One month later
"I can't watch." Scarlett gripped my hand on one side and Carina's on the other. Despite her words, her eyes were glued to the pitch. "This is torture."
I made a noise somewhere between agreement and terror.
We were packed into Wembley Stadium for the Champions League final between Blackcastle and Holchester. Blackcastle had eked out a win against Madrid in the semi-finals, but today's match was something else entirely—raw, brutal, and nerve-shredding.
We were approaching the eightieth minute, and the score was Two-one with Holchester in the lead. They'd just been awarded a corner, and their fans were already on their feet, roaring loudly enough to shake the stands.
The mood in the Blackcastle box was grim, but I held on tight to hope.
Come on.
The whistle blew. The ball curled in. Holchester's captain met it cleanly with his forehead, and the ball slammed into the net.
Three-one. Holchester.
The away section erupted while silence fell over the Blackcastle side like a shroud.
"No," I breathed. It couldn't end like this. Blackcastle had to win.
My eyes sought out Vincent on the pitch. Like the rest of the players, he looked exhausted, his chest heaving and his skin gleaming with sweat. But even from afar, I could see the fire in his eyes.
The match wasn't over yet. Until the final whistle blew, we still had a chance.
Vincent said something to the team before Blackcastle jogged back into position.
They were too far away for anyone off the pitch to hear them, but whatever Vincent said must've worked because when the match restarted, Blackcastle played with an energy they hadn't shown since before half time.
Instead of crumbling beneath the pressure of an impending loss, they pressed like hell.
Adil to Asher.
Quick one-two on the wing.
Asher sprinted forward, weaving past the Holchester defenders with sharp, precise movements. He darted inside the box and unleashed a powerful strike. The ball flew past the goalkeeper and slipped into the bottom corner of the net.
"Goal!" I screamed a millisecond before the stadium went wild. "Goal! Goal! We made a goal!"
I sounded like an idiot, but I couldn't contain my excitement. Scarlett and Carina were right there with me, screaming and cheering as Blackcastle surged forth on a wave of renewed enthusiasm. Every pass was precise, every run more determined than the last.
Time was ticking, but we were only one down, and we were no longer fighting to stay in the game; we were fighting to win.
Vincent drew my attention again. As a defender, he wasn't the one people usually looked to for an attacking play, but tonight, everything was on the line. He pushed forward, running with the ball and joining the offense.
Stevens gained possession of the ball and passed it back to Vincent, who didn't hesitate. He slotted it to Asher, who whipped a perfect cross into the box. The ball hung in the air for a split second, just begging for someone to finish it.
And there was suddenly Gallagher—right place, right time. He connected with the ball and drove it home past the goalkeeper.
Three-three.
I couldn't think over the screams of the crowd. I could only join in the exuberance, jumping up and down as my heart fought its way out of my chest. My ears rang so fiercely I was sure I'd lost some of my hearing, but I didn't even care.
We were so close.
One more goal. That was all we needed.
Holchester, once calm and confident, now seemed flustered. Their players started making uncharacteristic mistakes—a missed pass here, a misjudged interception there.
Blackcastle pounced on their weakness like sharks sensing blood in the water.
They pressed harder. Asher received the ball just outside the box, danced around a defender, and fired a low shot that Holchester's keeper managed to block, but it ricocheted right into Gallagher's path.
The Blackcastle forward didn't hesitate. With one swift motion, he took a touch, lined up his shot, and smashed it toward the far post.
The goalkeeper didn't stand a chance.
Four-three. Blackcastle.
The ground shook beneath my feet as the fans stomped and cheered, and my throat was hoarse from yelling. Carina yelled something in my ear, but it was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.
We'd done it. We were in the lead. It was a comeback for the ages, and Holchester couldn't keep up. They crumbled. When the referee blew the final whistle, the chaos escalated to pure pandemonium. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, the air so thick and the sound so loud it swallowed me whole.
I hugged everyone around me, not caring whether I knew them or not. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my eyes stung with happy tears. I was in London for only twenty-four hours—I couldn't take any more time off with nationals right around the corner—but it was worth it. Being with my family, seeing them win—I'd take an eight-hour flight every fucking day for this feeling.
"Let's go!" Scarlett grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit. Carina stayed behind, too caught up in the impromptu party to join us.
I followed Scarlett, my breath rushing out in an exhilarated laugh as we battled our way through the crush of people.
Family and friends weren't allowed on the pitch after a match, but this was when it paid to be Frank Armstrong's daughter. My former colleagues didn't stop us from running out onto the sidelines; they were too busy celebrating.
The team was also celebrating on the pitch—arms raised, shirts off, faces glowing with pride and pure, unfiltered joy. The sound of their laughter and triumphant shouts filled the air. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the unmistakable tang of sweat and victory, creating a heady, intoxicating atmosphere.
The energy was infectious. My pulse raced, and I could barely catch my breath when Vincent's eyes met mine over Asher's shoulder.
A slow smile spread across his face. He tapped his teammate on the arm. Asher turned and spotted Scarlett. He headed straight for her while Vincent jogged toward me, his movements strong and purposeful, as though nothing else mattered except getting to me.
My heart pounded in sync with the electric hum around us, but I was too impatient to wait. I ran and met him halfway, my arms winding around his neck at the same time he picked me up and wrapped my legs around his waist.
Everything else faded in the background as his mouth crashed against mine. I kissed him back with equal fervor, and when we finally pulled back, we were both breathless and flushed.
"Congrats," I breathed.
"Thanks, buttercup." His smile flashed when I shook my head.
I'd finally asked him last month why he called me by that nickname. He said it was because buttercups were beautiful but poisonous, just like me and my insults. Plus, they matched the color of my hair. His reasoning was ridiculous, but it was so him, I couldn't be mad at it.
"You're officially one of Europe's champions," I said. "How does it feel?"
He grinned. "Incredible. But not as good as I feel with you." He cupped the back of my head with one hand and kissed me again. "I don't even care that Coach can see us."
I peeked to the side. My dad was, indeed, standing right there, celebrating with Greely. For once, he was wearing a broad smile. He didn't seem bothered by Greely's victory dance, nor did he look like he was going to march over and yank Vincent off me.
After all these months, he'd finally come to terms with our relationship.
Congratulations, I mouthed.
His smile widened. He tipped his head in silent thanks and turned back to Greely, implicitly giving me more alone time with Vincent.
"I think my dad has warmed up to you as my boyfriend," I said, facing Vincent again.
"I should hope so because I plan to be your boyfriend for a very, very long time."
"That's mighty presumptuous of you."
"Maybe." Vincent's eyes gleamed with mischief. "But am I wrong?"
"No." I brushed my lips against his, my heart fluttering. "You're not."
We kissed again, and for the second time that night, the world fell away until it was just the two of us, here, together.
VINCENT
Six Months Laternoveldrama
"Brooklyn! You're missing the opening credits!"
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" She ran into the room, cradling a giant bowl in her arms. "Your popcorn machine is a pain in the ass. You couldn't have bought a nicer model?"
"You chose that model."
"Well, couldn't you have told me to buy a nicer model?"
"No, because we'd been shopping for two hours and I would've let you buy an inflatable toaster if it meant we could leave."
"It had not been two hours." I scooted over so she could squeeze onto the sofa next to me. "Now shhh. This is an important episode."
Tonight was the season finale of The Great British Bake Off, which meant our cell phones were on silent and all interruptions were discouraged.
Brooklyn rolled her eyes, but she smiled and quieted as the episode kicked off. I draped an arm over her shoulder while she tucked her legs beneath her and curled into my side, our movements easy and effortless after months of practice.
Her hair smelled faintly of that coconut shampoo I loved. The warmth of her body pressed against mine, reminding me that she was actually here and she wasn't leaving.
It was November—five months after Haley placed second at nationals, four months after Brooklyn moved back to London, and one month after she cleared her remote work probation period.
There was no more uncertainty or waiting. She was here to stay.
My heart twinged. As invested as I was in Bake Off's finale, I couldn't stop staring at Brooklyn.
Instead of having her rent another flat post-Chicago, I'd asked her to move in with me. I'd never lived with a girlfriend before, but I loved waking up next to her in the morning and listening to her breathe at night. The anxiety I'd felt over being at home was long gone now that Seth had been apprehended and tried for attempted murder, amongst other things.
Long story short: the former kit manager was going to be in prison for a long, long time. Everyone at Blackcastle had been stunned by the news, but life moved on. We'd hired a new kit man—one who had to undergo extensive vetting and evaluations—and we were already deep into our season. Brooklyn and I both also started therapy again, which had been extremely helpful in dealing with the Seth trauma.
Spike wasn't working for me anymore since the intruder threat had been neutralized, but I'd kept his security plans in place just in case. If Seth had taught me anything, it was that I needed to be more careful. His unfettered access to the players meant he was able to steal my house key and make a copy of it. He'd also hacked into my devices and found my security codes, so now everything was locked down per Spike's instructions.
"What are you thinking about?" Brooklyn asked during a commercial break.
"Hmm?" I traced an absentminded circle on her shoulder.
"You're too quiet, which means you're thinking hard about something."
"I'm thinking about how good those pancakes on the show look." Bake Off didn't feature pancakes often, but when they did, man, they looked incredible.
Brooklyn lifted her head to stare at me in horror. "Don't tell me you want to make pancakes again. Are you trying to die?"
After last fall's fire, Brooklyn and I were equally convinced that I was cursed when it came to pancakes. I wasn't allowed to make them ever again, not even with professional supervision. She did, however, make them for me every Sunday. In return, I made her her favorite smoothies every day. Blenders were one of the least fire-prone kitchen appliances, so I felt confident I could operate one without summoning emergency services.
I laughed. "No. But besides the pancakes, I was also thinking about you."
"Really?" She raised a playful eyebrow. "Tell me more."
"I was thinking about how good you look in this shirt…" I ran a hand over her bare thigh. She was wearing a football shirt similar to the one she'd worn during our first-ever Bake Off viewing together, only this one had my name on the back. "And how good you smell…" I kissed the sensitive spot below her ear. A shiver ran through her body. "And how glad I am that you're here."
"Are you trying to butter me up for something later?" she teased, but her voice hitched when I trailed another kiss down her neck.
"Maybe. Is it working?"
"Maybe." Brooklyn pulled back and tilted her head to her left. "But not in front of company."
Oh, shit.
I glanced over at where Truffle the pig stared at us from his designated armchair. He wore a black and purple shirt with Unofficial Blackcastle Mascot printed across the front.
Stevens was out of town for the weekend, so I'd volunteered to pet-sit while he was gone.
So far, Truffle had been an exemplary houseguest—cute, polite, and quite clean, no matter what the Angry Boar's owner said. But right now, he was definitely judging us hard.
"Sorry, buddy," I said as Brooklyn laughed. "I forgot you were there for a second."
He oinked his dissatisfaction.
I walked over, picked him up, and set him in my lap as the show resumed onscreen. My late-night plans with Brooklyn would have to wait, but I couldn't be too upset.
She snuggled up against my side again, and a wave of contentment washed over me.
I'd played in sold-out stadiums across Europe.
I'd launched a record-breaking campaign with Zenith and had more money than I could spend in a lifetime.
They were shining accomplishments in my life, but they weren't everything. I didn't need that external validation anymore. I'd even deleted my birth mum's number from my phone. After everything that had happened over the past year, I realized I couldn't care less why she gave me up.
She'd never been part of my life, and I'd rather focus on the people who wanted to be here.
I wrapped my arm tighter around Brooklyn and kissed the top of her head. She shifted slightly, settling closer to me with a happy sigh.
Nothing beat moments like this—sitting on the sofa with the woman I loved, watching my favorite show and knowing everything I needed was right here in my arms.
I'd lived in this house for years, but Brooklyn's presence changed everything.
For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be truly home.