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Buck didn’t expect the baby boy to affect him this much.
He’d been there when it happened. Really there. Kameron had gone into labour on his sofa. There was the initial panic, but then Buck remembered that first full moon shift he’d shared with Bobby, and the pregnancy yoga class. Buck barely remembered sitting down, barely remembered breathing, just holding his breath that nothing would go wrong and that both Kameron and her son were going to be okay. He remembered the weight in his hands when the baby arrived, slippery and crying and alive.
For a long moment afterwards, Buck could not move. It wasn’t until the ambulance arrived that it fully sank in that he had just delivered the one person who had half his DNA, but wasn’t his to keep.
Kameron apologised for his sofa, and all he could think was that he’d have to buy another one, and Chris was going to laugh at him for needing yet another new couch. At least this one wasn’t being replaced because of him splitting up with anyone, though it was interesting to see his death doula girlfriend hold his friend’s wife’s hand as she gave birth to the child that is half biologically his.
He also thought about how he didn’t really know what exactly he’d passed down to that newborn baby boy. He’d researched enough to know the clinic would have checked his sample before using it, but they wouldn’t look at where he originated from. He wanted to know for himself.
That night, alone in his flat, Buck ordered an ancestry kit.
He talked to Maddie about it the next day while she was on break at dispatch.
“I already told you there was English heritage in our family,” she said easily. “Dad’s gran. Or maybe her parents. Somewhere near Manchester, I think he said.”
“I just want to know what it looks like. Maybe we have some cousins over there or something,” Buck said. He hesitated before adding, “Do you think Daniel will show up? I don’t even know how it works.”
There was a pause on the line.
“I don’t know,” Maddie admitted. “And I’m not sure what I’d feel if he did.”
“Yeah,” Buck said quietly. “Same.”
When the results came back, Buck sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, having just woken up from his post-shift nap.
England and Northwestern Europe: 37%
Specific region: Greater Manchester
Daniel didn’t show up. Buck wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or a disappointment, but he decided he wanted to contact the company to see if he could add him. His brother had lived eight whole years, and that should be remembered. He belonged on the family tree.
Greater Manchester, though, that felt solid.
He mentioned it to Eddie one evening just after Chris went to bed, telling him what he’d found out and how he’d love to visit one day, but only after he’d done thorough research.
“Manchester,” Eddie repeated thoughtfully. “That is interesting timing.”
Buck nodded. “Chris has been watching United highlights again.”
“He never really stopped. He’s just trying to get used to the fact they don’t seem to be doing too well at the minute, so he isn’t mentioning them much right now,” Eddie said softly.
The idea of England grew slowly after they looked up Chris’s school break dates and realised he wasn’t in school during his birthday week.
Buck went full Buck.
By the time Eddie saw the itinerary, there were colour-coded tabs, travel times, accessibility notes, and footnotes.
“We are not just doing London and Manchester,” Buck said quickly. “We are going to Leicester as well. The National Space Centre is fully accessible, and Chris loves that stuff. There is a train route that actually makes sense unlike in London.”
Chris looked up immediately. “Space?”
Eddie smiled. “Space. And history.”
London came first. Museums and parks and long days that would have exhausted Chris if he’d pushed through on his crutches, so he used the wheelchair his dad had brought without complaint. It meant he could keep going, could take everything in. Eddie never made it a thing. He never did, but he also made sure to bring Chris’s crutches so he could get up close to anything that caught his eye. Buck learned which Tube stations had lifts and which ones were best avoided.
They started in Greenwich, standing on the Prime Meridian while Buck read plaques aloud and Chris rolled himself back and forth across the line, delighted by the idea of being in two hemispheres at once. The Science Museum followed, and Chris disappeared into it completely, drifting from engines to satellites, questions piling up faster than Eddie could answer. The Tower of London was heavier, quieter. Chris listened closely as Eddie talked about prisoners, crowns, and centuries stacked on top of one another.
They tried proper English food. Chris liked fish and chips more than he expected. Buck became deeply invested in ranking sausage rolls. Eddie claimed shepherd’s pie was better than he’d been prepared for.
Before heading north, they made one long day of it out to Stonehenge. It was cold and windy and strange, the stones looming in a way that made Buck fall silent for once.
Leicester surprised Buck. He’d thought of it as a single stop, a space centre and a hotel, but the city turned out to be dense with history.
Chris was the one who told them about it, rolling ahead of Buck and Eddie through the cathedral close, excitement sharpening his voice. “They found him under a car park,” he said. “Richard the Third. Like, actually found him. They tested his bones and everything.”
Buck blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” Chris said, pleased. “It was in the news. They didn’t even know he was there at first. They started excavating in August 2012, and he was found in September 2012. DNA confirmed it was him on February fourth, 2013. He was reburied on March twenty-sixth, 2015.”
The cathedral was quiet and bright, modern glass meeting old stone. Chris stared at the tomb for a long time, reading every word. Eddie let him. There was something grounding about watching Chris connect the story for himself, kings and centuries suddenly real in a way no textbook had ever managed.
They walked the Roman walls after that. Old streets. Plaques that Buck would have skimmed past if Chris hadn’t stopped to read them aloud. Leicester felt layered, history stacked instead of buried.
The Space Centre came last, rising clean and bright against the sky. Chris lit up the moment they went inside, drawn forward by models of rockets and suspended capsules. He barely noticed Buck hanging back to pull out his phone.
“Karen,” Buck said when she answered, angling the camera towards the towering rocket above them. “You are going to want to see this. Honestly shocked you haven’t visited here before.”
Chris wheeled back fast. “Karen,” he said, breathless. “They have a real rocket. And this one explains escape velocity. Wait, Buck, turn it, turn it.”
Karen laughed, delighted, already asking questions, already explaining things just a little deeper than the placards did. Chris soaked it up, nodding, interrupting, firing back thoughts like he was part of the conversation instead of just listening in.
By the time they left, Chris was talking nonstop, about astronauts and gravity, about bones under car parks and how history could disappear and then come back if someone knew how to look. He carried it all the way back to the hotel, space and kings braided together like it had always made sense.
From there, they kept moving north. Bletchley Park left Chris thoughtful and subdued, tracing the idea that wars could be won with maths and patience. Outside Manchester, they detoured west into Cheshire, where the enormous dish at Jodrell Bank rose out of the fields like something still listening to the universe.
By the time they reached Manchester, Chris had seen kings and codebreakers, ancient stones and distant galaxies, history and space woven together in ways he hadn’t known to imagine.
The night before Chris’s birthday, Buck and Eddie sat at the small hotel desk, whispering.
“Are we sure about this?” Eddie asked.
“I checked everything,” Buck said. “Accessibility, crowds, exit routes. And if it’s too much, we leave. No guilt.”
Eddie nodded. “He is going to lose his mind.”
“You and I both know it will be worth it, it’s just a shame that the museum isn’t open on game days,” Buck said.
The next morning, Eddie sent Chris to shower first while Buck stayed behind under the pretence of checking train times for that day’s activities.
Chris came out rubbing at his hair with a towel, steam following him into the room.
He took two steps and stopped.
Three red shirts hung neatly from the wardrobe door, lined up carefully.
He stared at them for a long moment.
“Dad?” he called, his voice a little unsteady.
Eddie appeared from the bathroom doorway with his toothbrush in his mouth, already dressed. Buck lingered near the window, arms folded, trying not to grin too much.
Chris stepped closer.
The smaller one in the middle made his chest feel tight.
FERNANDES 8
His fingers brushed the fabric slowly, like he was checking it was real.
Then he noticed the others.
The one on the left looked bigger and read CANTONA 7.
The one on the right read BECKHAM 7.
“These are ours,” Chris said, not quite a question.
Buck nodded. “Yours first.”
Chris laughed, short and breathless. “You got Bruno.”
Eddie smiled. “We figured it was only right.”
“Why those two?” Chris asked.
Buck stepped closer, resting a hand on the Cantona shirt. “I liked him anyway after Maddie showed me my dad’s team. But after Sir Alex retired and had a brain haemorrhage, Cantona was one of the loudest supporters he had. He didn’t owe him anything anymore and still showed up. Loyalty matters to me, as you know.”
Chris nodded slowly.
“And Beckham?” he asked.
Eddie smoothed the fabric of his shirt. “I liked watching his free kicks initially. Then I went to watch him play when he came to the MLS with my Abuelo. I wanted to see what it looked like to take something you love somewhere new and make it work. It made me work harder in school.”
Chris looked at him for a long moment. “Like us moving.”
Eddie swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Chris reached for his own shirt and pulled it on over his jumper, careful with his crutches. The red looked right on him, and it was the sole reason he always got red crutches.
“We match,” he said softly.
Buck smiled. “We do.”
“This is the best birthday,” Chris said with certainty.
Buck cleared his throat. “We are not done yet.”
Eddie handed him the envelope from the desk.
Chris opened it. Froze.
“Dad,” he whispered. “Are these…?”
Eddie nodded. “Old Trafford.”
Chris sat down hard on the edge of the bed, laughing and blinking at the same time.
“No way.”
Buck grinned. “Way.”
The wheelchair stayed behind that day. This wasn’t a long walking day. They’d be getting a taxi as close as possible, and he had a seat, so he didn’t have to stand through the match.
Old Trafford loomed larger the closer they got, brick and steel and history pressing in from every angle. Chris slowed his talking without realising it.
“It looks bigger in real life,” he said.
Buck nodded. “Holds over seventy thousand.”
“That is more than our whole neighbourhood,” Chris said.
They took their time exploring. Buck had facts ready, clearly enjoying himself.
“This stand was rebuilt after the war,” Buck said. “The roof used to leak and people still came.”
Chris nodded. “They call it the Theatre of Dreams because Bobby Charlton said that’s what it felt like.”
Buck blinked. “I didn’t know that.”
“I watched a documentary,” Chris said proudly.
They stopped at the Munich memorial.
Chris went very still.
“They were so young,” he said quietly. “Some of them were only a few years older than me.”
Buck nodded. “Eight players died. And staff. And journalists.”
“And they still rebuilt,” Chris said. “They didn’t stop. It took them ten years to win the cup, but they did it for everyone who lost their life that day.”
Eddie had been quiet until then.
“They weren’t always called Manchester United,” he said. “Started as Newton Heath. A railway workers’ team. Nearly went bankrupt before changing the name, they didn’t wear red either they wore gold and green.”
Chris looked between them. “So they changed, but stayed the same.”
Buck smiled. “Yeah.”
Chris stood a little straighter on his crutches. “I like that.”
Inside the stadium, the noise wrapped around them. People commented on the players on their shirts, others moving out of the way and making sure Chris could get through easily.
When the players kicked off, Chris went quiet. Focused.
By the second goal, Eddie noticed it.
“That started on the wing,” Chris murmured.
“He pulled the defender out first,” he added. “That’s why there was space.”
By the fourth goal, Chris was pointing things out before Eddie could ask. The timing of runs. A hesitation from the keeper. Passes that looked simple but weren’t.
“He waited,” Chris said during a replay. “He didn’t rush it.”
The fifth goal came early in the second half.
Then the board went up indicating a substitution.
“That’s his number,” Chris said softly. “Number eight.”
Bruno came on in the sixty-third minute, with the score already five nil.
“He checks before he gets the ball,” Chris said.
Both goals that followed came from Bruno’s assists.
“He might not have scored,” Chris said thoughtfully. “But he made it better.”
When the final whistle blew at seven nil, Eddie was watching his son more than the pitch.
Outside, fans lingered by the barriers.
“They come out this way,” Chris said. “Could we wait?”
They waited.
Bruno noticed the shirt before anything else.
Red.
Number eight.
His number.
That was enough to make him stop.
Chris was waiting between Eddie and Buck, distracted by something Buck was saying about another museum they still hadn’t visited, when a shadow fell across him.
Bruno smiled. “That’s a good shirt.”
Chris blinked, then looked down, like he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
Eddie straightened instinctively, then relaxed when he saw Bruno’s expression.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Manchester,” Bruno added lightly.
Chris shook his head. “I’m from Los Angeles.”
Bruno laughed. “I thought your accent was from there. What brings you here?”
“Family trip,” Buck said. “My family’s English. We’ve been doing museums, space centres, everything.”
“That explains the look,” Bruno said, glancing back at Chris. “Like you’re trying to remember everything at once.”
Chris smiled shyly.
Bruno crouched a little so they were closer to eye level. “Do you play football back home?”
Chris hesitated. “I want to.”
Then, honest and quiet, “I have cerebral palsy. So I can’t play like you.”
Bruno listened without interrupting.
“But I still love it,” Chris said. “I figured being a footballer just… wasn’t really possible.”
Bruno shook his head. “It is. Just not in only one way.”
Chris looked up.
“There are adaptive teams,” Bruno said. “Inclusive leagues. Players who move differently but compete just the same. Football is about understanding the game, not copying one body type.”
Chris’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” Bruno replied. “But now you do.”
Bruno straightened, then smiled again as he looked at the shirt. “Wait here a second.”
He came back with a marker and carefully signed his name just beneath the number, steady and deliberate.
Chris went very still.
“There,” Bruno said. “Now it’s yours forever.”
“I’m never washing this,” Chris said seriously.
That made everyone laugh.
“Picture?” Bruno asked.
Chris nodded immediately.
Buck took the phone from Eddie and stepped back. Bruno stood beside Chris, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Got it,” Buck said, snapping the photo. “Perfect.”
As Bruno handed the phone back, Buck looked up at him. “Hey. Thank you. Really.”
Bruno nodded. “You’re welcome.”
He gave Chris one last look. “Remember what I said. Find the team that fits you.”
“I will,” Chris said, his voice steady but bright.
Bruno walked away, and for a moment Chris didn’t move at all.
Then he looked down at the shirt and smiled like he’d just been handed the future.
Back at the hotel, Chris lay stretched across the bed, the signed shirt folded carefully beside him like it might disappear if he looked away for too long. He kept glancing at it, then at the ceiling, then back again, his thoughts clearly moving faster than his body could keep up with.
“I think,” he said slowly, like he was testing the words, “I think I want to try.”
Eddie looked up from where he’d been sitting, watching his son with the quiet patience he’d learned over years of letting Chris come to things in his own time. “Try what?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“Football,” Chris said. “Not just watching. Playing. Or… something like it. I didn’t know there were other ways. I didn’t know I was allowed.”
His voice wobbled on the last word, not quite breaking, but close enough that Eddie felt it anyway.
Eddie crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ve always been allowed,” he said gently. “We just didn’t know what it could look like yet.”
Chris swallowed. “He made it sound like it wasn’t about being the same. Just… understanding it.”
Buck leaned in the doorway, Cantona’s seven bright on his back, watching the way Chris’s hands kept opening and closing on the duvet, like he was holding on to something invisible. “That’s because it isn’t,” Buck said. “And you already do that. You always have.”
Chris finally picked up the shirt, tracing the ink of Bruno’s signature with one careful finger. “It feels different now,” he said. “Like it’s not just a thing I like anymore. Like it could actually be part of me.”
Eddie nodded once. “Then we’ll figure it out,” he said. “Whatever it looks like. Together.”
Chris was quiet for all of thirty seconds.
Then he sat up abruptly. “Can I call Harry and Denny?”
Buck smiled instantly. “Yeah. Of course you can.”
Chris fumbled for his phone, fingers a little clumsy with leftover adrenaline, and flopped back against the pillows as the call connected.
“You are not going to believe today,” he said the second Harry picked up.
Buck and Eddie exchanged a look as Chris launched straight into it, words tumbling over each other. The stadium. The goals. The noise. How close it all felt. How Bruno Fernandes had come on wearing number eight, how he’d noticed the shirt, how he’d stopped.
“He talked to me,” Chris said, voice pitching higher with every detail. “Like, actually talked. And he said there are teams. Adaptive teams. He said football isn’t just one way to play.”
There was a pause while he listened, nodding furiously.
“Yes, he signed it. Yes, my actual shirt. No, I am never washing it. Ever.”
Another pause, then a laugh, bright and breathless.
“Denny, I swear, he crouched down and everything. He said I should find the team that fits me.”
Chris stared at the ceiling as he listened again, his free hand gripping the shirt to his chest now, like it anchored him.
“I didn’t know that was allowed,” he said more quietly. “But I think… I think I want to try.”
He stayed on the call for a long time, retelling the story from the beginning and then again when Denny demanded clarification, interrupting himself to add new details as they occurred to him. Buck watched the way Chris smiled through the whole thing, like he was afraid that if he stopped, the feeling might fade.
When he finally hung up, he lay back against the pillows, eyes shining and unfocused, exhausted in the way only a really good day can make you.
Eddie watched him carefully. “You okay?”
Chris nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I just feel like… something clicked.”
Buck stayed in the doorway, Cantona’s seven bright on his back, watching the future settle into place in small, quiet ways.
England gave Buck roots.
It gave Chris possibility.
And it gave Eddie a glimpse of who his son was becoming.