Crossbar Challenge
One Shot
Word Count: 7,700
Joining Chelsea was supposed to be the difficult part. New club. New teammates. New expectations. A new training ground to learn and a new system to settle into. You had spent the weeks leading up to the transfer preparing yourself for all of it. You expected the nerves that came with walking into a dressing room where friendships already existed. You expected the pressure of proving that Chelsea hadn't made a mistake bringing you in. You even expected the inevitable first few weeks of getting lost in hallways and pretending you knew exactly where you were going whenever a member of staff walked past.
What you hadn't prepared for was Niamh Charles. More specifically, you hadn't prepared for the fact that Niamh Charles apparently couldn't allow anything to happen without turning it into a competition. You didn't realize this immediately.
For the first few days, Niamh seemed perfectly normal. She had been one of the first people to introduce herself properly when you arrived, offering you an easy smile from across the changing room before coming over to help when you couldn't figure out which training top you were supposed to be wearing.
“You've got the wrong one.”
You looked down at yourself. “What?”
Niamh pointed toward your shirt. “That's tomorrow's.”
You stared at her. Then at the shirt. Then back at her.
“They're identical.”
“They're not.”
“They're both blue.”
“Different blue.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You're taking the piss.”
Niamh laughed. “I'm not.”
You glanced around the changing room and, annoyingly, everyone else was wearing a slightly different shade. “Great start.”
“You've been here three days.”
“Exactly. Shouldn't be making mistakes this early.”
Niamh smiled. “Want me to show you where the other ones are?”
“Please.”
She did. That was the problem. She was nice. Funny too. You found yourself naturally gravitating toward her because she made everything feel slightly less intimidating. If you weren't sure where something was, Niamh knew. If you missed an inside joke, she explained it. When you walked into lunch on your second day and hesitated because you had no idea where to sit, she'd simply kicked out the empty chair beside her. You had started thinking you might actually become good friends.
Then, on your fourth day, she ruined everything.
Training had finished nearly twenty minutes earlier, but a handful of you were still messing around on the pitch. Someone had started taking shots from increasingly stupid distances. Someone else was sitting on a ball near the touchline offering completely unnecessary commentary. You were about to head inside when a ball rolled toward your feet. You trapped it.
Niamh was standing several yards away. “Crossbar?”
You looked at her. “What?”
She nodded toward the goal. “Crossbar challenge.”
You glanced toward it. Then back at her. “Why?”
Niamh shrugged. “Why not?”
You should have walked away. You would later think about that moment often. You should have said you were tired. You should have gone inside. You should have done literally anything except smile and ask, “How many?”
Niamh's expression changed instantly. “Best of five.”
“Easy.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“Should I not be?”
“You've been watching me train all week.”
“And?”
“And you should know better.”
You laughed. “Okay, Charles.”
Someone sitting nearby immediately looked over. “Oh, this should be good.”
Neither of you paid attention. Niamh positioned the ball. “You first.”
“Why me?”
“Guests first.”
“I play here.”
“For four days.”
“Still counts.”
Niamh gestured dramatically toward the ball. You rolled your eyes and stepped forward. First attempt. Crossbar. The metallic crack echoed across the pitch. You turned toward Niamh with your arms spread. “Anything else?”
Her eyes narrowed. “One.”
Niamh stepped up. Crossbar. You nodded. “Lucky.”
She laughed. “Already making excuses?”
“Just observing.”
Second attempt. You missed. Niamh hit. “One-two,” she announced.
“You're counting out loud?”
“Yes.”
“That's obnoxious.”
“You're losing.”
“By one.”
“Still losing.”
Your third hit. Hers missed. Two-two. Your fourth missed. Hers missed too. Everything came down to the final shot. By then, more teammates had noticed what was happening. A small audience had gathered behind you, which made the entire thing significantly more serious than a completely meaningless crossbar challenge had any right to be.
Niamh looked at you. “Pressure getting to you?”
You smiled. “Worried?”
“Not even slightly.”
“Sure.”
You placed the ball down. Took a few steps back. Then struck it. The ball rose. Hit the crossbar. And bounced away. You immediately turned around. Niamh stared at you. You smiled sweetly. “Three.”
“I'm aware.”
“Just making sure.”
She stepped toward the ball. “If I hit this, we tie.”
“And?”
“Sudden death.”
You folded your arms. “If you hit it.”
Niamh looked over her shoulder. “You talk a lot.”
“Distracted?”
“No.”
She took the shot. The ball sailed just over. Silence. Then you started laughing. Niamh turned. “Don't.”
You held up three fingers. “Three-two.”
“I know the score.”
“Do you?”
“Y/N.”
“Just making sure.”
She shook her head and started walking toward you. You didn't know her well enough yet to recognize the look on her face. You would. Eventually. “Again.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Best of five.”
“We just did best of five.”
“Again.”
“I won.”
“You got lucky.”
Your mouth fell open. “You called me a sore loser five minutes ago!”
“You were being one.”
“I wasn't losing five minutes ago.”
“Exactly.” You stared at her.
Niamh stared back. Then you smiled. “Fine.”
Someone behind you groaned. That should have been the first warning. The rematch became another rematch. You lost the second. Naturally, you demanded a third. Niamh won that too. You refused to leave.
By the time one of the coaches finally appeared and asked why the two of you were still on the pitch, you had been competing for nearly forty minutes. Neither of you could agree on who had actually won overall.
“You lost three times,” Niamh said as you walked toward the changing room.
“Because you kept changing the rules.”
“I never changed the rules.”
“You absolutely did.”
“When?”
“The one where you said hitting the post counted for half.”
“It should.”
“It's called a crossbar challenge.”
“The post is attached to the crossbar.”
You stopped walking. Niamh stopped too. You stared at her. “That might be the stupidest argument I've ever heard.”
“And yet I'm still winning it.”
“You're not.” She smiled. There was something unbelievably irritating about that smile. You hated how much you liked it.
“You're annoying,” you told her.
“So I've heard.”
You started walking again. Niamh fell into step beside you. “Tomorrow?”
You looked over. “Tomorrow what?”
“Rematch.”
You laughed. “Absolutely.”
That was your second mistake. After that, everything became a competition. It started with football. Those at least made sense. Who could hit more long-range shots after training. Who could complete a passing drill faster. Who could score from the worst angle. Who could keep the ball up longest. You won some. Niamh won others. Neither of you ever accepted defeat gracefully.
Then the competitions followed you into the gym. You were halfway through a plank one morning when you noticed Niamh on the mat beside you. You looked over. She looked back. Neither said anything. Thirty seconds passed. The trainer called time. Everyone else dropped. You and Niamh stayed up.
Someone laughed. “Oh, for God's sake.”
You ignored them. Niamh's face was perfectly composed. You refused to let yours show anything different. Another thirty seconds. Your shoulders were starting to burn.
“You can stop,” Niamh said.
You stared straight ahead. “Worried about me?”
“Trying to help.”
“How kind.”
“Always.”
Another fifteen seconds. Your entire body was beginning to shake. You glanced sideways. Niamh was struggling too. Good. “You're shaking.”
“So are you.”
“No, I'm not.”
“You literally are.”
“Optical illusion.”
You laughed. That was nearly your downfall. Your arm buckled. You caught yourself.
Niamh gasped dramatically. “Ohhh.”
“Shut up.”
“Nearly lost.”
“Nearly doesn't count.”
Ten seconds later, Niamh dropped. You immediately collapsed beside her. “Yes!”
She rolled onto her back. “You cheated.”
You were breathing too hard to laugh properly. “How?”
“You distracted me.”
“You spoke first!”
“Strategy.”
“You're unbelievable.”
Niamh turned her head toward you. You were both lying flat on the gym floor now, sweaty and exhausted. She smiled. “One-one.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Crossbar. Plank.”
“Crossbar was several competitions.”
“I'm counting categories.”
“You don't get to decide that.”
“Why?”
“Because you're only doing it so we're tied.”
Niamh's smile widened. “Prove it.”
You stared at her. Then you started laughing. She joined you. From somewhere nearby, one of your teammates muttered, “They're going to kill each other.”
Neither of you heard the second response. “No, they're going to get married.”
Within two weeks, there was apparently a running score. Nobody knew what the score actually was. You said you were winning. Niamh said she was. Both of you had started keeping notes on your phones as evidence. The lists were completely different. “You can't count that.”
You were sitting beside Niamh at lunch, staring at her phone. “Why not?”
“Because getting to breakfast first isn't a competition.”
“It was that morning.”
“No, it wasn't.”
“I said race you.”
“You said that when you were already walking through the door!”
Niamh shrugged. “Should've walked faster.”
You snatched her phone. “Give me that.”
“Oi!” She reached for it. You twisted away.
“Niamh wins, best parking space? What the fuck does that even mean?”
“I found a better parking space than you.”
“That isn't a skill!”
“Sounds like something someone with a bad parking space would say.”
You stared at her. She smiled. You deleted it. Niamh gasped. “You did not.”
“Absolutely did.”
“Give me my phone.”
She lunged. You held it away. “Niamh!”
“Give it!”
“Stop!”
She grabbed your arm. You laughed and leaned away. The chair nearly tipped. Someone across the table reached out to steady it. “Can you two behave for five minutes?”
“No,” you and Niamh answered together.
You both stopped. Looked at each other. Then started laughing again. Your teammate sighed. “Why did I ask?”
Eventually, Niamh managed to wrestle the phone from your hand. “You're a cheat.”
“You invented points for parking.”
“It was a good spot.”
“It was ten feet closer.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head.
“Unbelievable.”
Niamh smiled down at her plate. You caught yourself looking at her for a second longer than necessary. Something warm settled in your chest. You immediately looked away. You liked Niamh. Obviously. She had somehow become your closest friend at Chelsea in less than a month. That was all. The competitions eventually escaped Cobham altogether. One night, several of you ended up at a teammate's apartment for food and games. Someone suggested FIFA. You and Niamh both reached for controllers.
Immediately. “No,” someone said.
You looked over. “What?”
“Not you two.”
Niamh looked offended. “Why?”
“Because I want to go home tonight.”
You rolled your eyes. “Dramatic.”
Twenty minutes later, you understood their concern. “You're wasting time!”
“I am literally playing the game.”
“You've been passing around the back for five minutes.”
“Because I'm winning.”
“By one goal!”
“Still winning.” Niamh glared at the screen. You were sitting beside her on the floor, close enough that your knees kept bumping every time one of you moved. It had started accidentally. At some point, neither of you bothered shifting away. “Press me then,” you said.
“I am.”
“Not very well.”
“Shut up.” You laughed.
Niamh's player stole the ball. “Oh, fuck.”
“Not very well?”
“Lucky.”
She pushed forward. You scrambled defensively. She shot. Goal. Niamh jumped up. “Yes!”
You stared at the screen. “Sit down.”
She turned toward you. “One-one.”
“There are ten minutes left.”
“Enough time.”
“For me.”
Niamh sat again. Closer this time. Her shoulder pressed against yours. Neither of you seemed to notice. The final minutes became chaos. Someone behind you was laughing. Another teammate had started commentating. Niamh nearly scored. You cleared it. The clock ticked down. Then, in the final seconds, you got the ball. Counterattack. Niamh leaned forward. “No.”
You smiled. “Oh, yes.”
“Don't.” You shot. Goal. The room erupted. You dropped the controller and threw both arms into the air.
“YES!”
“No!” Niamh stared at the screen.
You turned toward her. “Two-one.”
“That was bullshit.”
“Scoreboard.”
“You got lucky.”
“Funny. You say that a lot when you lose.”
Niamh shoved your shoulder. You shoved her back. “Poor loser.”
“Cheat.”
“How did I cheat?”
“I don't know yet.” You laughed.
Around you, people started getting up. You barely noticed. Niamh grabbed the controller again. “Again.”
You stared at her. “It's midnight.”
“Scared?” You looked at the clock. Then at Niamh. Her eyes were bright with challenge. You should have said no. You had training the next morning. You should have gone home.
Instead, you slowly picked your controller back up. “One more.”
Niamh smiled. “That's what I thought.”
The next match started. Neither of you noticed the room slowly emptying. By the time you finally looked around, everyone else was gone. You frowned. “Where did everyone go?”
Niamh glanced behind her. “Huh.”
“They left us.”
“Rude.”
You looked at the clock. 12:47. “Oh, shit.”
Niamh laughed. “We're going to regret this tomorrow.”
“You're going to regret it now when I beat you again.” She turned back toward the screen. “You wish.”
You started the next match. Somewhere around the twentieth minute, Niamh's knee pressed against yours again. Neither of you moved. At halftime, she stole half of your drink without asking. You complained. She ignored you. At some point, your shoulder ended up resting against hers. It felt natural enough that you didn't notice. Not really. Not yet. You were too busy arguing over whether her goal should count because you'd been distracted by your phone. Niamh insisted it did. You demanded a rematch. She accepted immediately. Neither of you had realized it yet, but somewhere between crossbar challenges, ridiculous gym competitions and midnight FIFA matches, something had changed. You weren't seeking Niamh out because you wanted to beat her anymore. Not entirely. You were doing it because every competition meant another ten minutes beside her. Another argument. Another laugh. Another excuse to have her attention completely on you. The competition was still real. You absolutely wanted to win. You just hadn't realized yet that Niamh Charles was rapidly becoming the one person you didn't particularly mind losing time to.
-
Grocery shopping should not have been competitive.
There were certain things in life that naturally invited competition. Football, obviously. FIFA. Running. Gym sessions. Anything involving points, goals, times, distances, or the possibility of proving that you were better than someone else. Buying tomatoes was not supposed to be one of those things. At least, that was what you believed before you made the mistake of going grocery shopping with Niamh Charles.
It started because the team had decided to have dinner together after training. Nothing particularly exciting, just one of those rare evenings where everyone was free at the same time and someone had an apartment large enough to fit half the Chelsea squad without people having to sit on the floor. The original plan had been to order takeaway, but somewhere between training finishing and everyone getting changed, somebody suggested cooking instead.
That suggestion quickly turned into a mess of people volunteering to make different things, arguing over what counted as a proper dinner, and eventually realizing that nobody actually had half the ingredients they needed.
You hadn't been paying much attention to any of it until someone held up a shopping list and announced that the supermarket was only ten minutes away. The changing room suddenly became suspiciously quiet. Everyone found something else to do. Boots needed reorganizing. Phones became fascinating. One teammate actually disappeared into the showers despite having already showered. You looked around in disbelief. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Nobody made eye contact. Then you heard Niamh laugh beside you. You turned immediately and pointed at her. “You're coming with me.”
Her smile disappeared almost instantly. “Why?”
“Because you laughed.”
“That isn't how volunteering works.”
“It is now.”
Niamh looked around the changing room as though someone might save her. Nobody did. Eventually, she sighed and grabbed her bag, muttering something about how she was driving because she didn't trust you to get there without getting lost. Twenty minutes later, the two of you were walking through the supermarket with a trolley between you and a shopping list long enough to make you regret agreeing to any of it.
For the first few minutes, everything was surprisingly normal. You collected vegetables while Niamh disappeared in search of pasta. You found tomatoes, onions, peppers and several other things on the list before she returned, dropping her own collection into the trolley. You didn't think anything of it until you noticed her staring down at everything you'd already found.
“What?”
Niamh looked from the trolley to you. “You've got all of that already?”
You shrugged. “I'm efficient.”
Something changed in her expression. You recognized it immediately. There it was. That little narrowing of her eyes that meant Niamh had somehow found a competition where no competition previously existed. You should have stopped it.
Instead, you smiled. “Are you upset because I'm better at grocery shopping than you?” That was all it took. Niamh snatched the shopping list from beneath your hand, tore it directly down the middle and handed half back to you. Before you had even fully processed what she was doing, she had decided that the first person to return to the trolley with everything on their half of the list would win. You stared at the paper. Then at her.
“This is genuinely the stupidest thing we've ever done.”
Niamh only raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”
You hated how effective that word was on you. You folded your half of the list and looked at her. “You're going down.”
Niamh took off before you'd even finished speaking. “Cheat!"
Her laughter followed her around the corner. You immediately chased after her. The next seven minutes were possibly the most ridiculous seven minutes of your life. You moved through the supermarket with far more urgency than anyone buying groceries should ever possess, scanning shelves and throwing ingredients into the basket you'd grabbed along the way. Every time you spotted Niamh at the opposite end of an aisle, the competition somehow became more serious.
She would glance at your basket. You would glance at hers. Then both of you would immediately start moving faster. At one point, you passed each other near the refrigerated section and Niamh actually tried to cover her basket with her arm so you couldn't see what she had already collected. You laughed at her. Then did exactly the same thing when she tried to look at yours. Things reached their lowest point in the produce aisle. There was one bulb of garlic left in a nearly empty box, and unfortunately both of you spotted it at the same time. You froze at opposite ends of the aisle. Niamh looked at the garlic. You looked at Niamh. She moved. So did you. Within seconds, two professional footballers were practically sprinting through a supermarket over a single bulb of garlic. Your hands reached it simultaneously. Neither of you let go.
For several seconds, you stood there tugging it back and forth while arguing in increasingly hushed voices because an older woman beside you had started watching with visible concern. You eventually smiled apologetically at her. She slowly pushed her trolley away.
You looked back at Niamh. “Look what you've done. We've frightened her.”
Niamh stared at you like you'd lost your mind. “I've frightened her?”
“You're fighting me over garlic.”
“You won't let go!”
“Because I need it.”
Her eyes dropped toward the list in your hand. You realized your mistake too late. Niamh's expression slowly transformed into the most obnoxious smile you'd ever seen.
“Garlic isn't even on your list.” You froze. She tugged once. The garlic slipped from your hand. You stared at her. Niamh held it triumphantly against her chest.
“You were sabotaging me.”
“I was strategically preventing you from completing your objectives.”
“That is literally the definition of sabotage.”
“Sounds smarter my way.” Niamh laughed and turned away.
You watched her disappear around the corner before looking down at your own list. You were going to lose. Absolutely not. You took off in the opposite direction. Niamh beat you by forty-three seconds. Not that she let you forget the exact number. By the time you reached the checkout, she was standing beside the trolley with her arms folded and a smile that immediately made you want to turn around and leave.
“Don't.”
“Forty-three seconds.”
“I said don't.”
“That's quite a lot.”
“You ran.”
“So did you.”
“Because you started running.”
“Sounds like an excuse.”
You glared at her while loading everything onto the conveyor belt. Niamh continued smiling, clearly enjoying your irritation far too much.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
The answer came so naturally that neither of you seemed to process it at first. Your hands stilled. You looked at her. Niamh looked back. For one strange second, something shifted between you. It wasn't dramatic. She didn't suddenly look different, and you didn't have some life-changing realization beneath the fluorescent supermarket lights. But there was something in the way she'd said it. Something certain. Almost affectionate.
No, you don't.
Like she knew. Like she knew you well enough already to understand exactly how empty those words were whenever you said them. The cashier asked whether you needed bags. The moment disappeared. You looked away first.
Unfortunately, winning the grocery competition gave Niamh an unbearable amount of confidence. The second you arrived at the apartment, she announced her victory to anyone willing to listen. Most of your teammates seemed confused about how someone could possibly win at grocery shopping, which you appreciated until Niamh started explaining the rules. You dumped the bags onto the kitchen counter and informed everyone that the entire competition was invalid because she'd cheated. Niamh immediately denied it. Within thirty seconds, you were arguing again. Nobody even tried to intervene this time. You were beginning to suspect the team had accepted this as background noise.
Cooking should have calmed things down. It didn't. You and Niamh ended up beside each other at the kitchen counter, preparing vegetables while everyone else moved around the apartment. Music played somewhere behind you, conversations overlapped, and for a little while you managed to focus entirely on what you were doing. Then Niamh looked at the onions you'd chopped. She made a face. You noticed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely something.”
“They're just…big.”
You looked down at the onions. Then at her. “They're chopped.”
“Technically.”
You put the knife down. “Go on then.”
Niamh picked up another knife and started chopping the remaining half with an irritating amount of precision. You watched her. At first because you were determined to find something wrong with her technique. Then, somewhere along the way, you stopped looking at the onions. Your attention moved to her hands instead. The concentration on her face. The little crease that appeared between her eyebrows. The way she pushed her hair back with her wrist when it started falling forward. You stared for slightly too long. Niamh noticed. Of course she did. “You were staring.”
Your eyes snapped back toward the cutting board. “I was making sure you weren't going to cut your fingers off.”
“Concerned about me?”
“Concerned about dinner.”
You could hear the smile in her voice. You refused to look at her. For the next minute, the two of you actually behaved. Then Niamh bumped her hip against yours. You ignored it. She did it again. This time, you bumped her back hard enough that she stumbled sideways. Her offended expression lasted approximately half a second before she reached toward the flour sitting nearby. You saw it happen. “Niamh.”
Her fingers dipped into the bag. “Don't.” She smiled.
A streak of flour landed across your cheek. The kitchen went silent. You closed your eyes. Someone behind you whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, “She's dead.”
When you opened your eyes again, Niamh was already backing away. You grabbed a handful of flour. She ran. The next minute dissolved into chaos. Niamh disappeared around the kitchen island while you chased her, both of you laughing as teammates scrambled to move glasses and plates out of your path. You finally caught her near the sink, wrapping one arm around her waist from behind before she could escape again. Niamh squealed and tried to twist away. You held on. With your free hand, you smeared flour across her cheek. “There.”
“Y/N!”
“Now we're even.”
She turned in your arms. That was when everything changed. The laughter didn't stop immediately. It faded gradually as both of you seemed to realize the position you were in at exactly the same time. Your arm was still wrapped around Niamh's waist. One of her hands rested against your shoulder for balance. Her face was only inches from yours. You could feel the warmth of her body beneath your arm and the way her breathing had changed after running around the kitchen. There was flour across her cheek, and a strand of hair had fallen forward near her face. Your eyes moved toward it. Then toward her mouth.
When you looked back up, Niamh was already watching you. For once, neither of you had anything sarcastic to say. Her gaze dropped. Just briefly. But you saw it. Your breath caught. For one terrifying second, you wondered if she was going to kiss you. For an even more terrifying second, you realized you wanted her to. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly. You jumped apart.
“Dinner,” a teammate said from across the kitchen, although the expression on her face suggested dinner wasn't really what she'd been concerned about.
“Right.”
You turned toward the counter immediately. Niamh moved back toward her side. You picked up your knife. Your hands suddenly felt far less reliable than they had thirty seconds ago. The problem was that once you noticed the tension, you couldn't unnotice it. Niamh seemed perfectly capable of returning to normal. She continued joking with everyone, stealing ingredients from other people's stations and insisting she had contributed significantly more to dinner than you had. You, meanwhile, had apparently forgotten how to function whenever she came within two feet of you. Every casual touch felt different now. Every time she brushed past you, you noticed. When she reached around you for the olive oil a little later, her front lightly brushing against your back as her arm came around your side, you froze so obviously that even Niamh noticed. She stepped away with the bottle and looked at you. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Your voice betrayed you.
Niamh stared. Then her mouth twitched. “You're blushing.”
“No, I'm not.”
She looked toward the open kitchen window and then back at you. You knew exactly what she was thinking. “It's hot in here.”
That only made her smile wider. You turned back toward the hob. “Go find something useful to do.” Niamh laughed as she walked away. You stared down at the pan. This was becoming a problem. A serious one. Dinner itself should have provided some relief. Instead, you ended up sitting beside Niamh. There were other seats. Plenty of them. Neither of you acknowledged that.
Throughout dinner, your legs occasionally touched beneath the table. Neither moved. Niamh stole food from your plate without asking, and ten minutes later you retaliated by taking something from hers. It felt normal. That was what was confusing. The flirting, if it even was flirting, had become so tangled up with your friendship that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Apparently, everyone else could.
Halfway through dinner, someone finally asked when the two of you planned on telling everyone you were dating. You and Niamh denied it at exactly the same time. Far too loudly. The entire table erupted. You immediately regretted responding. Your teammates started listing evidence as though they'd been building a case for weeks. The grocery competition. The kitchen chase. Eating from each other's plates. The fact that your chairs had somehow moved closer together during dinner. Someone even mentioned the way Niamh always looked for you first when she entered a room. That one made you stop. You looked toward her. Niamh had gone strangely quiet too. Neither of you addressed it.
“We're friends,” you insisted eventually.
“Exactly,” Niamh added.
Friends. The word should have settled something. Instead, it left an uncomfortable little feeling in your chest. Someone across the table looked between you with an expression that said they didn't believe either of you. You ignored it. For the rest of dinner, though, you became painfully aware of Niamh beside you. Her knee touched yours again. This time, you noticed immediately. You didn't move it. Neither did she.
Later that night, you escaped onto the balcony. You told yourself you needed air. It had nothing to do with the conversation at dinner. Nothing to do with the kitchen. Nothing to do with the fact that you had spent the last hour wondering what exactly your teammates saw when they looked at you and Niamh together. You rested your arms against the railing and stared out over London. The balcony door opened behind you. You didn't turn around.
“Go away.”
Niamh laughed softly. “Didn't even look.”
“I knew it was you.”
“How?”
“You have an annoying presence.”
She stepped beside you and leaned against the railing. Normally, you would have bumped her shoulder or started some pointless argument. Instead, the two of you stood quietly. After a while, Niamh mentioned dinner. You knew immediately what she meant. The question. The teasing.
Are you two dating?
You both agreed everyone was ridiculous. The conversation should have ended there. Instead, Niamh laughed quietly and said, “Imagine us dating.”
You looked at her. “Nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
Neither of you sounded particularly convincing. Your eyes met. For a second, the humor disappeared. You wondered what it would actually be like. Dating Niamh. You imagined more nights like this. More competitions. More arguments over nothing. Her stealing your food without asking. Her sitting too close on the sofa. Her hand finding yours instead of merely brushing against it. You shut the thought down immediately.
“We'd argue constantly,” Niamh said.
“We already do.”
“Worse.”
“Probably.”
“You'd cheat at everything.”
You turned toward her, grateful for the familiar argument. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“You invented supermarket rules.”
“And won.”
“You're never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” You laughed.
Just like that, the tension loosened. Niamh bumped her shoulder against yours. You bumped back. Neither of you moved away afterward. Your shoulders remained pressed together while you looked over the city. After a moment, Niamh announced that she was winning the day's competitions three-two. You immediately disputed it. Apparently, she'd awarded herself points for grocery shopping, chopping vegetables and somehow dinner itself. You spent several minutes arguing over whether eating more than you counted as a victory before eventually shaking your head.
“I hate you.”
Niamh went quiet. You felt her looking at you. When you turned, her expression had softened. “No, you don't.”
There it was again. The same certainty she'd had in the supermarket. Except this time there was no cashier to interrupt you. You held her gaze. For once, you didn't immediately hide behind another joke. “No,” you admitted softly. “I suppose I don't.”
Something changed in her face. Small enough that you might have imagined it. Before either of you could say anything else, someone shouted from inside the apartment.
“Are the married couple coming back or what?”
You closed your eyes. Niamh burst out laughing beside you. You yelled something considerably less polite through the glass, which only made everyone inside laugh harder. When you looked back at Niamh, she was still smiling. The moment had passed. Again. She opened the balcony door but stopped before stepping inside. “You coming?”
“In a minute.” Niamh nodded. Then she hesitated. For the first time all night, she looked almost nervous.
“I'm glad you're here, you know.” You stared at her.
She didn't clarify whether she meant the dinner, Chelsea, London, or something else entirely. Maybe that was why the words hit you so hard. Before you could think of an answer, Niamh disappeared back inside. The door slid shut. You remained where you were. Through the glass, you could see her rejoining everyone. Someone said something that made her laugh, her head tipping backward as she shoved the person beside her. You caught yourself smiling. Then you realized someone inside was watching you watch her. Their eyebrows slowly rose. You immediately looked away. Fuck. Maybe everyone else wasn't completely insane. Maybe there really was a line somewhere between competition and flirting. Between friendship and something more. And maybe you and Niamh had crossed it so gradually that neither of you had noticed until everyone else started pointing it out.
The strangest part was that the realization didn't scare you as much as it probably should have. Because when you thought back over the last few months, you couldn't remember exactly when Niamh had stopped being simply another teammate. You just knew that somewhere between crossbar challenges, gym sessions, FIFA matches and fighting over garlic in a supermarket, she had become the person you wanted beside you. Even when there was nothing left to compete over.
-
The problem with being told repeatedly that you had feelings for someone was that, eventually, you started looking for evidence.
Nobody had actually used the word love yet, thankfully. Dating had been mentioned more times than you could count. Flirting was apparently obvious to everyone except the two people supposedly doing it. Half the team had taken to calling you and Niamh an old married couple whenever you started arguing over something particularly ridiculous. Love, though? That would've been dramatic.
You had only known Niamh for a few months, and for most of that time, you'd been trying to beat her at increasingly pointless activities. You weren't in love with her. You were competitive with her. You liked having someone who challenged you. Someone who could take every sarcastic comment you threw at her and send one back twice as quickly. There was a difference. At least, there was supposed to be.
After the team dinner, however, you couldn't stop noticing things you'd somehow overlooked before. You noticed that Niamh was almost always the first person you looked for when you walked into the changing room. It wasn't intentional. Your eyes simply found her. Sometimes she'd already be watching the door, and the second she spotted you, her face would change. Nothing dramatic. Just a small smile before she returned to whatever conversation she'd been having.
You noticed that when she wasn't at breakfast yet, you automatically left the chair beside you empty. You'd throw your jacket over it or tell someone it was taken without ever stopping to consider who you were saving it for. Then Niamh would eventually appear, drop into the seat and steal something from your plate before she'd even said good morning.
You knew how she took her coffee. You knew which songs she'd skip if someone handed her control of the changing-room speaker. You knew she always wanted the corner piece of a brownie and that she got unusually quiet when something was bothering her. You had learned the difference between Niamh genuinely being annoyed and Niamh pretending to be annoyed because she wanted you to keep bothering her. None of it had been deliberate. You'd simply learned her. And then there was the touching. Apparently, you and Niamh touched each other constantly.
Before the dinner, you'd never thought anything of it. Now you noticed every hand on your shoulder when she passed behind you. Every time her knee pressed against yours beneath a table. Every casual hug after training. Every time she grabbed your forearm when you made her laugh particularly hard. Whenever the team gathered at someone's apartment, Niamh inevitably ended up close enough that her legs would eventually find their way across your lap.
It had always felt natural. Now it felt dangerous. Because every casual touch reminded you of the kitchen. Your arm around her waist. Her hand on your shoulder. Her eyes dropping toward your mouth. And, most inconveniently, the realization that if nobody had interrupted you, you weren't entirely sure you would've moved away.
“You're staring.” Your eyes snapped up. Niamh stood across from you in the gym, one hand resting on the dumbbells in front of her. There was an amused little smile on her face that told you she'd caught you several seconds ago and had simply been waiting to see how long it would take you to notice.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking.”
Niamh's smile widened. “About me?”
Your heart stumbled embarrassingly hard. “No.”
“Liar.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for your weights, hoping the movement hid the warmth spreading across your face. “You're unbelievably full of yourself.”
“You like me.” You glanced toward her.
Unfortunately, that was becoming increasingly difficult to deny. “Debatable.”
Niamh laughed before turning back toward her own station. Your eyes followed her. You caught yourself doing it. Again. You closed your eyes. Fuck. If you were having some kind of crisis over Niamh, you eventually realized you weren't the only one behaving differently. She watched you too. You'd catch her sometimes from across the changing room, her attention fixed on you until your eyes met and she suddenly became very interested in whatever was happening somewhere else. During training, she always seemed to find her way back to you between drills. At lunch, you could start with a reasonable amount of space between your chairs and somehow finish with her leg pressed against yours.
When the team went somewhere together, Niamh ended up beside you. Always. Neither of you acknowledged it. Instead, you competed. It was easier that way.
The competitions became even more ridiculous after the dinner. One morning, Niamh challenged you to race toward the halfway line and started running before she'd even finished explaining what was happening. Another afternoon, she bet you couldn't throw a balled-up piece of paper into a bin from across the changing room. You missed, she laughed until tears appeared in her eyes, and then she missed too, which resulted in you celebrating like you'd scored a stoppage-time winner.
There was the cake incident too. Niamh had stared at the enormous slice in front of you during lunch and bet you couldn't finish it. Somehow, the bet escalated into her buying your lunch for a week if you managed it. You finished the cake. Barely. You spent the rest of the afternoon regretting every decision you'd ever made. Niamh bought your lunch for the next week anyway.
The competitions had become somewhere to put everything neither of you knew how to talk about. Every challenge gave you permission to stare at her. Every playful shove meant you could touch her without wondering whether you were allowed. Every argument bought you another few minutes of her attention. You still wanted to win. Obviously. You just weren't entirely sure winning was the reason you kept saying yes anymore. Because you had started realizing something much more dangerous.
You wanted Niamh's attention more than you wanted the points. Your teammates were rapidly running out of patience. It came to a head after training one afternoon when a group of you were lingering in the changing room with nowhere particularly urgent to be. You were sitting on the floor with your back against the bench while Niamh sat above you, one of her legs resting beside your shoulder.
The conversation around you had drifted between football, weekend plans and some show everyone seemed to be watching except you. You were only half listening. Niamh's fingers had found a loose piece of your hair. She was twisting it absentmindedly around one finger, letting it fall and then doing it again. You hadn't noticed. Neither, apparently, had she. Everyone else had. Eventually, someone across the room released an exaggerated sigh. You looked over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a very aggressive nothing.”
Another teammate laughed. You frowned. Then you noticed several people were looking between you and Niamh. “What is wrong with everyone?”
Someone finally answered. “You two.”
You glanced up at Niamh. She looked equally confused. “We haven't even done anything.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
You stared at them. What followed was essentially an intervention. Apparently, the entire Chelsea squad had become exhausted by watching you and Niamh turn every conceivable activity into a competition while remaining completely oblivious to the one thing they all considered obvious.
They reminded you about the races after training. The food competitions. FIFA. Parking. Gym sessions. Coffee. Grocery shopping. Someone even brought up the fact that you'd once competed over who could change faster after training, which you thought had been completely justified at the time.
Niamh immediately started defending several of them. You joined her. Within thirty seconds, the two of you were arguing about whether Niamh getting to breakfast first that morning actually counted because she'd parked partially over a line. That apparently proved everyone's point. A sock flew toward you. You caught it and stared at the person responsible. “Rude.”
The teammate only shook her head. “You two will compete over literally anything.”
You opened your mouth to argue. Then came the sentence that shut both of you up. “Except admitting your feelings, apparently.”
The changing room went silent. Niamh's fingers stopped moving in your hair. You went completely still beneath her. Nobody needed to explain what they meant. That was the worst part. For once, neither you nor Niamh had a comeback. Your teammates apparently decided they'd caused enough damage. Bags were collected. Jackets were pulled on. Within two minutes, nearly everyone had disappeared from the changing room, leaving you and Niamh sitting in the uncomfortable silence they'd created.
You eventually stood. Neither of you mentioned the comment. Neither asked what the other thought about it. Instead, you asked Niamh if she wanted coffee. Her familiar smile returned. She challenged you to race there. And just like that, you both found somewhere to hide again. You probably could've continued like that for weeks. Maybe months. There would always be another competition to distract you from the obvious. Another joke to make whenever the conversation got too close to something real. Then someone flirted with you. The entire interaction lasted maybe three minutes. You barely thought about it. Niamh apparently thought about it plenty.
Chelsea had just won at home, and several of you had stopped near the tunnel afterward to speak with staff and people lingering around the stadium. You were still riding the high of the match when a woman struck up a conversation with you. She complimented your performance. You thanked her. She asked how you were settling into London, and you told her you were finally beginning to figure everything out. It was casual. Friendly. Then she asked whether you'd found any favorite places yet and offered to show you a few of hers sometime. That was when you realized she was flirting.
Before you could decide how to answer, an arm settled across your shoulders. You knew who it was before you looked. Niamh. She stood beside you with a smile that looked perfectly polite to anyone who didn't know her. You knew her. It was too polite. Her arm remained securely around you while the conversation continued for another few seconds. The woman looked between you both, seemed to reach some kind of conclusion, then smiled and excused herself. Niamh's arm disappeared the second she was gone. You watched the woman walk away. Then turned slowly toward Niamh. She was already pretending nothing had happened. You almost let her. Almost. Then you noticed the tightness in her jaw. The way she avoided looking toward where the woman had gone. The fact that she'd appeared at exactly the moment the conversation had become flirtatious.
A smile started pulling at your mouth. “Were you jealous?”
Niamh's head snapped toward you. Her denial came immediately. Too immediately. You knew you'd caught her. For the next minute, she insisted she'd only come over because everyone was leaving. You pointed out that half the team was still standing ten feet away. She claimed she'd simply been coming to get you. You reminded her that she'd practically draped herself over you in the process. Niamh became increasingly defensive. You became increasingly entertained. Until you asked whether she wanted to make it a competition. That got her attention. You folded your arms and explained the rules with a confidence you didn't feel.
First person to admit they were jealous lost. Usually, all it took was the suggestion that Niamh might be scared to make her accept any challenge you offered. This time, she didn't rise to it. She simply looked at you. For several seconds, something unreadable moved across her face. Then she said quietly, “That's not fair.”
Your smile faded. “Why?”
Niamh looked away. When she answered, her voice was softer than you'd expected. “Because I'd lose.”
The entire world seemed to stop. There were still people around you. Teammates talking. Staff moving through the stadium. Somewhere farther away, you could hear supporters still singing as they left. None of it mattered. You stared at Niamh. She had admitted it. Not as a joke. Not because you'd teased it out of her. She had been jealous. Of someone flirting with you. Your heart started beating faster. You stepped a little closer. Niamh looked at you again, and there was something almost vulnerable in her expression now. It was strange seeing her without the usual teasing confidence between you. No competition to hide behind.
You asked her why she'd been jealous. Niamh gave you a look that suggested she couldn't believe you were making her say it. You didn't rescue her. Maybe it was cruel. Maybe you simply needed to hear the words. Finally, she sighed.
“I like you.”
There it was. Simple. Terrifying. Perfect. For once, you couldn't think of anything sarcastic to say. Niamh continued before you could respond, admitting that she liked you far more than she probably should considering you drove her completely insane. A smile slowly spread across your face. The nerves in Niamh's expression immediately turned suspicious. “Don't.”
You couldn't help it. “I won.”
Her mouth fell open. “You absolute—”
You kissed her. Or maybe Niamh kissed you. That would become another argument eventually. In the moment, neither of you cared. Your hand caught the front of her shirt at almost exactly the same time her hand found your waist, and then her lips were against yours.
Suddenly, every ridiculous thing you'd been ignoring made sense. Every lingering touch. Every excuse to spend another ten minutes together. Every challenge neither of you needed to accept. The way you looked for her whenever you entered a room. The way she'd appeared beside you the second someone else showed interest. The way neither of you ever seemed to get tired of the other. Niamh kissed exactly the way she competed. Once she committed, she committed completely. Her hand tightened gently against your waist and pulled you closer. Your other hand found her cheek, and for the first time since you'd met, neither of you was trying to prove anything. There was no score. No winner. No loser. Just Niamh. And the realization that kissing her felt far more natural than it had any right to.
When you finally separated, neither of you went far. You were both breathing harder than a kiss probably justified. Niamh's eyes met yours. You smiled. Then, because apparently you were incapable of allowing a sweet moment to exist for longer than five seconds, you told her you'd kissed her first. The softness vanished from her expression. She immediately disagreed. According to Niamh, she'd pulled you toward her first. According to you, you'd already been leaning in. She argued that grabbing your shirt counted as initiating. You argued that it absolutely did not.
Within seconds, your first kiss had somehow become another competition. It was so painfully you that you couldn't even be annoyed. Then Niamh looked at you with that familiar challenge in her eyes and asked for a rematch. You stared at her. She smiled. “Scared?”
That was all it took. You grabbed the front of her shirt again and kissed her. The second kiss was different. Less surprising. Less tentative. Niamh laughed softly against your mouth when you pulled her closer, and you couldn't help smiling too. Apparently, neither of you had learned anything. You might have stayed like that for significantly longer if a shout hadn't echoed from somewhere behind you. “Fucking finally!”
You and Niamh broke apart. Slowly. Your eyes closed. Niamh dropped her forehead against your shoulder with a groan. You looked toward the tunnel. Three of your teammates were standing there. One was clapping. Another had both arms raised triumphantly. The third simply looked unbearably smug. You didn't want to know how long they'd been watching. Judging by their expressions, far too long. The teasing started immediately.
Months of frustration apparently came pouring out at once. They wanted to know whether you were finally together. Whether this meant the competitions would stop. Whether they could collect on bets you hadn't even known existed. You and Niamh looked at each other. Neither of you had actually considered what came next. You had kissed. Twice. You had admitted you liked each other. Beyond that, nothing had been decided. And strangely, you didn't feel any urgency to decide it right there in a stadium corridor with three teammates staring at you.
Eventually, you told them to leave. They did. Laughing. Of course. Silence returned. You looked at Niamh. She was already smiling. You reached for her hand without thinking. Her fingers slipped between yours just as naturally as if you'd been doing it for months. Maybe, in some ways, you had.
“So,” Niamh said after a moment. “Does this mean the competition is over?”
You didn't even need to think. “Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
You looked down at your joined hands and smiled. The competition couldn't end now. It simply needed better prizes. You suggested kisses. Niamh pointed out that if only the winner got kissed, technically the loser was being punished. You hated how good her logic was.
Eventually, you settled on the winner choosing where they got kissed instead. The effect that suggestion had on Niamh was immediate. Her cheeks turned pink. You stared. Then smiled. For someone who had spent months making fun of you every time she managed to embarrass you, watching Niamh suddenly become flustered was deeply satisfying. Naturally, she denied it. Naturally, you made it worse. And naturally, when she could no longer think of a comeback, she shoved you and started walking toward the tunnel.
Then she challenged you to race to the changing room. Loser bought dinner. You stared after her. Of course. Of fucking course. Niamh started running before you'd even agreed.
“Cheat!”
Her laughter echoed down the corridor. You chased her. Not because you cared about winning. Not this time. Because Niamh Charles liked you. You liked her. And after months of competing over absolutely everything, the rest of Chelsea had somehow figured it out before either of you. You still weren't sure who had fallen first. You weren't sure who had kissed who first either, no matter how strongly you intended to argue your side.
For once, the score didn't matter. Because when you caught up with Niamh near the changing room and she laughed as you wrapped your arms around her from behind, you realized there were some things you didn't need to win. You just needed to stop pretending you didn't want them.
