Chapter Text
Beth didn’t notice the email until nearly lunchtime.
It had slipped between a fixture update, three sponsorship requests and a reminder from Arsenal Women about an upcoming charity event. She only opened it because the subject line caught her eye.
Arsenal Heritage Exhibition – Contributions from past and present Players
Past and present.
The word still looked strange.
Past
One day she’d be in the past category.
Club legend, if the media were feeling generous.
None of them sounded like her.
She leaned back in her chair, coffee cooling beside her, and clicked the email open.
As part of Arsenal’s Heritage Exhibition celebrating the history of Arsenal Women, we are inviting current and former players to contribute memorabilia that tells the story of their time at the club.
While shirts, medals and boots are always welcome, we’d also love items that represent your journey—objects that carry memories, whether significant or seemingly ordinary.
Each contribution helps tell the wider story of the people who have shaped this club.
Beth smiled despite herself.
Trust Arsenal to ask for “objects that carry memories.”
She looked around the kitchen.
There were memories everywhere.
A framed photo from the first champions league win sat on the windowsill.
A medal hung from a hook she’d never quite found a better place for.
Myle’s lead was draped over the back of a dining chair where she’d abandoned it after their morning walk.
The little cocker spaniel lifted her head from her bed as if sensing she’d been noticed, tail thumping lazily once before she settled again.
“Not you,” Beth murmured.
“Although knowing Arsenal, they’d probably put you in a display cabinet.”
Myle blinked once, unconcerned.
Beth laughed quietly.
The email remained open.
Objects that carry memories.
That was the problem with football.
The memories weren’t neatly packed into trophies and framed shirts.
They were tucked into old training jackets that still smelled faintly of winter rain if she imagined hard enough.
They lived in bus tickets, room keys, wristbands from away games.
In disposable cameras from pre-season trips.
In the ridiculous Christmas jumper she’d once been forced to wear for an Arsenal video.
Somewhere in the loft there was probably an old tactics notebook she’d never actually used.
She’d been meaning to clear it all out for years.
Every off-season she’d promised herself.
Every January.
Every spring.
The boxes remained untouched.
Maybe today was finally the day.
The loft hatch groaned in familiar protest.
Beth stood on the top step of the ladder, one hand pushing the wooden panel aside while the other steadied herself.
Dust drifted down immediately.
“Brilliant.”
Myle barked from below.
“I know.”
She climbed into the cramped roof space, blinking until her eyes adjusted.
Cardboard boxes.
Plastic storage tubs.
Suitcases she’d forgotten she owned.
The attic looked less like organised storage and more like someone had simply kept postponing decisions for a decade.
Which, she supposed, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
She switched on the single bulb hanging from the rafters.
The light flickered twice before settling into a tired yellow glow.
“Right.”
She rubbed her hands together.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The first box contained Christmas decorations.
The second was mostly university notes she’d somehow carried through three house moves before deciding they might one day become useful.
They hadn’t.
Another box revealed old England training gear.
Another held enough football boots to outfit a small academy.
She laughed when she found one boot missing its pair.
“No idea where your mate went.”
Myle, still waiting dutifully at the bottom of the ladder, wagged her tail as if this were useful information.
Hours passed almost without Beth noticing.
Every box became another excuse to sit on the attic floor for five minutes.
A photograph from an away trip.
An Arsenal media pass.
A tiny stuffed dinosaur someone had hidden in her kit bag years ago.
She couldn’t remember who’d started that joke.
Some memories stayed vivid.
Others blurred around the edges until all that remained was warmth.
Eventually she found the old equipment crate.
The one she’d been looking for.
Its lid was marked with thick black marker.
ARSENAL
Inside lay years of football.
Folded shirts.
Training tops.
Kits labeled with champion across the back.
Old match programmes.
A pair of boots with grass still trapped stubbornly in the studs despite being long retired.
She picked up one faded training top.
The sponsor logo had almost disappeared.
The sleeves were frayed.
It probably belonged in the exhibition.
People always wanted pristine things in museums.
But football had never felt pristine.
It had smelled of mud.
Deep heat.
Freshly cut grass.
Coffee on long away journeys.
Wet socks hanging in hotel bathrooms.
This shirt looked like football had actually happened inside it.
She folded it carefully.
Setting it into a separate pile.
Exhibition.
By late afternoon the pile beside her had grown.
Three shirts.
Two pairs of boots.
Two medals.
A programme from her Arsenal debut.
A photo she thought supporters might enjoy seeing.
It felt enough.
More than enough.
She reached for another storage box tucked awkwardly beneath the equipment crate.
Plain brown cardboard.
No label.
She tugged it free.
The tape had already yellowed with age.
For a second she almost put it aside.
Whatever it was clearly wasn’t football memorabilia.
But curiosity won.
She peeled back one corner of the old tape.
The cardboard gave with a soft crackle.
Inside sat bundles of envelopes.
Cream paper.
Some tied together with string.
Others stacked loosely.
All carefully folded.
Her own handwriting covered every one.
She stared.
She knew what it was before she’d touched a single page.
Her stomach tightened.
“No…”
The word escaped quietly into the empty attic.
She lifted the first envelope.
The paper felt thinner than she remembered.
Across the front, written in blue ink that had faded ever so slightly over the years, were two words she’d once written so often they no longer felt unusual.
Dear Viv.
Beth closed her eyes.
She hadn’t seen them in a couple of months.
She hadn’t needed to.
She’d finally packed the letters and Viv away into a neat box.
Every letter she’d written after the breakup had lived here.
Hundreds of pages she’d never intended anyone else to read.
Words she’d poured out on nights when sleeping had felt impossible.
Letters she’d written because she couldn’t call.
Couldn’t text.
Couldn’t ask how Viv was.
Couldn’t tell her about England camps or Arsenal wins or Myle learning a new trick.
So she’d written instead.
Not to send.
Just to survive.
She sat cross-legged on the attic floor, an envelope resting lightly in her hands.
Outside, rain had started tapping softly against the roof.
The house was otherwise silent.
She could have put the lid straight back on.
She almost did.
Instead, after a long hesitation, she untied the oldest bundle.
The first letter sat on top.
She recognised the date immediately.
Three days after they had said goodbye.
Beth swallowed hard.
Then, very carefully, she unfolded the first page.