Goal

Chapter 72: Champagne and Confessions

The chant followed them down the concrete corridor like a living thing. Nor-dskov! Bel-weather! It echoed off the cinderblock walls, muted but persistent, even as the heavy door to the home locker room swung shut behind them.

The noise inside was a different beast. A roar of raw, unfiltered triumph. Shirts were off, cleats were being hurled into metal lockers with deafening clangs, and someone had already cracked open the first magnum of champagne. The cork shot past Aurora’s head and foamy liquid arced across the room, catching the sterile fluorescent light.

“There she is!” Markus Thorne, the goalkeeper, boomed. He was shirtless, his torso a roadmap of old scars and new red marks from the game. He wrapped a massive, damp arm around Aurora’s shoulders, pulling her into the chaos. “The good luck charm!”

She was handed a plastic cup of champagne she didn’t want. It was warm and sickly-sweet. Someone else—a young defender with a bleached mohawk—slapped Callum on the back so hard champagne sloshed over the rim of her cup. “You dog! Vaulting into the stands! Manager’s gonna fine you for that!”

Callum just grinned, his arm a solid, possessive band around Aurora’s waist. His skin was still fever-hot through his damp jersey. “Worth every penny,” he shouted over the din, his mouth close to her ear. His breath smelled of electrolytes and victory.

She smiled, but it felt tight on her face. The energy was too much, a physical pressure after the focused tension of the game. She was an interloper here, a spectator suddenly dropped onto the stage. She watched as Callum was pulled into the center of the room, doused with another bottle of champagne. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound pure and unburdened, a side of him she’d only seen glimmers of on his quiet patio.

Elara appeared at her side, looking serene amidst the chaos. “Overwhelming, isn’t it? Here.” She swapped Aurora’s full cup for an empty one. “Just hold this. No one will notice you’re not drinking.”

Aurora mouthed thank you. Her glasses were fogging from the steam rising off the celebrating bodies.

Callum broke away from the group then, his green eyes finding hers through the haze. He walked toward her, ignoring a teammate trying to tug him back. He took her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers, sticky with dried champagne and grass. “C’mon,” he said, his voice a low rasp that cut underneath the shouting.

“Where?”

“Just need a second. Of quiet.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just began leading her through the labyrinth of lockers and benches, away from the core of the celebration. They passed an open doorway to the physio room, the sharp scent of liniment spiking the air. Further down, past a stack of equipment crates, was a door marked ‘Supplies’.

He shouldered it open and pulled her inside, flicking on a light.

It was a narrow storage closet, lined with shelves holding rolls of tape, boxes of protein bars, and neat stacks of towels. The roar of the locker room became a distant thrum, muffled by the thick door. The air was cool and smelled of clean cotton and concrete dust.

Before she could speak, before she could ask what they were doing, he turned and pressed her back against the shelves. A box of electrolyte sachets dug into her shoulder blade.

“Sorry,” he murmured, but his hands were already cradling her face, his thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones. His expression had shifted. The crowd-pleasing grin was gone, replaced by something more urgent, more private. The adrenaline was still there, vibrating in the space between them, but it had been distilled, focused entirely on her.

“You okay?” he asked, searching her eyes.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… a lot.”

“I know.” He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the green was dark, intense. “Hearing them chant your name… seeing you up there, in the middle of all that…” He shook his head, as if the words had failed him. “I won that game for you, Aurora. Not for them. For you.”

Her heart clenched. “Callum…”

“I need to taste it,” he said, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. “The victory. I need to taste it on your lips.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He claimed her mouth with a bruising intensity that was nothing like the celebratory kiss in the stands. That had been for the crowd, for the cameras. This was for them. This was hunger.

His lips were soft but insistent, moving over hers with a possessiveness that stole the air from her lungs. One hand slid from her face into her hair, dislodging the already-failing bun, his fingers tangling in her curls. The other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She could feel every hard plane of his body, the damp fabric of his jersey, the rapid beat of his heart against her own.

She kissed him back, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. The taste was exactly as he’d wanted—champagne, yes, and sweat, and something uniquely him, something clean and sharp underneath. It was the taste of his public triumph, now shared in this dark, quiet pocket of privacy. Her glasses were knocked askew. She didn’t care.

He broke the kiss, but only to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “You have no idea,” he muttered against her skin, his breath hot. “No idea what it does to me, knowing you were watching. Knowing you knew.”

“I knew,” she whispered, arching into him. The box of sachets crunched behind her. “I knew you’d score.”

He made a low sound in his throat and captured her mouth again. This kiss was slower, deeper, more exploring. The initial frenzy was settling into something more profound, a transfer of all the game’s pent-up emotion—the frustration, the pressure, the final, explosive release—into this single, silent point of contact. His fingers gently removed her glasses, placing them on a shelf beside a roll of white tape. The world went soft at the edges.

A sudden, loud bang on the door made them jump apart.

“Nordskov! You in there? Media’s waiting, mate! Stop hiding your mystery woman!” a voice shouted, followed by raucous laughter.

Callum rested his forehead against the shelf next to her head, letting out a long, shuddering breath. A slow, reluctant smile spread across his face. “Back to reality,” he sighed.

He picked up her glasses, carefully hooking them back over her ears. His touch was tender now, a stark contrast to the desperation of a moment before. He looked at her, her lips no doubt swollen, her hair a wild cloud around her face, her sweater crooked.

“You’re a mess,” he said, his voice full of warm affection.

“You’re one to talk,” she managed, her own voice unsteady. His cheek still bore the faint, pink smudge of her lipstick from the stadium kiss. She reached up and wiped at it with her thumb. It only smeared it more.

He caught her wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm. “Leave it. Let them see.”

The banging on the door came again, more insistent. “Callum! Now!”

He kissed her, once more, quickly and softly. “You can wait here. Or you can come out with me. Your choice.” His eyes held hers, offering her the exit, the chance to avoid the flashing lights and the inevitable barrage of questions.

She took a deep breath, the scent of him and concrete and clean towels filling her lungs. She thought of her quiet house, her silent laptop, the blank page waiting. She thought of the roar of the crowd, the chant, his whispered confession. I won that game for you.

She straightened her sweater. “I’m with you,” she said.

His smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. He took her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and pushed the supply closet door open, stepping back into the blinding, noisy world he belonged to, pulling her right along with him.