SI

The stadium hummed loud enough to shake the seats—thousands of voices, flags flying, England’s anthem ringing out over everything. I smoothed my hand over my belly, round and heavy at seven and a half months, our little girl moving soft beneath my palm. I twisted the engagement ring on my finger, the one he slipped there just weeks ago, and told myself I was being silly. Everything was perfect. Jobe was here, on the world’s biggest stage, alongside Jude, playing for the country they both dreamed of representing. We’d come so far. We were thirteen when we first walked home together, backpacks slung over our shoulders, too shy to hold hands but never wanting to be apart. Now we’re twenty-one. Eight years. I’ve been by his side through every training session, every late night, every time he doubted himself. I loved him before the headlines, before the shirts with his name, before anyone knew who he was. And I was so sure—so absolutely sure—that he loved me right back. That our forever was just starting. He pulled me aside behind the tunnel, minutes before he had to walk out. His jaw was tight, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and my stomach dropped even before he spoke. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, quiet and fast, like ripping off a bandage. “It all feels… too much. Too soon. We were kids when we started, and now there’s the engagement, the baby, everything… I feel rushed. I never got to live for myself. I don’t want this. Not with you.” The air left my lungs. “Jobe… what are you saying?” He shifted, restless, already glancing toward the pitch. “I’m saying I don’t want to be together. But listen—no one can know. Not yet. My family’s here, Jude’s here, everyone’s watching. I need you to sit up there in the box with them, smile, cheer, act like nothing’s wrong. Just until the tournament’s over. Please.” I stood there, carrying his daughter, wearing his ring, my heart splitting open right there in the shadow of the stadium walls—and he was asking me to pretend. So now