Hello!! You can call me Ralphie!
CHUCK SUMMER 2026 FUCK YES
When you go to the party feel free to leave your pretty baby with me
ao3: Richie_munson2002
wow! your understanding of this character is so. . . Unique! just wondering by the way but when was the last time you directly interacted with the source media
football au, goalie!steve, needy!steve, sad!steve, established relationship, female reader, no use of y/n.
wc: 1.2k
The moment the ball slipped into the back of the net behind Steve at the eighty ninth minute, he knew he had let his team down. He knew it was all over for Man City’s chances at victory.
The stands behind him erupt with cheers from the opposition and the City fans that had been cheering him on two minutes ago when he had made a save by the very tips of his gloves were now booing him.
He couldn’t exactly blame them. It was his job to make sure the ball didn’t hit the back of the net and he had failed at that job. Twice.
It had been a tough match. His team had scored early on into the game and the defenders had been working tirelessly to ensure the other team didn’t score an equaliser. But at the very start second half, they did just that.
Morale died, just a little. Still, his team preserved. Worked to try and keep the ball away from Steve’s goal. But the opposition were brutal and they didn’t let up. Saw opportunities that his team didn’t. Steve couldn’t even count how many goals he had saved in the last ten minutes. But he knew no one would remember those saves, they’d only remember the ones he didn’t save.
As the referee sounded his whistle and the other team were declared the winners of the Champions League, Steve lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. But also to wipe away the tears in his eyes so that the cameras wouldn’t see.
Steve hated letting people down, he hated letting his team down, letting the fans down. But mostly, he hated letting you down. You—who was probably watching on in the stands, in his jersey, angry that he couldn’t save two fucking goals.
“C’mon, Harrington,” one of his teammates mutters in his ear, pulling him in for a one armed hug and leading him off the pitch, away from the other team’s celebrations. “You did good, don’t worry about it. You can’t save ‘em all.”
But worry is all that Steve would do. It’s all he thought about as he followed his team into the locker room, as he peeled off his kit and showered. He could feel the disappointment in the room, could see it on his teammates’ faces and all he could think was that it was his entirely fault.
After a post match de-brief with the coach, it doesn’t take long for him to find you.
You were waiting patiently with some of the other players’ partners, nervously fiddling with the hem of Steve’s jersey you were still wearing.
The moment you see Steve slipping out of the changing room—his head hung low in shame, trying desperately to avoid the flashing of the cameras directed at him—you find it hard to stop yourself from running over to him and kissing every inch of his face until he was okay again.
“Hey honey,” was the first thing you say to him when he approaches you, a soft smile on your face as you gently brush your fingers through his still damp hair.
The fact he doesn’t smile at the pet name—not even a little bit—tells you that he was not okay. Not in the slightest.
“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”
He doesn’t even argue when you tell him you were driving home. Nor does he crack a smile when you start to play one of the playlist he had lovingly made you.
You knew how important that this match was to him, knew how hard he and his team had worked all season to get to the finals and you knew that he believed—that he truly believed—the loss was all his fault. And it was breaking your heart to know that he blamed himself.
“M’going to bed,” Steve murmurs to you as soon as the front door closes behind him. “Tired. Love you.”
You swallow, letting him kiss you on the cheek before he slips upstairs.
You don’t take it personally, not at all. After all, an entire stadium of people booing you would make you shut down too.
But you were you and you refused to let Steve Harrington go to sleep blaming himself.
You wait maybe three minutes before following him upstairs. You can hear him sniffling, muttering words of self-loathing to himself in the bedroom and you can’t stand to listen to it a second more.
The bedroom door swings open and you find Steve sat on the edge of your bed, tears streaming down his face. Something inside of you twists horribly.
“Oh, baby.”
You’re by his side in seconds, pulling him into your arms and letting his tears soak your his jersey.
“M’s-sorry,” he stutters out, arms wrapping around you and pulling you even closer as though he didn’t ever want to let you go. “M’tried t-to s-save ‘em, I-I really d-did—”
“—shh,” you hush him gently, rubbing soothing circles on his back as his shoulders shake, his body nearly collapsing into you. “I know, honey. I know you did.”
You knew Steve had a tendency to be a little hard on himself when he lost, you knew he’d rather die than blame it on poor defending from his own team but when it came to big games like this? Steve couldn’t barely hold it together after a loss.
But you were always there to pick him right back up.
You pressed your lips to his forehead then to the tip of his nose as he pulled you even closer, looking so lost and young that you felt something inside of you break.
“J-just didn’t w-want to dis-disappoint anyone,” he murmurs as he buries his head into your shoulder. “Didn’t w-wanna disappoint y-y-you.”
Your heart felt as though it had been torn apart by that.
“Baby, you could never disappoint me,” you tell him, meaning every word as you pull away enough to look at him, so he could see the determined look on your face. “Never.”
“But—”
“—but nothing,” you interject. “I don’t care how many goals you let in. I’ll always be proud of you. Always.”
Steve swallows, seeing the intensity in your gaze, hearing the conviction in your voice, knowing that you meant every word. That you would be there cheering him on, no matter what.
“Thank you,” he says finally, grateful that he had you to remind to not be too hard on himself. Grateful that you were there to hold him when he needed it most. “I love you, baby. So much.”
“I love you too,” you tell him with a small smile and a soft kiss to the lips, one that Steve finds himself melting into, his hand lifting to cup your jaw so that he could deepen the kiss.
And though he wouldn’t admit it—not to anyone but you—but being in your arms was much better than any damn trophy anyway.
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