Page 5

Hamish

Changing rooms all smell the same.

Sweat. Disinfectant. Sour beer. Muscle cream. Pine cleanser. Whatever that weird rubber funk is that never washes out of boots. It's a mix of adrenaline and socks and something vaguely metallic, like the air knows a battle’s coming and wants the warrior in me to get in on it.

I sit on the padded bench in front of my locker, one shin guard on, laces untied, my phone buzzing on the seat next to me like a possessed wee beastie.

Bzz

Bzz

Bzz

Bzz

I look at the screen. Mum . Again.

Text #47 of the morning.

Your da says your hair looks like a mop on the telly. Fix it before you go on the pitch. And call me.

Bzz

Also tell Darren to stop trying to kiss the mascot.

“Unreal,” I groan, silencing the phone and stuffing it into my bag. Too late. A few of the lads clock it.

Luis grins from across the aisle. “Your mom again?”

“Aye,” I grumble, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “She’s blowin’ up ma phone like it’s Bonfire Night. And now Pookie’s textin’ me askin’ why we dinna put her in a luxury box wi’ Ryan Reynolds.”

“Wait, Pookie? ” Chad leans out from behind his locker door. “That’s real?”

“Aye. Ma sister. Real name’s…” I trail off. “Ach. No’ even she remembers. She thinks it might be Penelope. Or Puddleglum.”

“Sounds hot,” someone mutters.

I whip a towel in the general direction of the comment.

“Ian just asked me fer twenty bucks on Venmo so he can buy another corn dog,” I add. “That’s the third McCormick sibling begging fer snack money this hour. I’m no’ a striker anymore, lads. I’m a bloody concessions sponsor.”

The room erupts with laughter. Stefan, our keeper, yells, “Mate, you're a brand now. Shoulda slapped your face on the hot dog cart.”

“Darren probably already did.”

“Doesn’t your family have VIP access?” Luis asks, stretching. His hamstrings look like they could sue for workplace violations. He's my age, and life as a footballer is showing on our bodies. We're not old, of course.

Peak career, in fact.

But bodies have limits, even if I don't want to admit that. Mine has a higher limit than most. If you work harder than everyone else, you play longer, barring injuries.

And the longer I play, the more people I can make happy.

“Aye. They do. But the McCormicks are like raccoons in a five-star bin. Ye give ‘em a gold-plated lobster roll and they’ll ask where the fish sticks are.”

“Can’t wait to meet them,” someone deadpans.

“Ye’ve met ‘em. Ye just didna ken it at the time.”

Bzz

The phone is silenced, so the text is coming from my override list. I glance at the screen again. My brother Darren.

Hey bro Pookie wants to visit the locker room. Says it's better than dating apps.

“They're killin' me,” I hiss. “They’re treatin’ this match like it’s a bloody family reunion/Tinder event.”

“Family Reunion Slash Tinder would be a great Scottish band name,” Chad comments. “You proposing before or after kickoff?”

The locker room stops.

Everyone looks at me.

Even Coach Jensen, who’s generally immune to drama unless it involves hamstring rehab, lifts an eyebrow.

“Don’t ye dare say a word, Chad,” I growl.

He shrugs. “It’s not just me. The whole league knows. The refs know. Pretty sure the team photographer’s been briefed. You got drones or something?”

“Tell me ye’re jokin’.”

Luis chuckles. “Not a joke. Grounds crew’s been prepped for a quick stage setup. ESPN's on standby. We had to do a bloody dry run of your midfield proposal when you were at physio on Wednesday.”

“ Dry run? ”

Jensen walks by, clapping me on the back. “It’s a production, McCormick. You're the finale.”

“ I am no’ the finale! I’m a striker. I’m the bloody start.”

“Today,” Coach says without breaking stride, “you’re both.”

The room bursts into cheers and teasing. Someone starts humming “ Here Comes the Bride ” and I swear Marcus is trying to fashion a paper veil out of K-tape and sports drink labels.

“Just go find her and do it now,” Luis says, throwing me a wink. “Spare us all the suspense.”

“I can’t. I dinna even ken if she’s gonna say yes.”

Everyone pauses.

Then Tyrell, the team’s oldest player and unofficial locker room therapist, says, “You know Amy better than anyone. She’ll say yes. But don’t expect her to make it easy.”

"I canna wait to show the world how much I love her."

Someone slingshots a jockstrap at my face.

"We're all invited to the stag party, yeh?" Luis calls out as the rest of the guys cheer hard.

"Let's no’ get ahead o’ ourselves. She has ta say yes first.”

"You’re nervous? " Chad asks, his voice going up on that last word, as if it's impossible. "You? Hamish McCormick eats fear for breakfast. You're the least nervous guy I know. You just assume the world is yours and everyone loves you."

"Ye make me sound arrogant."

"No," he says, suddenly serious, the guys watching him intently. "You just go through life... happy. You're the happiest person I know."

"And I want ta make Amy happy, too."

"Are you worried you can't?" Tyrell asks, the guys huddling around.

"What the hell are ye doin', Tyrell? This feels like a session with the team psychologist. Ye've no PhD after yer name." Truth be told, he's freaking me out even more than I already was, and my gut needs no more turmoil.

The guys back up. "Sorry," he says with a shrug.

Coach Jensen calls out from the doorway. “You’ve got until halftime. Then it’s game on, and I don’t mean the match.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair which, according to my da, now apparently looks like a mop.

“Some lads get nerves before a big game,” I explain. “Me? I’ve got ma whole extended family, the entire bloody media, a ring in ma sock, and a woman who hates bein’ the center of attention sitting out there like a landmine.”

Stefan grins. “You love it.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the locker.

“Aye,” I say. “I really, really do.”

The tunnel smells like turf, wet concrete, and anticipation.

Rubber, sweat, stadium hot dogs–whatever they’re grilling up top, it’s drifting down here, a siren call for carnivores.

My studs click against the concrete in rhythm with my breath, the noise swallowed up by the low, anticipatory hum of the crowd.

Thighs bouncing, feet making staccato sounds as I jump, I'm naught but air and excitement, all pumping through blood that chants through my veins.

Amy.

Amy.

Amy.

Then we hit the sunlight.

BOOM!

Open sky. Flags whipping. Banners fluttering. Cameras flashing. The sound ?—

Jesus, Mary, and Pelé.

The roar hits me like a body check, vibrating the pitch. It crawls up my spine. Sinks into my chest like rolling thunder.

Forty thousand people screaming is not a noise.

It’s a drug .

And I’m already high.

“Aye,” I tell myself. “Let’s light it up.”

We jog out as a unit, but my eyes aren't on the goals.

I'm scanning the stands like I'm lookin' for an angel.

And there she is—Section 19. She shot me through the heart with cupid's arrow.

Amy.

Flame-red hair moving in the breeze, big, dark sunglasses like she's a reluctant celeb. Arms folded. Shoulders stiff. Her whole black-cat vibe says cool as a cucumber , but even from here I can see her left eye’s twitching, which means she's internally screaming.

My heart pounds, a drumline on caffeine inside my chest.

She's everything.

And next to her?

Oh, hell .

Da’s holding a cowbell so big, it probably has its own TSA file. He lifts it once, shaky but proud, and the clang is glorious . He looks older than I want to admit. Still sharp, but slower now. Seventy-something. Every year, a bit more mortal.

I want him to meet my kid. Our child, mine and Amy's. Hold a bairn that carries our name. That shows him he'll live on. I want him to see it, to know, to love.

Then—

Pookie stands.

And detonates a glitter cannon.

I’m not joking.

An actual bloody glitter cannon .

Pink and gold sparkles erupt into the air and drift down over the section like weaponized unicorn dandruff. The debris floats down onto open cups of beer. The fans around her will be shitting sparkles for a week.

Darren waves a massive sign that reads:

“PUT A RING ON IT, YA COWARD!”

Cora's filming. Ian is floss-dancing. Matthew is holding up a cardboard cutout of my face taped to a garden rake. How’n the hell did he get that through security?

And Ma— Ma —pulls a megaphone out of her enormous bag, lifts it to her lips, and bellows:

“SHOW ‘ER YER BALLS, HAMISH!”

The stadium loses its collective mind.

I groan, the kind of groan that lives between love and homicide.

Tyrell jogs past, shaking his head. “Subtle. Real subtle.”

“I’m gonna fake ma own death,” I mutter.

“You’d need a new passport and facial reconstruction,” Stefan adds helpfully. "Maybe leg shortening, so you blend in."

“I can arrange that,” Luis offers. “I know a guy.”

But still, I’m smiling.

Amy’s here.

Mum’s yelling.

Da’s clanging.

I’ve got a ring in my sock and a plan in my heart.

This is what I was made for.

The next few minutes are a blur of announcements and music, my body robotically going through the motions as my heart dances in my chest. Finally, finally -

The whistle blows.

Game on.

We go hard from kickoff—tight passing, heavy pressure. My brain goes quiet, muscle memory taking over. This is where I live. Between beats. Behind defenders. Anticipating space before it exists.

Luis threads me the ball.

One touch.

I pivot, cleats biting the turf. I see the lane. I go.

I’m streaking down the pitch alone and the defender doesn’t see me. I steal the ball clean from his foot. Mine now.

I’m alone, outnumbered and they close in fast, but I’m faster.

I shift, pivot, and kick the ball at the goal. The keeper dives but it’s just out of reach. The ball bounces off the post and comes right back to me. The keeper’s on the ground. The goal yawns wide, waiting.

I go?—

And—

PAIN

I hear a snap. I see the ball, but I’m on the ground, screaming.

Blinding. White hot. Writhing, twisting, wrong . I am nothing but the pain, a ball of lead pulling me to the ground.

My right knee collapses sideways. It violates laws of physics. It moves without me.

It defects.

A scream punches through the roar.

Not mine.

Amy’s .