Chapter 1: That one's your captain.
Chapter Text
“Alright, hear me out. It’s not just a box-ticking thing.”
Keeley stood in front of Rebecca’s desk, bright-eyed and persuasive, with Leslie trailing behind her holding three folders. Rebecca looked up from her coffee.
“I know it’s short notice,” Keeley went on, “but if we’re doing this, we should do it properly. Not just one season and done. We need a real team, a real squad — like, women who actually know how to play football, not just some models we put in jerseys.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow, amused. “I never suggested we sign models, Keeley.”
“Well, you did like the girl from the Nissan ad—” Leslie started, and then cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. Moving on.”
Keeley practically bounced on the spot as she opened one of the folders and slid it toward Rebecca. “We’ve got scout reports, shortlists, names for every position. Real players. Ones who’ve played for Chelsea, Arsenal, even Ireland. This could be massive.”
Rebecca took the folder, flipping through goalkeeper profiles. A name stood out halfway down the list: Ciara Quinn. Irish. Ex-Chelsea. 24. Strong command of the box. Vocal leader.
“I know her,” a voice said behind them.
Roy Kent stepped into the office, towel slung over his shoulder. “Well. Sort of.”
“You know her?” Rebecca asked.
Roy shrugged. “Played for Chelsea’s women’s side. About three, four years ago now. One of the best young goalkeepers I’ve seen.”
Keeley turned, eyes sparkling. “Wait, you rate someone?”
“She’s got presence,” Roy said simply. “And balls. Proper balls.”
He stepped closer and tapped the folder. “That one’s your captain.”
Rebecca looked at Keeley. Keeley looked at Leslie. Then they all looked back at Roy.
“You’re sure?” Rebecca asked.
Roy nodded. “She reminds me of… me. Only louder.”
—
Chelsea Training Ground, Four Years Earlier
Rain drifted sideways over the pitch, fine enough to blur the lines but not enough to cancel anything. Roy Kent’s knees were aching like bastardised clockwork, but he was still trying to train like he wasn’t nearly done.
Across the complex, the women’s squad was scrimmaging. Loudly.
A goalkeeper — loud, pale, all sharp elbows and bite — was yelling at her backline like she’d been personally wronged.
“Back post, back post! You can’t just leave her there like she’s on a f***ing picnic!”
Roy couldn’t help it. He watched.
She was a unit. Not just tall — commanding. Aggressive. Athletic. She made a near-post save look routine, then stood up and ripped into the positioning like a coach.
Later, when training wrapped, Roy was icing his knee on the pitch edge as she passed.
“You got a managerial complex,” he said, without looking at her.
She stopped. “Maybe I just don’t like getting scored on.”
Roy looked up. “You’re Ciara Quinn.”
“And you’re Roy Kent.”
“You a fan?”
She shrugged. “Respect you. Wouldn’t want to share a midfield with you.”
Roy huffed a laugh. “Smart.”
She eyed his knee, all wrapped in ice. “You always this cranky after training?”
“You always this nosy?”
She cracked a grin. “Only when people look like they’re auditioning for retirement.”
Roy barked a laugh. “Piss off.”
She gave him a lazy salute and walked on. But something about her — the bark, the swagger, the chip on her shoulder — reminded him of a younger version of himself.
—
A Few Weeks Later
Roy was in line for coffee, knee stiff, mood worse, when a tray bumped into his side.
“Watch it,” he growled.
“Relax, Grandpa,” came Ciara’s voice. “It’s just tea.”
He glanced over. She was carrying a stack of toast and fruit. “Tea?”
“Helps the voice. Can’t yell at my centre-backs if I’m hoarse.”
They sat at the same table.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty. Why?”
“You sound like you’ve been playing forty years.”
Ciara grinned. “Maybe in a past life.”
Roy smirked, but there was a glint of respect in it.
“You know,” she added, “you don’t have to kill yourself at training. You’ve already made it.”
“Don’t be soft,” Roy replied. “You want to last in this game, you never ease off.”
“Even when your knee’s screaming?”
Roy looked at her. “Especially then.”
—
Present Day:
Rebecca leaned back in her chair. “So. Ciara Quinn.”
Roy nodded. “She’ll give the team spine. Maybe a bit too much lip. But she leads.”
Keeley flicked through Instagram photos on her iPad. “And she’s hot. That doesn’t hurt the PR.”
Leslie coughed. “She… did have an injury last year?”
Roy nodded. “Shoulder. Nasty one. Kept her out for a season. Chelsea let her go when she didn’t bounce back fast enough.”
“But she’s healed now?” Rebecca asked.
“Fit and cleared. I checked.” Keeley replied
There was a pause.
Then Rebecca looked to Roy. “You know, with Ted managing the men’s team and me… generally running a football club, we’ll need someone full-time for the women’s side.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “You offering me a job?”
Rebecca shrugged. “It’s more of a suggestion. You’d be good at it.”
Keeley added, “Think about it. You already know the captain.”
Roy looked down at the folder again. At Ciara’s name, printed bold. He didn’t smile, but his voice was softer.
“I’ll think about it.”
Chapter 2: New colours, old habits
Chapter Text
The Richmond grounds didn’t look all that different from Chelsea’s at a glance — brick, glass, turf. But Ciara felt every difference in her chest as she stepped through the gates, her old Chelsea training jacket slung over her shoulder like a stubborn ghost she hadn’t shaken off yet.
The women’s facilities were still in development. Nothing was lacking exactly, but everything smelled new — like fresh paint and inexperience. She clocked it silently: the smaller changing room, the brand-new lockers still missing name tags, and the freshly laid turf out back that hadn’t yet grown into the pitch.
Keeley Jones was the first to greet her, bouncing down the hallway with a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other.
“Oh my god, you’re here! You’re actually here!” Keeley beamed, throwing her arms around Ciara without hesitation.
Ciara blinked at the embrace but gave a polite half-hug back. “Yeah. Seems so.”
“I’m Keeley — we spoke briefly — and you must be exhausted after the move. But I swear, this is going to be amazing. I’ve got loads planned for promotion and brand stuff and, like, visibility. You’re gonna be everywhere.”
“Sounds… busy,” Ciara said, amused.
Keeley grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll ease you in — like a very sparkly ice bath.”
They walked toward Rebecca’s office, where Ciara was formally introduced to the club’s owner and Leslie, who gave her a warm welcome and a firm handshake. Rebecca was every bit as poised and commanding as she’d sounded over the phone, but with a sincerity Ciara hadn’t expected.
Outside, the morning sun cast long shadows on the training ground as Ciara walked with Roy toward the pitch.
“Place has potential,” Ciara said, eyeing the training cones being set out.
“Mm. That’s one word for it.” Roy shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s not Chelsea, but they care here. Even the men’s team. Don’t let Jamie Tartt give you the wrong impression.”
She arched a brow. “Jamie Tartt? That the one who looks like he moisturises with his own reflection?”
Roy huffed a laugh. “Yeah. That one. He’s a little shit, but he’s grown since his Man City days.”
Ciara smirked. “Not well enough if he’s still known for being a dick.”
“Just don’t murder him on sight.” Roy glanced at her sideways. “Though I wouldn’t stop you.”
They reached the edge of the men’s training pitch. The team was in the middle of a finishing drill. Jamie Tartt stood out instantly — not just because of the way he moved, but because of the way he knew he was being watched. Flashy footwork. Signing a shirt for a kid. Flicking a pass with a flourish that didn’t need to be there.
Ciara said nothing, but Roy noticed her watching.
“Like I said. Grown. Just… not up.”
She let out a dry snort. “Sounds familiar.”
Roy gave her a knowing look. “I meant what I said in London — you’ve got the head for this. And you’ve earned your place here. Show them why.”
She nodded, the edge of her nerves settling into steel.
---
The women’s squad stood in a loose circle, some stretching, some eyeing the new arrival. A few recognisable faces — players who’d scraped minutes in the WSL, others from Irish and English leagues. Young. Talented. Hungry.
Ciara introduced herself briefly before warm-up. Not overly friendly, not cold either.
Roy blew the whistle and they began drills — passing patterns, pressure setups, goalkeeping reps. Ciara fell into rhythm fast, barking sharp instructions when the back line hesitated.
“Shift! Hold the shape, don’t just chase the ball.”
One of the forwards — a wiry, quick-footed player with cropped hair — rolled her eyes.
“Bit full-on for a Wednesday, isn’t it?” she muttered just loud enough.
Ciara turned her head. “Bit late in the drill to start acting like a team.”
A few girls stifled smirks. The forward narrowed her eyes but said nothing more.
They ran another rep. This time, the defence moved tighter. The midfielders began echoing Ciara’s calls. Slowly, something clicked.
By the time Roy ended the session, sweat clinging to everyone’s shirts, there was a different energy. Not harmony — not yet — but something approaching respect.
Roy called them in for final notes. “Decent start. Some of you listen, some of you think you don’t have to. Guess which ones end up benched.”
He gave Ciara a nod as they dispersed. A quiet approval.
---
After training, Ciara headed toward the physio area, still half-damp from a cold shower and clutching a takeaway cup of coffee like it was armour. The women’s and men’s teams were still sharing space for now — makeshift schedules, rotating treatment times, and far too many egos in one corridor.
Jamie Tartt stood just outside the physio room, messing with his phone. He glanced up as she approached.
“Didn’t think Chelsea let people leave unless they were retiring or pregnant,” he said, tone casual, smile razor-sharp.
Ciara didn’t even pause. “Didn’t know Man City kept players who go on reality dating shows. Oh wait... they didn’t.”
That wiped the grin clean off his face. For half a second, he looked stunned. Then amused.
“Ouch,” he muttered.
She slowed just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That meant to be banter? Or just misogyny with extra steps?”
Jamie shrugged. “Just saying — lotta pressure leaving the big leagues. And you lot still play on pitches half made of mud.”
Ciara sipped her coffee. “Funny. You’re acting like a Premier League baller, but you’re hanging outside the physio like a kid waiting for mammy to sign him out.”
Jamie stepped closer, smirk sharpening. “You always this much fun, or just when you’re pretending Richmond’s a step up?”
Ciara took one measured look at him. “I’m not pretending anything, mate. But you? You should practise the whole ‘team player’ thing. Maybe then you wouldn’t be doing tricks on a pitch while the rest of your squad runs drills.”
Jamie blinked. “You were watching me?”
“Unfortunately.”
She brushed past him without waiting for a reply.
Jamie turned as she walked away. “You didn’t even introduce yourself.”
Ciara raised her cup in mock-toast without turning around. “You seem like the type who googles everyone anyway.”
---
Back in the locker room, Ciara sat alone for a moment. The others had drifted off to showers or treatment. She pulled out her phone. One new voice note from Lottie — a former Chelsea teammate.
“Hey, just checking in! How’s Richmond? Bet you’ve already got them doing military drills. Don’t scare them off too fast, yeah?”
Ciara stared down at the Richmond badge on her new training top, the lion stitched in fresh thread.
She didn’t reply. Just hit replay. Then again.
The sun had dipped lower outside the window. Another day done. A new one just beginning.
“Let’s see how long this lasts,” she murmured, then slipped the phone back in her bag.
Chapter 3: Collision Course
Chapter Text
The rain had cleared, but the pitch was still slick underfoot, and the tension was thicker than the clouds overhead. Richmond’s men’s and women’s teams were holding their first joint training session, and the atmosphere was already buzzing with quiet curiosity and bravado.
Ciara Quinn tightened the strap of her gloves, eyes sweeping over her teammates as they jogged through the warm-up drills. The women's team had come a long way in just a week and a half. The first few sessions had been chaotic—players learning one another's rhythms, miscommunications flying, egos adjusting—but now? Now they were starting to feel like a team.
Tara, their bold-mouthed forward, flashed Ciara a grin as she bounced a ball off her thigh. “Don’t suppose you’ll go easy today, Captain?”
Ciara scoffed. “On you? Never.”
Chloe, the youngest and quietest of the lot, chuckled beside them. “She means she’ll save your shots just to make a point.”
“I always make a point,” Ciara said, earning a few light laughs from the group.
As they approached the center pitch, Roy strode over from where the men’s squad was stretching. His hands were in his pockets, expression unreadable beneath his scruffy beard.
“You lot better be ready,” he muttered, eyes scanning the women’s team. Then to Ciara, “This’ll be good for seeing how you hold up under pressure.”
“Pressure’s just performance in disguise,” Ciara replied, falling into step beside him.
Roy grunted approvingly. “You’ve been solid this week. Quinn.”
“Your knee still holding up?” she asked, flicking a glance down.
“Better than most of your defenders.”
She smirked. “They’re learning.”
Roy gave her a sidelong look. “Men’s team is good. Arrogant as hell sometimes. Especially him.”
She followed his gaze to Jamie Tartt, who was juggling a ball behind his back like he was on a catwalk, smirking at something Sam said.
“Yeah,” Ciara muttered. “I’ve noticed.”
Roy lowered his voice. “He’s a pain in the arse, but he’s not useless. Just... don’t let him rattle you.”
“Too late for that.”
As Roy drifted back toward the sidelines, Keeley arrived with her usual whirlwind energy, holding a takeaway coffee and wearing heels that didn’t belong anywhere near a pitch.
“Oiii, ladies! You’re all looking fit as hell, by the way. I mean, not just fit-fit but, like, match-fit, and sexy-fit? You know what I mean.”
Tara tilted her head. “Is that three compliments or one?”
“All of the above!” Keeley beamed. She caught Ciara’s eye and gave her a little nod. “Crush it, Cap.”
Ciara couldn’t help smiling. There was something about Keeley’s support that felt... warm. Easy. The start of something like friendship.
When the joint drills began, the tempo ratcheted up immediately. There was friendly competition—and then there was this. Challenges flew in quick, banter flowed quicker. One-on-one drills morphed into a proving ground.
Jamie Tartt’s ego floated somewhere above the clouds. Ciara had already saved four of his shots in separate drills, and each time he acted like it hadn’t happened.
On the fifth, she smothered the ball mid-dive, springing back up with a glare.
“Could try aiming somewhere other than my gloves,” she said as she threw the ball back.
He grinned like he hadn’t just been denied again. “Could try being less obsessed with me, Quinny.”
The nickname landed like a pebble in her boot — tiny, but irritating enough she’d notice it all day. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s cute,” he said, smirk widening in a way that told her he’d clocked her irritation and filed it away for later use.
“It’s annoying.”
“Exactly.”
She turned on her heel before she said something she’d regret.
A few of the men’s players chuckled. Sam looked between them with a cautious smile. “Maybe they should just arm wrestle and be done with it.”
Jamie finally got a shot past her — low and fast, curling just enough to slip under her outstretched hand and into the bottom corner. For half a second, there was silence. Then, predictably, Jamie threw his arms out like he’d just scored at Wembley.
“‘Bout time,” he called, smugness oozing from every syllable. “Knew you’d crack eventually, Quinny.”
The nickname again. She could practically hear the capital Q in it, the way he rolled it like he owned it.
Ciara straightened, brushing dirt from her gloves with slow, deliberate movements. “Congratulations,” she said dryly. “Eight shots later, you managed one goal. Want a medal or just a participation trophy?”
A few of the women’s team laughed—Tara even clapped—but Jamie only smirked, clearly unbothered.
“Just proving a point,” he said, turning to walk away.
“What, that persistence beats talent eventually?” she shot back.
Jamie paused, glanced at her over his shoulder, expression unreadable for a second. Then he shook his head with a laugh and jogged back toward his teammates.
As the session began to wind down, Zoreaux approached her while the others filtered off the pitch. He was towelling off his face, but his eyes were curious.
“You’ve got good hands,” he said simply, nodding toward her gloves. “Quick off the line, too.”
Ciara offered a half-smile. “Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
He chuckled. “High praise. Thought about coaching one day? Your positioning’s sharp.”
“Already managing enough chaos on this team,” she said with a tilt of her head toward the women regrouping at the sideline. “But maybe.”
Zoreaux gave her a quick fist bump before jogging off. Ciara lingered, catching sight of Jamie across the pitch, laughing with Dani. His grin looked easy, but there was still something forced behind it.
Roy’s voice cut across the field. “WHISTLE! Good session. That’s it!”
Ciara grabbed her water bottle and headed toward the others, her jaw set. Jamie Tartt might be Richmond’s golden boy, but she had no intention of giving him the spotlight without a fight.
Enemies, then. Fine by her.
Chapter 4: PR darlings
Chapter Text
Keeley’s trainers squeaked into the men’s dressing room like she belonged there. She did, obviously — but it still earned her a few turned heads.
“Oi, Isaac!” she called out brightly. “You’ve got a minute?"
Isaac was halfway through pulling on a sweatshirt. He gave her a look that suggested this wasn’t the best time, but waved her over anyway.
“Need a favour,” she said, already bouncing on the balls of her feet like this was going to go her way. “We’re doing a quick PR piece. Interview with the men’s and women’s team captains. Just a fun little thing for social media. Banter, bonding, all that.”
Isaac stared at her. “Nah.”
Keeley blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t do interviews. Especially not fun ones.”
“You literally gave a speech at Sam’s restaurant opening.”
“That was food. Food’s serious.”
Before she could launch into a sales pitch, Jamie, fresh from the showers and towel-draped like a Greek statue, ambled past — and paused.
“What’s this about an interview?” he asked, already interested.
Keeley gave him a slow once-over, then a bright grin. “Actually… it’s with the women’s captain. Bit of a ‘captains unite’ promo.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Isaac not doing it?”
Isaac shrugged unapologetically. “Not a chance.”
Jamie smirked, clearly amused — and maybe a little too eager.
Keeley narrowed her eyes. “You’d do it?”
He leaned a shoulder on the lockers. “Why not? Someone’s got to represent.”
“Right. Brilliant.” She grinned again, sharper this time. “It’s later this afternoon. And it’s Ciara.”
Jamie straightened slightly. “The goalie?”
Keeley nodded. “That a problem?”
He flashed that signature smirk. “Not for me.”
---
Meanwhile, on the pitch, Ciara had just wrapped up a solo kicking drill. Her gloves were tucked into her waistband, ponytail damp from sweat. The August sun clung to her shoulders as she waved to Tara and a few of the others walking toward the changing rooms.
Keeley intercepted her halfway.
“Oh no,” Ciara said, mock suspicious. “You’ve got that look on your face.”
Keeley pressed a hand to her heart. “What look?”
“The ‘I need a favour and I’m gonna sugarcoat it with sparkle and lies’ look.”
Keeley gasped. “Rude! But accurate.”
Roy had just stepped out of the gym and spotted them. “What’s she want now?” he called over.
Ciara raised her brows and called back, “Dunno, but if it’s between you and me, she clearly picked the better athlete.”
Roy grunted, pretending not to smile as he headed toward the pitch.
Keeley looped her arm through Ciara’s. “We’re doing a little PR shoot. Captains. Men’s and women’s teams. Quick video interview, little promo thing.”
Ciara narrowed her eyes. “You mean me and Isaac?”
Keeley hesitated. “...Sure. Yeah. Captains.”
“You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did. What’s the catch?”
“No catch!” Keeley said, too quickly. “I’ll see you at the media room at three. Wear something nice. Not too sweaty.”
And with that, she was gone.
---
Ciara stepped through the door, still towel-drying her hair, only to nearly walk straight into Jamie Tartt.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, freezing in her tracks.
Jamie’s eyes flicked over her once, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know we were filming a shampoo ad, Quinny.”
Her scowl deepened instantly.
Keeley, already setting up with the crew, turned just in time to catch the line and winced. “Alright, kids. Let’s keep it mildly professional, yeah?”
Ciara folded her arms. “I thought Isaac was doing this.”
“He said no,” Keeley replied.
Ciara raised a brow. “Didn’t know that was an option.”
Jamie smirked. “Could’ve told you that if you asked.”
“I didn’t. Because I try to avoid conversations that make me dumber.”
Keeley clapped her hands. “Okay! Pre-interview warmup, let's go!”
She handed them both mics and positioned them on stools, angled slightly toward one another. Jamie swung a leg over his lazily; Ciara sat upright, arms folded, eyes sharp.
“I want banter,” Keeley said. “Not murder.”
“No promises,” Ciara muttered.
“Camera rolling in three… two…”
---
Keeley, off-camera: “Alright, we’ve got Richmond FC’s men’s and women’s captains with us today — Jamie Tartt and Ciara Quinn! How’s it feel being at the heart of two rising teams?”
Jamie flashed his practiced smirk. “Feels natural. Been carrying teams since I was 17”
Ciara didn’t miss a beat. “Funny. Thought you’ve been carried since then.”
Jamie turned to her, expression tight. “You’ve got a lot to say for someone who plays in goal, Quinny. That’s the one spot where doing nothing is considered success.”
Ciara shot him a saccharine smile. “Says the lad who thinks pressing means doing sit-ups on Instagram.”
Keeley made a strained noise off-camera.
“Alright, alright,” she said quickly. “Let’s talk leadership. What’s it like being a captain?”
Jamie leaned back. “You’ve got to set the tone. Lead by example. Keep everyone sharp.”
Ciara tilted her head. “Interesting philosophy. And when exactly do you fit that in? Between 8am and 10pm thinking about yourself, and 11pm to 7am dreaming about yourself?”
There was a snort from someone behind the camera.
Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Better to have confidence than hide behind sarcasm.”
Ciara’s smile dropped a fraction. “Better to show up for your team than pretend to be their star." Her tone changed as she realised the question she was supposed to be answering perfectly contradicted who Jamie was in her eyes "But actually, being a captain is putting the whole team before yourself on and off the pitch, you need to be everyones mentor, who people go to for advice. Building a trust so they know your not telling them how to play individually but how they play as a team. I learned from Roy he and I were opposites, I was loud, too loud at times and he was quite, I didn't understand that that had just as much of an impact as what I was saying. It's about learning when you should be talking, knowing when the team needs you"
Keeley jumped in again, “That was actually really good, thank you! Next questions.”
She handed them printed cards with silly questions: favourite pre-match meals, weirdest teammates, locker room playlists. The atmosphere cooled slightly, but the tension never fully left. Jamie rolled his eyes with each of Ciara’s answers; she gave him the same treatment.
Then Keeley, gently, said: “Ciara, mind if we touch on your time at Chelsea?”
Ciara blinked, the shift in tone jarring.
Jamie looked over too, curious.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around her mic.
“It’s fine,” she said quietly. “Yeah. I was there three years. Loved it. Won a couple cups. Made a family out of that team.”
“What happened?” Keeley asked softly.
Ciara swallowed, her eyes fell to the ground. “I tore my rotator cuff. Sat out a season. And suddenly I wasn’t their number one anymore. New management. Different plans. They said they had to ‘look forward.’ So I did too.”
Jamie, for once, didn’t have a quip.
Ciara cleared her throat looking back up. “So yeah. Richmond’s the restart. New badge. Same fire.”
Keeley smiled gently. “We’re lucky to have you.”
Jamie was quiet, his eyes unreadable.
---
The crew packed up. Ciara tugged off her mic, voice sharper again now that the vulnerability had passed.
“Can’t believe I had to sit next to that for twenty minutes,” she muttered.
Jamie, who had just stood up, scoffed. “You’re welcome. Boosted your views by a mile.”
“I’d rather talk to a cone.”
“Cone’s got better banter than you.”
“Cone’s got more pace too.”
Jamie’s laugh wasn’t kind. “Big talk from someone who stands still for ninety minutes a game.”
She leaned in, deadly calm. “You’d be lucky to make it past me on the pitch. Same way you couldn’t at training.”
His cocky smile dropped.
Before either could retort, Keeley cut in. “Alright, that’s enough! Jesus. Save it for the rematch video.”
Jamie snatched his water bottle and stormed off without another word.
“Later, Quinny,” he tossed over his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her jaw clenched so hard it almost hurt.
Keeley sighed. “Enemies to PR darlings. Classic.”
Chapter 5: #Ciamie
Chapter Text
By morning, the PR interview was everywhere.
Clipped, captioned, and re-edited into fan cam compilations, Ciara's smirk and Jamie’s scoff had become meme material. Twitter trended with “#ciamie,” TikTok was flooded with thirst traps, and Instagram fan accounts she hadn’t known existed were suddenly dissecting every exchanged glance like it was a code to be cracked.
Ciara Quinn hated every second of it.
---
At women’s training, the teasing started before she even had her gloves on.
“I didn’t realise you were so media-trained, ci,” Tara called with a grin as she jogged over, tying her hair up into a bun.
Ciara rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”
A chorus of exaggerated swoons followed.
“Oh, Jamie, you’re so arrogant and beautiful—”
“Do you dream about yourself too?”
“I ship it!”
Ciara spun, planting her hands on her hips. “Okay, one, I don’t ship it. Two, I don’t even pre-order it. And three, if anyone says the word ‘Ciamie’ again, you’re all doing sprints until Christmas.”
The squad laughed, but they backed off, more amused than malicious. Tara fell into step beside her, bumping her shoulder. “Just saying, it wasn’t a bad watch.”
“Yeah, if you mute him and fast forward through the parts where he opens his mouth.”
“You sure you hate him?” Tara teased, eyebrows raised.
Ciara gave her a look. “Very sure.”
---
Meanwhile, over on the men’s pitch…
“Oi, Jamie! When’s the wedding?” Colin shouted from across the grass.
“Didn’t know you fancied brunettes, mate,” Isaac smirked.
Jamie jogged past them, expression flat. “Didn’t know you all watched so many PR clips like fanboys.”
Zoreaux raised his brows from the goal line. “Mate, it’s got over two million views. She roasted you alive.”
“I let her,” Jamie said.
“Right,” Dani snorted. “And I let Zoreaux stop my penalty last week.”
Ted ambled by, hands in his pockets, grin already brewing. “Y’all see the one with the slow-mo and the romantic music? Gotta admit, had me rooting for y’all like it was a rom-com.”
“I’m gonna throw up,” Jamie muttered.
“Now, now. Hate’s just love with its boots on the wrong feet.”
Jamie glared at him. “What does that even mean?”
Ted just winked. “You’ll figure it out.”
---
Ciara was still grumbling about internet trolls when she wandered off the pitch later, towel slung around her shoulders, boots muddy, hair a frizzed halo.
She barely had time to curse whoever coined ‘Ciamie’ before she saw Jamie heading in her direction.
“Brilliant,” she muttered. “Just what I needed.”
“Morning, Quinny,” he said, the nickname landing somewhere between a jab and a greeting.
Her eyes narrowed. “Still trying to make that stick?”
“Oh, it’s already stuck.” His smirk flickered — not quite as bright as usual — before his tone shifted. “Your lot still quoting the fan edits?”
“Yours?”
“Don’t worry. Not gonna accuse you of being into me.”
Ciara raised an eyebrow. “Shame. I was going to accuse you of falling for me. Seemed fair.”
He huffed a dry laugh. “Keep dreaming, Quinn.”
There was something different in his tone this time. Less playful, more brittle.
Ciara frowned slightly. “You alright?”
Jamie paused. “Why d’you ask?”
“You usually sound smug. That just sounded… sharp.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Jamie shrugged. “Just tired of everyone thinking they know me from one bloody clip. S’bad enough being known for a show I regret. Now this?”
Ciara blinked, surprised by the flash of honesty.
“Yeah, well… try being known for a club you can’t even talk about without wincing.”
Jamie looked at her, gaze flicking over to her taped shoulder— still healing, still a reminder.
He nodded once. “Fair.”
They stood there, just long enough for it to feel uncomfortable, then Jamie scoffed and gestured toward the exit.
“Better get going, Quinny. Don’t want the PR team to think we’re actually getting along.”
“God forbid,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
---
That night, she opened Instagram and saw a new clip gaining traction.
It was a slowed-down moment from the interview — Jamie turning toward her just as she smiled.
The caption read: “That moment when enemies start catching feelings.”
She hit play again — and again—, unable to ignore how intently he watched her speak — how the smirk that played at his lips wasn’t just mocking, but something else she couldn’t name.
Ciara slammed her phone face down and turned off the light.
“Wanker,” she whispered into the fabric, her face flushed with something she refused to name. Hatred was safer. Easier. But it wasn’t the whole truth, not anymore.