Page 25 of The Forever Match

She had been when she was just a footballer, but marrying royalty had taken fame to another level. Her wedding was going to be on the front page of every newspaper in the world tomorrow.

“Don’t get cocky,” her dad laughed. “You’re not Adele.”

“Adele’s here, actually. She’s singing later.”

He blinked. “Right. Well.” Her dad flicked the tail on his dark jacket, then smoothed down his pastel-lemon tie. “That’s exactly my point.”

Ash huffed a laugh, and for half a second, the knot in her chest loosened.

Only half a second, mind.

The Bentley ride with Cam and her parents along the procession route had been every bit as surreal as she’d feared: thousands of faces blurring past the tinted windows, every one trying to catch a glimpse of her.

However, standing at the marquee door, knees trembling, she was beginning to wonder if you could die of fright. Medical journals would have to be updated. Cause of death: getting married in front of approximately 900 people, three monarchs, and Adele.

Ash was used to the spotlight, of course. But the spotlight she knew came with grass under her boots, ten teammates alongside her, and an offside trap to fall back on.

Today, the only formation was her and Victoria. By tonight, she’d have a new team: the smallest, most important one she’d ever been a part of.

Breathe. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The Lionesses’s psychologist had drilled it into her until it was muscle memory, and damn, was she grateful now. She let the breath roll out slowly through her nose, the way she did before a penalty.

Through the door, she could see Jen Campbell, the Lionesses’s manager, leaning in to murmur something to her partner, Amy O’Donnell, who was doing her best not to laugh. When the two of them had got together — England manager plus Ireland manager had created headlines for a few weeks — football had nearly fallen off its chair.

Now they were just Jen and Amy, part of the landscape.

A bit like her and Victoria, eventually.

She hoped.

Jen had messaged last night, with some last-minute advice: “Good luck tomorrow. Remember, walk down that aisle like you mean it. Confidence is a muscle. You, of all people, know how to flex it.”

The marquee door cracked open and Shane, the wedding planner, poked her head through, headset askew. “Thirty seconds. Get ready.”

Thirty seconds.

Somewhere across the lawn, in a Palace built for moments like this, Victoria would be breathing deep too, smoothing her hands down her dress, readying herself to walk this same aisle. Ash held the thought like a lit match. Whatever else was happening — the cameras, the dignitaries, the queen of pop in row six — Victoria was at the other end of this. That was the only fact that mattered.

Ash willed her skeleton to stay upright for at least the next hour, then she could renegotiate.

She turned to her dad. He squeezed her hand, his own a little clammy, which was somehow the most reassuring thing in the world. She’d tried to persuade her mum to walk her down the aisle too, but Debra had gone the colour of porridge at the very suggestion.

“In front of all those people? Absolutely not. I’ll be in the front row weeping into a hankie like a normal person, thank you.”

“I’m so proud of you,” her dad said, and his voice did the thing — that small, tight wobble that men of his generation do when they’re trying very hard not to cry in public. “Your mum and I both are. We can’t wait to see you married and happy.” He shook his head, looking her up and down. “And in your ivory suit? You honestly look like a film star, too.”

Ash leaned in and kissed his cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave: the same one he’d worn to every parents’ evening, every cup final, every birthday. For one steadying second, she was a little girl again: nothing bad could happen so long as her dad held her hand.

She straightened. Squared her shoulders. Found her game face.

“Thanks, Dad.” She slipped her arm through his. “Let’s go and get me married.”

Ash made it to the end of the aisle without a single stumble, locking eyes with a couple of Lionesses, Auntie Jaz and her cousin, Beth, along the way. Task one: complete. She kissed her dad, then hugged her mum, whose coral fascinator set off her outfit perfectly.

Ash took her place at the top of the aisle, locking eyes with the waiting Cam, then shaking her hand.

“Ready?” Cam was suited and booted in the same tails and lemon tie as her dad, the colour popping gorgeously against her dark skin.

Ash gave Cam a firm nod. The cameras were on her, and she imagined all those people: Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square, half the bloody planet watching.