The pitch was beginning to empty, the post-match adrenaline gradually subsiding. Players peeled off in small groups, their laughter and exhausted chatter echoing across the fading light as they trickled back towards the changing rooms, eager for showers and the comfort of dry clothes. Jean wiped the back of her hand across her neck, smearing away sweat that clung stubbornly to her skin, and started to make her way towards the tunnel.

She barely made it ten paces before a voice: low, firm, and unmistakably his, made her falter.

"You said you weren't keen on him.”

Julian's voice was tight with an emotion Jean couldn't quite decipher. He walked up beside her, his long strides easily matching her pace.

"And yet you carry on like that in front of him. He's bound to get the wrong idea, you know?"

Jean stopped dead in her tracks. Her spine stiffened, shoulders squaring instinctively as she swung round to face him. Her eyebrows snapped together, eyes flashing with disbelief.

"What?!”

The word came out louder than intended, fueled by the sharp spike of irritation.

She glared at him, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Listen to me, Julian. The one who shouldn't be acting all bothered here is you. People have already started to get the wrong idea about us."

Julian’s jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek twitched as though he had words to say but no idea how to say them.

But Jean wasn’t finished.

Her voice, though sharp, remained controlled.

"What I do in my private life is my own business. Not yours."

She stepped closer, eyes steady.

“So stop sticking your oar in, and don’t cross that line again.”

She turned on her heel without waiting for a reply. Behind her, Julian stood rooted to the spot, stunned into silence. His expression was conflicted, caught somewhere between guilt and something far more complex that Jean couldn’t be bothered to dissect.

"Right, I'm off for a shower," she tossed over her shoulder, barely glancing back, though her heart was still hammering against her ribs.

"Don't wait up!”

Later that evening, the tension had melted into warm laughter and the smell of grease and aged beer.

The whole squad had crammed themselves into Renee's cosy living room for their usual post-match hangout. Elbows pressed against elbows, legs tucked beneath cushions, the air flooded with the high of victory and the sharp scent of salt and vinegar crisps. Pizza boxes lay half-open on the coffee table, their contents rapidly disappearing, and discarded wrappers were swept aside to make room for fizzy drinks, bottles of pop, and the occasional clink of ice in plastic cups.

Shoes lay in a tangled heap by the door. Hoodies were shed and tossed over armrests. There was a soundtrack of overlapping voices and inside jokes, the kind that only years of team camaraderie could build.

While the girls were caught up in dissecting their match play-by-play, the boys had staked out a corner of the living room, huddled on the sofa, feasting and gossiping with equal gusto.

"Oi," one of the boys called out, nudging his mate with an elbow and grinning. "Did you clock that Hilltop lad cheering for Jean? Think she's seeing him?"

“Nah,” Hector replied through a mouthful of food. "I heard from Diane it's just a one-way thing on his side."

"If Jean knocked him back," the first boy groaned in despair, clutching at his heart playfully, “then I haven’t got a cat in hell’s chance, have I?”

"You never did, mate!" Hector snorted, tossing a handful of crisps in his direction. “Isn’t that right, Julian?”

The laughter simmered down slightly as all eyes turned towards the quiet corner of the sofa.

Julian hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t even looked up. He sat hunched forward slightly, absently peeling at the label on his bottle. His brow was faintly furrowed, gaze fixed somewhere far away.

"Why so quiet?" someone asked, breaking the momentary lull.

"It's nothing," Julian muttered, eyes still on the bottle, voice low and dismissive. "Can we talk about something else, please?”

"Aw, come on," Hector teased, nudging Julian's leg with his foot. “Don’t tell me Jean gave you the brush-off too?”

Julian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

"What are you on about?"

Hector raised his hands in pretend innocence, though there was no real malice in it.

“The girls have been talking, mate," he said, shrugging. “Saying you might have a bit of a crush on Jean, 'cos you're always watching out for her and getting tetchy whenever a lad so much as looks at her.”

Julian froze for a beat. Just long enough to betray himself.

His expression flickered. Something vulnerable flashed through; panic, perhaps before it was quickly masked. His back straightened slightly, shoulders squaring as the guard slid back into place.

“I don’t.”

His voice was flat. Empty.

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

He looked back down at the bottle in his hand, fingers curling tightly around the glass. His knuckles turned pale against the emerald green glass.

“It’s just…”

He hesitated.

“I was making sure she fulfilled her role as captain. That’s all.”

But the words didn’t land the way they should. They sounded hollow, thin, and utterly unconvincing—even to him.

The others exchanged glances. No one pushed further. They’d seen the truth already in the way his eyes always followed Jean across a room, the way his posture shifted when she laughed at someone else’s joke. The quiet protectiveness. The silences that spoke volumes he never dared to utter aloud.

"Anyway," one of the other boys said, reaching for the last slice of pepperoni, steering the moment back into safer waters. “Think she’d even look my way, Julian?”

There was barely a pause.

“No.”

The room fell silent for the third time, the casual conversation abruptly halted by the sheer force of his denial.

The answer had come out too fast. Too sharp.

Julian’s head came up, and his eyes met theirs.

In that single, unmistakable flicker of awareness, he realised exactly how much he’d given away.

And there was no taking it back.