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They cameout for the second half after Lucy had put a rocket up their arse for their lacklustre performance so far. They deserved it. Only two shots on target in the first 45, and the one that had come from Sloane had been an easy save. She, and the whole team, had to do better.

Sloane wasn’t sure what was going wrong, perhaps nerves? Passes were going astray, and the slick Wembley turf seemed enormous. But she’d experienced this before and come back stronger. She could do it again. Luckily, their opponents, Rushton City, were playing their own jittery brand of soccer too, even though their dynamite striker had scored a scrappy goal. They all counted. Luckily, they still had the second half to redeem themselves.

“You can do it, Hotshot!” Ella shouted as Sloane ran past her and onto the field. All around, flags fluttered, and the crowd roared. Sloane breathed in the smell of game day, then gave Ella a thumbs-up and a grin. Ella was right. If Sloane wanted to live up to her nickname, she had to score a goal and change the game.

Nat walked up to her and they slapped hands at waist height.

“You ready to win this?”

“Never readier.”

“You can do it, Natalie!” shouted Nat’s mum, three rows behind the dugout.

Nat blushed, and waved at her family. Her dad hadn’t turned up, but her mum and sisters had. Sloane was thrilled for her. It was a start.

Sloane flicked her head back to the May sunshine. A sudden calm descended. She could absolutely do this. All she had to do was channel who she really was. Who she wanted to be. The very best version of herself. The one that Ella saw. The one that Ella made her.

The referee blew her whistle, and they were off.

The first 15 minutes were end to end, with Rushton going close, but Salchester going closer. Becca pulled off a close-range save from their striker, and Nat went so agonisingly close, she reeled away with her head in her hands. She knew she should have done better.

Ten minutes later, and Salchester couldn’t get out of their own half. The opposition’s speedy winger dinked one way, then the other, cut into the box and let loose a shot that Sloane stretched her right leg to block. She just about did it, too, but in sliding, she felt something in her thigh tweak. She was pretty sure she could run it off, but she stayed down to give her team a breather.

Dan ran on with his medical bag and knelt next to her.

“You okay? Where’s it hurting?”

“My ego?” Sloane whispered. “Nothing a bit of spray and a magic sponge won’t cure.”

Dan bit down a smirk, and administered the necessary lotions and potions. Her teammates milled around, grabbing a drink as the sun beat down. After a couple of minutes, Sloane got up, stretched the muscle out and ran back to the centre.

Becca took the goal kick and punted it long. Sloane watched the ball all the way, but was outjumped by Rushton’s six-foot-plus number seven. She headed it on, their attacking midfielder slotted it out wide, and all of a sudden, the opposition had a quick overload.

Fuck.

Salchester couldn’t go two down, that would be a mountain to climb. Sloane galloped towards the box again to defend the cross, as did Welshy. As it came in, Welshy inexplicably raised a hand towards the ball and it connected.

Her arm was not in a natural position. That was a definite penalty.

Sloane winced as her teammate fell to the ground, the shouts of handball all around from the players and the crowd. She didn’t need to look at the referee to find out what she’d given. Sloane heard the whistle and held her breath, as the referee had no hesitation in pointing to the spot. The crowd roared. Welshy got up, tipped her head to the sky and cradled the back of her neck in her palm.

Fuck.

This was beyond bad. There wasn’t long to go, and the stadium was a cauldron of whistles and cheers. They had to hope Becca could save it. Or that they could score three. Nothing was impossible. Sloane put an arm around Welshy’s shoulder and led her out of the box.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got this.”

She squeezed Welshy tight, and glanced at the clock. Seventeen minutes to go, and they might go 2-0 down. She wasn’t sure if she believed her own words, but she couldn’t say anything else. It was never over until it was over. That much, she did know.

City’s tall, red-headed striker placed the ball and steadied herself. Sloane focused on Becca. As the striker started her run up, Sloane clenched her fists by her side. She hit it straight down the centre, and as Becca went to go right, she stuck out a boot and saved with her foot. The striker followed it up with another shot, but Becca smothered, and fell to the ground with the ball cradled to her chest.

Cue delirium from her teammates and the crowd. Sloane hugged Welshy tight – she looked like she wanted to cry – then ran up, and as Becca stood, she cupped her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I owe you my first-born,” she told her.

Becca grinned amid the bedlam of noise, which had just cranked up a notch. “All that penalty practice finally paid off for me, too. Just score a fucking goal or two now, will you?”

Sloane had extra impetus. She raced back up the field, and Becca launched it long again. This time, Sloane won the header, played it to Welshy in midfield, and Salchester calmed play, keeping the ball, moving it smoothly. Until Layla saw a run Sloane had made and slotted an inch-perfect pass that sliced their defence. Sloane took the ball down the channel, looked up, and crossed for Nat. She anticipated, rose majestically and steered a thunderous header into the net.