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You swore off straight boys, sick to death of falling for kind, handsome, straight boys who seem to always catch your eye (and mind and soul and heart-)
Once you’re confident in the premier league, once you’ve nailed that assist to him, and he’s walloped over a cross to you from nearly halfway up the pitch, you realise old habits die hard as kind, handsome, straight Harry lifts you up in celebration.
Then Harry starts fiddling with his ring when he talks to you, he’s more persistent in asking you to go golfing and you swear he gives you a lingering look when you slip down to your briefs in the changing room after a win.
Then the rings gone, the buzz of both professional and amateur gossips stalk you all outside Hotspur Way and Harry doesn’t come to training for a week.
When he back, he hugs you tight, clears his throat as he asks you over for dinner; and then you see everything you’ve ever pleaded, begged, needed reflected back at you.