First light over Mermaid Beach was pale and clean, a soft smear of pink across the horizon. The sun hadn’t punched through yet and the water was a dark, rolling slate grey.

Steven stood on the sand with his board under his arm, ankles already numbed by the cold shallows. Beside him, Mia adjusted the strap on her watch, a little puff of breath visible in the cool air.

“You know you don’t get extra fitness points for being here before the seagulls,”

She glanced at him from under the brim of her cap. “You literally set the alarm for five fifteen.”

“Yeah, for a quiet meditation surf, not whatever brutal conditioning session you seem to have in mind.”

“Come on, Ref,” she said, bumping him with her shoulder. “You run fifteen or sixteen klicks a game. You will survive one more paddle out.”

He smiled and kissed her cheek, tasting the salt already crusting her face. “You really are incapable of just chilling in the morning ... you know that ... don’t you?”

“Like you can talk ... even if we’d stayed in bed, your activity level would be spiking about now,” she said with a smirk “ ... besides, it’s World Cup year. No chilling. You promised.”

He had promised. He felt it in his chest now, that mix of pride and nerves. Just over a year to go till the Team was announced. Maybe less by now. She had a good shot. More than good. The national coach had told her flat out unless she tore something serious, she was in.

He nudged her. “You know I am not complaining, right? Just keeping your ego in check.”

“You love my ego.”

“I do ... actually. It gives me something to do when I am halfway across the country watching grown men throw tantrums like toddlers.”

She laughed, short and genuine ... and took off, bare feet splashing, board tucked to her side as she ran to the breakers.

“Last one out buys coffee,” she called over her shoulder.

“Unfair advantage,” he yelled. “You’ve got better acceleration.”

She was already in, diving over the first line of foam. He followed, the water punching the air from his lungs. For a while, the only sound was the waves and their breath, synced with rhythm they had built together over years of morning sessions like this.

They sat out the back, legs dangling, boards rocking with the swell. The sky was clearing now, a bright strip of orange edging the horizon.

Mia wiped water from her face and let out a slow exhale. “I got the full schedule yesterday.”

“Matildas training camp?” he asked.

“Yeah. First block in Canberra in three weeks. Then another in Sydney. Then Europe in March. Germany, Spain, couple of friendlies.”

He whistled low. “Big girl.”

“Shut up,” she said, but she smiled. Her eyes went distant. “You know what Sam Kerr said to me after training the other day?”

“What, that your first touch is always a borderline foul?”

“She said, ‘You keep building like this, you’re going to be a serious problem for defenders in twelve months.’”

“That’s a nice pat on the back, but you’re already a problem.”

She turned her board toward a forming wave, then hesitated. “I keep thinking something is going to go wrong, though. Like, it’s all too good. The coach basically said I am in unless my leg falls off. That is insane. I know he meant it to take the pressure off, but it felt like he was saying if you drop form, you’re out”

“It is not insane; it was a vote of confidence ... the result of you working that perfect arse of yours off since you were 12 ... perfecting your game ... dragging me out of bed at stupid o’clock to do beach sprints for seven years.”

“Eight,” she corrected.

“We were together a year before you fully unleashed your training routine on me.”

She laughed, then her face cooled again. “Still ... It’s the World Cup. Injuries, form drops, weird politics, who they want on the posters. You know how it is. Who makes the squad of 21 depends on a lot more than skill with a ball and most of it is decided in conference rooms that have nothing to do with the Game.”

He thought of the way coaches, refs, league committees all moved behind closed doors. The politics was real, the competition Machavelian. But he also thought of her ... in action ... she had that very rare combination, that combination that made the difference between a very good Footballer and an elite Footballer ... the ability to read the game and the talent to exploit it ... he along with the world had seen it in the Asian Cup final. Mia pressing like a lunatic in the 90th minute, stealing a ball she had no right to win, turning it, and then the pass, a thing of beauty, laser like, through two defenders straight onto Sam Kerr’s left boot and into the back of the net to win them the tournament. He had seen her at the Olympics in Paris, the roar of the crowd, her back to goal, flicking it and turning a defender twice her size to tap it in putting Australia into the medal round.

“Mia, look at me.”

She glanced over.

“You have done everything right. You will keep doing everything right. If your leg falls off, we will get you the best prosthetic in the world, and you will still outrun half the league.”

She snorted. “That is not how prosthetics work.”

The wave behind her stood up suddenly, and she spun the board without thinking. “We’ll keep talking philosophy later.”

He watched her move, the easy, automatic way she paddled, the sharp punch as she popped up. She rode the wave clean, carving along its face, one arm out like she was balancing on an invisible line. When she kicked out, she shot him a grin that lit him up inside.

Yeah, he thought. She is going to be fine.

Their house in Mermaid Beach smelled like the surf and whatever candle Mia had been obsessed with that month. It was airy and a little chaotic, sports gear everywhere. Their boards were stacked in a corner near the sliding doors. Her boots were lined up under the hallway table, some still dusty with red dirt from an away match in Newcastle.

They had inherited it from Steven’s grandparents, a modest two-story place two streets back from the beach. They had gutted it three years ago, put in new floors, opened the kitchen up so it flowed into the living space. The furniture was a mix of IKEA and hand me downs, but it worked.

Steven stood at the stove in his boxers and a hoodie, flipping eggs. Mia sat at the bench in one of his old training tops, hair in a damp bun, scrolling on her phone.

“Listen to this,” she said, reading from a headline. “Sydney Coach slams Referee for ‘disgraceful’ penalty call that cost them the season.”

He groaned. “Can we not do this before breakfast?”

“The still of you is pretty good,” she said, turning the phone so he could see. It was a freeze frame from his last A League match. He was pointing to the penalty spot, jaw set, players crowding around him.

“I would like to formally thank the news limited photographer ... He caught my best side.”

“This bloke in the comments says you should be ‘investigated for corruption.’”

“I wish I was important enough to be corrupt, we get paid peanuts compared to you players.”

She set the phone down and smirked. “You are rich in integrity.”

“That is what I am putting on my gravestone. Steven Thomas, killed by outraged Sydney fans, rich in integrity, poor in reading the room.”

She reached for a piece of toast and tore it in half. “Seriously though, that was a good call. I watched the replay twenty times. The defender deliberately took him out; he wasn’t even looking at the ball.”

“Tell that to the entire western suburbs of Sydney.”

“Do you want me to go on X and start a fight with them?”

“No,” he said, sliding her plate in front of her. “I like you having a career.”

She poked his hip with her toe. “You know Mum sent me the article, too. Big paragraph about how ‘you cop too much abuse and don’t get enough respect,’ written like she has never slagged off a ref in her life.”

“She used to scream at me in under 15s,... ‘Open your eyes, Steven, are you blind?’”

Mia laughed with her mouth full. “To be fair, you were terrible back then.”

“I was learning.”

“You gave us a penalty because someone tripped over their own feet.”

“In my defence, she was very convincing and the defender looked guilty”

She chuckled, then fell quiet. “You are in good form, though. I have been watching your games. You look ... I don’t know, sharper. Clearer. You don’t miss anything, even in back play”

He shrugged, but the compliment settled in him in a way that felt warm and steady. “Well, I have some very good ARs and having us all miked up makes it so much easier. But I think I am ... just ... I have less to prove. The FIFA accreditation helps. I feel like I belong. Before that, I was always waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Sorry mate, this was a mistake.’”

She reached across the bench and curled her fingers around his. “You earned that badge. Just like I am going to earn my spot next year.”

“Look at us,” he said. “Power couple.”

She grinned. “You know you love it.”

“I do. I am going to be insufferable at dinner parties for the rest of our lives.”

“Ref, I hate to be the one to tell you but, you already are.”

Saturday night in Surfers Paradise had its own kind of energy. Neon lights spilling onto the street, bass vibrating through the pavement, the salty breeze drifting through gaps between high rises. Steven and Mia walked hand in hand toward the bar where their friends were waiting, the hem of her denim jacket brushing his knuckles.

Inside, the place was already humming. It was one of those mid-sized bars, not a club, not a pub, a bit of both. Exposed brick, fairy lights, big screens playing highlights from old matches with the sound off. The kind of spot where half the staff knew them by sight.

“Oi, celebrities,” someone yelled from a booth near the back.

It was Dan, one of Steven’s mates from Uni, a physio who worked with junior athletes. Next to him was his girlfriend, Priya, a lawyer with a dry sense of humour, and across from them were two of Mia’s Matildas teammates, Tash and Jade, down from Brisbane for the weekend.

Mia waved both arms in the air. “I hate you calling me that.”

“Girl, you are literally on billboards,” Tash said. She was small and wiry, with a shaved head and a nose ring. “You do not get to be humble anymore.”

“Sit,” Jade said, shoving over to make room. “We already ordered chips. And dim sums. And ... I think Dan has ordered everything else on the entire menu.”

“Bulking season,” Dan said, patting his stomach, which was flat as ever.

They crammed into the booth, knees knocking, shoulders pressed together. The conversation was easy, bouncing from one topic to another, looping around football and work and old stories from uni.

Priya pointed her drink at Steven. “So, Mr International Referee, when are you jetting off to officiate a World Cup final?”

“I think they need me to survive one more season in the A League first,” he said. “Baby steps.”

“What about the Asian Cup?” Tash asked. “You did qualifiers last time, yeah?”

“Couple of games. If I get another call up, it’ll probably be group stage stuff.”

Mia poked his thigh under the table. “He is being modest. They have been pushing him into bigger games this year. He is on some list, what do they call it, the development panel? They are grooming him.”

“Please don’t say grooming,” Steven said. “Makes it sound really creepy.”

Priya raised an eyebrow. “You are both ridiculous. You realise everyone in this pub would kill someone for the careers you have, right?”

“Naa ... killing someone won’t do it,” Mia said. “More like ... working your arse off until your knees feel like concrete.”

“Endless fucking drills,” Tash snapped

“And crying in an ice bath,” Jade added.

“And living in airports,” Steven said.

Dan laughed. “Wow ... You guys are really selling it.”

The food arrived, plates of chips and wings and sliders. They ate with the mindless hunger of athletes who were always half in energy deficit.

“So, World Cup,” Jade said, leaning back. “You ready?”

Mia picked at a fry. “It is still well over a year away.”

“Yeah, and you know how fast that goes,” Tash said. “Feels like we were in Tokyo five minutes ago.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Mia admitted. “Some days it feels like, yeah, I can do this. Other days I feel like a kid who snuck into the big kids’ playground.”

“You scored the winning goal in an Olympic quarter final,” Jade said. “I think you belong.”

“That goal was a tap in,” Mia said.

“That you created,” Steven added.

She shrugged, uncomfortable, and reached for her drink. Steven watched her, the way she downplayed herself. He knew it was a shield, some strange mix of superstition and disbelief.

Priya glanced between them. “You look tired, Mia.” Like a lot of Attorneys Priya could read people, Dan swore she could read minds.

“Wow, thanks.”

“No, like ... not bad tired. Just ... worn ... like somethings really weighing on you.”

Mia hesitated, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “It’s been ... a big few weeks. Club, national team, the media stuff. The W League campaign. Fuck ... the photo shoots, I’ve had more make up put on me in the last three weeks than I’ve ever worn in my whole fucking life, It’s ... just ... a lot.”

“Too much?” Steven asked quietly.

She met his eyes. For a moment, the bar noise faded.

“It’s what I wanted,” she said. “It’s what we wanted, right? ... It’s just ... there is a metric shit load happening at once.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just checking, you remember you are allowed to be human about it.”

Tash raised her glass. “To being human and still kicking arse.”

They all clinked drinks. Mia smiled, but Steven saw the tension in her jaw and the smile not make it to her eyes.

Later that night, back at home, the house was quiet, the kind of quiet that seemed unnatural, almost out of place. They had left the window open a crack, and the sound of the ocean drifted in, soft and constant.

Mia sat cross legged on the lounge floor, stretching out her hamstrings. Steven sat behind her on the couch, massaging her shoulders with slow, practiced thumbs.

“You are tight,” he said.

“You always say that.”

“Because lately you are always tight.”

She rolled her head forward, exposing the back of her neck. “I keep thinking about the squad list, He said I am in unless something happens.”