hey!

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿🇵🇹 18 (she/her) woso & wbball

[fallofachilles]

nav tags (honestly mostly just for me to get around lol):

#my favs - my recs and favourites

#holy fuck - nsfw recs/favs

#leah williamson

#alexia putellas

#jana fernandez

#niamh charles

#maya le tissier

#alessia russo

#katrina gorry

#mary earps

#mapi leon

#grace clinton

#jessie fleming

#laura freigang

#aitana bonmati

#georgia stanway

#jenni hermoso

#leila ouahabi

#kate martin

#paige bueckers

#emily engstler

[wosospacegirl]

I'm down with a fever

[kaliforniahigh]

Feeling like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time

[holyblonded]

— okay so ig doctor!reader(?) has known alexia for a minute now. i feel like doctor!reader is alba’s age but her older brother and alexia are friends.

— alexia and doctor!reader argued every second of the day. doctor!reader was getting rage baited while alexia had a crush on her and enjoyed riling her up.

— eventually her brother got tired of their flirting and implored alexia to ask her out when she was in undergrad and for some reason (she always says alexia threatened her when that wasn’t the case) she said yes.

— and they dated until she got into her dream med school at upenn (manifesting) on a full ride

— at the same time, alexia was reaching the height of her career. so the two made a harsh decision to amicably split. both parties were freaking depressed and threw themselves into their respective work.

— then like four months into the split, alexia leaves doctor!reader a drunken, slurred voicemail. “amor? hello? you are probably in class. i miss you. i don’t like not being with you. i don’t care if we are eight hundred million miles or whatever apart. i don’t care if you were on the sun and i was on earth or the farthest planet, i just want you.”

— doctor!reader folded so fast (same). she was actually on the next plane to barcelona while alexia was having a crisis cause she drunk called her ex.

— alexia comes home from training to see doctor!reader on her couch fast asleep and pinches herself to make sure it’s not a dream.

— she quite literally pounces on doctor!reader and doesn’t let go of her the entire night.

— they get back together and learn that long distance truly isn’t that bad.

— i feel like they don’t get married until alexia tears her acl. doctor!reader is balancing med school and flying to barcelona at least every two weeks to see alexia. before the surgery, her and the surgeon talked a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo that made absolutely no sense to alexia but she sure did enjoy watching her.

— during her recovery, she remembers one day doctor!reader had gotten off a red eye and immediately went to her rehab session cause she knew alexia needed the support. it was that day alexia randomly proposed.

— and again, doctor!reader claims alexia threatened her, said yes. they actually drove straight to the courthouse after that and invited some close friends and family and boom, married.

— after doctor!reader graduated med school and had a break before residency, they had a real wedding. it was still small with people in their inner circle only.

— fans found out alexia got married and went crazy. cause no one realized she was dating anyone. but she posted like three cryptic wedding photos and that was it.

— doctor!reader ended up at ptmc for residency as a ortho surgeon and she’s in her last year and finds herself in the pitt more often than not

— she’s affectionately known as “angel” with her original nickname being “angel face” dubbed by her mentor, brendon park.

— she is close to frank because they entered residency at the same time and she enjoys stealing his kids

— she’s basically an honorary pitt member. cause they always call her before they call park. then they make her call park cause he would never yell at her.

— doctor!reader enjoys all the younger residents, except ogilvie who tried to correct her on something and got cussed out as she operated on a patient. she has nicknames for everyone whether they like it or not.

— robby and abbot both attempt to poach her to ed but brendon always puts a stop to it. she’s basically like a nicer version of brendon when it comes to her work.

— doctor!reader is known to listen to the most random and niche songs during surgeries. like she pulling songs and bands that are in the back of your mind. like that one boyband PRETTYMUCH, or project pat or dj clent

— back to her and alexia, they are the definition of private. all of doctor!reader’s social’s are private and she doesn’t even follow alexia on instagram cause she “isn’t worthy of being part of an exclusive club.” alexia gets butthurt when she finds that the barça youngsters are allowed in.

— pina and jana are actually the eldest children. doctor!reader was the first person jana called when she was considering a move. who else to call than the woman who moved to the other side of the world.

— doctor!reader has the best wag fits but nobody knows cause she’s always hiding in the box somewhere

— but i do feel like they eventually hard launch aka vicky posts a picture after a championship game they won with alexia and doctor!reader kissing her cheek as she holds the trophy with a caption like, “mama y papa (i only like mama though)”

— but alexia doesn’t say anything about it and doctor!reader doesn’t care. they are private but they aren’t a secret.

— also alexia loves seeing doctor!reader with the younger players. she was a very warm maternal side and alexia loves seeing it in action. the girls flock to her whenever they are sick and refuse to go to the team doctor if she is in town.

— personality wise, i feel like doctor!reader is sweet, sarcastic, and genuine but she can hold her own. at the end of the day she’s a real silly philly bitch that gets down.

— also, controversially doctor!reader couldn’t give a flying fuck about football and alexia knows this. she enjoys watching her wife run around all sweaty for 90 minutes and that basically it.

[wosospacegirl]

Oh fuck me

[thankyouforthememoriesworld]

[maurelle]

Yes, “Zoe Boyd tank top” IS is my recent search history. And no, I am not ashamed about it.

[sarahfillier]

[wosofutbolfan]

This hits

[wosostuff23]

[ceesimz]

don’t marry her

alexia has the fright of her life… over nothing. but it does lead to something she didn’t expect on a rare and seemingly inconspicuous day-off. (8k)

It takes the Barcelona captain a long, long time to pull herself out of bed on days off. 

Not… dreadfully slowly. She’s incapable of that, as much as she wishes otherwise. Years of alarms before sunrise and training schedules carved too deep into her bones for that. But slowly enough that when she finally opens her eyes, the room is bright already, with sunlight spilling through the thin gap in the curtains in one golden line across the floor. 

09:43AM.

“Hm.” 

Her voice comes out rough with sleep as she squints at the clock on the bedside table. Not even ten in the morning. Disgusting.

She stays there another minute, warm beneath the sheets, one arm tucked beneath the pillow.

Mid-season days off are strange things. Too rare to waste but too infrequent to know what to actually do with once they arrive.

Alba is with her girlfriend’s family. Her mother is on a beach somewhere, probably already ordering a variety of overpriced cocktails. Her friends are all working, she’d already asked weeks in advance if they were free, but alas not. And as far as she’s aware, everyone on the team is off doing their own thing.

And you–

Alexia’s hand moves for her phone before she’s fully conscious of doing it.

Blank lockscreen. No notifications from you.

Her brows pinch together. Weird.

Normally by now there’d already be at least four messages waiting for her. Some utterly pointless observation you’d had whilst trying to fall asleep. Maybe a photo of your breakfast since you always woke before her. Links to videos you found funny at unreasonable hours of the night.

But there’s nothing. 

No good morning, no nonsense, no running commentary from inside your head spilling directly into her phone like it belonged there.

Alexia stares at the screen another second. Then another.

“Hm.”

This one comes out more suspicious.

Because it isn’t as though the two of you are casual. Not really.

Casual people do not end up with designated sides of each other’s beds. They do not automatically reach for the other person’s hands during movies, or knowing which takeaway to pick up on the way to the one’s place without asking, or having an accidental stash of hoodies with the other’s perfume stashed in your wardrobes. 

Casual people definitely do not spend entire nights together beneath soft amber lamplight with half their clothes missing and absolutely no intention of putting them back on any time soon.

Though, it’d never properly… been given a name.

It had grown between you quietly over months instead. Something careful and warm and strangely precious, lit by a spark that’d struck after a short trip to Mallorca with Patri and Jana and a few others the previous summer. 

You were teammates. Friends first. Entangled now in ways that mattered more than either of you had figured out how to say without risking either the loss of it, or rocking the boat of the team dynamic. 

So instead, the two of you hovered happily in the space just before certainty.

Close enough that Alexia knew the sound of your sleepy voice at midnight. Close enough that you absentmindedly wore her clothes home. Enough that she sometimes caught herself imagining six months ahead before sharply stopping herself there.

But apparently not close enough to know why you’d vanished overnight.

Her frown deepens. The house suddenly feels too quiet. 

By half ten, she’s given up on waiting for her phone screen to light up and forces herself into motion instead.

She connects her phone to the speakers in the ceiling all over her house, and showers. A mixture of genres and languages so horrifying she’d been banned from controlling the locker room music after just one chance. After already being banned for two seasons before that. 

Music follows her through the house after that as she moves through the morning. She isn’t really paying attention to it, though, as she waters plants and folds laundry and wipes down kitchen counters that are already clean.

Every few minutes her eyes flick back to her phone where it rests face-up on the marble counter.

Still nothing.

She presses her lips together.

Ridiculous.

She is thirty-two years old. Captain of FC Barcelona. One of the best footballers in the world.

And somehow being ignored by you for twelve hours has turned her into this. 

Time ticks on until it reads 11:18 on her phone, which had gathered a few notifications, but none under the one name she was after. 

The house, despite all its cleanliness, has begun to feel stale around her somehow. Every room carries the faint sense that she is waiting for something. Or someone.

Alexia decides she needs air before she ends up checking your chat for the hundredth time like a teenager. 

So she pulls on the first clothes she finds– faded blue jeans, black trainers, a slightly oversized white shirt, and a fleece gilet that Alba once told her made her look like a middle-aged farmer from Girona. 

Alexia had pointed out that Alba owned the exact same gilet in beige; in fact, they had bought them in the shop together. Alba had replied that it was different because she was actually stylish. 

Alexia had hung up on her.

She grabs her keys from the counter on the way out, shoving her phone into her pocket with one last glance at the dark screen first. Still nothing.

The street outside is empty at the weekday’s midday hour, would be peaceful if it wasn’t for the silly amount of hedge trimmers going off at once. The first day of sun in a week or so always sends the gardeners mad.

The brunette goes to turn left out of her gate, before she pauses, then heads to her neighbour’s house across the street. Knocks twice in the familiar rhythm she’s used for the last few months.

There’s a shuffling noise from inside, followed by several high-pitched barks. 

The door swings open.

“Ah, Ale!” Her elderly neighbour, Beatriz, beams up at her immediately with a hand pressed to her chest. “Just you today?”

Alexia blinks once. “...Sí?” 

The older woman leans to the side, peering dramatically around Alexia.

“Where is that lovely new girl of yours?”

She nearly chokes on absolutely nothing. Heat flushes embarrassingly fast across her face as she palms awkwardly at the back of her neck.

“She’s– uh, busy today.”

The woman narrows her eyes in a way that makes Alexia feel strangely as though she’s being interrogated by a disappointed aunt.

“You haven’t messed it up, have you?” 

“W-what?”

“I quite like that one,” Beatriz continues, ignoring her completely. “Much better than the other girl.”

Alexia stares at her. “What other girl?”

“That brown-haired one who convinced you to go blonde. Terrible decision.” Beatriz scoffs. “I’m glad you became my neighbour when you were basically back to brunette again. I would’ve put hair dye in your shampoo.”

She closes her eyes briefly. Lost for words.

“It’s looking good now though. Much healthier. Keep it that way or I’ll stop giving you fresh tomatoes.” 

“I will, Beatriz, thank you.” She exhales through her nose, fighting the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth at the lack of filter. 

Another sharp bark erupts from somewhere deeper inside the house, followed by the frantic clicking of nails against the tiled floor.

“And no,” She says finally, softer this time. “I haven’t messed anything up, as far as I’m aware.”

The addition slips out before she can stop it. Beatriz catches it immediately, of course.

“Aha!”

“No– there is no aha.”

“There is always an aha.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “We are both just doing our own things today. Does Boni need a walk?”

The tiny white dog comes skidding around the corner at the sound of her name like a possessed mop.

Unlike every other small dog Alexia has ever encountered, Boni behaves as though she is approximately the size of a small military tank. She launches herself directly at Alexia’s legs with startling confidence, barking furiously before demanding to be picked up.

“She is spoiled.” Alexia mutters, scooping the little dog into her arms anyway.

“And whose fault is that?”

Alexia chooses not to answer.

Five minutes later, she is back out on the street with Boni trotting at her side on a pink lead covered in tiny strawberries.

The contrast between them is ridiculous.

Alexia, all long limbs and composed athleticism beside a dog small enough to lose in a handbag.

Boni doesn’t seem bothered by this; she struts down the pavement like she is the celebrity. 

They walk without much urgency in the pleasant Spring weather, this particular route to her go-to cafe away from the tourists and also not yet touched by the lunch crowds. Light glints gold against house windows, somebody nearby is playing music through open patio doors, and vespas buzz through the streets like angry insects.

Every now and then people recognise her– a couple walking past smile politely in that restrained way locals often do around the players, not wanting to intrude. A little boy nearly walks straight into a lamppost because he’s staring at her instead of where he’s going.

Her phone stays stubbornly silent in her pocket. 

It’s not like she’s waiting for you to text her. She’s just… aware that you have not. There is a difference.

The air is warm enough that Alexia shrugs her gilet open as she walks, sunlight settling delightfully against the back of her neck. 

Usually, on mornings like this, you’d somehow end up appearing beside her halfway through.

Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes because one of you would call saying things like ‘What are you up to?’ before simply meeting up wherever either happened to be.

You liked walking with her. Said the city felt different with Alexia by your side. 

She’d rolled her eyes at that, even though she’d liked hearing it more than she should have.

Her chest tightens strangely at the thought now. Still nothing.

Hm.

The café near the little square is busy in the comfortable way all Barcelona cafés seem to be busy. Not loud or chaotic, just full, hearty.

Alexia pushes the door open with one hand, Boni trotting impatiently ahead of her like she owns the place. Which, considering the reaction from the staff, she may as well.

“Boni!” The girl behind the counter abandons steaming milk mid-pour to lean over and fuss the tiny dog, who accepts the attention with the solemn dignity of royalty greeting her subjects.

“And Alexia,” The girl adds a second later, glancing up. “You too, I suppose.”

“How kind of you.”

The girl grins. “The usual?” “Yes. And whipped cream for the cute, little rat.” 

“Alexia!”

She steps back outside a few minutes later balancing a latte in one hand and a tiny paper cup of cream in the other.

The terrace is dappled with sunlight beneath broad beige umbrellas, warm air drifting lazily through the square. She chooses a small at the end, settling into the chair with a quiet exhale as Boni immediately hops onto the empty seat opposite her. 

Spoiled.

Alexia slides the cream cup across the table anyway. “There.”

Boni plunges in face first, of course. Alexia shakes her head fondly before leaning back in her chair, fingers curling around the warm takeaway cup of her latte.

For the first time all morning, she properly relaxes. Even if there is still a faint restlessness beneath her ribs she can’t quite shake. But her shoulders do loosen slightly as she watches the square around her.

A cyclist weaves lazily between pedestrians. Two elderly men argue passionately over cards at a nearby table, giving Beatriz competitiveness at cards a run for their money. Alexia should give them her number.

Barcelona in late morning always feels softer. Sun-warmed and sleepy around the edges. 

Her phone stays in her pocket for almost six entire minutes. A personal best.

Though, habit eventually wins.

She unlocks it one-handed beneath the table, thumb automatically opening instagram without much thought. Mostly background noise more than anything else. Something to occupy the part of her brain still irritatingly aware of your silence.

A few stories flick by. She barely registers any of them, eyes drifting absently across the screen as she drinks her coffee. 

Then your close friends story appears. She pauses automatically.

A photo. Patri stands grinning at the camera somewhere bright and expensive-looking, Kika beside her mid-laugh with one arm slung around your shoulders while you smile between them.

There you are. Alive.

Interesting.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

So you do still know how to use your phone.

She almost taps past the story before something else catches her attention.

Flowers. White ones. Large arrangements spilling over tables in the background. People dressed formally behind you. A large manor house, decorated with elegant white ribbons and such.

Her thumb stills, but the next story loads automatically. And Alexia as a whole goes very, very still.

It’s you again. This time standing beside another woman.

Who is very clearly a bride. There’s no mistaking it.

She is very obviously wearing a wedding dress, elegant and fitted, all soft white fabric and delicate satin, bouquet tucked against her waist as she leans into your side laughing. 

And you–

Alexia sits up straighter.

You;re dressed in light colours too. Cream maybe. Or white. Something bright enough that, under the sunlight, it blends almost seamlessly beside the wedding dress.

One arm wraps around the bride’s waist. The bride’s arm rests around your shoulders.

And the two of you are looking at each other. Not posing for the camera.

Looking. 

Laughing properly. Heads tipped close together like there’s no one else around.

“...What?”

Alexia frowns harder at the screen.

No.

There had to be some explanation for this. 

A family member. A friend. Or–

Her thumbs moves before she can finish the thought, tapping onto Kika’s story instead.

A video this time.

The camera shakes slightly with laughter as it pans across the gravel yard in front of the house, music playing in the background, people gathered waiting for photos with champagne glasses in their hand.

The camera lands on you and her stomach drops.

You are standing beside the bride again, close enough that your bodies brush from shoulder to hip. The woman says something that gets lost beneath the music and chatter around you.

You lean in automatically to hear her better.

Too close.

Your mouth brushes near her ear as you say something back.

The bride laughs immediately, head falling against your shoulder for a second before she nudges you lightly with her bouquet. You laugh too– soft and familiar enough that Alexia feels it somewhere beneath her ribs like physical damage.

Then your head tips towards her again, foreheads nearly touching. 

Comfortable. Intimate. The kind of closeness built over time.

Alexia chokes violently on her coffee.

Latte goes down entirely the wrong way, hitting the back of her throat hard enough that she has to cough into her fist, eyes watering instantly as coffee splashes down the front of her white shirt and on her jeans. 

Boni startles so hard she nearly falls of the chair. The tiny dog stares up at Alexia with huge black eyes, whipped cream still smeared around her mouth. 

Alexia coughs again. A shadow appears beside the table.

Without a word, one of the café workers drops a thick stack of napkins beside her drink with the exhausted expression of somebody who has seen enough public romantic crises to identify one on sight.

There’s mild disgust there, but mostly exasperation.

Alexia looks up briefly, mortified. “...gracias.”

The worker glances once at the phone still clutched in her hand, then at the coffee all down her shirt. He sighs like it confirms something deeply unfortunate about humanity and walks off.

The midfielder grabs a handful of napkins, dabbing uselessly at the spreading stains across her abdomen and dotted over her thighs. 

Her heart is beating far too fast. The video has looped by the time she looks down again.

You laughing. The bride touching your arm. Your heads leaning together.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her mouth goes dry. A horrible heavy feeling settles low in her stomach all at once, sick and dizzying.

No texts, no calls, no mention of any of this. 

Wedding. Bride. White outfit.

The thought crashes into place so suddenly it makes her feel stupid for not seeing it right away.

“Oh my God.”

Boni barks once; Alexia barely hears her.

She recognises the venue. Not from being there, just from research.

From nights months ago spent half-curled on her sofa with her notes app open while you slept against her shoulder, mindlessly saving things she liked without really thinking about why.

Venues and flowers and names and–

Ridiculous things. Tiny, impossible domestic fantasies she never let herself linger on for too long afterwards.

And this place? This exact manor house with its ivy-covered brick walls and enormous garden terrace?

It is sitting somewhere inside a locked note on her phone.

She feels abruptly nauseous. 

“No.” She mutters. 

Stares at the screen one last time. Then she stands so quickly the metal chair scrapes harshly against the pavement, scaring the life out of Boni.

“Ay, lo siento– come here.” 

Alexia scoops the tiny dog into her arms before she’s even finished her cream, grabbing the lead and her phone all at once in a frantic movement. The abandoned latte rocks dangerously on the wobbling table behind her.

Her pulse is hammering now. Because surely you would have told her if you were getting married. 

Wouldn’t you?

Boni spends the entire walk home yapping grumpily from Alexia’s arms, unaware that her temporary dog walker is currently experiencing what can only medically be described as a complete psychological collapse.

Her brain is moving too fast.

Wedding. Bride.

How long had this been happening? How had she missed it? Had everybody known except her? Was that why Patri had been weirdly smug lately? Was that why Kika kept making those cryptic comments about her needing to ‘say things before it’s too late’?

“Oh God!”

The tiny dog wiggles as Alexia unlocks Beatriz’s gate with fumbling hands.

The elderly woman opens the door before she can even knock. “Oh! Back already?”

“Yes.” Alexia thrusts the dog gently but urgently into her arms. “Emergency.”

Beatriz gasps. “What kind of emergency?” 

Alexia opens her mouth. Closes it again. 

Braces for a lecture.

“Romantic.”

Beatriz lets out the most dramatic gasp the brunette has ever heard. 

“I knew it!”

“I have to go, sorry!”

“Alexia Putellas Segura!” Beatriz calls after her as she’s already halfway down the path. “If you ruin things with that lovely girl, I will haunt you!”

“I know!” 

Then she’s gone.

She jumps into her car with the grace of a bull in a fine china shop. 

And the drive feels endless.

Every single red light in Barcelona appears specifically engineered to destroy her. Until she finally gets out of the city, just for the traffic on the highway to be dreadful. Though it only teases her, as she gets to a mile away from her junction and it all clears up like nothing ever happened.

She grips the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles ache, coffee-stained shirt sticking uncomfortably against her skin while her thoughts spiral further and further into insanity.

The more she thinks about it, the worse it gets.

You’d said it was a family thing today. 

A family thing.

Not ‘I’m attending a wedding’.

Not ‘I'm in a wedding’.

And certainly not ‘by the way, I might be the person getting married’.

Her stomach twists violently.

“No,” She says out loud to the empty car. “No, no, no.”

The worst part is that she can suddenly see it. All of it. The silence and the white outfit and the venue and the way you looked at the bride.

Her brain stitches it together with horrifying efficiency until it becomes something terrible and impossible to ignore.

Maybe you hadn’t told her because you thought whatever existed between the two of you wasn’t serious enough to require it.

 Maybe to you, this had all just been–

No.

Her jaw tightens sharply.

No, because you looked at her like it was her you pictured your life with.

Another vicious twist to her stomach; how can she assume that when you hadn’t even labelled whatever was between you?

She takes the turn towards the countryside roads too fast. 

The manor house appears eventually through rows of tall trees, all pale stone walls and sprawling gardens behind wrought iron gates.

Alexia recognises it instantly– it looks exactly like the photos. Which somehow makes everything worse. 

“Madre de Dios.” She utters in awe.

Cars line the gravel entrance in neat elegant rows.

Alexia’s does not.

She parks at an angle so catastrophic it would probably get her arrested if she wasn’t on private land, barely remembering to kill the engine before shoving the door open and climbing out.

The late afternoon air hits her immediately, warm and carrying the distant sound of music and conversation drifting from somewhere deeper into the grounds.

Her heart is pounding now, hard enough to hurt. 

The gravel rocks crunch violently beneath her trainers as she rounds the front gardens.

Then she sees you. Standing outside near the tall entrance doors with Patri and Kika.

You’re laughing at something Patri is saying, sunlight catching against the pale fabric of your outfit while guests drift around behind you with flutes of champagne.

You look beautiful.

The thought lands with devastating force. 

She slows for half a second, enough for panic to properly catch up with her. 

Because this is real. It’s happening. You’re here, dressed like that. And if she doesn’t do something right now–

“No!”

The words tears out of her without inhibition.

Several heads turn immediately as she begins to run up the driveway.

You blink in confusion whilst Patri’s face goes blank and Kika lowers her drink.

“Please!” She calls desperately.

She’s still moving toward you across the long gravel driveway, every step slipping slightly against the loose stones beneath her trainers so that it feels absurdly cinematic, like she’s running through wet cement, in slow motion.

A few nearby guests stop talking altogether now. A few remove their sunglasses.

You stare at her.

“Alexia?”

She shakes her head immediately, breathless from the run and the panic and the sheer catastrophic momentum of this entire situation. 

“No. No, please don’t do it!” 

Patri looks genuinely alarmed now, your first time seeing that expression on her face in all the years of your friendship. 

“...do what?”

Alexia finally reaches the last stretch of gravel before the tiled path leading to the door, chest heaving as she looks directly at you.

At your pale outfit, the flowers, the wedding guests.

Then at the woman standing just inside the doorway in a wedding gown.

Her face crumples.

“Don’t marry her.” 

Silence crashes down around the front yard.

Well, not complete silence, because further inside the house music is still playing and guests are murmuring about the soap opera playing out before them, but enough that she can suddenly hear her own breathing.

Every single person within a twenty metre radius is staring at her.

A waiter has frozen mid-step with a tray of champagne. One man lowers the canapé he’d just been about to eat with a grumble at the request of his wife. Even the children had stopped their games to watch.

You blink at Alexia. Look at Patri and Kika. Then back to Alexia again. 

“What on earth are you saying?”

Her dark hair is windswept and her shirt is still stained with coffee in a way that would horrify her under any other circumstances. 

Right now though she barely notices because you still haven’t denied it.

“Please,” She says again, softer this time. Undeniably desperate. “Please don’t marry her.”

The bride standing in the doorway looks utterly baffled.

“Me?”

Alexia finally looks at her for the first time, properly.

Then at you.

And suddenly, something changes.

Tiny details begin slotting into place, her panic-riddled brain finally slowing down enough to process everything correctly.

Your outfit– not white. Cream. A soft, prosecco-coloured satin thing.

Formal, yes. Beautiful, devastatingly so, yes. But not bridal. 

Your hands– no ring. 

Bouquet– not bridal. 

And the woman in the doorway, Alexia’s eyes flick past her. Straight through the open doors of the manor house where a huge decorative sign sits in the hallway. Beside it, the actual groom. Who is incredibly concerned. 

She stops breathing for a second. 

Oh no.

Her face drains instantly of what little colour remained in it.

Next to you, Patri’s face changes in real time as understanding dawns across her face.

“Tía,” she says slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Kika’s mouth falls open.

“Are you okay, Capi?” She asks, visibly fighting laughter. “Do you need an intervention?”

Alexia doesn’t know what to say. You stare at her with an expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“You thought I was getting married?”

The sentence hangs there for exactly four seconds. 

Patri looks at Kika, Kika looks at Patri. 

Both of them turn toward Alexia’s stricken face and…

…immediately burst into laughter.

Loud laughter. The kind that takes people out at the knees. 

Patri doubles over so fast she nearly spills champagne down her chest, one hand clutching Kika’s arm as she wheezes helplessly. Kika outright cackles.

“No– no, wait–” She gasps between laughs. “She thought– she seriously thought–” 

“You drove here?” Patri chokes out. “You came all this way?”

Alexia remains frozen in place, still breathing too hard, humiliation beginning to crawl through her with devastating speed. 

“Oh my god!” Kika cries. “You were trying to stop the wedding!”

“I was not–”

“You literally shouted ‘don’t marry her!’”

“I panicked!”

It only made them laugh harder. Several nearby guests join in with them too.

Meanwhile you are still staring at Alexia.

Then, your face begins to change too. Confusion melts first, then the disbelief.

Something dangerously fond takes center stage instead.

“You thought I was getting married.” You say whilst biting back a smile.

Alexia wanted the gravel to open up beneath her feet and consume her whole. Colour floods her face so quickly it reaches the tips of her ears.

It is deeply unfortunate that she cannot sprint away now without making this even worse. 

“You idiot,” Patri laughs. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life.”

Alexia glares at her, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact she still looks mildly panicked and has coffee down the front of her shirt. 

You laugh too, then. Not like Patri and Kika are laughing, not cruelly. Just soft amusement spilling out in little bursts as you gaze at her.

And that is somehow worse. She would almost prefer being publicly executed.

“Alexia,” Kika says, wiping beneath one eye dramatically. “You came here to stop a wedding.”

“It was a miscommunication.” She feebly tries to defend herself.

It only sends Patri into another fit of laughter. “Wait until the team hears this. Wait until Vicky hears this.”

“No.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

“No, Patri–”

“You thought she had a secret fiancée!”

Alexia drags a hand down her face. Because when they say it out loud like that?

Dear god.

You finally step forward then, now smiling to yourself as you gently shove Patri backwards by the shoulder.

“Enough,” You tell her through your own stifled laughter. “Leave her alone.”

“She interrupted a wedding!”

“She interrupted my cousin’s wedding.” You correct her.

“Exactly!”

You ignore her, eyes returning to Alexia instead, who is impossibly more red at the reveal of whose wedding it was.

The teasing softness in your eyes makes something twist in her chest.

“What made you think I was getting married?” You ask, trying to keep your laughter out of it but ultimately failing.

Alexia looks away. The gravel shifts beneath her shoes as she shuffles awkwardly against it, suddenly deeply interested in the ground.

“I saw things on Instagram.” She mutters defensively. “You looked like a bride.”

“A bride?”

 “You are wearing white!” She argues, shoulders up to her ears in a shrug.

You laugh gently, “I’m wearing cream, Ale.”

“It looked white in the photo.” She grumbled as you stepped closer. “And you were wrapped around a woman in a wedding dress.”

“She is my cousin!”

“How was I supposed to know that?!”

You stare at her again. Then laugh, quieter this time, shoulders shaking. 

“Alexia,” You say, grinning. “I’m the maid of honour.”

Her eyes flick over your outfit again now that her brain is functioning at least marginally better.

Definitely cream. Definitely no ring. 

Zero actual signs that you were the one getting married. 

“...oh.”

“Yes, oh.” You tease, taking another step toward her.

“You’re sure?” 

You gape at her.

“Yes!” You say incredulously. “I’m pretty fucking sure I’m not getting married!”

Kika makes a strangle noise beside Patri, leaning half her weight on her as she laughs silently.

“I just thought–”

“What exactly did you think?” Patri interrupts immediately, delighted. “That she forgot to mention a wife?”

“You said it was a family thing!” Alexia shoots back at you.

“It is a family thing!” 

“Well… well, you failed to specify there would be brides!”

You roll your eyes as you come to stand before her. “There was only one bride, and she is my cousin, as I said.”

Patri has tears streaming without a care in the world for her makeup. A guest openly snorts into his champagne.

You press your lips together hard as you tilt your head at her, trying and failing not to laugh yourself as Alexia continues spiralling.

Well, not spiralling really, more attempting to dig her way out of the ever-growing hole of embarrassment she was in.  

“You were looking at her like–”

“She was telling me her fake eyelashes were falling off.”

“–and you leaned your heads together.”

“It was loud!”

“You looked happy!”

You pause at that. The air shifts slightly as your expression softens.

“...well,” You say carefully. “I am happy.”

Alexia’s face turns red again.

Kika looks between the two of you, laughter beginning to fade into something more suspicious.

“Wait…” 

Patri straightens too.

Alexia visibly realises, a second too late, that she may have revealed too much already.

You fold your arms. A smile pulls slowly at your mouth.

“Alexia,” You say softly. “Were you jealous?”

“No.” She responds immediately.

“You drove an hour on your day off to stop me from marrying someone.” You drawl with a smirk.

“There was traffic on the way here, it took a bit longer than it should’ve.” 

“You were upset.” You tease, taking another step closer, the gap too small for the just teammates facade you’d been holding previously. 

Alexia looks for something to say but comes up empty. 

“You thought I was with someone else,” You continue, one hand rising to play with her coffee-free collar. You look up from her shirt to meet her eyes, clearly trying not to smile too much. “And you lost your mind.” 

She exhales sharply through her nose, gaze dropping away from you for a second toward the gravel again. 

Then she mutters under her breath quietly, trying to speak just for you.

“Of course I did.”

Judging by the noise Patri makes, she was not quiet enough. 

Alexia manages to ignore her and looks back up at you. Her eyes bore into yours as she speaks.

“I don’t want you with anyone else.” 

For once, nobody interrupts. Even Kika goes quiet.

You gaze at Alexia, something gentler flickering across your face beneath all the amusement.

“Ale…”

“What?” she grumbles instantly, defensive again now that the sentence exists outside her head. “You asked.”

“We’ve never even–”

You stop yourself, smile growing ever so slightly.

“We’ve never actually talked about what this is,” You land on instead. “And you’re already showing up to stop me marrying people?”

Alexia’s blush deepens to the point it looks painful.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds dramatic.” 

“It was dramatic.” Kika comments. “You ran up the driveway like somebody in a telenovela.” 

You laugh again, arms folding loosely across your chest as you look at her.

“So what exactly was the plan here, hm?” You question. “You were going to stop the wedding, and then what?”

Alexia stares blankly as you wait for her answer.

Admittedly, she had not thought that far ahead. Patri clocks it.

“She didn’t even have a speech prepared!” She exclaims, sounding far too pleased.

“I was panicking!” Alexia snaps at her.

You’re still looking at her though. Still smiling. 

“Ale,” You murmur. “You realise this is insane behaviour for someone who supposedly isn’t my girlfriend.” 

Alexia glances between Patri and Kika, who are both openly staring back.

Kika looks seconds away from combusting and Patri seems as if she’s already got a storytime voicenote brewing for the groupchat.

A few months ago, hell, even a few weeks ago, that would’ve been enough to make Alexia retreat back into herself. Brush it off, laugh it away, pretend.

But standing there now, coffee stained and breathless and publicly humiliated after driving across Barcelona because she thought she’d lost you…

Something in her just gives up. Or maybe gives in.

The truth is already standing between you anyway, broad as daylight. And judging by the looks on Patri and Kika’s face, it is not exactly being received with horror.

The brunette exhales slowly. Then lifts her chin slightly.

“And so what if I want it to be us getting married here someday?”

Silence as everyone stares in shock again. 

Neither Patri nor Kika speak for a full minute which for those two is honestly concerning. 

Until they both shriek simultaneously–

“What?!”

Several nearby guests turn again, this time with rather disapproving looks on their faces. 

Alexia seems as if she wants to launch herself directly into the Mediterranean and never resurface again.

Patri grabs Kika by both shoulders violently. “I knew it!”

“You said they were just sleeping together!”

“Clearly I was wrong!”

Kika turns to Alexia, and the captain gulps. “You planned a whole marriage before defining the relationship?”

“She has a venue!” Patri yells to back her up.

Alexia freezes. You narrow your eyes.

“You have a venue?”

“...no.”

“Alexia.”

“It’s not important.” She argues futilely, because you were not one to let things go. 

“You have a venue.” You repeat, eyes crinkled with the smile that’d taken over your face.

She grumbles something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a Catalan curse, which was basically a yes. 

Kika doubles over, nearly dragging Patri down with her. 

A nearby bridesmaid appears beside you looking deeply concerned. “Do you want me to remove them?”

You glance at the two of them, who were now arguing loudly over which one deserves credit for predicting this situation first. Then back at the bridesmaid.

“Yes, please.” You say with a polite smile.

They let out cries of outrage and disappointment, but eventually allow themselves to be dragged away. Mercifully, they disappear into the manor house, and their voices fade.

The nearby guests return to their conversations too, intrigue gone now the public emotional crisis appears mostly resolved.

Quiet rests around the two of you. Private, somehow, despite the wedding still happening around you.

You turn back toward Alexia and immediately soften at the sight of her.

She still looks wrecked. Flustered, pink-cheeked, coffee-stained, hair a mess from running across half the property like an emotional tornado. 

Beautiful. Ridiculous. 

Yours, if you wanted to be brave enough to call her that. 

“I think,” You start. “There are probably a few steps between whatever this is now and us getting married, don’t you?”

Alexia huffs through her nose. 

That was another thing that would’ve sent her retreating back into embarrassment again. Another joke or deflection.

But now there’s no audience. Just you.

The afternoon sun catches gold against your cream outfit as the breeze stirs gently through the gardens around you. Alexia gazes at you.

And god. You really are beautiful. Not just now– always.

But especially like this, softened by sunlight and laughter, eyes still bright from amusement as you look back at her with that expression she’s become quietly addicted to over the past months.

“I know,” She says finally. “I know that.” 

Alexia glances away briefly, jaw shifting slightly like she’s trying to organise thoughts that had not originally intended to leave her mouth today.

“I just…” She exhales. “I saw you there and everyone dressed up and you looked–”

“Bridal?” You offer unhelpfully with a grin.

Alexia glares at you.

“You looked like somebody else’s.” Your grin shifts into a small smile. “And it scared me.” 

No dramatics now. No panic.

Alexia swallows once before continuing, voice quieter when she speaks again.

“Because I realised I never asked for any of this properly.” 

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She gestures vaguely between the two of you. “You just sort of became part of my life before I had the chance to decide what to call you.”

You stare at her as she keeps talking.

“You’re just there all the time now.” She frowns slightly, like this is deeply inconvenient for her. “In my house. In my routines. Alba asks about you before she asks about me. Beatriz has already decided that you’re the one for me.” 

You laugh softly, but Alexia looks scared.

“She threatened to haunt me if I mess it up.” 

You hum, pleased to have the elderly woman on your side when she didn’t take to people too easily. “Good.”

“And every time something happens, you are the person I want to tell first.” Alexia says it quieter now. “Even stupid things. Especially stupid things.”

Something in your eyes changes. Alexia notices it and begins to panic.

“I’m explaining this badly.”

“No,” You say quickly, smiling uncontrollably. “No, keep going.” 

Her ears turn pink again and she looks away for a second, before murmuring:

“I just think maybe somewhere along the way, you became…” She hesitates. “…home, a little bit.”

Your breath audibly catches. Alexia gets flustered again.

“Not in a weird way!” She rushes out. “I mean– not that it would be weird if– you know what I mean.”

You laugh under your breath.

“Oh my god.” She groans, covering her face with her hands. “I sounded so much smoother in my head.”

“I would hope so.” 

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Hm, a little.” You offer with a glint in your eyes.

Alexia peeks at you through her fingers, and the look on your face nearly kills her on the spot. 

You look… smitten. Slightly astonished by her words and perhaps even caught off guard with how much you adore her. 

“What would you have done if I had been with someone else?” You wonder in a quiet, curious voice. 

All the joking melts away at once into something awfully sincere. 

“I think it would’ve broken my heart.”

The confession comes so simply that it nearly steals the air from your lungs.

Alexia looks startled by her own honesty afterwards, but she doesn’t take it back. Just stands there in wrinkled clothes and coffee stains and the aftermath of public embarrassment, gazing at you like she’s finally too exhausted to pretend any differently.

Your hand brushes her forearm, before sliding down to link your fingers with hers. “Ale.”

She shakes her head once. “I know this is an insane way to do it. And I know we should've talked about all of this like normal people before I interrupted somebody’s wedding.”

“My cousin’s wedding.”

“-but apparently I am very stupid when it comes to you.”

You stop for a second. Take in her honesty. And grin helplessly. “That much is clear.”

“And I don’t…” She trails off with a small shrug. “I don’t want this to stay undefined forever.”

Warmth slowly blooms out from your chest and across your body.

“So what are you saying?”

Alexia immediately looks scandalised, ears seemingly permanently pink. “You know what I’m saying.”

“Well, I want to hear you say it.” 

She scowls at you like a toddler.

She’s the one that came all this way, made herself a laughing stock in front of at least forty people, and she has to say it?

You wait, very patiently. 

She groans under her breath like this is cruel and unusual punishment. 

Then, finally, with burning cheeks…

“I am saying that maybe, eventually, perhaps one day, hypothetically, I would quite like to marry you.” 

You burst out laughing, even if your heart skips a concerning amount of beats as your stomach flutters like you’re a teenager again. 

“You’re not supposed to laugh at that.” She complains, though watches you with a smile. 

You compose yourself after a few moments, both hands coming up to cradle her face and tilting her head down slightly.

“I’m laughing at how ridiculous this all is,” You tell her. “And how ridiculously happy it’s making me.” 

“Oh,” Alexia says, a small, shyer smile pulling at her lips. “Well… me too, then.”

She’s still looking at you like she’s waiting for the ground to correct itself. Like if she blinks too hard, you might disappear back into uncertainty and almosts.

Your hands stay on her face, her skin warm beneath your palms.

You let your thumbs brush lightly along her cheeks, slow and grounding, like you’re trying to convince her that everything that’d happened was indeed real. Even if there were some things she’ll omit in her memory of the day. 

“Hyopthetically.” You murmur with a pleased grin. 

She exhales a laugh, small and defeated, as her hands settle at your waist like she’s been doing it forever and just forgot to admit it out loud. 

Her gaze shifts then, less panic, more certainty finally finding its footing. Her eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second, then back up again, asking permission without words.

You don’t answer with words either. You just lean in. 

It’s soft at first, careful too. But Alexia melts into it soon after, one hand tightening at your waist, the other sliding up to the back of your neck as if she’s decided she’s not letting you go anywhere again, mistaken wedding be damned.

It deepens unhurriedly, no panic left to rush it. The faint, sweet taste of her sweetened latte mixes with the champagne on your tongue, and Alexia exhales a breath into you like she’d been holding it for months. 

When you finally pull back, it’s only by a fraction. Her forehead rests against yours. And you look, unmistakably, like hers in a way she hasn’t had words for until now.  

“I would’ve loved to have come along with you to this, you know.” She states a short while later. You lean back in slight confusion.

“As my plus one?” She nods like it’s obvious. “Nobody knew about us though.” 

She lets out a noise of acknowledgement, though doesn’t look like she even remotely cares about that. So you continue.

“What was I supposed to say?” You ask. “‘Hi, this is Alexia by the way, we cuddle during movies, sleep together, and accidentally act married sometimes but haven’t actually discussed it yet’?”

Alexia mutters something in Catalan beneath her breath that sounds offended at how you worded it. Though she couldn’t argue, because you were right. There was no way prior to this exact moment where whatever was between you could be trimmed down to a neat, proper explanation. 

She didn’t speak for a while, and neither did you.

You’d missed her the night before and had been too busy amidst all the wedding prep to get a chance to text her. So, her showing up was a nice surprise. A near perfect surprise, if she hadn't caused so much commotion. 

Her mind seems to go to the same place, for she groans suddenly. 

“What?” You blink up at her. 

She buries her face in your neck. “Patri and Kika saw all that.”

Your grin returns immediately, unable to resist hugging her tighter against you. 

“And they absolutely loved it. They’ll probably talk about it for the rest of their lives.” 

“Que dios me ayude.” She grumbles into your shoulder, then leans back. Smiles as you laugh.

Thinks she would probably interrupt a hundred weddings if it meant hearing that sound. 

Pinches the bridge of her nose nevertheless, already exhausted by the teasing torture awaiting her in the future.

“Why,” She mutters dramatically. “Did I have to fall for someone whose best friends are the two most annoying people on earth?”

You gasp in mock offence, which makes her roll her eyes. “You love them.” 

“I tolerate them. For you.” 

You can’t help your smile at that. She adored them anyway before, but even more now that they’re her people for the person she loves. 

“You know,” You start, and Alexia braces herself. “There is absolutely no way the team doesn’t find out after this.”

Alexia stills for a second.

Once upon a time, that had been the fear, hadn’t it?

Not shame– never shame. 

You were teammates first, friends first. Part of something delicate and tightly woven together inside that dressing room, the atmosphere that was the foundation for all the success. Neither of you had wanted to risk making things awkward or complicated.

Alexia looks past you absently toward the manor doors where Patri’s laugh echoes loudly from somewhere inside.

Then she thinks about the look on her and Kika’s faces. 

Shock first, then surprise, then delight. 

No judgement, no discomfort. Only happiness. 

Apparently everyone had seen this coming long before either of you did. 

The thought took a while to arrive, but it finds a place to land quickly. 

She shrugs one shoulder.

You frown at her slightly. “That’s it?”

She gazes at you. At your flushed cheeks from laughing, the crinkles beside your eyes. The way you’re standing close to her now, in her arms, without even thinking about it. 

Alexia smiles softly. “You’re my girlfriend now, no?” 

The word is new enough to make her heart swell as it crosses her mind.

Your face changed instantly at the word, shy but bright around the edges. You nod once.

“Yeah,” You agree quietly. “I am.”

She reaches up asbentmindedly, brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. 

“I think if they laugh, it will only be because we apparently made this difficult for absolutely no reason.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Probably.”

“And if they are happy for us…” She shrugs slightly again. “Then I don’t care anymore.” 

Your throat tightens ever so slightly at her honesty.

Because this is Alexia. Careful Alexia, private Alexia.

Alexia who holds her heart so closely protected most of the time. 

And she is standing here in front of a wedding full of strangers looking at you like she’s finally decided being loved openly by you matters more than being afraid of it. Stained shirt, and all.

You’re about to kiss her again when a shout suddenly erupts from the door.

“Come on, stop making out and party with us!” Patri yells.

“We deserve it after the show you put on!” Kika adds unhelpfully. 

Alexia sighs so deeply it sounds spiritual. Straight from the soul.

You giggle at her reaction and it instantly sends her lips curling upwards again. 

“Come on then, you heard them.” You say warmly, offering her hand as you step back. “Let’s go meet my family.”

Alexia’s face rapidly turns to one of horror. 

“In this?!” She gestures at herself. 

You rake your eyes deliberately over her once and decide you still think you’ve won a lottery no one else could ever win. Even with the current wild state of her.

You smile, slow and meaningful. “Exactly like that.”

“They’ll think I’m insane!”

You give her a pitiful look. “I think they probably already do, Ale.”

She stops her arguing. At the reminder of the events that’d led to this point, and the many people that had witnessed it… yeah, there’s no point trying to defend herself.

She exhales once. Glances towards the door where the party awaits. 

“I’m going to need champagne for this.”

You raise your eyebrows at her. “It’s mid-season.”

“Yes.”

“You never drink during the season.”

“Please don’t be offended by this,” She starts with a fearful expression. “There is absolutely no way I survive meeting your family after this without alcohol.”

You laugh brightly, unbridledly, and wrap your hand around her upper arm before beginning to guide her towards the door.

“Well, good news for you, girlfriend,” You say grinning up at her. “My cousin has an open bar!”

—

lol this is so fucking stupid but kinda love it. hope u do too :)

[enwoso]

who? y/n’s girlfriend | alessia russo

this was such a random idea that popped into my head, it doesn’t flow as well as i wanted it to but🤷

masterlist

you didn't know exactly when it shifted.

one minute you'd just been there watching your girlfriend of just over six months play football. just another face in the crowd, tucked into the stands with a coffee warming your hands enjoying the football in front of your eyes.

your girlfriend, alessia, name on the back of your shirt and then the next the people were recognising you before they even recognised the players walking past,

it was subtle at first. a double take here. a whisper there.

then-

"y/n? oh my god, hi.. can i get a photo please?"

you blinked at the young girl, startled, instinctively glancing over your shoulder like they must be talking to someone else. but no, the young girls' phones was already halfway raised with a hopeful smile waiting.

"yeah.. yeah, of course," you said, a little shy as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, stepping forwards a little. you were kind of unsure what to do. you'd watched alessia have hundred of times be stopped by people for photos but never yourself.

it should've felt strange and it did the first couple of times it happened. but the thing was, people weren't treating you like a celebrity. they were treating you like... part of it. like you belonged.

—

match days were sacred. they always had been.

you had your routine down to muscle memory at this point: same coffee order, same walk toward the stadium, same seat as you sat in the box with alessia's family with the same quiet buzz settling in your chest as the floodlights came into view.

but there was always a moment, the moment, that made everything else fade.

warm-ups. because that's when alessia would come out.

and without fail, without hesitation, her eyes would lift straight to the stands. straight to you.

it didn't matter how many people were there. whether she was playing in wembley or meadow park, how loud it was, how chaotic, how overwhelming. alessia always found you.

and every single time, you felt it. that tiny, invisible thread pulling between the two of you.

sometimes alessia would give a little wave, subtle and quick. sometimes it was just a look, soft and grounding but enough to say 'i see you'.

and you would smile back, heart already full before the match had even started.

—

the internet, however, had other ideas. it started with edits. then tweets. then entire compilations.

you reacting to goals. you clapping from the stands. you wrapped in an oversized jacket which people knew deep down would be alessia's, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes never leaning the pitch.

people noticed the way you watched alessia. watched her like nothing else existed.

'the way y/n looks at alessia... yeah, that's love.'

'i don't even watch football anymore, i just watch y/n watching football.'

and then, the joke. the one that refused to die and was commented on every one of alessia's posts.

'alessia russo? oh you mean y/n's girlfriend?"

'y/n's girlfriend is playing good atm!'

you discovered that one lying across alessia's chest one evening. alessia sprawled across the couch half watching the tv, half watching you scroll through your phone as you sat between her legs.

you let out a soft snort, reading all the different versions of the comment. alessia glanced down immediately, fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of your sleeve, "what?"

you tilted the phone slightly so alessia could see a little better. then there was a pause, she was reading them. "..that's rude-"

you grinned, shifting so your chin rested properly against alessia's shoulder, "i think it's quite accurate, personally."

"of course you do," alessia huffed, while trying and failing to not smile, "i'm the one who scores the goals for a living."

"and yet," you say start teasingly, eyes sparkling before kissing the corner of her mouth, "you're still only just my girlfriend."

alessia shook her head, but her hand slip up, fingers curling gently at the back of your neck, tugging you just a little closer.

"unbelievable," she murmured but her voice had softened, fond in a way that gave her away completely.

you just tilted your head, brushing a slow kiss along her jaw. "jealous?"

alessia didn't even hesitate. "mhm a little bit."that earned you a quiet laugh, warm and soft, the kind that lingered between them. "you're ridiculous," you whispered.

"yeah, maybe," alessia said, turning her head just enough to catch your lips lightly. "but i'm your ridiculous."

the words barely had time to settle before you kissed her properly this time. deeper, slower. it wasn't rushed or teasing anymore, but something steadier, more certain.

alessia leaned into it instantly, her grip tightening at the back of your neck as she pulled you closer, like she couldn't quite get enough.

you hummed softly against her lips, one hand sliding to alessia's waist, anchoring her there as the kiss lingered—unhurried, warm, familiar in the way only they were.

when the two of you finally pulled back, it wasn't by much. your foreheads brushed, breaths mingling, both of them smiling in that quiet, content way.

"still only just your girlfriend, yeah?" alessia murmured, voice softer now.

you smiled, nudging your nose gently against hers. "for now."

—

after matches, you never rushed off. you waited. always. no matter the weather, rain or shine. you'd wait. even as fans started to recognise you more, gathering near the barriers with hopeful smiles, you'd still wait.

'y/n! could we—just one picture? please!'

'y/n, you looked so nervous during that last corner—'

"oh i wasn't nervous," you'd laugh, even though you absolutely had been. you never said no.

even when it got overwhelming. even when there were more people than you expected. you stayed soft, patient, present—like you couldn't quite believe anyone wanted a piece of your time in the first place.

but the whole time, your eyes flicked back to the tunnel. waiting. looking.

alessia noticed that too. of course she did. she noticed everything about you.

the way you shifted your weight when you were tired. the way you smiled a little too politely when you didn't want to disappoint anyone. the way your fingers curled into the sleeves of whatever you were wearing when the crowd got a little too loud.

so she made it a habit.

no matter what; win, lose, exhausted, buzzing.. she went to you first.

the first time it properly clicked for everyone was after a late winner.

the stadium was still roaring, teammates pulling alessia in every direction but she broke away, scanning the stands with a kind of urgency that didn't go unnoticed.

and then. there. you. hands over her mouth, eyes shining, already halfway leaning over the barrier of meadow park.

alessia didn't slow down. didn't hesitate. she jogged straight over, grin breaking across her face in a way that cameras definitely caught, reaching up to take your hands for just a second.

just long enough.

"you saw that?" alessia laughed, breathless. you shook your head, smiling like you couldn't quite believe it either. "such a show off."

alessia squeezed your fingers. "only for you love."

and then she was gone again pulled back into the chaos but the moment stuck. online, it exploded.

'she scored and immediately went to y/n... yeah i'm unwell.'

'no because why is that so intimate???'

'y/n isn't just a WAG, that's her PERSON.'

'alessia russo: professional footballer, part-time y/n enthusiast.'

later that night, you were curled into alessia's side again, legs tangled, the quiet of your flat wrapping around the two of you.

alessia was scrolling, frowning slightly. you peeked over slightly. "what now?"

"...they've made another edit."

"let me guess," you said, already smiling, ready to joke on. "i'm the main character again."

alessia turned the phone toward you. it was a compilation—you in the stands, you laughing, you reaching out for alessia, all set to soft music.

and right at the end: alessia, looking up at you like you hung the stars. your smile faded into something softer.

"oh."

alessia locked her phone and tossed it aside like it suddenly didn't matter anymore."they don't get it," alessia said quietly.

you frowned slightly. "get what?"

alessia shifted, propping herself up on her elbow, her free hand brushing gently along your cheek. slow, deliberate, like she was memorising you all over again.

"that it's not..." alessia hesitated, searching for the right words. "it's not just you supporting me." your expression softened as you listened to the way she spoke.

"it's you," alessia continued, voice low, steady. "it's always been you. before the noise, before any of this. you show up every single time like it's the most important thing in the world."

you swallowed slightly, her hand coming up to rest over alessia's wrist. "because it is," you said softly.

something in alessia's expression cracked. just a little, just enough to let the affection spill through completely unguarded.

"no one," alessia murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched, "no one takes top fan from me, yeah?"

you smiled, breath warm where it mingled with hers. "bit possessive, no?"

"very," alessia admitted with a slight smirk. and then she kissed you. not rushed. not playful. just slow, warm, certain like something steady and unshakeable.

you melted into it almost instantly, your hand coming up to rest lightly against alessia's jaw, thumb brushing there in a soft, absent rhythm.

alessia leaned closer without thinking, deepening it just slightly, her other hand sliding from your neck to your shoulder, holding you there like she didn't plan on letting go any time soon.

it was the kind of kiss that lingered. no urgency, no need to prove anything. just the quiet reassurance, built in the way your lips moved together, familiar and easy. you tilted your head, chasing it when alessia shifted slightly, a quiet hum slipping between you both as you smiled into the kiss.

alessia felt it, of course. she always did and it made her soften even more, if that was possible. her thumb traced small, absent patterns against your hip, grounding herself in the moment, in you.

when you both finally pulled back, it was barely an inch close enough that your noses brushed, breaths still shared.

alessia didn't say anything straight away. she just looked at you, eyes softer than before, like the kiss had said everything she'd meant to.

you smiled first, quieter now. “i love you” alessia huffed a small laugh, nudging their noses together again. “i love you so much more."

—

the next match, same routine. same glance up to the stands. same smile. but this time, when alessia scored. she didn’t do her usual jump in the air and then run straight to her teammates.

she tapped the badge on her chest, then pointed straight at you.

clear and intentional. yours.

obviously later on, post match, the internet went wild again.

"y/n’s girlfriend strikes again." plastered across the caption of fan page posting about alessia’s goal

alessia reposted it to her main story, this time with a small photo in the corner which no one else but her had, a sweet photo of you mid-laugh, slightly blurred but completely perfect.

writing a small note underneath it, ‘always her person’

•

yourusername

liked by bethmead and 291,387 others

yourusername don’t mind me just doing my wag duties x

—

user stop guys mother has posted.

user god i wish i could be like y/n’s girlfriend

user but she’s only famous because she’s alessia’s girlfriend?

user who is alessia? i only know y/n’s girlfriend?

alessia love you my girl🩷

yourusername my one and only x

user ugh my parents fr

user ok but like her match fits are to die for

kyracooneycross yeah our little wag😝

yourusername i take it very seriously😌

[samkerrworshipper]

is it casual now?

leah williamson x tennis player au!reader

(pt.2 to worlds collide)

my take on a 3 times you and leah pretend to be casual and the one time you aren’t. i love this fic. wholesome and cutie and everything in between. it’s rushed and messy and unedited as always but i love anyways

You haven’t lost an Australian open in four years. Every single year you’ve competed you have won on your home stomping ground.

You are Australia’s crown opal, saving grace since Ash Barty had taken the nation's breath. You do not lose the open, it’s not a possibility, it does not happen.

Yet you’re lying under the covers of your own bed, sobbing, not that you’ll acknowledge it, because you have lost on your own nation's soil for the first time ever.

Undoubtedly you’ve been on a downhill as of late, it was only so long, really. But even at your lowest point over the past few years it's always been enough, your worst has still been everyone else's best.

Not today though.

Today you’d played like a bright eyed junior playing against her first rated player, bright eyed and naive to a fault. You’d come up to the net on almost every rally aimlessly attempting a volley every time. You’d chased the ball instead of commanding it, you’d played afraid and stupid.

After almost every game you’re critical, but you can’t ever say you’ve felt unable to recognise the person who played on the court.

The news headline already echoes through your head ‘Washed up or drunk on success?’ or if the media really wants to ruin you ‘Choked - Australia’s golden girl blows it all’. It won’t be anything you haven’t heard before, even when you win there’s always something or another to be said but at least when you win you know it's simply out of spite.

You are so much better than this, you’re the first tennis player since 1988 to win a calendar-year grand slam, you are the best.

Best evidently is not enough though.

After the final point you’d stayed strong, in a sport full of bad sports and unsportsmanlike behaviour you refused to fold, you’d hugged and celebrated your opponent and taken every photo before getting back to the locker rooms.

Even then you’d stayed strong, finishing your cool down and signing some t-shirts and meeting some ball kids before finally being taken back to your hotel room.

You hadn’t stopped crying since the door had locked behind you.

Your agent has come knocking, opponents, friends, trainers. You’ve overheard the murmurs ‘She just needs time - poor thing’ ‘She wasn’t ready for that’ ‘Were her parents here? Would she want to see them?’ ‘Just leave her be, she’ll be back tomorrow’.

The pity always stings the most, because whilst you’d love to refute it you wallow in it. You crave pity. It only validates you that this event is as bewildering to you as everybody else.

Unsurprisingly everyone leaves your door, not more than one door knock before it’s left deserted. You’re used to alone, you revel in it. There is nothing you crave more than the peaceful silence of your own presence. In this moment though you hate it, you hate yourself and you hate your self made isolation but you also have no intention of seeking anyone in your current state.

You’re stuck in the prison you’ve created and now thrown away the key to.

Until the door creaks open.

There are very few people who have a key to your room, your agent, trainer and the hotel staff. You bite down on the sheet and stop breathing, hoping whichever of the three it is that they assume you’re asleep and fuck off. The last thing you want to do is talk about tennis right now, you are so fed up with tennis.

“Baby?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You play dead because right now you seriously wish you were dead.

“I know you’re awake, you never sleep on your front. You say it gives you crease marks.”

Casual. It was the word used to refer to your relationship. Or the agreement that had been come to in the early morning hours of a random sunday.

Casual as in living in each other's houses whenever the both of you were in town. Casual in waking up at 2am to watch the other compete. Casual in every way that was not casual.

It’s easier that way or at least that’s what you tell yourself, it’s easier to be casual when something inevitably goes wrong.

Even when you kind of wish you could hold Leah’s hand in public without it being on the front page of a tabloid, even when you’d love to go to any arsenal game and sit in the family and friends section, especially when you wanted to love the woman you thought about constantly loudly without caring about anyone else.

You feel a hand fall onto the corner of the duvet, and slowly peel it back. Your face is still pressed into the mattress, which is now damp from your own tears.

“Baby.”

You don’t know why her voice flips you, but as soon as the syllables leave her mouth you jump from the bed straight into her arms, your head tucked straight into her neck.

You don’t comprehend it but you’re sobbing, soaking Leah’s top and throat.

“Hey-Hey it’s okay, it’s okay honey.”

It is anything but okay. The only thing that you can think of is your stupid fucking failure, your failure that is going to follow you around now for the rest of your life, that’s going to haunt any person whose ever touched your career, you will now die with this failure.

You were so fucking stupid, fucking useless. You’ve just ruined your whole year with one stupid game.

“Breathe baby, breathe, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

You’ve never cried in front of Leah, the last time you’d cried in front of anyone was when you’d dislocated your knee and torn your ACL at the juniors american open and you’d sworn from that day onwards you would never cry in front of anybody else.

Really casual.

Crying for you can be compared to an out of body experience, because it’s only in the aftermath that you can acknowledge that it’s occurred, not when it’s currently happening. Like now.

Leah tries to pry your head from her neck but you keep it buried, it’s bad enough you’re crying but to let her see you like this would be the ultimate dagger in your heart.

“I didn’t win.”

There is an air of disbelief in your words that you detest, but it’s honest, you didn’t lose because of an injury, illness, a better opponent or real reason, you simply lost. That hasn’t happened to you like this since you’ve stepped foot in the circuit. Rybakina was good, undoubtedly, but you were without a doubt the better player, yet you’d lost.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Except, you think, it does. At the grand age of twenty three you’ve apparently peaked and are on the decline.

“I didn’t win.”

At this point you wish you were a loser, or that losing was a part of you in some way or another, it would make this significantly easier.

“No, you didn’t.”

Your whole world crashes down around you, you swear you can feel the walls caving in and you don’t know what to do, you’re lost in a sea and you’ve forgotten how to swim.

Leah is your liferaft, holding you afloat as the waves keep rolling.

“I needed to win.”

It’s the truth, it’s what you deduce yourself to. You are a winner, it’s in your blood, it flows through you. You’re not accustomed to losing, you’ve never let yourself become comfortable with losing, second place is simply the first to lose, you’d breathed the words from the first time you’d competed on a clay court and lost, your father berating you for daring to embarrass him at the great age of 7.

“I know.”

It’s the words of a competitor, a person who has won plenty but has felt the crushing feeling of losing something far more important than the win. You feel like you’ve lost a part of yourself really, you’ve lost the part of yourself that you’ve always known, a part that you thought was like a 79th organ that’s now been ripped from your chest.

“But it doesn’t matter, even though it feels like everything. I promise you that in a year's time when you lift that trophy again this is going to be nothing more than a bump in the road. This is nothing in the scheme of your career, do you think anybody is ever going to remember the one game you lost? All anyone will ever remember is the thousands of games you won baby.”

Subconsciously you know she’s right, you couldn’t tell her any of the grand slams which Serena Williams lost, but it doesn’t make this hurt any less.

“I want to go home.”

You want to lie in your bed for at least a week and lock all of your rackets and balls in some cupboard to never be seen again.

“You have media tomorrow, you were supposed to see your parents the day after.”

You don’t have to verbalise to Leah that your parents interest in you will be nonexistent now that you’ve lost, you’re only ever important to them if there is a paycheck and trophy in hand.

“Rybakina can do my stupid media.”

Leah pulls back for a second, giving you a hint of a scowl.

“Don’t do that - Don’t be cynical. Regardless of how you feel, there is a country of people who love you even if you lose and today Rybakina deserved to win and she will be celebrated but you deserve to be celebrated as well.”

You don’t know exactly when Leah became so in tune with your feelings and thoughts but you feel the deep sense of knowing from her.

“I don’t want to see my parents.”

Your relationship is rocky on a good day, but right now you really can’t be bothered being a punching bag for them.

“Media and then the first flight home.”

As much as you detest the idea of having to wear a dress and a full face tomorrow and fake smile through every interview it’s a struggle you’re willing to endure.

“You’ll fly home with me?”

Leah’s been struggling with a hamstring issue so she’d missed this international window and been able to watch your last few matches, you know that she’ll be needed back at some stage though. You selfishly hope it’s no time soon, even though football is what Leah loves most.

“I’d never turn down a private flight home.”

You feel some of the tension ooze from your body, at least for now there is someone to look out for you.

Leah must feel it, the way your muscles relax for the first time and you melt into her.

“No, no sleeping yet. You need a shower and at least some kind of stretching or massage.”

You groan profusely. Suddenly very much questioning whether she hates you.

“Nope, you will thank me for it tomorrow. Shower.”

Leah gives you a push but you don’t move, you tell yourself that you can’t.

Then she lifts you.

“Leah. Stop it. Put me down.”

Your protests fall on deaf ears as she carries you all the way to the bathroom, not letting go until you’re set down on the sink countertop.

“You can be as sorry for yourself as you like but that doesn’t mean you are allowed to neglect basic care for yourself. You are going to shower, you are going to eat some dinner and I’m going to help you stretch out a bit because you played tennis for three hours and then we’re going to get into our pjs and get some good sleep before you have to face the world tomorrow, understood?”

Leah tugs at the hem of your shorts in the most unsexual way possible, getting them off clinically before reaching for the hem of your sweat soaked top and sports bra.

You’d never even bothered to get changed, just packed up your things and come straight to the hotel.

Once you were completely undressed Leah reached into the shower and turned it on, playing with the temperature until it was just right. She then undressed herself and pulled you up from the counter, walking the both of you into the shower together.

She made it a fairly quick process, washing your body from head to toe before quickly doing her own, then washing and scrubbing your hair, taking care to massage your scalp just the way you liked. You stayed limp, leant against her and the tile wall, you would have loved to have reciprocated in some way but you physically had absolutely no strength.

Somewhere between the massage of your scalp and the low massage down your shoulders you start crying again, except this time you feel it, not in the out of body way like before. You feel every sob deep in your core, every single tear that leaves your eyes.

Leah pretends that the tears are spray from the shower and that she can’t hear you over the fan but every single time a cry comes from your mouth she wants to hug you to her chest and kiss every part of your body. But she can’t. She needs to stay strong, to keep you together and functioning until you’re back home and can stay in bed for three weeks and get over this.

She doesn’t know if it is possible for you to get over this though, she’s seen you with setbacks, minor injuries and little bumps in the road but this is not that. She’s never had to hold you together, you’ve always managed to keep yourself as one.

She works her way back down your body, rubbing out the tension and soreness that comes from three hours of back and forth running and then wraps up by bringing you into her arms, rocking the two of you back and forth for a few minutes, you think if she could freeze the moment in time she would, cancel out all the outside noise and chatter and just keep the two of you like this.

But that wouldn’t be very casual.

All good things come to an end and the hot water gets shut off, contrasted with the deep chill that sets in as soon as the air of your airconned room fans across your skin.

Before your body has time to shiver Leah has a towel wrapped around your torso and has your hair wrapped around your head, sitting securely.

She dries herself off haphazardly and then works on drying you before applying your body oil and moisturiser with the practice of a woman who knows exactly how you like it.

You try to ignore the level of self sacrifice she is willing to give in order to keep you from feeling any semblance of uncomfortability. Especially as she dresses you completely, down to socks because she knows your feet get cold in your sleep, and tucks you into bed before even bothering to attend to her own shiver that's settled in.

Leah dresses impossibly fast, throwing on whatever t-shirt and shorts she can find before clambering into bed next to you, not giving you any choice but to be pulled directly to her chest.

She presses a few kisses to your forehead, your head tucked into her shoulder and neck.

“Go to sleep baby, it’ll all be better in the morning.”

So fucking casual.

Your next day is hell walking, from the minute your eyes open until you step onto the charter plane. Every interview, photo and interaction is comparable to pulling your own teeth out one by one. But Leah stands to the side throughout it all, never too close but never too far. The perfect ‘friend’, a supportive rock.

It isn’t until you’re both seated in the plane that you consider the gravity of it all, that truly, Leah isn’t just a fling at all. You don’t know how or why or what, you know you’re in a bad state already with the loss and could be going crazy but even with the loss, which should be the thing you are thinking about most, you can’t get the woman sitting across from you off your mind.

You think that if Leah hadn't been here, you wouldn’t have done any of it at all, you would have done what you’d done for the past few years and shut down and dug yourself into a hole for months and have suffered in silence, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

It’s far too much though, too much to consider, you don’t have time for more, you’re pretty sure you don’t want more. It’s just the residual pain that is putting you into an altered state of mind.

Or maybe not.

Since the beginning of your clandestine dalliance you’ve kept your number of football games observed limited to a number that could be counted on one hand.

The Euro’s final, the champions league final and a random Arsenal game that you’d watched in the middle of the night after a game that you just couldn’t manage to sleep after.

You’d decided you weren’t going to make the football thing a thing, every time Leah brought it up you feigned disinterest.

That’s why this feels so stupid.

You aren’t even quite sure why you’d accepted her offer this time, it happened at every home game, she’d offer you a ticket, multiple tickets in fact for a friend or companion (not that you had any), and like clockwork you would always turn it down.

Except for this time.

You’re two weeks off your loss in Australia, and Leah has recovered enough from her injury to be on the teamlist, a substitute you’re told, and you’re sitting in the freezing cold winter wind tucked up in some kind of family box feeling a little bit like a secret.

You’re particularly feeling a bit out of place considering that Leah had neglected to mention the part where the box she had you seated in was full of her family who seem just as lost as you are to your presence.

You’re wearing her champions league final winning jersey, tucked under a coat and jumper, but it’s there nonetheless.

It’s unavoidable to feel the multiple eyes of Leah’s closest family all over you, tucked in one of the corner seats of the intimate box, trying to avoid any and all eye contact.

This is why you keep things strictly separate, it all becomes messy far too quickly.

“Y’know I’ve been egging Leah on to get you down here for a game for months.”

It’s the voice of an older woman who forces your eyes up from the field, you recognise her face but you’re embarrassed and both glad you can’t pin it quite down.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The woman just laughs, in a way that makes you feel even more stupid, because the both of you swore up and down you wouldn’t tell a soul about your… situation, and yet this woman seems to know everything.

“I mean her trip to the open really was the nail in the coffin, I mean the girl started asking me about tennis, and darling I promise you I could hardly tell which lines are for what.”

You don’t really know what to say at all.

“Ma’am, I-.”

The woman smiles, she has the same smile/frown lines that adorn Leah’s face and happen to be your most favourite feature of hers.

“Bernie, please, I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m glad you came, Leah won’t say it but this means a lot to her. Now, I won’t pester you, but you want me to stay close to keep the sharks from closing in, because they might not have worked it out yet but they will eventually and trust me that’ll be too much for your first time. So let an old woman keep you company, alright?”

You’re ever more at a loss for words, so you just nod, smiling a little bit and going back to looking down at the pitch.

You don’t say anything until the game begins and you realise how little you truly know about football.

“I might need you to explain some things to me, Miss Bernie, if that’s alright.”

Something sparks inside the woman, and before you know it she’s running you through everything that is happening on the field in enough detail that you’re learning but not so much that you’re confused. It’s exactly what you need and makes you feel so much more in place.

Leah never ends up needing to go on, Arsenal, or the gunners as Bernie says are ahead three goals to none at the half break and by the end of the game have soundly won four to nil.

When you get up at the whistle Bernie pushes you back down into your seat.

“Nonsense, you need to stick around until Leah comes up.”

You don’t really understand the whole football thing, but you can’t quite figure out if Leah will be happy or not to see you having integrated yourself amongst her family.

You re-seat yourself though, unable to deny the woman who has undeniably taken you under her wing for the day in a way that you are unable to repay.

She talks tennis with you for a bit, asking polite questions in an attempt to make you feel more comfortable and it does, but it also makes you think about tennis which you’ve been trying to do very little of for the last few weeks.

You’re saved from the slightly awkward conversation though when Leah enters the suite, going around and giving everyone a hug before her eyes land on you and…

“Gran!”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It all clicks, the lock screen photo, the many instagram pictures, the bloody cadbury ad. You’ve just spent the last few hours talking to Leah’s very beloved grandmother, and you’ve had absolutely zero idea.

She embraces the women beside you before giving you a lopsided, slightly goofy, grin.

“I was just becoming acquainted with your little tennis player, far too humble she is, trying to tell me that all those grand slams aren’t a big deal.”

You blush, because to you they don’t feel like a big deal, or you don’t want them to be a big deal.

“My little tennis player likes to do that.”

She focuses her attention on you, a silent question knitted between her eyebrows saying ‘Are you okay?’, you smile at her as if to say ‘I can hold my own woman’.

“Bernie here was just telling me everything and anything I might need to know about football, I think I need to do my homework a bit better.”

Leah smiles, bright and big in a way you aren’t sure you’ve ever seen her do in front of her, it makes you feel warm, knowing that you’ve hit a part of her that she’s been itching to share.

“Nonsense, she was brilliant, picked it up like a real natural. I’ll be happy to have her here next week, when she sees a proper North London Derby there will be no turning back.”

You have absolutely no understanding of what that means but you smile nonetheless.

“Now Nan, she’s a busy wo-.”

You cut her off, because you don’t like to be boxed in by other people, but also because you want to.

“Send me the details and I’ll be here Bernie, although hopefully next time a certain somebody will actually step foot on the pitch.”

Leah curls an eyebrow as if to say ‘Wow’ and you simply smile, it’s much easier than beginning to consider exactly what you’re getting yourself into.

Then, without any prompt Leah wraps her arm around your shoulder and presses a kiss to your forehead in the most casual way that makes you feel slightly sick.

“I suppose I can hunt out a spare ticket for my favourite little tennis player.”

As the rest of her family looks on and Bernie looks at you, absolutely gleaming, you think of exactly how casual it all is.

It doesn’t hit the precipice for another few weeks.

You go to matches, you practically live at Leah’s apartment and nothing is ever said about it.

It’s the normal, the weird normal that neither of you ever comments about.

Until you get hurt.

It’s a fairly light training day for you, you’re hitting balls back and forth to your coach when you dive for a ball and completely over estimate until both your feet have left the ground and you’re skidding directly onto your head and shoulder.

You go black for the first little bit, before you become groggy, dazed at the feeling of your head being pressed to hard court.

Then the pain sets in, and the hands all over you, firstly asking if your neck is sore and if you can move all of your extremities.

Eventually when your c-spine is cleared you are rolled over, and one look at your physios face tells you that you don’t want to look at your shoulder.

From then it’s a series of phone calls, an ambulance ride, x-rays, MRIs and ultrasounds.

The whole time you stay silent, mentally tossing up exactly what it all is going to mean for your year.

After a few hours in the hospital you’re told that you’ve done the trifecta of injuries, a dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle and moderate grade concussion.

Your shoulder is reset fairly quickly, and after further assessment you’re assured that no ligaments have been damaged but your right arm and collarbone are well and truly out of commission for the next few months.

You don’t have anyone else to call but Leah.

“Hey babe, how are you doing? I’m just coming home now, I picked up Thai for dinner.”

You try to ignore how the simple domesticity makes your heart warm and fuzzy.

“I need you to come and pick me up.”

The line goes silent for a few seconds.

“Sure, from where?”

It’s a fairly abnormal request, one you’ve never asked Leah but she seems completely unfazed.

“The hospital, I’ll send you the address.”

You’re exhausted, and really don’t feel like explaining any further.

“The hospital?”

The anxiety that jumps in her voice makes you feel even more nauseous, and you’d already vomited your whole stomach contents in the ambulance.

“Yeah, I’m getting my agent to send you the address, text me when you’re out front and I’ll come down.”

You hang up before she can say anything.

A text never comes, although you half expect that.

Instead, you get Leah barreling into your hospital room, completely dishevelled and looking like she’s broken at least five laws to get to where she is.

You look pathetic, far more injured than how you truly feel.

You’ve got stupid bandages all over your forehead and hairline to cover the stupid marks you’d made from skidding face first again the court. Your hair must be all over the place, your right arm is in a sling and completely immobilised and you hypothesise that you’re probably pale from not being able to eat for hours.

“What the fuck happened?”

When she speaks she’s talking to your coach and physio, not you.

“I’m fine, Leah, I just want to go home.”

Her eyes don’t even move to you.

“She has a medial clavicle fracture, a moderate concussion and a relocated shoulder. They had to give her a mild sedative for the relocation, she’s coming off of it fine. She’s got an appointment with the specialist first thing tomorrow morning to talk about treatment options.”

Leah’s eyebrows shoot to her forehead, now looking at you in accusation.

“Why didn’t you call me earlier? My god.”

You want to argue that you didn’t need her, that you were completely fine. But it would all be a lie, from the moment you’d woken up dazed and confused the only person you’d wanted was Leah. Through all the pain and fear the only person whose hand you’d wanted to hold was hers. The only person you’d wanted hugging you and telling you everything would be fine was Leah.

“The press release will go out tomorrow, she’ll likely miss the French of course but hopefully she should be back enough to play a round or two at Wimbledon."

Leah’s eyes are focused solely on yours, and she must see the plea, the plea to just get you out of the stupid room.

“I-C’mon let’s go home.”

Leah hovers beside you the whole walk out to her car, making you walk at a snail's pace.

It isn’t until the doors of her car close that you start crying. Her immediate reaction is to ask if you’re in any pain, which is logical, but of course you aren’t.

“The French was supposed to be my stupid fucking comeback to prove everybody that they were wrong and now I’ve got to sit on my arse and watch it all happening, watch stupid Swiatek win.”

Leah laughs, hard and heaved, in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable.

A silence lingers for a few seconds afterwards.

“Babe, you aren’t even a clay player, you hate the clay, you hate Roland Garros, and Iga is one of your best friends.”

Her hand comes down on your thigh, soft and comforting and you detest it because it’s everything you want and everything you shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t be taking this.

“Shut up.” You slap her hand away with your good hand, you would push away further but you physically can’t.

The car stays pleasantly quiet for most of the ride, although a bit of confusion strikes you when you realise about half way through the trip that Leah is driving back to your house, and not her own apartment.

A feeling settles in your stomach, when you realise that Leah is driving you to your own house, your house that she never stays at because you’ve always insisted that she’s not welcome or made a joke about her mattress being far more comfortable than yours.

Point being, Leah has never slept over at yours.

And despite your immediate cry when you’d sat down lasting about two minutes, you feel a new wave of tears start to pile up when the feeling sets over you that you’re going to be spending the night alone.

It’s understandable, Leah has training, Leah has a life, Leah is not made to orbit you. You are not the sun. The two of you are just planets, going around and around each other but never coming close enough for anything major.

When she pulls up in your driveway you hold it all in, gulping and remembering to breathe despite the lump that’s obstructing your airway.

But then Leah leaps out of the car, rushing to your door before you can even begin to open it, and helping you up before walking you to your doorway, and then into your townhouse.

She leads you upstairs, very carefully, into your bedroom and helps you change from your training shorts into a pair of sweatpants. The both of you decide that your upper body is far too hard and a problem for tomorrow.

You also completely disregard all skin care, teeth brushing and showering in favour of very carefully being helped into your bed, Leah steadying you on your left side.

It’s a few minutes before you say anything of substance.

“I’m really glad you were here today.”

Leah presses a kiss to your bandaged forehead, and although you can’t see her face you can sense the small smile.

“Of course I was here, I’m always going to be here.”

In the darkness and under the shadow of the stars and the moon and the slight delirium from the pain medication you’d been given, you say something completely unplanned.

“Always, always?”

There are words written underneath those layers, a silent question that lays beneath the layers.

“Yeah, for however long you’ll let me. I would put it all down for you. You’re everything.”

Three sentences, which string together all your smallest insecurities.

“I think I want that, forever, or, whatever.”

In the starlight you realise that this is anything but casual.

There is a smile in the way that Leah speaks, the stripping of the same little insecurities that you’ve been feeling.

“I think we’ve been forever from the beginning, you’re only now allowing yourself to realise it. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Despite all the blindness, all the continuous ignorance that Leah was simply entertaining you for a season, or a moment, you realise that maybe you can have more, you can need more.

A peace settles between the two of you, and despite how banged up and bruised you feel there is a lightness that overcomes you, in a way that you swear you’ve never felt in your whole life.

Minutes pass, and just as you think you’re about to drift off there is a murmur from beside you.

“Love you.”

It’s nowhere even in the realm of casual, but you were never casual to begin with.

You were expected to go for two rounds at Wimbledon. Three if you pushed your luck, but two as a realistic expectation.

You’d been toeing the line for an entrance to the French, but had ultimately decided it was too early.

Despite all doubts, you stand on the grass though playing for your third plate.

It’s defying all odds, yet from the moment you step foot on the court, eye to eye with Sabalenka you know it’s a won game.

You love Wimbledon, which is funny because you’re a hard court player, always have been always will be, but there is a little special place in your heart that England holds now and despite your Australian heritage you can’t shake the desire to bring a trophy home to England.

Leah, despite an invitation to sit in the Royal box, coming off of another champions league final win (one that you were present for this time around), is seated with your coaching team.

She doesn’t wear the cap and jackets like you had in your first game at the Emirates, she sits proudly, although her eyebrows are knitted in a deep anxiety of a person who knows how deeply important this game is.

You’re a different person to the version of you from six months ago, you’ve got some new shoulder tape and a different hair cut after you’d insisted you cut it due to the difficulty to wash it during your early sling days.

But you’re also relaxed as you come up to serve your first ball, there is no weight pulling your shoulders down. You feel the most free you’ve ever felt during a tennis game.

You win in two sets, the game over almost as quickly as it started.

You keep the press and presentation quick, there is a hammering in your heart that the feeling of a plate in your hands does not quell.

Once it’s all done you head in one direction, your eyes trained on the only thing you’ve been thinking of for weeks, months, maybe a year.

Leah is waiting in the stands with the biggest grin on her face you’ve ever seen, and before she can even say a single word your arms are wrapped around her neck and face pressed deep into the crease of her collar.

“You fucking did it baby, you fucking did it.”

There is still adrenaline coursing through your veins, you’re sure of it. Nothing else could explain the stupidity.

“Kiss me.”

Leah and you have been ‘soft launching’ for months, never going out of your way to admit things but also not in hiding.

There had been rumours, a fair share of them being true, but you’d let it all be background noise, you were happy for it to be background noise.

“You’re kidding.”

Out of the two of you, you’re the more private one, it’s much easier for you.

“Kiss me, idiot.”

You come out from her neck only to look up at her, and she does what you’ve asked.

It’s more a smile than anything else, the beauty of real happiness pressed together.

Tomorrow there will be headlines, some that call you gay icons and some that say it was exceptionally unprofessional. Yet it doesn’t matter, not as you look into the eyes of a woman you’ve loved for what feels like an eternity.

It’s not casual, not casual in any way at all, but you don’t want it to be. It’s painstakingly deliberate and it feels good, it feels like anything and everything you’d stayed up at night yearning for. You were never made for casual, you think this is so much better.

[stargirl-russo]

sigh another day passes and the longing continues

[uconnwcbbcrashout]

nobody will ever understand how important this is to me

[uconnwcbbcrashout]

games played:

1. 142

2. 140

3. 144

4. 154

5. 115

we are not comprehending how incredible this is

[multibows]

Trinity is looking TOO fine this season

[princessrella]

azzi fudd is achieving all these milestones (wcba list, all american 1st team(s), nil deals, 100+ in almost all statistical categories, near 40/50/100 shooting splits, leading big east in 3pm, (.2 from leading all conferences)) in half the time others have - this is her first ever healthy season in case anyone forget

[azzibuckets]

will never not be proud of azzi and that’s the truth!