It was the night before the final and everyone was partying hard – everyone but me.

Well. Almost everyone.

The lads were tucked up in their hotel beds with curfew at ten, courtesy of the manager. They had to be in peak condition tomorrow. The physios were doing the rounds with ice baths and foam rollers. But the rest of New Jersey was at it – the Tartan Army crammed into every bar from Manhattan to Newark, drinking the pubs dry while wearing their kilts and singing ‘No Scotland, No Party’ at full volume; the support staff sinking margaritas by the pool, the WAGs in some hotel suite drinking champagne while filming themselves for TikTok.

I was in the equipment room. Half nine on the eve of Scotland’s first ever World Cup final,  half a world away from home, in a basement under the MetLife Stadium, doing the thing I always did the night before a match. Twelve match-day balls. One foot pump. A pressure gauge that squeaked slightly and needed replacing, but I’d grown attached to it.

I lined them up. Twelve perfect tournament balls, gleaming like fresh apples. Ready for the biggest game in Scottish footballing history.

Brilliant. I couldn’t wait. Even if we lost, which was likely, we’d made it further than I could have ever dreamed of. The bloody final.

I dragged a stool over, sat down, and got to work.

Each ball got the same routine. Pump. Weigh. Spin to check the seam. Log. Pat. Set aside. There were tournament regulations about pressure – between 0.6 and 1.1 bar – and I’d seen referees produce gauges from their kit bags and check on the pitch. If they found irregularities, there would be hell to pay. It’s why I took it seriously. I always had.

I also talked to the balls. Quietly. Under my breath, mostly. I’d been doing it since the year I joined the team, when a senior physio caught me whispering good lad to a corner flag and told me to stop being a freak. I had not stopped. I’d just got quieter. I’d done it all my life. Talked to my pencils at school. Had chats with my toothbrush in the morning. I was a talker, and I didn’t always care if I was talking to something that couldn’t reply.

Ball one. Pump, weigh, spin, log. Pat. “There you go, sunshine.”

Ball two. “Easy, big yin.”

Ball three. “Aye, settle yerself.”

I’d just finished ball nine – encouraging pat included – when I reached for the next one and realised I knew this ball. We had history.

Right side, just shy of the valve, a tiny smudge on the black panel. Like somebody had pressed their thumb there with damp tar. It wouldn’t come off. I’d tried, extensively, for hours on end. The kit lads had tried. The stadium’s cleaning crew had tried. The smudge persisted.

He’d been the match ball for the quarter-final against Brazil. The semi against France. Both wins. Both wins by miracles the pundits had given up trying to explain. Nobody had expected Scotland to get this far. But here we were.

And here he was again. Same smudge. Same panel. Same wee hum of excitement I felt every time I picked him up.

“You again,” I said.

I gave him a pat. Then a slightly firmer one, because the lad deserved it. He’d done the country proud and was about to be kicked round MetLife’s pitch by men paid a hundred grand a week to chase him. If only I got even one percent of that. At least I’d got a free trip to the US out of it. It had been a blast.

Kieran would come in for the bag himself in the morning, the way he always did before a match.

“You’ve done me proud, ball. One more tomorrow, then we’ll head home.”

I tried to set him down.

But he was stuck. Glued to my palm.

I blinked. Tried again. Lifted, lowered, lifted. Number Ten came with my hand every time, as if it had been superglued to my skin. I tried the other hand. Pressed my left palm to his black panels and pulled. The other hand stuck too.

“What the actual–”

I stood up. He came with me. I sat down. He came with me.

I tried to pry him off using my teeth and very nearly bit my fingers.

I sat there. Held him in both hands. Stared at him. Stared at the smudge. The smudge looked back. Or possibly that was the lights. Maybe I was just tired. Last night had been a bit of a crazy one.

“This is fine,” I said aloud. “You’re a strong, independent woman. You are going to peel this football off your hands and you are going to go to the hotel and have a glass of wine. A large one.”

A voice in my head whispered, Fiona.

I jumped. Almost bumped my head at the clothes hook above me.

Don’t hurt yerself, hen.

I stared at the ball. He sat in my hands. Unmoving. Round. Patient. Slightly smudged.

The voice came again. Low. Close. Like somebody talking from the other side of a curtain.

It’s me.

I said the only thing I could think to say.

“You’re a fucking football.”

Of course I am.