"And after another impeccable performance by England's power duo, Hayes and Bennett against Portugal—England find themselves one step away from lifting the Euros trophy for the first time ever."

I tabbed out of the article, making my way instead to watch the replay of Italy against Spain. The semi-final had run into extra time, at the end of which Italy had won a gruelling penalty shootout to send them to the finals.

EUROS FINALS

England vs. Italy

Someone spoke to me from my right, and I dropped the fork to look at whoever it was. Adams stood beside me, a steaming cup of tea in his hand, as he plopped down beside me and peered at the screen. He said something again, but I had fixed my gaze back onto the screen.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I am just trying to analyse some things."

It was true, and therefore—I did not feel guilty saying it to him. There was a high probability of the game going into penalty shootouts, especially seeing Rossi's form. Italy had conceded the least number of goals in the tournament, which put Rossi as the frontrunner for the Golden Glove. But we had bigger problems to worry about.

"Lorenzo and Moretti—" Bennett said as he sat on my other side, scanning the video that was now playing on a loop on my tablet. "How do you reckon we stop them?"

"Man-to-man?" Sox offered, taking a seat in front of us and glancing at me. "What do you say, Hayes?"

"Maybe," I muttered. "Santoro and Fernandez are an equal threat. We cannot let them have any substantial attempts on goal. It will be very challenging to score against Rossi if they get a lead."

"Hey..." Adams said, squeezing my shoulder. "Maybe we shouldn't worry about this so much. I mean—" he shrugged. "Think about it. First final in decades. We have done exceptionally well at this tournament and—"

I looked away from him as he continued to speak. "I know you are trying to soften the blow... in case the worst-case scenario were to happen," I said. This was a lie. The worst-case scenario wasn't losing. It was to win—too hard. And I was hoping Rossi would put on his best performance tomorrow. A one-goal lead, for whichever team won—that would be ideal.

I had run the calculations in my head multiple times, obsessively over the past forty-eight hours. Ball possession, pass accuracy, shots on target—and it still did nothing to make me feel better. Anxiety like I had never known clawed at my insides. What was I to hope for? That I win my first Euros? Or that I see the only person I had ever loved face the biggest defeat of his career?

A part of me knew the truth. And it made everything so much worse. Because on paper, the metrics were clear. England was the better squad. Italy had a good defence and a great offence. But we had the better playmaking in our midfield.

Luca Moretti, despite me knowing him so intimately, was still a variable. And maybe I was wrong; maybe all my theories had been incorrect. Maybe I did not know him as well as I thought I did.

Because from what I had known, what I had felt—he loved me. There was no other explanation. Yet he refused. The data points did not match.

The night before the final, I lay on the bed, staring up at the high ceiling, hoping and praying exhaustion would pull me under so my numb brain would stop turning incessantly. I reached under the pillow, pulling out the paw keychain that I had placed beneath it. I wasn't sure why I had carried it to the Euros, even though lucky charms had no significant relevance, theoretically speaking. But a small, silly part of me felt like it wasn't just a lucky charm, but a part of him. His hands that had curated the design, his fingers that had warmed the plaster.

The following evening, I managed to drag myself into the tunnel, keeping my eyes glued to the pitch and, for once, thankful that I couldn't hear the loud jeers and cheers around me. I could feel the roaring crowd down to my soles, the bellowing microphone outside as the opening ceremony commenced. High-frequency noises I could not distinguish burst throughout the stadium, loud blaring music that felt like it did not belong in such a high-tension environment.

I was very aware of his presence beside me. A few metres away, in line with his team. He did not glance at me throughout the opening ceremony. Not once.

I did, because I was weak.

He stood rigid, his face paler than I had last seen him. Dark shadows under his eyes sent a surge of concern through me, my stomach tightening. Had he perhaps not rested optimally? Was he perhaps—

Before my thoughts could complete, he turned to look right at me, with no plausible explanation. I held my breath; I wasn't sure why. The air in the tunnel solidified, suspending both of us in a solitary vacuum that we had shared so many moments in. His breath hitched, his eyes flashing ever so slightly—almost imperceptible to someone who wasn't used to that familiar shade of brown. My stomach flipped in an unfamiliar, agonising way, my heart leaping to my throat.

I almost forgot about the Euros. I almost forgot about us being rivals. I almost forgot that ninety minutes from now one of us would be basking in the biggest achievement of his life, while the other cradled the biggest defeat. The juxtaposition was oddly, darkly humorous. Like a personal, inside joke the universe had planted. But I knew better than to blame fate or destiny or any such made-up metrics that humans chose to blame rather than the much harsher, indigestible reality.

My fingers twitched behind my back, my hands cold even though the temperature in the tunnel was pleasantly warm. He glanced away, swallowing hard, his jaw set tight.

And then we were off.

When the referee signalled for us to walk out, the atmosphere exploded. Pyrotechnics flared along the touchline, and the national anthems echoed over the loudspeakers. I went through the pre-match ritual on autopilot: shaking hands, exchanging pennants at the centre circle, taking my position in the attacking midfield depth.

I felt the shrill tremor of the whistle in my bones minutes later as the game commenced. Slow and steady, with neither team going for any attacking plays for more than half an hour. It was easier not to focus all my thoughts on Luca when I was moving, the ball at my boots. I had to focus so hard on trying to weave in through the Italian defence that every other thought took a back seat for a blissful few minutes.

The crowd went wild every time either team made a break towards the goalpost, the grass beneath my shoes vibrating as if in tune with it.

The opening thirty minutes were a tactical gridlock. Italy's defensive line sat low and tight, suffocating our passing lanes with disciplined efficiency. Luca moved across the right flank like a phantom, quick and aggressive, though his usual flair—the exaggerated smirks and theatrics—seemed noticeably dialled back. He played with a quiet, lethal intensity, intercepting two of my through-balls before they could reach Bennett.

In the 42nd minute, the impasse broke.

Bennett recovered a loose ball near the centre circle and laid it off to me instantly. I didn't need to look up; I had already mapped the geometry of the pitch. Three Italian defenders converged on my position, closing down the central lane.

Trajectory: thirty-two degrees off-centre. Velocity: medium.

I feigned a wide pass to the left wing, drawing Santoro half a step off his mark. The split second of imbalance was all I needed. I sliced the ball back onto my right foot, striking it cleanly from twenty-five yards out.

The ball arced over the outstretched glove of Rossi, dipping under the crossbar before nestling into the top right corner of the net.

England 1 – 0 Italy

E. Hayes (#10) 42'

Wembley erupted into complete chaos. Bennett tackled me from behind, wrapping his arms around my shoulders in a crushing hug, shouting something incoherent into my ear. Teammates swarmed us, slapping my back, screaming over the din of the crowd.

Through the blur of red and white jerseys, my gaze drifted across the grass. Luca was standing near the centre circle, hands resting on his hips, staring down at the turf. His chest was heaving. He didn't look back at the celebration.

The second half was a war of attrition. Italy surged forward with desperation, throwing men into the attack, while we absorbed the pressure and defended our narrow lead. Minute by minute, the clock ticked down toward ninety.

88'

89'

90'

The fourth official raised the electronic board: 3 Minutes of Added Time.

The stadium was on its feet, a wall of deafening chants urging the final whistle to blow.

A part of me couldn't wait for the game to end. The anticipation of winning the cup clashed with the need to protect Luca from further, unnecessary harassment. I had watched him run around the pitch for ninety minutes, trying his hardest. Panting, sweating, his eyes darting urgently as he got more and more desperate.

It needed to stop. Another thirty minutes of this, I wasn't sure I could handle it. I was sure he couldn't. This needed to stop. A one-goal lead. A close game. "Well played," and close it out.

But I knew Italy was going to fight tooth and nail, and they did—mounting one last, frantic attack, pushing every player past the halfway line.

In the 92nd minute, the ball bounced chaotically inside our penalty box. Sox attempted a clearing header, but the ball misdirected off his scalp, dropping into the path of a charging Lorenzo. My centre-back lunged in to block the shot—

Whistle.

The referee's arm pointed directly at the white spot twelve yards from our goal.

A penalty kick. In the 93rd minute of the Euros final.

A heavy silence descended over half the stadium, while the Italian end roared back to life. I stood near the edge of the penalty box, watching as Luca stepped forward to claim the ball. He picked it up carefully, placing it onto the turf with mathematical precision, stepping back five paces.

This was it. The entire tournament, every single metric and calculated effort, compressed into a single kick.

It would be an equaliser, pushing the game into another gruelling thirty minutes—the one Coach Gill had prepared us for. Extra time, and if things didn't work out, then all was up to a penalty shootout and essentially—luck.

I held my breath, my heart torn into multiple pieces, my bleeding chest making it hard to think, hard to breathe. My vision went hazy around the edges—whether from sweat or something unnamed, I didn't know.

I watched his face. His jaw was set, his breathing ragged. He took a long, shuddering breath, his eyes fixed on the net in front of him. He would take his shot, become the hero. Maybe this was the best-case scenario? Come what may—pushing a game into extra time itself meant it was a challenging opponent. And maybe that could be the best-case scenario instead.

Five shots on target from us, three from theirs. And now, they had the chance.

The referee blew the whistle.

 I could see his breath hitching, the world pausing as he ran up to the ball as if in slow motion. His shoulders were stiff, his back leaning forward, his eyes dark. He swung his left leg, the edge of his boot catching the ball on its side. The moist grass on it created a trench as the grass moved and the ball was flung forwards. 

It rose higher and higher, gaining momentum as it sailed towards the goalpost. Thousands of people held their breath, the weight of expectations, the weight of dreams, the weight of hopes— all a physical cloud that descended in a chilling hush over Wembley Stadium. Even the wind seemed to have stopped as the ball leapt high. 

Higher. 

Way too high. 

It sailed right over the top of the crossbar, nowhere in the vicinity of the goalpost. 

The goalkeeper stood still, glancing up as the ball fell into the back stands. Luca remained still, not breathing, not moving. The English side went wild, the Italian side now plunging into a suffocating silence. The heavy, rumbling vibrations I had felt under my boots the entire duration of the match—now eerily absent. The stadium and I were now in a shared, unnatural vacuum, as if the entire grounds were plunged underwater. 

My fingers shook, my knees weak as I looked at Luca, whose face was blank, his chest heaving as he stared at the goalpost. Some noise broke out in the sidelines—whether it was the English supporters or the Italians, I did not check. I did not care.

I knew my teammates were breaking out in celebration around me. I could feel myself being jostled by the crowd, but I could not see it; I could not breathe in the euphoria that was infectiously permeating my skin through the English side. 

All I could feel was a cold dread. Like I was drenched in icy water, like breaking the surface would cause nothing but breathlessness. Like lying where I was would cause nothing but a violent struggle and drowning. 

This was not normal. This was not Luca. He did not play like this. In all my years of watching him play, he had never let his personal battles interfere with his gameplay. And he hadn't, not throughout the tournament. He had smiled, smirked, been as theatrical as he was famed to be. He was the one everyone at Ambrosiana looked up to. Easygoing, never broke under pressure—no matter what the tabloids said, no matter the media frenzy.

And yet now, I could see his resolve crumble.

He looked the same on the outside, but something in his eyes was too dark. Too hopeless.

And that was the single most terrifying expression I had ever seen on Luca Moretti's face.

Minutes later, the referee blew the final whistle.

England 1 – 0 Italy

FULL TIME