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The pitch was muddy, the grass uneven, and the sky a typical English gray. Frank stepped out of his car with a grunt, squinting up at the clouds like they were a personal insult. The chill in the air bit at his face, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He’d played in worse.
“Come on, lad,” he muttered, reaching back into the car and gently helping Thomas out of his booster seat. The boy hopped down with a thud, bundled in a tiny puffer coat, trainers already speckled with dirt. He clutched his father’s hand eagerly, practically bouncing.
Frank gave him a look. “Remember what we said?”
Thomas nodded seriously. “No running on the field, no talking to strangers, no shouting unless it’s to cheer for you, and no saying the F word.”
Frank winced. “Christ. Don’t repeat the list, just follow it.”
They crossed the patchy grass toward the group of men already assembled near the goalposts. Most of them were in varying states of middle-aged denial—bad knees, questionable cardio, and all of them cursing up a storm before they’d even kicked a ball.
“Oi, Benson!” one of them called out—Mac, ex-Navy, beer belly, attitude bigger than his cleats. “Thought you’d run off after that goal I scored last week!”
Frank rolled his eyes. “I had a real excuse—some of us have children.”
“You mean tax deductions with legs?” one of the others joked—Jules, another ex-soldier, now a locksmith with a limp and a wicked sense of humor.
Frank gave a tight-lipped smirk and jerked his head toward Thomas. “Watch your fucking mouths. The boss is here.”
The men turned.
Thomas, small hand still in his father’s, blinked up at the lot of them with wide hazel eyes, his presence immediately disarming the group of rowdy, middle-aged degenerates. The swearing halted—for about three seconds.
Then Mac squinted, pointing a mud-stained finger. “This the lad, then?”
Frank nodded.
“Well,” Mac said, squatting slightly to meet Thomas’s gaze, “you here to see your old man lose?”
Thomas frowned instantly. “Daddy doesn’t lose! He’s gonna score lots of goals today!”
That got a round of laughter—some good-natured, some wheezy, some sarcastic.
Frank, suppressing a grin, ruffled the boy’s hair. “Good lad.”
He guided Thomas over to the bench just outside the chalk lines, the wooden slats worn and damp with morning dew. Frank pulled a folded blanket from his bag and spread it out so the boy wouldn’t freeze his arse off.
“Sit here. Watch. Behave.”
Thomas looked up, face earnest. “I’ll cheer for you, Daddy. I promise. Every time you run, I’ll yell.”
Frank arched a brow. “Let’s aim for every time I score. Otherwise, you’ll be hoarse in ten minutes.”
Thomas giggled. “Deal.”
Frank crouched, tucking the boy’s scarf a little tighter around his neck, brushing wind-blown strands of hair back with one thick, careful hand. “You’re warm enough?”
Thomas nodded quickly.
“Good. If it rains, you run back to the car, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, with a little salute.
Frank chuckled. “Bloody cheek.”
As he stood and jogged over to the others, stretching his arms with a slight grimace at the cold in his joints, Jules leaned over with a grin. “That yours?”
Frank glanced back at the boy, sitting small and proud on the bench, little legs swinging. “Yeah.”
“Cute kid,” Jules muttered. “Shame he’s gonna watch you embarrass yourself.”
Frank snorted, cracking his neck. “Right. Let’s see who’s crawling off the field first, then.”
Mac grinned. “You up for striker, Benson? Or do we need to wheel you around the pitch?”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Just pass me the ball. I’ll do the rest.”
Behind him, Thomas cupped his hands around his mouth, already shouting: “GO DADDY! SCORE THREE GOALS!”
Frank winced.
Jules laughed. “No pressure, mate.”
Frank smirked, baritone warm with amusement as he muttered, “Dead. I’m bloody dead if I don’t.”
But as the whistle blew and he jogged onto the field, the sound of his son’s voice cheering for him echoed through the crisp morning air.
And for the first time in years, Frank felt young again.
The match was going well.
Too well, really.
Frank had already assisted in one goal, barked orders at two confused teammates who clearly hadn’t seen the inside of a gym since the Cold War, and even managed a decent shot on goal himself. Thomas was on the bench, bouncing with excitement, screaming “GO DADDY!” every ten seconds like a pint-sized cheerleader with a military rank.
Frank was feeling good. Solid. Maybe even cocky.
At least, until Reggie tackled him.
It wasn’t technically a foul—more of a strategic shoulder barge—but Frank, in true veteran dramatics, let out an exaggerated grunt and collapsed onto the muddy grass like he’d been shot in the hip by an insurgent. His legs splayed out, arms limp, expression full death scene from Hamlet as he groaned and waited for the referee (who was, unfortunately, Mac) to blow the whistle.
He didn’t.
Frank cracked one eye open. “Are you seriously not calling that?”
Mac stood over him, unfazed. “Looked like a gentle breeze knocked you over, mate.”
Frank huffed, rolling dramatically to his side. “That was a tactical assault.”
Behind them, Reggie snorted. “You tripped over your own ego.”
But before Frank could fire back with something rude and Shakespearean, there was a war cry from the sidelines.
“GET AWAY FROM MY DADDY!!!”
Everyone turned.
A tiny, furious blur of blue puffer coat and flailing limbs came barreling across the field like a missile locked on target. Thomas’s little boots thudded against the grass, cheeks puffed, arms pumping, eyes locked with absolute, murderous determination on Reggie.
Reggie blinked. “Wait—what—?”
Then Thomas kicked him. Right in the shin.
“OW—FUCKING HELL!” Reggie yelped, hopping back in alarm, gripping his leg as the little whirlwind tackled him, tiny fists flailing with pure five-year-old rage.
“DON’T. HURT. MY. DAD!”
Reggie dropped like a sack of potatoes—not because the assault was particularly effective, but because it was hilarious and mildly terrifying. He curled up on the grass, laughing and shielding himself while Thomas bounced on top of him like an angry koala.
Jules wheezed. “Holy shit—he’s raising a damn Spartan!”
Mac doubled over. “That’s it. Game’s over. We surrender.”
Frank was already scrambling to his feet, brushing mud off his thighs with a grimace and stomping over. “Thomas! Bloody hell, lad—get off him!”
He hauled his son up by the armpits like a feral kitten, turning him around mid-air before setting him on the ground again.
Thomas panted, eyes wild. “He hurt you!”
Frank bent down, his baritone somewhere between stern and absolutely trying not to laugh. “Son. I’ve been shot at. Bombed. Poisoned. I stubbed my toe on a Lego yesterday, and that hurt worse than Reggie’s tackle. I can handle it.”
Thomas scowled. “But he touched you!”
“Yeah,” Reggie groaned from the ground, “and then he touched me. With his bloody boot!”
Frank sighed, ruffling Thomas’s hair. “Alright, G.I. Joe. Time-out for you. Back to the bench before you declare war on the United Nations.”
Thomas pouted. “But he was mean!”
Frank raised a brow. “And you’re going to get us both banned from community football if you start a counterstrike.”
Grumbling, Thomas trudged back to the sidelines, arms crossed like a tiny general who’d been stripped of command.
Frank turned to Reggie, who was still on the ground, dramatically cradling his shin.
“You alright?” Frank asked, not entirely sincerely.
Reggie groaned. “You’ve weaponized your child. This is abuse.”
Frank smirked. “Technically, that was self-defense. You committed a war crime on my left leg.”
Reggie glared. “I’m putting him on the no-fly list.”
Mac shouted from midfield, tears in his eyes. “Play resumes in two minutes! Once Reggie stops crying and Benson calls off his attack dog!”
Jules called from the goalpost, “That kid’s got a better tackle than you, Frank!”
Frank chuckled, hands on his hips as he looked at his son, who now sat sullenly on the bench, muttering under his breath and inspecting his muddy boots like he’d just returned from a tour in Afghanistan.
He shook his head. “You’re grounded,” he called to Thomas. “No pudding tonight.”
Thomas shouted back, “Fine! But I protected your honor!”
Frank blinked. Then slowly turned to the team.
“I’ll be honest,” he muttered, “that’s exactly what your mothers used to say about me.”
The pitch howled with laughter.
Reggie, from the mud, groaned louder. “I hate this family.”
And with that, Frank jogged back onto the field, hair windswept, legs sore, heart full, baritone cutting through the air as he barked:
“Let’s bloody play! Before my son declares martial law!”