That’s how you ended up here, you suppose. In the toilets of the Arsenal dressing room before the game against West Ham. You’d locked yourself in the farthest cubicle, elbows on your knees, forehead pressed to the backs of your hands, trying to breathe past the tight, thumping of your heart in your chest. The loan to Arsenal was never in your plan, you had never once wanted to play against your sister, only with her. You had told everyone and anyone that you were ready, that you were mature enough to step out of your comfort zone and try a different culture, but the truth pressed on your chest like bricks, crushing and squeezing the honesty out of every pore. You didn’t want to be the kind of player who had to pretend she wasn’t looking for her sister in every new locker room, every new huddle, every new pre‑match ritual and you certainly didn’t want to step onto the pitch where Katrina was stood in a different red jersey to yours instead of wearing your name on her back with pride.

A knock echoed against the cubicle door as Kim gently but firmly called your name, reminding you that kick off wasn’t going to wait for you to get your breathing under control. 

You swallowed, hard. Your throat felt tight, your pulse too loud, your palms damp against your knees. For a moment you let yourself stay folded over, eyes closed, forehead resting against your hands as if you could hide here forever, as if the match might dissolve if you stayed still enough.

But it didn’t. The noise outside only grew, studs on tile, laughter, the low hum of nerves, the thud of a ball being bounced off someone’s thigh. Life moving on without you. You forced yourself upright. Your legs trembled, but they held. You wiped your palms on your shorts, breathed once, twice, three times, and unlocked the door.

The corridor outside felt too bright, too real. Teammates brushed past you, focused and ready, offering small smiles or nods that you tried to return. Your heart was still hammering, but at least it was moving you forward now, pushing you toward the place you’d been avoiding and then you reached the mouth of the tunnel, that narrow, echoing stretch of concrete where the world seemed to hold its breath. You could see the edge of the pitch from here, the green slicing through the shadows, the roar of the crowd swelling like a tide.

Arsenal filed into their line, West Ham into theirs, and for a moment you kept your eyes fixed on the floor, on the studs of the player in front of you, on anything that wasn’t the possibility of seeing her but then you felt it, that familiar prickle at the back of your neck, the one that had followed you your whole childhood, the one that meant Katrina was looking at you before you’d even realised she was there.

You lifted your head.

She was only a few metres away, standing at the front of the West Ham line, her arms loose at her sides, her expression composed in that way she’d perfected years ago. But the second your eyes met, something in her softened. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to feel it.

Katrina stepped out of her line without hesitation, ignoring whatever protocol she was meant to be following, and crossed the narrow gap between you. A couple of players glanced over, amused, but no one stopped her. “You alright, limpet?” she murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear.

The nickname hit you square in the chest anchoring you with the familiarity only she could bring. You swallowed, your throat tight again, but this time for a different reason. “I’m fine,” you tried, but it came out thin, unconvincing.

Katrina’s eyes flicked over your face, reading you the way she always had, the way no one else ever quite managed. She reached out and hooked a finger under your chin, lifting it just slightly.

“Hey,” she said, steady and sure. “You’ve got this.”

Your breath wobbled. “I don’t want to play against you.”

“I know.” Her thumb brushed once against your jaw, a tiny gesture, grounding. “But you’re ready. More than you think.”

You shook your head, barely. “I don’t feel ready.”

“That’s alright,” she said, and her voice was so calm it almost undid you. “You don’t have to feel ready to be ready.”

The teams were being called to order now, captains stepping forward, officials lining up. Katrina glanced over her shoulder, then back at you. “Listen,” she said, leaning in just enough that her forehead almost touched yours. “You’re not here because you followed me. You’re here because you earned it. Because you’re good. Because you deserve to be on this pitch.”

Your chest loosened, just a little. Enough to breathe.

“And,” she added, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “because I’m going to absolutely flatten you if you try to dribble past me.”

A startled laugh escaped you, shaky, but real. Katrina grinned, satisfied. “There she is,” she said softly.

The official called her name. She stepped back, shoulders squaring, slipping into captain mode with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times but before she turned away, she reached out and squeezed your wrist,  firm, warm, and certain. “I’m right here,” she said. “Even if we’re wearing different colours.”

And somehow, that was enough to steady you as you moved into line, the roar of the stadium swelling around you like a tide you were finally ready to step into.

You don’t remember much of the game, only the blur of it. The rush of bodies, the sting of cold air in your lungs, the bright snap of the ball leaving your boot. Five goals. An assist. Daphne’s unlucky own goal. Everything else dissolved into motion and noise, a kind of feverish clarity where your body knew what to do even when your mind was still somewhere in that bathroom stall. But the away end, that you remember. The way it pulsed and roared, a living thing made of colour and sound. It hit you like a wave, lifting you, filling you with a fizzing, childlike joy that made your skin feel too small for your own happiness. For a moment, you forgot the fear, the pressure, the shadow you’d spent years trailing behind.

And then, through the chaos of handshakes and exchanged shirts and players drifting toward the tunnel, you felt a presence at your back, steady, and unmistakable.

Katrina.

She didn’t call your name. She didn’t need to. You turned, and there she was, hair damp, cheeks flushed, jersey clinging to her frame, the captain’s armband still tight around her bicep. Her expression wasn’t the composed mask she wore for cameras or teammates. It was open, bright, almost fierce with pride.

Before you could say anything, she reached for you, one arm sweeping around your shoulders, pulling you into her with a force that knocked the breath from your chest. You folded into her instinctively, the way you had since you were small, your forehead pressing into the warm, sweat-damp fabric at her collarbone.

She held you like she was anchoring you to the earth. 

“I am so proud of you.” She muttered, kissing your head like she used to do before bed.

There was no need for a large speech. Everything she could have said was already there in the way her hand slid up the back of your head, fingers threading briefly into your hair; in the way her chin rested against the top of your skull; in the way her breath steadied against your temple. Pride. Relief. Recognition. Love, the quiet, unshakeable kind that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

When she finally eased back, her hands stayed on your shoulders, thumbs brushing once in a gesture that felt like sealing something in place. Her eyes swept over your face, taking in the flushed cheeks, the wild brightness in your eyes, the disbelief still clinging to you like static. You had stepped onto the pitch terrified you’d lose her by standing on your own. But here, in the aftermath, with the stadium roaring and the floodlights painting everything gold, you realised something else entirely: you hadn’t lost her. You’d simply met her as an equal for the first time.

Katrina gave your shoulders one last firm squeeze before letting her hands fall away, turning toward the tunnel with the easy confidence of someone who knew you’d follow, not because you needed her to lead, but because you were walking in the same direction now, side by side, even in different colours. And as you fell into step behind her, the noise of the crowd swelling around you, you felt it settle deep in your chest: a new kind of steadiness, one that belonged entirely to you.