Connor
The air outside the stadium smelled like rain and beer and nerves. Proper match day air. The kind that gets in your chest and makes your heart beat too fast even when you're not the one playing.
I was holding a paper bag in one hand and my accreditation in the other, trying not to look like I was about to have a heart attack.
"Connor, love," Gran said, linking her arm through mine. "Breathe. You're doing that thing with your face again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're going to be sick, possibly constipated, cry and propose to someone all at the same time."
Hamish snorted. "That's his normal 'Edward' face."
Melanie was on my other side, already filming the stadium on her phone. We were at the players' entrance. Security was everywhere. Big lads in hi-vis, earpieces, faces like they'd seen too many people try to sneak flasks in.
