Why not me??
When the line between teammates and something more starts to blur, one rainy England camp forces her to ask the question she has been dodging forever: Why not me?
The Same Old Kit
Keira Walsh stood barefoot on the cold tiles of her Hertfordshire kitchen, arms wrapped around herself like the quiet could keep her steady. The digital clock on the oven blinked 07:47. Outside, the October sky was the colour of wet concrete and the rain had settled into that stubborn English drizzle that never quite decided to stop.
She’d been up since six, unable to settle. Same as every international break when the squad rolled into camp and Leah Williamson blew back into her life like a hurricane wearing an England hoodie.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She didn’t need to look; the vibration pattern was Leah’s.
You up, Walshy? Or still pretending you’re a normal human who sleeps past sunrise?
Keira’s mouth curved into the smallest smile before she could stop it. She typed back one-handed while pouring oat milk into her coffee.
Coffee’s on. You bringing the good pastries or are we stuck with whatever you find in the service station again?
Three dots…
Already pulling into your street. Open the door before I get soaked and start singing outside until you let me in.
Keira padded to the front door, still in her Barcelona training shorts and an old Lionesses hoodie that had seen better days, the sleeves too long, the hem frayed from years of nervous tugging. When she opened it, Leah Williamson was standing there in a bright red Arsenal rain jacket, hood half-off like she couldn’t be bothered, paper bag swinging from one hand and a travel cup in the other. Rain clung to her eyelashes.
She looked unfairly alive for someone who’d flown in from London the night before.
“Morning, superstar,” Leah said, voice loud and bright enough to cut through the drizzle. She stepped inside without waiting, kicked her trainers off in one fluid motion, and thrust the bag at Keira. “Almond croissants. The proper ones. Don’t even try pretending you don’t want three.”
Keira closed the door and tried not to notice how the hallway suddenly smelled like wet grass, Leah’s citrus shampoo, and pure chaos.
“You’re a menace. Georgia’s going to kill me when she finds out I didn’t save her one.”
“Georgia can fight me for it,” Leah grinned, already striding into the kitchen like she owned the place, which, in a way, she had for the last nine years. Ever since the under-15s camp in Loughborough where a loud twelve-year-old Leah Williamson had spotted quiet little Keira Walsh sitting alone with holes in her socks, tossed her a spare pair, and then spent the entire week dragging her into every drill and prank until Keira forgot how to be invisible. They’d been inseparable ever since. Lionesses roommates, midnight voice notes when one of them was injured, shared hotel beds during tournaments because “the single ones snore like freight trains.” Best friends. Teammates. The kind of bond the media called “sisterly” and the fans called “goals.”
Keira called it torture on most days. She watched Leah move around the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world, opening the right cupboard for plates on the first try, knowing exactly where the good knives lived.
Nine years of this… Nine years of Keira swallowing down the feeling that bloomed every time Leah threw an arm around her shoulders or checked she was okay after a rough tackle… Nine years of telling herself it was just the intensity of football… That everyone felt this way about their favourite person on the pitch…She was lying to herself and she knew it…
“Earth to Walshy.” Leah waved a croissant in front of her face. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare again. Bad dream?”
Keira forced a small laugh and took the pastry.
“Nah. Just thinking about how Sarina’s probably going to run us into the ground today. Double sessions before the Belgium friendly? She’s ruthless.”
Leah hopped up to sit on the counter, legs swinging like she couldn’t contain the energy. Her Arsenal tracksuit bottoms rode up slightly, showing the faint scar on her right knee from that dodgy challenge in the Champions League last season. Keira looked away too quickly.
“Ruthless but brilliant,” Leah said around a huge bite. “We looked shaky against Germany in September. Need the sharpness back.”
She tilted her head, studying Keira the way only she could, bright blue eyes seeing too much. “You good though? Really? You’ve been quiet in the group chat since the Arsenal-Spurs derby.”
Keira shrugged, tearing off a tiny piece of croissant. “Just tired. Long season already. You know how it is.”
Leah didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. That was the thing about Leah, she always knew when to bulldoze forward and when to sit in the quiet with you. It made the secret harder to carry. They ate in comfortable silence for a minute, rain tapping the window like it wanted in on the conversation.
Keira’s mind wandered back to the night that had ruined her, three years ago almost to the day. It had been after the Euro 2022 semi-final against Sweden. The whole nation was losing its mind. They won, and the celebration in the tunnel had been pure chaos, hugs, tears, someone blasting “Sweet Caroline” from a phone speaker.
Keira had come off with a dead leg and was limping, trying to stay out of the way. Leah had appeared out of nowhere, slipped an arm around her waist to take some of the weight, and pressed a quick, fierce kiss to the side of Keira’s head.
“You were unreal out there, Walshy. My rock,” she’d whispered, voice cracking with adrenaline and something else Keira still couldn’t name. For one stupid second Keira had let herself lean into it. Let herself feel the warmth of Leah’s body against hers, the way Leah’s hand had stayed on her hip a beat too long. Then the moment was gone, swallowed by more hugs and cameras and the reality that Leah Williamson was her best mate and nothing more.
Keira had spent the entire final tournament after that trying not to look at her differently. Failed spectacularly.
“Kei...”
Leah’s voice pulled her back to the present. She was frowning now, concerned but still bouncing one knee.
“Seriously. If something’s up you can tell me. We’ve done this long enough.”
The words were on the tip of her tongue, I’ve been in love with you since that tunnel kiss and every single day since and I’m terrified I’m going to lose you if I say it out loud.
Instead she smiled the quiet smile she’d perfected.
“I’m fine, Williamson. Promise. Just pre-camp nerves. Happens every time.”
Leah studied her another second, then hopped down from the counter and ruffled Keira’s hair like she was still that twelve-year-old kid.
“Alright, quiet one. But if you’re not fine by dinner I’m stealing your hoodie as punishment. Now go get changed, we’re meeting the others at the training centre in forty. Toone’s already sent six memes about how Georgia’s going to cry when she sees the new pitch.”
Keira laughed softly.
“Tell Tooney I’m not saving her from G’s wrath.”
They left Keira’s place together ten minutes later, Leah driving because she always drove when they were in England. Said Keira’s “thinker brain” needed a break from thinking about routes. The car smelled like wet grass and the vanilla air freshener Leah insisted on even though Keira hated it. Radio 1 was playing some new Charli XCX track and Leah was drumming her fingers on the wheel in time, singing at the top of her voice like the car was a stadium.
Keira watched the rain streak down the window and tried to memorise the way Leah looked right now, loud, happy, home for a few weeks. Because in two months Leah would be back in North London with Arsenal, back to the different rhythm of the WSL, and Keira would be here wondering why the house felt bigger when she was alone.
The training centre car park was already half-full when they pulled in. Georgia Stanway spotted them immediately and came jogging over, hood up, grin massive.
“Finally! Thought you two had eloped on the way.”
She pulled Leah into a hug first, then Keira, squeezing extra hard.
“Williamson, you’re loud even in the rain. Some of us are still trying to wake up.”
“Some of us train in the rain every day,” Leah shot back, laughing loud enough for the whole car park to hear.
Ella Toone appeared behind Georgia, phone out, already filming. “Walshy! Smile for the ‘we’re all back together’ reel. The fans are feral for this content.”
Keira rolled her eyes but posed anyway, Leah’s arm slung around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. And because the fans were right, they were feral for it. The edits, the edits with hearts, the comments that said they’re so married.
Keira had seen every single one and felt something twist in her chest each time. Inside the canteen the rest of the squad was scattered, Alessia Russo and Beth Mead arguing over the last blueberry muffin, Lucy Bronze holding court with a story about her latest Barca drama, Chloe Kelly doing keep-ups with a rolled-up sock in the corner. Sarina was already at the front with her laptop, coffee in hand, looking far too awake.
Leah slid into the seat next to Keira without asking, their knees brushing under the table. Georgia dropped opposite them and immediately stole half of Leah’s second croissant.
“So,” Georgia said through a mouthful, “rumour has it there’s a team bonding thing tomorrow after the recovery session. Something about go-karting and then that new rooftop bar in St Albans. You two in?”
Leah glanced at Keira, eyebrow raised. “Depends if our quiet genius can keep up. Last time we raced she tried to take me out at the first corner.”
“I did not,” Keira protested softly, smiling. “You cut me up!”
“You loved it,” Leah said, nudging her shoulder hard enough to rock her sideways. And just like that the familiar ache bloomed again, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore.
Keira wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if she just said it. I don’t love racing against you. I love being on your team. I love you, you idiot. Always have.
Instead she smirked and said, “Fine. I’m in. But if anyone spins me out I’m blaming Leah’s terrible driving.”
The morning briefing passed in the usual blur, tactical tweaks, set-piece work, a reminder that Belgium were physical and loved the long ball. Keira took careful notes like always, the steady midfielder who never missed a detail, but her eyes kept drifting to where Leah sat two rows ahead, pen tapping against her notebook in that restless way she had. After lunch they were on the pitch. The rain had eased to a mist, the grass heavy under their boots.
Sarina put them through a small-sided game, Leah captaining the blues with her usual shouting and laughter, Keira on the reds. Every time they marked each other it felt electric. A shoulder barge here, a perfectly timed tackle there.
Leah nutmegged her once and grinned like she’d won the World Cup.
“Too slow, Walshy,” she teased as she jogged past.
Keira chased her down the next play and slid in clean, winning the ball and standing up with a quiet wink. “Still your midfielder, captain.”
The squad whooped. Someone shouted, “Get a room!” and Leah laughed along even though Keira’s stomach flipped.
By the time they finished it was nearly dark. Keira’s muscles ached in that good, familiar way. In the changing room the chatter was loud, plans for dinner, complaints about the new recovery boots, Beth and Viv already planning a coffee run tomorrow. Leah changed next to her, back to Keira, peeling off her training top. Keira kept her eyes on her own locker.
“You coming back to mine tonight?” Leah asked quietly, pulling a fresh hoodie over her head. “Mum sent me that pasta bake recipe you like. We can watch that new documentary on the ’22 Euros if you want. Or just talk shit about the group chat.”
Keira’s heart did the stupid thing it always did when Leah offered her the easy, everyday version of forever.
“Yeah,” she said, voice steady. “Sounds perfect.”
They walked out to the car park together again, shoulders bumping. The rain had stopped but the air still smelled like it. Leah clicked the locks on her hire car and paused before getting in.
“Hey, Kei?”
“Hmm?”
Leah looked at her across the roof of the car, expression soft in the security lights. “I missed this. Missed you. Arsenal’s brilliant but… it’s not the same without you shouting at me every day.”
Keira swallowed. “Missed you too. Always do.”
Leah smiled, big and real, the one she only ever gave Keira when no one else was looking. Then she got in the car and the moment was gone.
Keira climbed into the passenger seat, heart hammering like she’d just run a full ninety. Nine years of this. Nine years of almost. As they pulled out of the car park she stared at the England flag on the centre’s gate and wondered how much longer she could keep pretending the answer to “Why not me?” was anything other than the woman sitting right beside her.
