Chapter Text
The pub roars to life around them as England outlasts Mexico. They’re onto the next stage of the World Cup.
Colin grabs Penelope out of her chair, pulling her into the air, crashing his lips to hers.
“God, I really need England to stay winning if this is how you celebrate,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He can’t be bothered to come up with a cheeky retort before Ben claps him on the back and pulls him by the neck, throwing another pint into his hand. Colin reluctantly sets his girlfriend down, letting go of her once she’s found her footing, and they spend the rest of the evening swept up in the chaos.
“Think this is the year?” Anthony asks once the level of pandemonium around them starts to even out. “Time for us to bring it home.”
“We better,” Benedict adds.
“I’ve got a good feeling this time.” Colin wraps his arm around Pen’s shoulders, pulling her into his side so he can press a kiss to her hair. She smiles up at him, her eyes as large and bright as the first time he kissed her. He can’t help but drop another kiss to her lips this time.
“Sickening,” Ben mutters.
“Oi. You wanted this,” Colin reminds him.
“I didn’t want it, I just wanted you to get your head out of your arse.”
“It was rather pathetic,” Kate adds.
“Not you too!”
Penelope blushes and buries her face in his chest. “Can we go home?” she mutters.
“Course.” He kisses her forehead, drowns the last of his beer, and throws a few notes on the table, which Anthony laughs at and throws back at him.
They Uber back to her flat, because technically, they don’t share one yet. Sometimes Colin wonders if six months into a relationship is too soon to broach the subject of officially living together, but then he has to factor in the fact that said relationship is with his best friend of decades and they already spend most nights together anyway, and then he gets tired of all the mental gymnastics and gives up on trying to solve a problem that’s not really a problem anyway.
He strips off Penelope’s clothes and proceeds to do unspeakable things to her in her bed, riding the high of today’s win.
For the next match, they agree to watch at Anthony’s house because Gregory has been feeling majorly left out that he wasn’t able to join them at the pub. So that’s how Colin and Penelope find themselves smushed together on the tube.
The Central Line is packed, so Colin does what he does best. He widens his stance, holds into the loop with one hand, and wraps his opposite arm around Penelope’s middle, pulling her back to his chest. She leans against him, letting him hold her, while she mindlessly scrolls on her phone. Service is spotty, but sometimes luck kicks in. When she giggles at something, Colin can’t help but take a peek over her shoulder. Perhaps it’s invasive, but they don’t really keep things from one another. Never have. They’re oversharers to the tenth degree.
He’s not really sure what she finds funny anyway, as it’s just some sort of FIFA highlight reel. He appreciates that she’s been watching with him throughout the World Cup, even though Pen’s made it very clear she doesn’t give two shits about football. But she gives a shit about him. Therefore, based on the laws of physics specific to the transitive boyfriend property, she gives a (minor) shit about football.
She’s tapping out a message to whomever sent her the reel, but he looks up to check how close they are to Bond Street so they don’t miss their stop. When the doors finally open, he pulls her out of the carriage, their hands linked closely together. He cuts through the crowd, Pen right behind him, and once they make it onto the street, he drops a kiss onto her waiting lips. Because he can.
As soon as they make it to the house, Pen flits off to go help Kate in the kitchen, urging Colin to go find his brothers. She whispers a reminder to him to be nice to Gregory, not that he needs it, pressing another kiss to his cheek before she disappears.
When Colin spots his younger brother in the living room wearing a Bellingham England shirt, he grabs him into a bear hung from behind, bending backwards to lift him off the ground.
“Oi!” Greg shouts, smacking his arm. “Set me down! You mental?”
“Just excited, little bro.” Colin tussles his hair after setting him back down. “This is the year we bring it home.”
“God.” Greg steps back and scoffs, but a smile pulls at his lips. “I feel quite sorry for Pen, suddenly, if she goes flying all the time whenever you get excited.”
Colin raises his eyebrows at his brother, who’s barely sixteen.
“Gross, that’s not what I meant!”
“What’s not what you meant?” Anthony asks as he joins them in the room, Benedict and Simon trailing in behind him.
“Nothing,” Greg grunts, flicking his nose to seem casual. “I’m gonna go help mum and the others with the kids.” He leaves them there to head out into the garden before they lose sunlight. It’s a late match, but given the circumstances, the parents agreed to let the children watch until they get tired, before having a sleepover upstairs. Sophie took a little convincing, but Benedict invoked the image of holding his sons on his lap while watching England bring home a World Cup as a lifelong memory, and she caved easily.
Anthony wants to sit round and have a proper pre-match analysis over beers like he’s the bloody team manager, and Colin would laugh if he weren’t just as fired up. He listens to each of them rant about strategy and why he thinks this year the team’s the best it’s ever been.
Part of the way through the conversation, Penelope re-enters the room and slips in just by his side. He had a feeling Kate would have everything under control. She’s got a full staff, anyhow, but he adores Pen for offering to help regardless. He’s proven right when his sister-in-law joins them shortly after, with a glass of wine in hand, and an extra for Penelope. She smiles and gratefully takes a sip.
The match is only a half hour away, and as the children and the rest of his siblings make their way back into the living room for snacks, the energy is electric. Colin bounces around the room excitedly talking to everyone. Even poor Eloise, who doesn’t give a flying fuck about football, decided to join in on the fun, lest she be the only Bridgerton not in attendance.
They could all feel it.
Norway is going down.
Benedict boos as the presenters talk over a highlight reel of their previous matches, with a significant emphasis on their top players.
Erling Haaland’s stupid face flashes across the screen for what feels like a full ten minutes. It drags on. Blonde fucker.
“God, look at that hair,” Hyacinth proclaims. It’s been quite the talk of the tournament, for whatever reason. “Is that real?”
“It’s got to be,” Sophie adds. “Look at the way he ties it in those cute little buns.”
“I can never get my bun to look that good!” Francesca adds. “It’s not fair.”
“I wonder what conditioner he uses,” Daphne says. “I bet someone has asked him that. Let me google.”
“Seriously, this is what you lot grumble on about when you watch football?” Eloise asks.
“No!” the chorus of men in the room shout, with a pained “fuck’s sake,” whispered from Anthony.
“No, no, the men are all very civilized and focused on the integrity of the match,” Kate says, doing a bang on Anthony impression for the last bit. Colin smiles at her in appreciation. “It’s only Penelope and I who fancy Haaland.”
Colin’s head snaps to face her. “What?”
“She thinks he’s cute,” Sophie adds. “Gone a bit soft for him and his luscious locks, it seems.”
Penelope giggles as the screen betrays him and continues with a closeup in slow motion of Haaland flipping his hair over and swirling it into what appears to be a perfect, luxurious bun. “I mean, just look at him!” she squeaks.
“Why are you looking at him?” Colin asks, his mouth turning down into a frown. “He’s blonde.”
“Penelope likes blondes,” Eloise poorly mutters under her breath, and Pen manages to reach out and smack the back of her hand across Eloise’s shoulder before looking up at Colin with large doe eyes.
“You kind of can’t escape him. He’s bloody everywhere these days!” she says.
“Even I’ve seen loads of him and I don’t know the first thing about sports,” Francesca adds. “He’s become a bit of a global icon. Especially for women.”
“That bit’s true,” Michaela adds. “Even the lesbians.”
“Hear, hear!” Francesca clinks her glass against Michaela’s.
Penelope bites her lip to repress a smile as she watches their fanfare. Colin misses the way several faces around the room shoot him pitying looks.
“Oh, wipe that stupid sodding pout off of your face,” Eloise groans. “You can’t seriously be upset about this.”
Colin crosses his arms and huffs out what he hopes is an unbothered laugh. “I’m fine, El. We’re all adults here.”
Hyacinth goes to open her mouth, but Violet interrupts, “Almost all adults here. And no, you can’t have a beer, darling.”
His little sister pouts as she turns to face the telly again. Greg has been allowed one supervised beer, but the same concession has not been made for newly fifteen year old Hyacinth.
Not long after, they all settle in for the match, and it starts off with a bang, but Colin finds himself in his head and unable to enjoy it, sitting stiffly in his seat, even with Penelope by his side. When Norway scores the first goal, the room roars with fury around them, even the children in their mini full England kits jump up in outrage. Charlie, the youngest of the kids old enough to watch, has been fading, but even he jumps up to partake in the outrage.
Colin sits forward in his seat, his jaw tense, hands rubbing up and down his jeans. He clears his throat and stands. “I’m just gonna grab another beer.”
Alone in the kitchen, he pops the top off a Fuller’s and chugs half of it with his back to the sink. His eyes are lifted to the ceiling so he doesn’t notice at first that he’s no longer the only one in the room. And yet, he feels her presence. He always does.
Penelope crosses her arms and leans against the wall. “You’re not really upset about the Haaland thing, are you?”
Colin scoffs. “Well, Eloise is right. You do have a thing for blonde men.”
A deep wrinkle forms within Penelope’s brow as she steps forward. “That’s what this is about?”
Colin rolls his eyes and takes another swig.
She walks right up to him and takes the bottle from his lips, setting it down behind her, turning back to face him. “Yeah, I dated a blonde guy. For two years. What’s it to ya?”
He pouts at her, and he doesn’t want to, but he finds himself unable to control his face right now. He’s got too much adrenaline and frustration from the match coursing through him, not to mention a few beers.
“Nothing.”
She eyes him carefully. “Mhmm.”
“Stupid blonde wanker.”
“Very eloquent of you, my love.”
Colin grinds his teeth.
“Did you have to say it like that in front of everyone?”
“I didn’t, Kate did! And then Sophie. Blame them.”
“You didn’t dispute it.”
“There’s nothing to dispute.”
“Aha!”
Penelope reaches up to snatch his face between her hands, squishing his cheeks together. He’s sure he looks utterly ridiculous like this. He holds onto her wrists to ground himself. “Colin. You’re off your rocker.” She presses up onto her tiptoes to kiss his lips that are smushed between his cheeks. “I don’t give a fuck about Haaland. I don’t give a fuck about football.”
“You don’t?” he mumbles because she’s still holding his face.
“No. I really don’t. I give a fuck about you.”
“Oh,” he says, and it’s not like he didn’t know it, but he really does know it now.
“I’m sorry if my liking Haaland upset you,” she whispers. She slackens her intense hold of him, but rubs her thumbs sweetly across his cheeks, which does feel quite nice. He loves when she takes care of his big emotions like this, even when he is being quite ridiculous. He knows he’s got to get better about it. “I love you and I don’t like to see you upset.”
“It’s alright,” he whispers back. She’s giving him space, and he recognizes it. “I’m just being silly. Fuck. I know I am. I’m being ridiculous.”
“Yes, you absolutely are. And I love you all the same.”
He leans down to kiss her one more time and lingers, wrapping his arms around her body, holding her to him. It always feels better this way.
Before he lets her go, she presses a kiss to his chest and steps back. “What do you say we go watch the end of this match and let our guys send Norway packing, all the way back to Scandinavia?”
Colin can’t help but smile at her. “Great smack talk, baby.”
“I’m trying! C’mon, there’s plenty of time left in the match.” And she presses up on her toes to kiss him again, because she can probably sense that he needs it. “Besides,” she says, lowering her voice a bit. “If you can manage to move past this, I really like the way you fuck me when England wins, so we’ll have to get home straightaway when this is done. Think it over, yeah?”
Colin’s blood runs hot as he watches her bounce out of the room, his forgotten beer between her fingers as she pulls it to her lips for a long sip. A pained laugh rumbles through his chest as he follows her back into the living room like a puppy with a fresh beer in his hand.
The rest of the evening is spent on the edge of their seats and with chants of “Juuuuude!” tearing through the house as the second goal takes them over the edge. England is moving onto the semifinals.
And Haaland is going back to Norway.
Lost it all for his team on a stupid bloody foul. Wanker.
Colin can’t help but smirk at the poetic justice of it all.
Penelope jumps into his arms as Gregory is locked in a three way hug with Anthony and Simon.
Michaela mutters something about “straight men” that makes Francesca and Sophie giggle as Kate, Daphne, and Benedict work on ushering the little ones up to bed. It’s painfully late, after all.
The streets of London are alive with energy, even though it’s after midnight by the time they leave. It doesn’t feel real. The World Cup is within reach for England and no one will forget it.
Colin lucks out in securing them an Uber back to his flat from Mayfair. He thinks Penelope will be too tired, and is willing to just crawl into bed behind her, but when he returns from cleaning his teeth, she’s sprawled across the bed in nothing but his Tottenham Hotspur kit with the name Kane across the back. She sits up on her knees, pulling the hem up a bit to expose her perfect soft skin as he enters the room and groans at the sight of her.
“Did you think it over?” she asks in a sultry tone.
Colin springs forward, catching her by the thighs as he tackles her back to the bed, laying his body on top of hers.
He kisses her senselessly while he eases his boxers down and slides his fingers up between her legs. He groans at the sensation.
“Who did this to you?”
She grins at him as she moans, but doesn’t answer. Her copper curls spill across his pillow as her back arches.
“Did Erling Haaland do this to you?” He slides a finger into her and she clenches around him.
“Erling who?” she asks, looking up at him with bright blue innocent doe eyes.
“I know that’s fucking right,” he says, devouring her lips again.
Everything moves pretty quickly from there, and it’s not long after that he’s got Pen on her hands and knees, the name Kane sprawled across her back staring him in the face. The shirt was sexy at first, but playing for England or not, Colin doesn’t want to be reminded of any other man’s name right now, certainly not written across his girlfriend’s back while he’s trying to make her come.
He pulls the shirt over her head and tosses it onto the floor with his own. Now he can finally have her exactly the way he wants her.
By the time she screams his name and collapses into the mattress, something animal inside of Colin possesses him to pull out and finish himself off across her back, marking her for himself.
If he’s being honest, he maybe tried to spell out his own name. It didn’t work exactly, but it makes him feel pretty pleased with himself nonetheless as he smirks down at the mess he made.