Everything with you

Part 77

Justin

The sound hit first—a wave of cheers that rolled over the stadium, thick and alive. The sun was setting over San Francisco, streaking the sky in amber and rose. Every breath burned with the scent of grass and adrenaline. For a second, I just stood there on the field, boots digging into the turf, staring at the national crest across my chest.

My jersey—our jersey.

The realization hit me like a punch and a rush all at once: this was it. We'd spent years grinding for this moment. Sleepless nights, endless drills, injuries that almost broke us. And now, we were here—representing our country.

When I glanced at my teammates, I caught that same expression mirrored on every face—disbelief, pride, and a bit of awe. Even Nate, standing a few feet away, had this stupid grin plastered across his face. It was contagious.

The noise of the crowd swelled as we took our positions. I drew in a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything—the uniform, the expectations, the dream.

And then, for a fleeting second, I heard her voice.

"I'm proud of you, Justin."

My mother's voice. Soft. Clear.

I turned around instinctively, scanning the crowd even though I knew she wasn't there. Couldn't be. But for that heartbeat, it felt so real I could almost see her standing there, smiling that same quiet smile she always had after my games.

The whistle blew.

And just like that, the world snapped back into focus.

Game mode.

Every pass, every sprint, every tackle—it was electric. The crowd roared, and the rhythm of the match took over. When the final whistle sounded, and we were on the winning side, it didn't even register right away. Then Nate came barreling into me, shouting, "First win, baby!" and the rest of the team piled on.

We'd done it.

Our first international league match—won.

Later, in the locker room, it was chaos—reporters waiting, cameras flashing, journalists yelling questions about the team's performance and about the next leg in Europe. Everyone was talking at once, the air buzzing with excitement.

But I wasn't really hearing any of it.

Because underneath all the noise, one thought kept circling in my head—Emma.

She'd probably watched the match, maybe even cheered when I scored that last assist. I could picture her face—that wide smile that reached her eyes, the way she'd tease me later about missing that easy shot in the first half.

As soon as I could, I slipped away from the reporters, ducking through the back exit and making a break for the team bus. Flashes went off behind me, the press calling my name, but I didn't stop.

I had a couple of days before we flew out to Europe—a couple of days before everything got crazy again. And I knew exactly how I wanted to spend them.

With her.

As I stepped onto the bus, I glanced out at the stadium one last time. The lights still glowed against the night sky, the stands half-empty now, but the energy still pulsed.

I smiled to myself.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like my mom was there with me—watching, proud.

And now, all I wanted was to go home and see the one person who made this whole crazy life feel grounded.

Emma

By the time I reached her building, the city had already started to dim. The streetlights flickered on, washing everything in gold, and the air was that perfect mix of cool and quiet. I'd been on the road for hours—a flight, a car ride, a couple of near-death encounters with UCLA traffic—but somehow, I wasn't tired.

Because I was here.

Emma's apartment.

I stood in front of the door, suitcase in one hand, the other knocking before I could even think twice. The second the sound echoed, I heard shuffling—then fast footsteps—and before I could brace myself, the door flew open.

"Justin!"

She came barreling toward me, all warmth and laughter and energy, flinging her arms around my neck. I barely managed to catch her without stumbling back.

"Hey—easy, Em," I laughed, holding her close as she buried her face against my shoulder. "You're going to tackle me before I even step in."

"You were amazing!" she said, pulling back just enough to look up at me, eyes bright. "That pass? That goal setup? I screamed so loud, I think the neighbors heard me!"

I grinned, brushing my thumb over her cheek. "You watched the match?"

"Obviously," she said, almost offended. "I had snacks and everything! Hayley says I might've cried a little."

I chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You crying over me, huh? Guess I did something right."

She rolled her eyes, laughing, but her smile didn't fade. "Get in here, you idiot."

The apartment was small but cozy—warm light, the faint smell of vanilla candles, and a few plants on the window ledge. The walls had that lived-in feel already, like laughter had already found a home here.

Emma tugged me by the hand, dragging me deeper inside. "Okay, so this—" she said, pointing at the couch, "is the thrifted masterpiece that Hayley found. The coffee table? Hayley's boyfriend's old one. The kitchen? Still learning not to set it on fire."

"Progress," I said, smiling as she moved ahead, her voice bubbling with excitement.

She turned to me, gesturing toward the bedroom doorway. "And this—this is my favorite part. It's small, but it's mine. Ours, I guess, when you're here."

That last part came out softer, almost shy, and I felt something in my chest tighten.

I dropped my bag by the couch and reached for her hand. "It's perfect, Em. Really?"

She looked up at me, her grin wide and proud. "You think so?"

"I do," I said, pulling her close until her hands were flat against my chest. "You've done good, Em. Real good."

She leaned her head against me, and for a few quiet seconds, everything slowed down—the rush of travel, the noise of the crowd, the chaos of training—all of it just... stopped.

It was just her and me.

Her laughter. Her heartbeat. Her warmth against mine.

Home didn't feel like a place anymore. It felt like this.