tournament football was strange. People imagined the matches were the difficult part, but Harry had always found the spaces in between harder. The travel. The waiting. The endless meetings and recovery sessions. The hours spent in hotel rooms that all looked vaguely identical no matter what state they happened to be in. By now he knew exactly what people would say.
You're whipped. Can't spend five minutes without her. Need your hand held.
The thought made him smile to himself as he stood in the tunnel waiting for kick-off. It wasn't that and it had never been that. He could live without her — of course he could. The problem was that life was simply better with her in it. They'd spent years building something together. Years learning how the other moved through the world. Years figuring out when to push and when to listen. When to challenge and when to support. Somewhere along the way they'd become a team in the truest sense of the word. And Harry liked being part of that team.
He liked waking up beside her. He liked reaching for her in the middle of the night. He liked being able to turn his head and tell her something stupid the second he thought of it. He liked that she understood football. Really understood it. Not the headlines or the celebrity of it. The actual game — filled with movement, tactics and pressure.
FaceTime wasn't cutting it. The calls and texts helped but they weren't the same. Nothing replaced rolling over at midnight and finding her there. Nothing replaced hearing her laugh from another room. Nothing replaced home.
The whistle blew. Football took over. And for ninety minutes Harry let everything else disappear.
Ghana were organised. Disciplined. Happy to sit deep and force England into patient possession. It wasn't a spectacular match, nor was it supposed to be. Tournament football rarely cared about entertainment. It cared about results. England controlled the game from the opening whistle. The midfield dictated tempo. The defensive line stayed compact. The press worked. Everything felt calmer than it had against the Netherlands. More settled and confident. Harry could feel the team beginning to understand itself — beginning to trust itself.
The first goal came from patience. The second came from instinct. And by the time he'd scored his second of the evening, he could feel the pressure loosening slightly around his chest. Not disappearing but definitely easing. The final whistle arrived with England two goals ahead and completely in control. It was a professional performance — the kind managers loved and captains appreciated.
As players began shaking hands and exchanging shirts, Harry moved through the group naturally, clapping shoulders and pulling younger players into quick hugs.
"Well done."
"Excellent."
"That's the standard."
The words came easily because they were true.
Tuchel intercepted him near the technical area. The manager's smile was small but genuine. "Good game."
Harry nodded. "So were we."
"You were." The distinction made Tuchel laugh. There was praise in the manager's eyes — for the leadership, performance and the way the team had looked.
Harry appreciated it more than he let on. Then he was turning towards the stands.
And there she was. Waiting.
This time she'd made it with hours to spare. No dramatic sprinting down stairs or last-minute arrival. She was standing beside Anne. His mum already smiling before he'd even reached them. Harry didn't think, he simply walked faster.
The hugs came first with Anne wrapping him up immediately.
"Oh, look at you! Two goals!"
"Mum. We don't need to do this every time."
"You were brilliant." He laughed as she brushed a hand through his damp hair. "There is literally grass in your hair."
Des clapped him on the shoulder. Her father did the same. Both immediately launching into a discussion about the second goal. The angle. The finish. The movement. Harry wasn't entirely sure either of them took a breath.
Then his eyes found hers as she stepped forward. One kiss. Then another. Quick. Soft. Familiar. "So proud of you."
The words felt better than any pundit praise ever could.
Harry kissed her cheek and his hand settled briefly at her waist. "I've got some free time tonight."
"Oh?" Her eyebrows lifted.
"I want you to come to the hotel."
"No family?" she questioned.
"Oh, no. Me and these football fanatics are going back to our hotel," Anne immediately answered for her. She pointed towards Des and her father. The pair were still arguing about the match. "We'll survive."
Her dad nodded. "I think."
"You think?" Harry asked.
"No promises."
The group laughed. Anne reached up and removed another piece of grass from Harry's hair. Honestly, it was a miracle she'd managed to raise him.
"You two go."
"You sure?" His fiancée smiled.
"Go spend time with your footballer." Anne waved her away.
"Captain footballer," Des corrected.
Harry groaned. "Please stop calling me that."
"No."
"Go shower," His fiancée squeezed his hand. "You're covered in sweat."
Harry stared at her and she stared right back. Eventually he sigh dramatically, "I'll meet you in the tunnel."
He kissed her once more before finally disappearing towards the changing rooms.
Two hours later they sat tucked into the corner of a restaurant inside the team hotel. It wasn't particularly glamorous. Tournament security meant most places weren't. But it was quiet and private, and most importantly, she was there.
Harry had changed into England sweats and a white t-shirt. She was still wearing her England jersey with jean shorts, hair slightly windswept from being outside. And he couldn't stop looking at her.
She was halfway through the tiramisu he'd ordered. The same tiramisu she'd claimed not to want. Harry watched another spoonful disappear.
"You said you didn't want dessert."
"I didn't," she said with a flirty tone.
"You are currently eating dessert."
"I didn't want my own dessert." She pointed her spoon at him while Harry laughed.
She took another bite before finally noticing the way he was looking at her. He wasn't glancing. It was staring. Her movements slowed while she spoke slowly, "What?"
"What?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I can't look at my fiancée?" he questioned.
"Not like that." Harry smiled and she narrowed her eyes. "Harry."
"You're really beautiful."
"Oh God," she groaned.
"What?"
"You've scored twice and now you're emotional."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." Her smile softened which somehow made things worse. Because now she was looking at him the way she did when she knew something. "What?"
"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head.
"Bullshit."
He laughed out, "What?"
"You've got a thing where you don't want to tell me something."
"I don't."
"You do."
Harry leaned back in his seat and she waited. Patiently. Completely confident she'd win.
"I just miss you," he eventually sighed. The words felt embarrassingly honest. Harry looked down at his hands. "I don't want to sound clingy."
"You don't," she said immediately.
"But..." His shoulders lifted slightly. "I miss sleeping next to you. I miss talking to you without having to call first. I miss turning around and you're just there."
The honesty surprised even him. Maybe because he'd been carrying it around for weeks. Maybe because she was the only person he'd ever say it to. "You're my favourite person."
Her warm smile arrived slowly. The kind that always felt like home.
"Bub."
"I know," Harry laughed quietly.
"You're not clingy."
"No?"
"No." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Although I don't mind when you are."
That pulled a proper laugh from him.
She continued, "I know exactly what you mean and I feel it too. I do. "
No hesitation. No pretending she was stronger than she felt. No pretending she didn't miss him.
"I miss you all the time," she said. The honesty of it settled between them. Comfortable. Safe. Real. "But this is our life, huh?"
Harry nodded because it was. Football. Travel. Airports. Hotels. Distance. Love. All tangled together.
"We've got this." Her voice was certain. Certain enough for both of them. "You've got this."
She stood then, sliding around the booth before settling beside him. Without thinking, Harry immediately wrapped an arm around her. She tucked herself into his side as naturally as breathing.
"I love you, Bubba." Her cheek rested against his shoulder. "We can do this."
Harry pressed a kiss into her hair. Around them, hotel staff moved quietly between tables. Somewhere upstairs his teammates were recovering. Tomorrow would bring meetings and training and preparation for the next match. But for now none of it mattered.
"Even when I'm not next to you," she murmured softly, "I'm with you."
Harry closed his eyes briefly. The pressure and expectations hadn't disappeared. England still needed him. The tournament was only beginning. But with her tucked beneath his arm, her hand tangled with his, the weight felt lighter than it had all week.
──────────────
The thing about American hotels was that they barely felt like hotels. At least not the kind Harry had grown up staying in.
The place England had taken over for the tournament looked more like a small city. Restaurants. Pools. Gardens. Walking trails. Lounges. Conference rooms. A gym large enough to rival most professional training facilities. If someone told him he could spend three weeks there without stepping foot outside the property, he'd probably believe them. Which was exactly what most of the squad were doing. Tournament football had a way of shrinking your world. Hotel. Training ground. Stadium. Hotel again. Repeat until somebody sent you home.
The evening air had cooled slightly as they wandered along one of the pathways weaving through the grounds. Palm trees lined sections of the walkway, lights illuminating gardens that probably required an entire team of people to maintain. Their fingers remained intertwined between them, swinging gently with every step. Or rather, every very slow step.
She glanced sideways at him. Glanced again. Then finally laughed, "Bub."
"Mm?" Harry looked over.
"Should we just stand here?"
His eyebrows lifted. "What?"
"That's the pace you're going."
"I'm walking," Harry out a laugh.
"You are not. You've moved approximately three feet in the last minute."
Harry shook his head. "You're being ridiculous."
She squeezed his hand.
The smile on his face faded slightly. Only slightly. But she'd seen it, like she always did.They walked another few paces before she stopped completely. Harry took two more steps before realising she wasn't beside him anymore. When he turned around she was standing there with her hands planted firmly on her hips. Waiting patiently.
"Come here."
Harry immediately started laughing. "No."
"Bub."
The use of the nickname did him in instantly. With exaggerated reluctance, he turned and walked back towards her. The second he was close enough she placed both hands on his shoulders. Just enough pressure to make sure he was actually looking at her and not the ground — or over her shoulder.
"Hey," she said softly.
His smile softened. "Hi."
"You played well."
Harry immediately opened his mouth.
"Nope." She squeezed his shoulders. "No."
"I wasn't going to—"
"You were."
Harry sighed because she was right. Again. Her thumbs rubbed lightly against the fabric of his sweatshirt.
"You played well." The certainty in her voice made arguing feel pointless. "You will continue to play well."
Harry looked down briefly before looking back at her. She didn't let him escape. Didn't let him retreat into his own head.
"Harry." The use of his full name caught his attention immediately. "You don't need a captain's armband to know you're a captain. You lead with integrity."
She spoke quietly like she wasn't trying to convince him. Like she was simply stating facts.
"You're calm under pressure." Harry almost laughed at that. The look she gave him stopped him immediately. "You are."
The correction was immediate. Firm.
"You're calm when everyone else isn't. You motivate people. You set standards." She squeezed his shoulders. "You lead by example."
The words settled between them. These weren't media soundbites or football clichés. These were things she'd observed over years. Things she'd watched happen long before the World Cup and captaincies, headlines and trophies.
"I'm not marrying you because of football. I'm not marrying you because you're captain of England." Her hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck. "I'm marrying you because you're the exact same man off the pitch as you are on it."
That was the thing she'd always understood. The thing nobody else ever really talked about. The standards. The consistency. The way Harry couldn't switch it off.
The same person who demanded excellence from teammates was the same person who spent twenty minutes researching the best route to a restaurant because he didn't want anyone stuck in traffic. The same person who organised team meetings was the same person who remembered birthdays. The same person who held people accountable was the same person who held himself accountable.
Always. Everywhere.
"That's why I love you."
Harry stared at her and his throat suddenly felt tight.
"Now," her expression shifted back to teasing. "Stop sulking."
Before he could respond she leaned forward and planted a hard kiss against his lips. One that surprised a laugh out of him.
"And get to work."
Harry blinked and then laughed properly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I needed that."
"I know." She smiled and then reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture was so familiar it almost hurt.
"I love you, Harry." Her voice had softened again. "So much."
The honesty in it never failed to affect him. No matter how many times she said it. No matter how many years they'd been together.
"But you are so hard on yourself." Harry looked away which was answer enough. She sighed affectionately, "Every night after a match is going to feel like this if you let it."
The statement hung there. Simple and true.
"I'm in the stands just like I am in Barcelona." She gave a small shrug which made Harry smile. She continued, "Nothing is different."
"Bub—"
"No." She pointed at him. "The ball still goes into the goal. The other team still tries to kick lumps out of you."
"Very true."
"You still have to work your arse off. It's football," she continued.
The conviction in her voice made him laugh again. "You've somehow simplified the World Cup."
"Because it is simple."
"It isn't."
"It is." She squeezed his hand. "It's football."
Then she smiled. The smile that always felt like sunlight. Which was all of her smiles, to be honest.
"And you're fucking good at doing football."
Harry groaned immediately.
She burst out laughing. "What?"
"You make it sound ridiculous."
"You kick ball."
"Oh my God."
"You kick ball very well," she said in a deep voice.
Harry covered his face. She was impossible.
"And not that you need reminding..." Her laughter faded and something steadier replaced it. "I love you either way this goes. I'm proud of you either way this goes."
Harry felt his chest tighten again. This time he didn't fight it with a joke or a deflection. He listened.
"But it'll only go one way if you keep thinking like this." She tapped his forehead lightly. "You're exhausting yourself."
Harry let out a slow breath. She'd found the real issue. It wasn't the pressure of the football. It was the fact he was trying to carry tomorrow's problems before tomorrow had even arrived. The fact he was already worrying about matches that hadn't happened. Criticism that hadn't come. Mistakes that didn't exist.
Eventually he stepped forward and wrapped both arms around her, holding on. She immediately melted against him with both arms circling his waist. Cheek against his chest. Home.
Not Barcelona. Not England. Not a city. Her.
"I love you," he said quietly.
She squeezed him tighter. "I know."
"That's becoming annoying," Harry laughed into her hair.
"A little."
They stayed there for another minute before eventually making their way towards the hotel entrance. The private car Harry had arranged was already waiting. The sight of it made his stomach sink slightly. She wasn't leaving forever, it was three days, but still... three days felt longer during a tournament.
She stepped in front of him before climbing into the car. Both arms wrapped around his waist and her chin resting against his chest, looking up at him. Harry smiled immediately and then kissed her forehead. Once. Her nose. Twice. The second one made her giggle.
His favourite sound.
"I love you." The words left her mouth easily.
"I know," Harry smiled.
Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Harry."
"Mm?" He laughed.
"Say it back."
"No."
"Harry."
"Nope."
"Bub."
He lasted approximately two seconds and then failed completely. "I love you."
She smiled softly, "See you in three days?"
"See you in three days." Harry nodded.
"I know it's not the same." She squeezed his hands. "But you text me. Call me if you need me."
Harry smiled. "I know."
"The only thing I'll be busy doing is being on the look out with your mum."
A grin spread across his face. "Mm."
"Taking care of our fathers at various drinking establishments."
Harry laughed outright. "Good luck."
"I'm going to need it."
The driver cleared his throat politely. Time.
She leaned forward to do one final kiss and then climbed into the car. The door closed and the engine started. Harry stood there watching as the vehicle slowly pulled away from the hotel entrance. A few metres. Ten metres. Twenty. Then suddenly the brake lights flashed. The car stopped.
Harry frowned when the rear window lowered. There she was half hanging out of it.
"Harry!"
"What?" He couldn't stop smiling.
She pointed directly at him. The same way she'd pointed at him a hundred times before. The same way she'd looked at him from the stands. The same certainty. The same belief.
"You got this."
For a second Harry simply looked at her and then he nodded. Looking at his favourite person who believed in him completely.
"I've got this."
She winked and the window rose. The car pulled away. And for the first time since the tournament had begun, Harry actually believed it.
Please tell us more about rookie Joseph Bainbridge
Rookie Joseph Bainbridge was a baby hockey player experiencing his first encounter with the merciless violence of puberty when Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s rookie season hit the greater hockey world like the rock that killed the fucking dinosaurs. This had lasting impacts on him, personally.
Shane and Ilya’s rookie season was impactful in a lot of ways. From a historical perspective, it was one of the most significant years in hockey history. Like. They both scored more than fifty goals in their rookie season. Scoring 50 goals in one season in hockey is considered a career high for most players. In real-life, the Canadiens just had a veteran player score 50 goals this season. He is the first player in the franchise to manage it in 36 years. Having two players manage it as rookies in the same year? Insane.
The list goes on. From an economic standpoint, their rivalry probably saved the NHL. From a technical standpoint? The techniques those crazy bitches pulled off were being studied by every junior team out there to advance hockey itself.
It was also a really big year for the closeted queer hockey player community. This part did not make it into the news.
Ilya and Shane were both attractive and had the kind of talent that had everyone talking about them with admiration that edged on lust and also they were reasonably young enough that having a crush on them didn’t feel like a total pipe dream for all the pubescent baby gay hockey players out there. Like right now it’s impossible but Maybe One Day You Could Be Their Scandalously Young Sidepiece. A 5-6 year age gap wasn’t that big of a deal depending on how old you were when it started.
Shane and Ilya have unknowingly been the gay awakenings for many young queer athletes since 2009.
Baby hockey player Joseph Bainbridge sure felt a Lot Of Admiration for the skill Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov exhibited. Though maybe slightly more admiration for Shane Hollander. This is, of course, an appreciation for his playing style and not his chocolate brown eyes.
He watches a lot of highlight reels.
Time passes. Joseph Bainbridge buys a Shane Hollander poster. He’s got so much respect for that guy in a purely professional way.
Time passes. Shane Hollander is declared Cosmopolitian’s Hottest Man in Hockey. Joseph Bainbridge buys the magazine and hides it at the bottom of his bag. This is also due to a purely professional respect, probably.
Time passes. Joseph Bainbridge is drafted to the Boston Raiders. After a couple of years in development, he packs up his life to move to Boston. He still has a poster of Shane Hollander on his wall and. The magazine. Surely the shame he feels around that is due with the fact that he was drafted to Shane Hollander’s rival team, which is led by his personal rival, making Shane Hollander The Enemy. He should throw those out.
Time passes. He doesn’t.
Time passes. He feels like he’s sort of coming in on the tail end of something. There’s this entire saga around Montreal Jane he appears to have missed. He is assured at length that he is lucky to have missed it.
Time passes. It’s the first game of the season, and the metros appear to have turned on Shane Hollander. No one knows what’s up with that. St-Simon makes a joke about how Hollander must have fucked the coach’s wife or something. Everyone laughs except Cap, who left earlier in some kind of a hurry. Everyone expects whatever happened with Hollander and his coach to be a one-time thing.
Time passes. It isn’t.
Time passes. Joseph Bainbridge sets up a news alert on Shane Hollander’s name set up on his phone. He Shan’t Be Inspecting Why. His interest is purely professional.
Time passes. Something’s up with Shane Hollander. Something’s up with Cap. These things are unrelated. Shane Hollander—had an orgy with his coach’s mom and wife and daughter and grandma and dog at this rate, because no one can figure out what the fuck else he could have done to piss that guy off that badly. Cap meanwhile has some Montreal Princess he’s been moony over since he was 18, apparently, and something’s up with her. She was in an accident, but maybe it’s more, no one can really tell and Cap won’t say. He’s missing practices, though, not a lot but more than he ever would normally (his normal is 0), and management’s turned a blind eye because he’s Ilya fucking Rozanov and because no one’s ever seen him scared like this. Cliff is able to pry out of him after four hours of interrogation and half a bottle of vodka that someone was harassing his Jane, and maybe she was in danger, and maybe it was a lot of danger, and maybe whatever it was was bad enough that Cap was constantly texting her to make sure she wasn’t fucking dead. Cliff tells the rest of the boys that he told Roz the solution was easy, and that was to finally bring his darling down to Boston once and for all. Wife her, WAG her, and they’d take care of her, the whole team. She wouldn’t need to work with Roz’s salary and the stalker or whatever that was after her would have to get through the Boston Raiders. She’d be safe and he could finally be with her full time.
Cap said he wished it was that simple. He refused to say anything else. He squirreled himself free of Cliff’s bear trap grip and went home to call his Jane. He missed her.
Everyone’s best guess was that maybe immigration’s the problem. Cap doesn’t have citizenship, and his Montreal Princess couldn’t get legal status of her own by marrying him. Maybe that was keeping them apart. After all, what else could it be?
Time passes. Shane Hollander breaks his own record for longest line shift. Shane Hollander breaks his own record for longest line shift. Shane Hollander breaks his own record for longest line shift.
Time passes. Cap looks exhausted all the time now, and also maybe afraid all the time now, but he’s better at hiding that second bit. He’s flown up to Canada and back for so many too-short, ill-advised day trips that the border patrol agents recognize him as their frequent flyer instead of as Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston raiders.
Cliff pulls Joseph Bainbridge aside and tells him that Cap usually takes more of a hand in the rookies’ development, and not to take his absence this season personally.
He thinks something’s really, really wrong. He’s never seen Roz afraid like this.
Time passes. Shane Hollander doesn’t break his own record for longest line shift, but only because the record’s so high now. He spends five times longer on the ice than Joseph Bainbridge ever has, but he’s not even cracked his own top ten. Players from other teams start reaching out to see if anyone’s heard what the fuck is up with Hollander. Metros are radio-fucking-silent, apparently, and Hollander himself has stopped replying to any and all texts, and no one can figure out what the fuck is going on or why Hollander won’t just force his way onto the bench or take penalties or file a complaint with the union or fucking sue or something.
Joseph Bainbridge doesn’t have the answer. He’s only existed in the same building as that guy once or twice and all he remembers about it is thinking about how fucking tired Hollander looked.
That’s not true. He also thought about how his stomach churned with an odd mix of butterflies and guilt and fear when he looked at Shame Hollander. He doesn’t want to inspect why he felt any of those things.
Time passes. Joseph Bainbridge thinks about Shane Hollander and the magazine he’s got crammed into the bottom of his bedside table and the poster that feels like a shameful pinup that’s in the same drawer now and the way all of Hollander’s teammates won’t go near him anymore, except for two, both of whom started using pride tape out of the blue this season. But that doesn’t mean anything. They’re not the only players to use pride tape year round. Carter Vaughn uses pride tape year round, and so do half the New York admirals now that Scott Hunter is out. The tape’s probably because of Scott Hunter coming out last season. It doesn’t have anything to do with Shane Hollander. Probably.
Time passes. Shane Hollander breaks his own record for longest line shift.
Time passes. Joseph Bainbridge thinks about Shane Hollander and the magazine he’s got crammed into the bottom of his bedside table and the pride tape and all those goddamn line shifts. He wonders how long he could make it on a line shift if he really, really had to.
He doesn’t think it’s as long as Shane Hollander.
Time passes. He gets a news alert. Shane Hollander is gay. His first, inescapable, knee-jerk thought is “fuck, gay guys are lucky to have a shot with him.” He will not be inspecting this.
His second thought is about those goddamn line shifts.
Like, an hour passes. No one can find Cap.
Another hour passes. They’ve found him. It’s in the goddamn news.
Like, thirty-seven seconds pass. He’s not sure. He thinks he’s stroking out right now. There is no fucking way. There is no fucking way.
Twenty frantic minutes of google searching pass. Joseph Bainbridge finds a copy of the Hollander family groupchat. And. Oh, nope, that’s. That’s cap. Pretty. Pretty distinct texter, Cap. That’s. That’s definitely him. So there is a fucking way.
Another hour passes. He schleps into Ryan Carmichael’s house with the rest of the raiders, save Cliff, who isn’t responding to the fucking group chat. No one knows what the fuck is happening and everyone wants to know.
Several hours pass. The raiders cycle through the full spectrum of human emotion. Cap is fucking Shane Hollander. Cap is in love(????) with Shane Hollander. Cap is chartering jets just to be at Shane Hollander’s side.
Cap is leaving them for Shane Hollander. He’s signing with Ottawa as soon as the season’s out.
Cap is in a groupchat with Shane Hollanders parents and they call him their boy and they text him goodnight every single night and they’re learning Russian just so he doesn’t have to feel like he has to be the one translating everything he says all the time. Shane fucking Hollander is learning Russian so their captain doesn’t have to always be the one translating everything he says all the time. Shane fucking Hollander is flying to Boston in between games just so he can hold their cap’s hand during a meeting with his immigration attorneys. Cap’s own family fucked him but Shane Hollander and his fucking parents are in that groupchat telling cap I love you I love you I love you and here’s all the ways I’m going to show you it.
Cap loves Shane Hollander.
The Montreal metros are trying to kill Shane Hollander.
Time passes. Fuck if he knows how much. No one knows where Cliff is. Half of them think he still just hasn’t looked at his fucking phone. The other half think he has already fucked off to Go Comb Canada For His Boy, who is fucking Shane Hollander.
… that’s low key epic of Roz, isn’t it?
Shane fucking Hollander. Hockey God Shane Hollander. Goody two shoes Shane Hollander. Pretty-Boy-If-I-Had-to-Pick-a-Dude Shane Hollander. Rose Landry’s Canadian Prince Who Gets Her Pregnant Every Other Month Shane Hollander.
No, no seriously. How. How did he do that. How did he do that.
A night passes. Cap is suspended. So is Hollander.
A few hours pass. Jesus Christ Cliff.
Like, thirty minutes pass. Cliff Is Here To Say His Boy Is Innocent, Free Him. What. What Is His Boy Being Accused Of.
Wait, seriously, Hollander? No seriously seriously what did Roz do.
He did Hollander?
Cliff knows this is serious but low key that’s epic. How the fuck did he manage that.
Another thirty minutes pass. Cliff is getting dragged to kingdom come online. He is fighting for his life. He calls his lesbian sister because holy fuck does he need backup. Cliffs lesbian sister points out that if Roz doesn’t have legal status and he loses his job from this, he’s going to be deported back to Russia, where he will be fucking killed.
No time passes. Cliff is already locked in. Not his boy, not on his fucking watch. As soon as management calls, they’re telling them that The Boston Raiders Stand With Their Canceled Wife.
Not nearly enough time passes. What. What do you mean management already announced they’d be playing. What the fuck man.
Okay. Fuck it. Cliff’s lesbian sister, what do you got?
Time passes. The statement hasn’t been released yet. They’re trying to get into touch with cap before they potentially fuck over his plans for Russia. But they’re holding off for another reason. There’s an elephant in the room. Joseph Bainbridge does not know what the elephant is.
Oh. Fuck. It’s him.
Time passes. The need to release the statement. They’re doing this, because they’ve known Roz for years and he’s always had their back and they’re not letting him be fucking murdered in Russia.
Joseph Bainbridge doesn’t know him that well.
It’s only been a few months. Roz has barely been around. And he’s got an entire career ahead of him that he very well may be throwing away. Not much money, few prospects, and a lifelong dream in the can.
Is he… does he want to do this with them?
And Joseph Bainbridge thinks about the magazine and the poster and all the shame he felt around having both for years that he couldn’t fully explain away with professional admiration. He thinks about the line shifts, and how goddamn tired Shane Hollander looked the last time he saw him.
No, he uh. He’s in. This.
This feels like something he has to do. Post it.
Time passes. Oh fuck oh god management did not like that. They did not fucking like that at all. Oh my god they are calling everyone every second of every hour. Oh my god they are sending people to their houses. Relocate relocate relocate
Time passes. Shane is Jane. Joseph Bainbridge feels this would be more groundbreaking to him personally if he had a fucking clue what happened during the Montreal Jane Sagas. Why do they act like this was a war they are all shellshocked veterans of
More time passes. St-Simon makes the mistake of pointing out that, in the early days of the Montreal Jane Sagas, the fact that Roz had actually elected one (1) regular to his roster and always came back from her somehow even better at hockey had been a source of wonder and mystique for them. They had all speculated as to whether this woman sucked dick better than any other person on the planet. They had all. Fantasized. About what she must be like. And. Dare they say it. Desired.
And she. Was.
Shane Hollander.
Joseph Bainbridge relates to the resultant crisis of self and finds it very understandable. While he missed the original Montreal Jane Sagas, he, too, has imagined what it would be like to get blown by The Shane Hollander. The fact that he did not imagine this through the veil of Montreal Jane is completely lost on him. This is now a shared group experience amongst them all so he need not inspect it. They all did the same thing here.
Time passes. Their Boy Has Returned to Them Triumphant And Heroic. His Beautiful And Terrifying Russian Goddess Has Hunted Them Down Like Wild Elk To Personally Change Their iCloud Passwords Before Handing Over Cap’s Number Because No One Trusts Them With Their Own Data Security Anymore.
Joseph Bainbridge angles his phone screen away so no one can see his iCloud password used to be ShaneHollander24!
Time passes. Now Their Boy Has Returned to Them Triumphant And Heroic. He FaceTimes them at long last. They confirm three times that Shane Hollander cannot hear them.
He can’t? Oh good. THE PIPE LAID IS HISTORIC ROZ HOW THE FUCK—
Joseph Bainbridge feels very affirmed by all of this. He, too, thinks getting to fuck Shane Hollander is an accomplishment worthy of a place in history.
He shan’t be inspecting why.
A day passes. Rose Landry’s brothers make some very compelling points in an Instagram reel that gives Joseph Bainbridge immense relief. This explains everything. You do not have to be gay to be down bad for Shane Hollander. He is a universal constant. It is totally totally straight to have him be a source of your lasting and puberty-driven fixation. What a relief.
Time passes. The Raiders Hive Mind Has Convened and decided the best way to defend their boy is to hype him and his decisions up to the fullest possible extent. Their boy pulled the baddest bitch in hockey and should feel no shame for that. Who wouldn’t take that opportunity? Ilya Rozanov is a hero worthy of acclaim.
And Joseph Bainbridge agrees with all of these sentiments. He feels so affirmed and relieved by all of this. He was never attracted to men. Shane Hollander is simply a universal constant. They all mean the words they’re saying with the same levels of sincerity, he is so so sure. He is free to say the quiet thoughts out loud now, following the noble example of Cliff Marleau. They’ve all thought about it. All of them. This is a true and universal statement that he should share with the Internet.
In short, the Landry brothers have set a bi-curious Boston Raider back YEARS in his journey of self discovery. He is now convinced it is genuinely not gay if it’s for Shane Hollander and he is clinging to that mindset like a fucking raft adrift at sea.
Getting hired as a photographer for the San Antonio Spurs was supposed to be simple: take photos, stay professional, and avoid becoming the story. Unfortunately, Stephon Castle develops a very obvious crush on you almost immediately - and while the entire team seems to notice, you're the last person to figure it out.
warnings: vic-the-wingman, fluff
note: hello ♡ i have been receiving an overwhelming amount of steph requests, so here we go. special thanks to victor for his role in this story as the world's least subtle wingman. - dean
masterlist | sign up for my taglist | @courtsidearchive
The first person to notice Stephon's crush is Victor, which is rather unfortunate once you take into account his tendency to find his teammate's suffering amusing. Said suffering begins on a Tuesday. Media day.
You have been officially on the job for exactly four hours when it happens. The work seems straightforward enough: take photos, edit photos, try not to get run over by extremely large basketball players.
You are currently attempting to photograph individual player portraits when Stephon Castle walks into the studio. The moment he sees you, he trips over absolutely nothing. Victor notices almost immediately. Number 5 catches himself on a table, before hitting the floor and suffering an injury.
"Oh."
Stephon freezes at the Frenchman's exclamation.
"Oh no."
"What?"
Victor's grin grows.
"What?"
"You have a crush."
"I do not."
"You just almost ruined your season."
"I tripped."
"You tripped because she's pretty."
Stephon looks ready to retire from professional basketball. Unfortunately for him, Vic is only getting started.
It doesn't take long for approximately everyone else employed by the San Antonio Spurs to take note of Stephon's crush. People take note of the way he stares when you pass by him in the hallways, or how he rushes to hold doors open for you and say hello.
Yet you remain completely unaware. Mostly because you assume Stephon is simply friendly, which he is. The problem is that he is only this friendly with you.
"Can I see the photos?"
You glance up from your laptop. Stephon stands beside your desk once again. This is the fourth time today.
"These aren't even edited yet."
"That's okay."
"You won't be able to tell what they look like."
"That's okay too."
You narrow your eyes. He doesn't seem particularly interested in the photos, just in being near the photos, which happen to be near you. Before you can think too hard about it, Victor appears behind him.
"She's working."
Stephon groans. Vic continues.
"You have seen the photos."
"No, I haven't."
"You have."
"No."
"You literally asked to see them ten minutes ago."
Stephon looks as though he would like to disappear. You look between them, then shrug.
Basketball players are weird.
Over the next few weeks, things become increasingly suspicious. Suspicious for everyone else that is.
Stephon volunteers for everything - team photos, promotional shoots, social media videos, interviews. One afternoon he even offers to carry your camera bag, which is barely bigger than the standard handbag.
"Thank you?"
"No problem."
He looks absurdly pleased with himself. You decide not to question it.
The real problem begins when the team starts helping, or attempting to help. The distinction is important, because none of them are particularly good at it.
One afternoon you're photographing practice. The players are taking free throws. And everything seems normal, until Dylan loudly announces:
"Stephon get off the bench, your girlfriend's here."
The gym goes silent. Stephon nearly launches a basketball at his teammate's head.
"What?"
You blink. Dylan winces. Victor starts laughing, which earns him an attempt at an arm smack from you. The coaches look tired. Stephon has gained a peculiar interest for his shoes and the floor.
"His what?"
"Copine."
Vic seems to think the issue of understanding is due to a language barrier. You attempt to smack him again, hoping he is thanking God for being so tall, because the slap would have landed on the back of his neck otherwise.
"Me?"
The entire team suddenly avoids your gaze.
Later that day, you are out for dinner with Victor and friends of yours. This wasn't out of the ordinary, after all you share a home country and being all too familiar with adjusting to the American way of life, he had taken you under his wing. You decide now is as good a time as any to bring up the events from earlier.
"What was that about?"
He stares.
"What?"
"The girlfriend thing."
He stares harder. Then:
"You genuinely don't know?"
A pause. You lower your drink.
"Know what?"
"Oh my God."
You learn the truth approximately thirty seconds later. And honestly? You feel a little stupid, because apparently everyone else noticed immediately. The volunteering, the excuses, the random appearances, the fact that Stephon somehow materializes whenever you're working, the way he looks at you, the way he lights up whenever you enter a room. The entire team apparently has a running joke about it.
You put your head in your hands.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"You're joking."
"I am not."
You think back. How he carried your camera bag, asked for photo updates thirty times a day, volunteered for interviews, the coffee he brought you last week, the awkward smiles everyone would share when you interacted.
Oh.
Oh.
The next morning is somehow worse, because now that you know you notice everything.
You notice the way he looks up when you walk into a room. You notice the way he smiles. You notice the way he suddenly forgets how sentences work whenever you speak to him.
And now that you've seen it - you can't unsee it.
Which is why, three days later, you decide to put him out of his misery. Practice has just ended and the players are heading toward the locker room. Stephon is gathering his things, when you approach. Immediately, he looks nervous. Cute. Very cute.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Neither of you seems willing to continue. Finally, you sigh.
"Would you like to get coffee sometime?"
The silence is immediate. Stephon blinks.
"You mean..."
"Coffee."
"With you?"
You laugh.
"No, with a random stranger."
His entire face turns red, which only makes you laugh harder.
"Oh."
Then:
"Yes."
The answer arrives so quickly that it sounds rehearsed. You smile.
"I thought so."
The news somehow reaches the team before either of you leaves the building. You still don't know how, but you suspect Victor. You are almost certainly correct, because when you and Stephon arrive at practice the following day, the entire roster is grinning. Dylan actually mock applauds. Carter high-fives somebody. Vic looks unbearably pleased with himself.
Stephon groans.
"You told them."
"I told nobody."
"You absolutely told them."
Victor smiles. The smile of an innocent man. The smile of a liar.
"They seemed happy."
"You are impossible."
"I know."
Your first date lasts four hours. The second lasts six. The third ends with Stephon walking you to your car and neither of you wanting to say goodbye, which is how you find yourselves standing in a parking lot discussing absolutely nothing for nearly half an hour.
Eventually, he laughs.
"What?"
"We've been saying goodbye for twenty minutes."
"Maybe we're bad at it."
"Maybe."
The smile he gives you then is soft and suddenly it becomes very difficult to remember why you hadn't noticed his crush sooner, because now it feels impossible to miss.
Maybe everyone else had been right all along. Maybe Stephon Castle never had much game. Maybe he was obvious from the start.
But standing there beneath the parking lot lights, looking at the shy grin spreading across his face, you decide you don't really mind.
