The day after the World Cup Final, the world was loud. The TV in the airport lounge, the radio in the taxi, the headlines on every newsstand—it was all Harry Chase.
But at 7:00 AM, the old neighbourhood park in the suburbs was quiet.
The metal swing set squeaked in the morning breeze, a sound that hadn't changed in fifteen years. The paint was peeling, revealing the rusted iron underneath.
Lena sat on the left swing, her feet dragging in the woodchips. She had a cardboard coffee cup in her hand and a Columbia University hoodie pulled over her head. Her suitcases were packed in her mother's car, parked just outside the gate. They were driving to New York in an hour.
She just needed one last look at where it all started.
She heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. She didn't turn around. She knew the cadence of that walk.
"You blocked me," a voice said, amused and tired. "So I had to guess where you'd be."
Lena smiled into her coffee cup. She looked up.
Harry stood there. He was wearing a grey hoodie and sunglasses, trying to look incognito, but the way he carried himself gave him away. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline of the Final having finally faded into a bone-deep weariness.
"I unblocked you this morning," Lena said.
Harry walked over and sat on the swing next to her. The chains groaned under his weight. He was too big for it now—broad-shouldered and six-foot-two.
"You didn't come down to the pitch," Harry said, kicking off the ground to sway slightly. "My mom was looking for you."
"It was a media circus, Harry," Lena said softy. "You were draped in the flag. The President was calling you. I didn't want to be the footnote in your biography that everyone gossips about."
Harry chuckled. "The tabloids are already writing that biography. Apparently, I dated a French supermodel last week. News to me."
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the rhythmic creak-creak of the swings. It was the same rhythm they had shared when they were six years old, discussing which cartoons were best.
"I'm proud of you," Harry said suddenly. He didn't look at her; he looked at the old slide across the park. "Columbia. Full ride. That's... that's the World Cup of academics, isn't it?"
Lena laughed, a genuine, bright sound. "Something like that. It's going to be hard. I have to work part-time at the library to cover living expenses."
"You'll crush it," Harry said simply. "You survived Haleswood. You survived the internet hating you. You survived working double shifts at Joe's. A library will be a vacation."
Lena turned to look at him. "And you? Manchester United. World Champion. What's left?"
Harry took off his sunglasses. His eyes were the same—intense, dark, but the anger that had fueled him for the last year was gone. It was replaced by a calm confidence.
"Champions League," Harry grinned. "Ballon d'Or. And maybe learning how to cook something other than pasta."
Lena smiled. "I can send you some recipes. Mom finally taught me her lasagna."
"I'd like that."
Harry reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet box.
Lena stiffened. "Harry, I can't take—"
"It's not a ring," Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. "And it's not charity. Relax."
He tossed the box to her. She caught it.
Inside was a simple, silver keychain. It was shaped like a puzzle piece.
"I found it in my old room when I came back for the camp," Harry said. "You gave it to me for my tenth birthday. You said, 'because we fit together.'"
Lena ran her thumb over the tarnished metal. She remembered. She had bought it with her allowance money.
"I tried to throw it away a dozen times this year," Harry admitted. "But I couldn't. Because even though you lied about the bullying... you were right about one thing."
"What?"
"We needed to break," Harry said. "If we had stayed together, I would have just been 'Lena's friend.' And you would have been 'Harry's charity case.' We would have suffocated each other."
He looked at her, his expression serious.
"The lie hurt, Lena. It hurt like hell. But it pushed me to Spain. And the guilt pushed you to stand on your own two feet. We broke the mold so we could build something better."
Lena closed her hand around the keychain. Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She felt lighter than she had in years. The guilt that had anchored her was finally cut loose.
"So," Lena said, clearing her throat. "What are we now?"
It was the same question she had asked him in the arcade bar, the night of the lie. But this time, the context was entirely different.
Harry stopped his swing. He looked at her.
"Friends," Harry said. "Real ones. The kind who check in. The kind who visit."
He pulled out his phone. "I play Arsenal in London in December. Winter break for Columbia?"
"I think I can manage a flight," Lena smiled. "If you can get me a ticket."
"I know a guy," Harry winked.
A car horn honked from the street. Lena's mother waved from the driver's seat.
"I have to go," Lena said, standing up. "New York awaits."
Harry stood up too. He didn't hug her. Not yet. That bridge was being rebuilt, brick by brick. Instead, he held out a fist.
Lena bumped it with hers.
"Don't fail," Harry said.
"Don't miss," Lena replied.
She turned and walked toward the car, her step light, her head high. She didn't look back, because she didn't need to. She knew he was watching, and she knew he would be there when she picked up the phone.
Harry watched her get into the car. He watched it drive away, turning the corner toward the highway.
He sat back down on the swing for a moment longer. He took a deep breath of the suburban air, then pulled out his phone.
He opened his contacts. Lena Shaw.
He hit the Call button.
He watched the car disappear in the distance as he held the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" Lena's voice came through, sounding surprised and happy.
"Hey," Harry said, looking up at the morning sun. "Just testing the line. Keep in touch, okay?"
"I will," she said. "See you in London, Number 10."
Harry hung up, smiling. He stood up, zipped his hoodie, and walked out of the park.
The game was over. The real life had just begun.