The first thing I was aware of was the sunlight, a warm, gentle weight on my eyelids. The second was the dull, persistent throb behind my eyes, a familiar souvenir from a night of well-earned celebration.
I groaned, rolling over, and my eyes slowly focused on the gleaming silver object sitting on my bedside table was the U18 Premier League National Champions trophy. My eyes widened in hungover horror. 'Emma?' I croaked, stumbling out of bed. 'Why is the trophy in our flat?'
Emma was in the kitchen, a chaotic splash of fiery red hair against the muted tones of the morning, a book in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She looked up, a slow, amused smile spreading across her face.
'You don't remember?' she asked, her voice laced with laughter. 'You insisted on bringing it home for "one last night." You said it was lonely and needed a friend. You were very convincing.'
