Page 158 of The Defender
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 wereso 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. Thescent 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 broadsmile. 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.
