i wish i could kick the bags under your eyes away
CHAPTER ONE — the night of the match
summary ˚₊ · »-♡→ in which Jude Bellingham is rushed to the hospital with a severe leg injury following the match of England vs. Argentina. amidst the chaos of overnight observation, he meets reader, who is an overworked nursing assistant that is completely oblivious to his worldwide fame. exhausted by a life surrounded by cameras, models, and sycophants, jude finds himself deeply intrigued by the assistant's grounded, ordinary nature.
genre ˚₊ · »-♡→ jude bellingham x fem!reader, jude bellingham x healthcareworker!reader, lots of drama, angst, which is mainly inner turmoil, fluff, mildly inspired by the pitt, hospital setting, NOT medically accurate, SLOW burn, pining, tension, eventual smut, ik this reads as a "y/n isn't like other girls!" fic but just read and you'll seeee, girl is overworked and tired, there is humor sprinkled here and there
word count ˚₊ · »-♡→ 4.4k words
author's note ˚₊ · »-♡→ tad bit indulgent because i work in healthcare but i think the patient romance trope is common (telling myself this so a hot ass soccer player flies me out). this is the beginning of a four chapter series, also available on my ao3! happy reading and comments/feedback much appreciated <3
bitterness swirled in the pools of espresso resting in the sunken depths of jude bellingham’s eyes. purple marked his underyes, evident from the exhaustion of today’s match.
jude stared endlessly into the darkness before him. the sun had dipped deep below the stadium, dispersing into the soft beams radiating from the streetlights lining the city of Atlanta, Georgia. cheers had evaporated into soft crickets of the night. jude wished to be at the stadium again–perhaps the roaring of the thousands would subdue the creeping hiss of failure in his mind.
there was no one to hush his insecurities or kiss his bruises away today and perhaps not even in the near future.
his bed had grown cold; desolate; void of life. there was no one to cheer him up.
not his mom because her flight was delayed. impeccable timing.
not ashlyn. they had opted for a break on terms their schedules were far too conflicting–five months and three weeks ago.
not his teammates because they were away at a pub, partying and drinking their sorrows away.
not even the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, evident of a successful match, because there was none.
jude bellingham had lost.
eyes frantically flickering across the ceiling in desperation to hold onto something, his mind wandered as he revisited today’s match–why did he lose?
it was England vs. Argentina. he was against messi today–his childhood hero.
now, of course, such failure may be an obvious conclusion against the great star lionel messi, but even a star begins to dwindle into mere dust after a while. was it foolish for jude to hope–believe–that he could win? that England could win?
jude’s fingers traveled from behind his head to the warm perimeter of his throat, grazing with soft fingertips that jolted with memories of the game today.
“it was unfair.” jude bitterly thought as he flexed his fingers against the bruise on his throat in frustration.
there were fouls, and despite the politically correct answer that rolled off his tongue in the post-game interviews, his heart was still constricted in grief. England was robbed of a victory, and jude couldn’t fathom the unprecedented sequence of events of today–messi ambushing him to the side in a chokehold.
a sob croaked deep within belligham’s throat, as it burned with the memory of messi’s touch. his touch did not feel warm, like the bright sun gleaming at him; consoling him; whispering through its soft rays that he performed well. no, it stung like an electric shock powered by greed and malice.
the skin no longer bore the marks of messi's grip, but the memory remained, charred blacker than any bruise. it wasn't the ache of physical pain that unsettled him. it was betrayal.
as a boy, jude had idolized lionel messi. posters had covered his bedroom walls. he had watched endless highlight reels, trying to imitate every kick, every strategy, every impossible goal.
never once had he imagined that the man he admired most would leave marks around his throat.
perhaps the old saying had always been right.
you should never meet your heroes.
“yo, mate, you coming to the afters with us?” a voice called abruptly. the door had creaked open, revealing a head of tousled hair. it was jude’s teammate. “we just nipped back from the pub to pick some stuff up, but we’re off to this party in town.”
jude’s breath hitched in surprise, his train of thoughts halted. he swallowed a thick pool of saliva swelling from the back of his throat, thankful the sliver of light from the door didn’t cast on his face and reveal his glossy eyes.
“nah, i’m alright. thanks, mate.”
the teammate opened his mouth to insist on the offer, but nodded and closed the door instead, seemingly understanding jude’s current state of devastation and need to be alone.
jude exhaled in relief when the door closed.
he looked back onto the ceiling, thick brows scrunching in exasperation.
“this is pathetic,” jude murmured to himself, bringing his arms from behind his head and sitting up. “i need to move on.”
jude swung his legs over the bed, planting his feet on the cool tiles. he launched himself, but a sharp sting swiftly struck his right leg, immobilizing him and making him fall back onto the bed with a thud. the athlete gasped in pain and clutched onto his calf, feeling an abnormal heat thumping beneath his hand.
jude’s calf was warm and taut beneath his palm. the muscle was swollen just enough to distort its usual definition. a faint purple bloom had begun creeping toward his ankle–jude ripped off his sock only to reveal the joint of his ankle was puffy, too, as he gently pressed his finger against the warm skin. was it an ankle sprain? surely he could sleep it off right? hell, how did he not notice before? was he so concerned with the match that it distracted him from his own health–he had to get a hold of himself for the next game; for his country.
a million diagnoses ran through jude’s mind, trying to decipher a possible cause– “can i still run for the game, though?” echoed louder than any other thought in his internal frenzy.
he planted his hands beside him again, and on the count of three launched himself again, grunting when his leg staggered beneath him. he shifted his weight to his left foot and sharply inhaled through his nose, pausing to recollect his breath. limping, he trudged across the room to the bathroom, but each and every step felt like he had stepped foot onto hot volcano rocks.
there was no way he could sleep this off. he had to go to the hospital.
“hey, girl, do you mind taking room 10’s vital signs? supplies all in the room. he was transferred from urgent care,” the charge nurse pursued, tapping her pen on her sheet of the patients before unclipping the paper from the clipboard. “we’re monitoring him overnight for his mobility and pain–actually could you check how his leg is doing too please?”
“fracture?” you questioned, taking the paper from her hands and scanning over the paper until your eyes landed on the designated room 10.
“calf contusion and some swelling ‘round the ankle. sports injury.”
you hummed and nodded in agreement. the charge nurse patted your arm and thanked you, winking at you before walking into another patient’s room down the floor. a soft giggle rocked your slumped shoulders at the gesture.
it was 12:03 a.m, which was only five hours into your night shift, but oh hospital administration and everything worse, you were tired–no, exhausted. a deep knot twisted itself into your shoulders and neck, and you had half the mind to ask the floor doctor to diagnose you with scoliosis because you could feel your spine contorting into unimaginable shapes that your legs should’ve been in instead.
“i need to get a hold of myself.” you chastised yourself, rubbing your shoulder blades as if that would ease the jarring soreness.
with an exhale, you walked over to the room, which was on the other floor. your unassigned floor. your nose scrunched in irritation at the thought, and you consoled yourself by telling yourself that at least you had a charge nurse who knew her “please’s” and “thank you’s.”
you tucked the sheet under your armpit, arriving at room 10. raising your knuckle to the door, you took a deep breath. long did you stop practicing your introduction to the patients when you were fresh in the field, the rehearsal playing itself on your lips like muscle memory.
delivering a rapid set of three knocks, you opened the door and entered the rather large room, focused on the paper you shuffled from your side. you reached for a pen from your right pocket, because the left pocket was stained with orange juice from a hostile patient throwing a tantrum since they wanted coke instead. you didn’t blame them–you wanted some, too, either way.
“hello, i’m [name]. i’ll be your nursing assistant for the day–night, sorry. i’ll be taking your vital signs and checking up on your..” you trailed and leaned over, glancing at the big whiteboard scribbled with various notes.
✔ fall risk.
questions: when can i play again?
ah right–calf contusion. athlete guy. you recalled, the charge nurse’s words washing over you, and mentally slapped yourself for forgetting. you really needed another energy drink. did you remember to pack an extra one? the hospital vending machines were so expensive, and they didn’t even give a discount to the employees!
“my leg. i've got a proper dead calf on the right, and my ankle's gone all puffy.” a deep voice rumbled, adorned with a rather thick accent. was it British?
yeah, i realize that now! how embarrassing. you thought to yourself, nodding in agreement anyways as you scribbled onto your personal notepad on the rather premium quality countertop.
occupied in your own thoughts, you were oblivious, or perhaps simply accustomed, to your patient’s scrutinizing gaze as you untangled the twisted wires from the vital signs monitor tucked away in the corner, dragging it closer to your patient’s bed. you unwrapped the cuff resting on the bars of the bed, still not looking at your patient.
“i’ll be starting with your blood pressure, okay?” you finally looked at the patient, narrowed your eyes at the sight of him.
the room was dim, but the faint lamplight of the nightstand beside him still illuminated your patient’s features, which were oddly familiar. the warm light served a contrast for the shadows paving under his skyscrapers of a cheekbone. tiny black hair lined his chiseled jaw. his thick brows furrowed together, and the creases in his forehead pressed against each other.
big brown eyes gazed upon you, but they weren’t inviting. no, they were dark and stormy and filled with worry. the puffiness underlying his eyes was a telltale sign. you felt a twang of pity.
you could tell he…wasn’t fully present, but nonetheless, he nodded, urging you to continue.
leaning towards him, you gently rolled the sleeve of the hospital gown only to reveal a well-defined bicep. palpable veins jutted out. the phlebotomists would love this.
“turn your arm towards me please.” you whispered unintentionally.
he hummed in response, softly too, as he flexed his arm towards you. you could feel his prominent muscles stretch in your hold, sharply inhaling through your nose at the feeling. shaky hands hovering around his prominent veins, you quickly pressed your fingers on the spot above the indentation of his elbow for a pulse before wrapping the cuff around his arm and connecting the tube with the machine. it was routine, and you were thankful for your muscle memory carrying you, because why were you being affected by some anatomy?
“i’m going to put this on your index finger, okay, to measure your oxygen.” you spoke–this time loud and clear–as you straightened your posture and reached for the pulse oximeter.
a crack erupted from your back, and a quiet grunt escaped your lips at the jabbing feeling. proper utilization of body mechanics wouldn’t make up for the years of fatigue nesting deep in your bones.
your patient stayed silent, simply looking forward now. his eyes drifted toward the whiteboard that reflected both of you.
he watched your movements.
you turned and clicked the green button on the screen of the machine. a faint whir filled the space between you as the cuff tightened around his arm. .
for some reason, you felt awkward, as if you were supposed to say something; ask something; compliment him something.
“so…how does your leg feel…” you trailed off once again, eyes quickly darting to the whiteboard for no more than a second.
you didn’t want to look any more unprofessional than you felt.
“jude?”
the name left your lips before you could even think about it.
why does that name feel so familiar?
“the imaging is rather reassuring. there’s no fracture, no tendon rupture, and no significant muscle tear.”
the physician glanced over the results before looking back at jude.
“what you have is a mild-to-moderate contusion to the right gastrocnemius, with some muscle spasm and soft-tissue inflammation.” the doctor paused, studying jude’s face; he opened his mouth before clenching his jaw in uncertainty.
he was no stranger to an injured athlete's emotions.
“the repeated hits to your leg caused some bleeding and inflammation within the muscle, which is what’s producing the warmth, tenderness, and swelling.”
jude glanced at his leg, swallowing a thick pool of saliva collecting at the back of his throat.
“and my ankle?”
“the ankle itself isn’t injured. the swelling you’re seeing around it is dependent edema. some of the fluid from the injured tissue has tracked downward toward the ankle and foot.”
jude sharply inhaled. only one thought played itself in his mind, like a broken record.
“how long?”
“if everything continues to improve as expected, you should be back to normal within about seventy-two hours.”
jude’s brows quirked up, and the tension pulling his jaw taut loosened, soft corners of his mouth curling ever so slightly. the doctor chuckled at the familiar sight.
“so i can play then?”
“if your pain resolves, your strength and range of motion return, and you pass a proper return-to-play assessment, there’s no reason to expect this injury to keep you out long-term.”
jude exhaled deeply, as his shoulders sagged with relief. he can play.
“but i want to keep you here overnight, and possibly through tomorrow, because of how quickly the swelling developed and how difficult it was for you to bear weight when you arrived. we’ll monitor the swelling, your circulation and nerve function, and how well you respond to treatment.”
the doctor closed the chart.
“this isn’t because the injury is particularly dangerous,” the doctor tapped his pan on his clipboard. “but it can be if you push yourself.”
silence fell between them. jude’s eyes fell to his lap, and the doctor knew he was thinking things all athletes thought in crises like these. hesitantly, the doctor stepped forward and tapped his clipboard against jude’s foot resting on the hospital bed, covered by layers of sheets, in a playful manner.
“you did good, jude. we’re proud of you.”
jude’s eyes shot up in mild dismay at the gesture, and he offered a small polite smile.
but it was only polite.
the doctor wouldn’t know–understand.
he had to–must–push himself. for his team. for his country. there was no other option but to bring it home. hours at the gym, late night practice in the heavy rain, subconsciously practicing dribbling as he walked down the stairs of wherever he was–it was all to win.
the familiar click of the door closing behind the doctor did not do much to ground him amidst his inner turmoil.
seventy-two hours.
would he be able to sprint?
change direction?
strike the ball?
what if the swelling didn't go down?
what if he wasn't cleared?
what if—
it was only until a knock on the door interrupted jude’s spiral, and a raspy voice forced through the room.
jude’s eyes passed over the girl standing by the door–another healthcare worker donned in scrubs carrying a complimentary paper. she didn’t look at him. he didn’t look at her for long, either, averting his gaze to his leg.
she spoke something, perhaps an introduction. jude did not hear, neither did he care really.
it seemed she didn’t care as much either, as she hesitated with her answer, like she didn’t know–didn’t care to know. why would she? she couldn’t possibly understand. jude noticed the pause in her words.
“my leg. i've got a proper dead calf on the right, and my ankle's gone all puffy.” jude twitched in annoyance, bouncing his unaffected leg as he fiddled with his fingers. he flexed the toes of his affected leg, now wrapped in soft cotton, but the soreness halted him.
jude wasn’t really annoyed, but the game, the injury, his teammates, his coach–he still didn’t notify them–it all drowned him, kicked him to the ground in a state of hopelessness like how messi did on the field.
since his admission, everything was really just a blur–the entire routine of it all.
another healthcare worker.
another set of questions.
another person checking his legs–or vitals, this girl said, too.
he'd lost count of how many people had examined him since he'd arrived, or really throughout his entire football career.
doctor.
nurse.
medic.
physio.
someone from imaging.
they all morphed into one, now, their voices dissolving into one long stream of medical terminology.
jude’s eyes drifted shut in an attempt to calm his bumbling nerves. lord, if they brought in a psychiatrist for his mental health–
“i’m going to put this on your index finger, okay, to measure your oxygen.”
jude opened his eyes again and turned his head to look at you. you were standing beside the bed with a clothespin-looking device and an assortment of tubes in your hands. he nodded.
he should contact coach now; tell him of his condition. surely, he will be able to play in–
warm.
the hairs on the back of jude’s neck pricked up, bristling against his skin like the freshly trimmed grass poking through his socks at practice. a softer shock jostled him at the feeling.
he hadn’t realized that he was so cold. even with the upgraded hospital room generously offered by the hospital for someone of his status, a hospital room remains a hospital room. the plethora of white sheets pooling around his legs did nothing to keep him warm. was jude shivering, or trembling from anxiety? jude did not know, only that for a moment his mind was no longer centered on the game.
it slipped somewhere distant.
so did the doctor’s voice.
so did the swelling in his leg.
but the warmth remained.
jude watched your movements through the reflection on the whiteboard. he blinked slowly, as if coming to consciousness, as his gaze followed your hands adjusting the clothespin thing on his finger.
you were careful, but there seemed to be a disconnect in your movements. he noticed the way you flexed your fingers after rearranging the tubes of the machine and the way you seemed to comfort yourself by resting your hand on your lower back.
“so… how does your leg feel–jude?” he noticed the pause in your question, again, and this time he did not feel annoyance but rather intrigue.
“it’s better. the physio was helpful.” jude responded, this time less curt and now looking at you fully. “my leg is still sore, but there isn’t as much as pain, yeah.”
you quickly jotted down in your notebook, before walking around the bed and pulling a chair to sit on in front of the bed.
“alright. i noticed that in your chart you’re at risk for falls,” you set down your notebook atop of the fluffy white blankets next to his foot. “would you say it’s less painful to walk now compared to when you first came in? on a rate of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest and 10 the highest.”
jude was fully facing you now. your posture was straight; confident with knowledge in your field, as you spoke as if you were declaring an order. but the shoulders in your uniform were rounded, and the tilt in your head seemed heavy, like the weight of your head was simply too much to bear. jude knew that look from practice when he leaned against his teammates after a long session.
“yeah, it’s about a 4/10 now. it was a solid 8/10 when i first came here–felt like i was stepping over hot rocks.” jude admitted freely, straightening his own posture and clasping his hands in his lap like a schoolgirl.
you offered a small smile. nothing more; nothing less.
“i’m going to check the swelling over your foot now, okay, and for any discoloration.” you spoke–declared–as your fingers diligently moved to unwrap the cotton wrapped tightly around his leg.
slowly, you unrolled the yellow padded sock and peeled away the covering around his ankle, too. a waft of an earthy musk hit your nose, like moisture trapped inside of a shoe after a rainy day. your nose twitched ever so slightly.
with practiced ease, you pressed your fingers gently around the area.
there it was again, warmth.
and also a sting.
“ah–!” jude gasped, instinctively reaching over to his leg and meeting where your hand was.
“sorry,” you immediately retracted your hand, trying to ignore the faint spark you felt when your fingertips touched for a split second. “it seems the ankle is fine, but your leg is a bit tender. there’s also some discoloration, but it’s not as much.”
“it’s alright.” jude murmured, his hand remaining where it was. did your fingers touch? he could feel the jagged edges of your nails.
you pulled back and wrote down something in your notes. jude wondered how you still had space left with all of that notetaking.
turning around to face the table of supplies your charge nurse had left, you soaked up a few white towelettes in the basin of water before wringing out all the extra moisture. you wished someone could do that with your spine.
“i’m gonna clean your leg and change your dressing.” you winced as the smell hit your nose again.
holding your breath in, you swiftly wiped over jude’s leg and then over his ankle. grabbing a new wet toilette, you twisted your index finger in the middle of the cloth, twirling your finger into the crevices between jude’s toes before wiping over the front and back. the calluses on the back of jude’s toes hitched onto the cloth–dry and immovable.
jude had leaned back now, retracting his hand and smoothing over some of the sheets besides his leg in an attempt to aid you. he watched your movements: the way your voice was still firm, yet your touch was gentler than before as you cleaned. his eyes tracked over from your hands to your face, and he quickly grasped a deeper look on the expression you wore on your face: the shadows underneath your eyes were darker than the navy of your uniform, and a few strands of hair had escaped whatever attempt you'd made to keep them in place, framing the perimeter of your face.
you looked exhausted.
not the polished kind of tired he'd seen on television, where someone smiled through it for the cameras.
you looked genuinely and painfully tired.
a cooling sensation on the back of his toes snapped jude out of his thoughts. you were spreading lotion on his toes, specifically dabbing it on the calluses formed from many a wear of his cleats and a run on the field. he sheepishly smiled at the tickling feeling, biting his lip to refrain himself from cracking a giggle.
you quickly redressed and bandaged the new cloth around jude’s leg before throwing away the old dressing and cleaning up the table, pausing as you finished up your duty. the nagging suspicion your subconscious had developed towards your patient prompted you to say something–ask:
“you got a question there on the board.” your voice was soft again but laced with unease.
jude glanced at the board, opening his mouth before closing.
“i’ve got a game in three days,” jude promptly responded, flexing his toes as his mind returned to the game. these past ten minutes were probably the longest he ever went without thinking about the game. “gotta make sure i can kick the ball proper.”
you slowly shook your head in understanding.
“so… you’re a–soccer player?”
“footballer.” jude responded curtly, blinking at the name. the correction came quickly, almost instinctively, before he could stop himself.
you blinked, too, surprise somehow relaxing your weary features as your brows lifted slightly from their dreadful droop. jude quickly realized that was the first–no, second, because you had smiled earlier (although it was a very small smile)–solid expression you made since your visit.
“sorry?”
jude recognized how it sounded and quickly shook his head.
“no, sorry. footballer. we call it football.”
“ah,” a small smile of amusement tugged the corners of your lips. “right, then. footballer.”
“footballer,” you quietly repeated to yourself, as if tasting a new flavor of energy drink and pondering if it was going to become your new regular. you worked with a multitude of different people with diverse backgrounds, and curiosity had kickstarted your brain now.
“i suppose that’s the… British term?” you hesitantly asked, careful to not overstep a boundary.
“yeah.”
you simply nodded again at the confirmation, as if marking away the information on your own very whiteboard in your mind. you were not great at conversing with your patients; it was why you switched to night shift.
“makes sense.”
a brief silence passed before a strong sense of intrigue had now replaced the simple and polite curiosity within you, spurring you to ask another question, “if you don’t mind me asking… your accent. it’s from the uk, right?”
jude studied your face.
“yeah. England.”
“oh.” you glanced back at his chart, still completely unaware. “that explains it.”
jude hummed in agreement.
“so what game, then?” you asked again, becoming more confident in your conversational abilities.
jude grimaced, his brows knitting together and his nose crinkling in utter befuddlement.
for years, jude had become accustomed to people knowing him before he introduced himself. fans knew his name. reporters knew his history. strangers knew his goals, his statistics, his performances. healthcare workers often gave him special treatment, like how he was automatically upgraded to a vip room without coach’s request today or how many nurses and doctors would use their position to ask a personal question or an autograph or something else a regular fan couldn’t.
for some reason though, this very woman before him didn’t know anything. she only treated him like a regular man with a regular injury.
“you don’t know?” jude questioned in disbelief.
“know what?” you retorted with equal confusion.
“who i am, mate.”
“well, you’re jude–” you quickly glanced toward his chart, doing a double-take. your eyes darted to the whiteboard, processing the medical notes before the name finally clicked. a sharp gasp cut off your breath. “oh. you’re jude bellingham. that soccer pla–the footballer.”
jude chuckled at your realization, and your quick correction at yourself.
“you recognized my accent but not me, darling?”
author's note: poor reader is just trying to do her job but jude's got stinky feet
© 2026 maybelmascara. all rights reserved.
guys am i a freek if i have the smut all planned out but not the next chapter 🥹🙏
