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I’m starting to realise that he plays the game in a different way to Eddy. Even I can see that now. Eddy feels solid, reliable – inevitable even. He is always where he needs to be to catch the ball or ploughing forward through people who can do little to stop him.

Jamie, on the other hand, feels unpredictable. I feel like he could do anything at any second, whether the rules permit it or not.

‘That’s why he’s the prince,’ a man calls out behind me after another try.

I smile as I think of Eddy, calling him ‘Little Prince Jamie’.

When the final whistle goes, Manchester win by twelve points, and the home fans go wild. People throw their arms around one another – a man in front of me even kisses the top of his friend’s bald head. It’s hard not to get caught up in the energy, here with the home fans.

So, Manchester are through to the final. Which means, if Leeds win their semi-final tomorrow, Jamie will face Eddy. It’s the prince vs the king, and it feels strange, now I’ve spent time with both of them. If they weren’t playing each other, I’d want them both to win, but, head to head, my allegiance can only be with Leeds.

The players make their way around the edges of the pitch, clapping the crowd. Jamie stops near one of the stands to hand his shirt to a child, leaving him shirtless, showcasing his toned body. A woman a few rows in front of me wolf-whistles. He must hear it, because he looks vaguely in this direction and smiles.

I should leave – I need to head back to the train station and make sure I don’t miss the last train back to Leeds, because I cannot strand myself in Manchester for the night.

‘Brooke?’ a man says.

‘Er, yes?’ I reply.

‘Jamie asked if you could wait.’

Of course he did. I glance towards the pitch, where he’s still doing a victory lap.

Well, Jamie did invite me and sort my ticket, and I did tell him I would come. Leaving without saying hello would be rude. Also, I am curious to see what he’s like after a win.

‘Okay,’ I say.

The man asks me to follow him, eventually leading me backstage, for lack of a better term. I don’t think they call it that, but that’s what I call it.

We move through a corridor beneath the stand, past hospitality rooms and offices.

I expect him to take me towards the players’ lounge or something. Instead, he stops outside a small room with Physio printed on the door.

‘He asked for you to wait here,’ he says.

‘Why, am I getting a massage?’ I joke, but he doesn’t laugh; he leaves.

I step into the room and wait. Eventually Jamie joins me, wearing his match shorts and nothing else.

‘You came,’ he says with a smile.

‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘And you won!’

‘I told you we would,’ he says. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘It was great,’ I tell him. ‘They love you here.’

‘You sound surprised…’

‘Well, they hate you in Leeds, and that’s my only point of reference,’ I say with a laugh.

He looks hot and sweaty and – dare I say it? – it’s kind of sexy.

His skin is shining from the match, his chest rising and falling slightly faster than normal. There is a red mark across his chest and a strip of tape around one of his wrists. He looks beat-up, but definitely like he came out on top.

I try to keep my eyes on his, lest I get a reputation for this sort of thing.

I should leave. I need to head home anyway. That’s the sensible thing to do, and I’ve said my hello – now I can say my goodbye.