The long table in the Liverpool house was covered in simple things. Roast chicken, sweet potatoes, a bowl of salad that the twins had attacked before anyone sat down. Kristin poured water and nudged a phone off the table with a look. The youngest, their daughter, swung her legs and hummed a tune from an old club song. Outside, the sky over the Mersey held the last thin stripes of evening.
Zachary watched them with the kind of quiet you earn. He was already forty-three, retired, and finally allowed to breathe without counting the days to the next match. He lifted his glass and clinked it gently against Kristin's. No speeches. Just a smile that said enough.
"Tell us the story of the free kick again," one of the boys asked. He meant the one in Istanbul. Or Barcelona. There were so many now that even the family mixed them up.
"Wait until after dinner," Kristin said, but she was smiling too. She still wore that grounded calm that steadied him through the storms.
