Hold Me Close

i'm not jealous

A camera follows me around as I prepare for our first match of the tournament the next day.

At breakfast, I eat and talk to it; at film, I give it a wave; in the tunnel in the stadium, before we line up for the anthems, I stick my thumbs up at it, nudging Jill to do the same.

So far, it hasn't been too invasive. In fact, they have captured some moments that I am grateful for, regardless of whether they are in the documentary or not. Like the time Jill slipped and landed in a starfish on the floor, or the moment we watched on as Jaimie won Wimbledon for the first time. I'm proud of my sister. I'm not happy that she has caused the media to have one burning question for me: 'are you going to be a champion as well?'

The final, which was last week, was a tense match. Leah Williamson was in attendance, and the world would be blind if they do not now know that the two of them are together. Their hug after she won was less than friendly, and, if anyone were to rewatch the footage, they might catch the stolen kiss in the midst of the action. My sister continues her tour in Switzerland, hoping to extend her winning streak even further. She is now ranked second in the world.

Alexia wishes me good luck before the game, sending me a picture of her with a few of the Spanish girls in their green room, hoping to watch most of it before Vilda commands them to go to bed or the gym or whatever. Her ex-girlfriend, Jenni Hermoso, is there with her. She is always with her, and it isn't quite my place to say anything about it. Maybe I will seek advice from Lieke, seeing as she knows them both, but that will have to wait. The slight tint of green that washes over my skin every time Jenni Hermoso is mentioned is not as important right now.

Right now, we have a match to win.

The line-up is nothing unusual, though Andries is still considering where to best utilise what I have learnt from playing half a season at Barcelona on the right. Having spoken about it with him prior to the match, I know that today is for me to be the Fleur de Voss the nation knows – not the Dutch girl in Spain. It's welcoming and, well, stressful. It's a high expectation to live up to.

I take in the stadium as the anthems play, my mouth moving along with my own proudly; naturally. Knowing who is watching tonight has caused a stir in my chest, but I am unable to discern whether it is nerves or something else.

Portugal start with a mix of intensity and conviction, pressing high and coming at us as though this is a final.

Except, we score. I work the ball into the centrefield, dribbling past two Portugal players as if they are plastic men erected on a training field – static and easy to get around – in order to do so. I find Lieke, who passes the ball back to me and presses forward. My delivery into the box is decent; landing on Stefanie's head. She nods it firmly into the far corner. The goal is allowed after a slightly unnerving VAR check.

Half-time comes and we are still one goal up, and it goes just as I reply to Jaimie's text message about playing well for the sake of her stress levels. With us clearly being superior in the first half, I expect Portugal to come out fighting. They have something to prove.

Weirdly, the flame is only lit around the seventieth minute mark. Our passivity is incredibly lazy, as shouted by Andries from the sideline. We should really have scored another by now as a cushion, but that has not come to fruition. Andries then calls for me to go down, despite my protest that that is the keeper's job.

Sighing, I complain about muscle cramps or something of the like, allowing my manager to regroup and rouse the team. He gives me a thumbs up as I make my way back onto the pitch after having one nauseating sip of an electrolyte drink.