Summary: Love, fury, and heartbreak collide as Reece and Y/n face the truth neither of them was ready for.
2174 words - Masterlist
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Auckland always felt heavier when the Broncos came to town.
The city buzzed with anticipation—streets lined with Warriors flags, kids in jerseys darting between food trucks, and the scent of rain clinging to the air. But for Y/n, the excitement was laced with dread. Because every time Reece Walsh returned, it meant he’d be leaving again.
She hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the last time Brisbane played in Auckland. Not since he kissed her goodbye at the airport and promised to call. He hadn’t. Not really. A few texts. A few likes on her Instagram stories. Nothing that felt like staying.
They’d been “something” since 2021. Back when Reece was still with the Warriors. Back when he was 18 and trying to figure out fatherhood with baby Leila and his ex, Freda. Y/n had met him when Leila was still tiny—barely walking, always clinging to his chest. She’d seen the way he looked at his daughter, like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world. That softness was what pulled her in.
But Reece had walls. Big ones. And every time she got close, he’d retreat behind them.
Now, three years into his Broncos career, he was back in Auckland. But this time, she wasn’t waiting.
---
Reece felt it the moment he landed.
The air was thick with rain and memory. Usually, she’d be there—hoodie pulled tight, curls damp from the mist, waiting just outside the hotel with that quiet smile that made his chest ache and his pulse stutter. But this time, the curb was empty. No text. No call. Just silence.
It clawed at him.
Training was a blur. The drills, the shouting, the pounding of feet on turf—it all faded beneath the roar of her absence. His body moved, but his mind was elsewhere. Every pass felt wrong. Every breath felt stolen. She wasn’t there. And he couldn’t take it.
So he left.
Snuck out the back, hoodie up, cap low, heart hammering against ribs like it was trying to escape. He jogged through the wet streets, headlights streaking past like ghosts, until he reached her door. He knocked once. Then again. The pause between felt like a lifetime.
She opened slowly.
Eyes rimmed red, lips pressed into a line so tight it looked painful. Her silence hit harder than any tackle.
“You didn’t come,” he said, breathless, like the words had been trapped in his lungs for days.
“You always leave,” she replied, voice flat but trembling.
He stepped inside. The scent of her home wrapped around him—eucalyptus, vanilla, and something heartbreakingly familiar. The couch where they’d once laughed. The hallway where they’d kissed. It all felt like a museum of moments he’d abandoned.
She sat, arms crossed, eyes locked on the floor. And then, like a dam breaking, she let it spill.
“I love you, Reece. I’ve loved you since the first time you held Leila like she was made of glass and whispered you didn’t know what you were doing. I’ve loved you through every game, every flight, every silence. And every time you leave, it feels like my heart breaks all over again. Like I’m disposable. Like I’m just the girl who waits.”
Her voice cracked. Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and furious.
Reece stood frozen. He’d never heard her say it. Not like this. Not with her soul laid bare and her pain bleeding into every word.
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, helpless.
“Then don’t,” she said, standing. “Just go.”
He reached for her hand, desperate. “Come to the game tonight.”
She shook her head. No words. Just the soft click of the door closing between them.
---
An hour later, her phone buzzed.
Patty: You coming tonight?
Riki: usual drinks after?
She groaned. Of course they’d drag her in. She didn’t want to see him. Not like this. Not when her heart still felt like it was splintering. But she threw on her Warriors jacket, tied her curls back, and headed to the stadium.
The crowd was electric. The air pulsed with energy. But she felt like static—unseen, unheard, unraveling.
Then Reece stepped onto the field.
He moved like a storm. Fast. Furious. Beautiful. Every run was a scream. Every tackle, a prayer. And when he scored—he turned. Pointed straight at her. Blew a kiss.
She blinked, stunned.
Then again. Another try. Another kiss.
And again. A hat trick. Each celebration aimed at her like a spotlight, like a confession.
Whispers rippled around her.
“Who is she?”
“Is that Reece’s girl?”
“Look—he’s pointing at her!”
Cameras zoomed in. Her face on the big screen. Her heart in her throat.
She shrank into her seat, eyes burning. Because even in the middle of a roaring crowd, surrounded by thousands, she’d never felt more exposed. More seen. More loved.
And more terrified.
---
After the game, Reece was mid-interview—sweat still glistening on his brow, voice hoarse from shouting plays and adrenaline. The reporter was asking about his hat trick, about the electric energy of the crowd, about the Broncos’ comeback. But Reece wasn’t listening.
Because he saw her.
She stood just beyond the barricade, half-hidden behind a security guard, arms wrapped around herself like armor. Her eyes met his, and something inside him snapped.
Without a word, he stepped away from the mic, ignoring the startled crew and the blinking red light of the live feed. He walked straight to her, heart pounding louder than the stadium speakers.
“Trust me,” he said, grabbing her hand.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn’t give her the chance. He pulled her forward, right into the spotlight, and turned to the camera.
“This is my girlfriend.”
The words rang out like a declaration. Like a vow.
She froze.
Her jaw clenched. Her heart raced. The crowd erupted behind them, cheers and gasps and camera flashes. But all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. She felt exposed. Claimed. And not in the way she’d ever wanted.
---
The locker room corridor was dimly lit, echoing with the muffled sounds of celebration—laughter, music, the clink of bottles. But Y/n stood just outside, arms folded tightly across her chest, heart thudding like a war drum.
She didn’t know what she was waiting for. Maybe an apology. Maybe a reason to stay.
When Reece finally stepped out, still flushed from the game, jersey clinging to his frame like a second skin, she didn’t hesitate.
She shoved his chest. Hard.
He stumbled back, eyes wide, brows furrowed. “What the hell was that?” she asked, voice low and confused.
“What?” he repeated, blinking like he’d just been slapped awake.
“You didn’t even ask me,” she snapped, voice cracking under the weight of everything she’d held in. “You just dragged me in front of a camera like I was some prize you’d won. Like I was a moment, not a person.”
Her voice trembled, but her eyes burned. “Do you even know what that felt like? To be pulled into your world without warning, without choice? You didn’t think about me. You thought about the headline. About the crowd.”
Reece’s mouth opened, but no words came. He looked like he’d been winded—like her truth had knocked the breath from his lungs.
“I didn’t mean—” he started.
“But you did,” she cut in. “You meant to show them I mattered. But you didn’t stop to ask if I wanted to be seen.”
She turned, fury and heartbreak tangled in her chest, and stormed off—only to collide with a wall of muscle and warmth.
Pat Carrigan.
He caught her shoulders instinctively, steadying her. His eyes scanned her face, reading every emotion like a playbook. He didn’t need her to explain. He saw it all.
“Hey, hey,” he said gently, voice like a balm. “What’s wrong?”
She blinked up at him, tears threatening to spill. “Reece is an idiot,” she muttered. “He thinks he can just pull me in front of the camera and say I’m his girlfriend. He didn’t even ask me. He didn’t even think about how that would make me feel.”
Pat’s lips twitched into a soft, knowing smile. “He’s an idiot,” he agreed. “But he loves you. You know that, right?”
She didn’t answer. She just nodded once, barely.
Because love wasn’t the question.
Respect was.
--- Hours Later
The stadium was silent now. The crowd gone. The lights dimmed. The field stretched out like a memory, soft and endless.
Y/n wandered onto the turf, her boots sinking slightly into the grass. She lay down in the centre, arms spread, eyes fixed on the stars above. The sky was clear tonight—Auckland’s constellations blinking down like ancestors watching over her.
She felt the footsteps before she heard them. A familiar rhythm. A presence she knew in her bones.
Reece lay down beside her, close but not touching. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, quietly, he said, “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t move.
“I’ve been scared,” he continued, voice low and raw. “Scared of messing things up. Of not being enough. Of loving you too much and losing you. I’ve never known how to do this right. I’ve never had a blueprint for love. I’ve only ever had Leila and footy.”
She turned her head slowly, eyes meeting his. “You already have me,” she whispered. “You’ve had me since the beginning. You just didn’t know what to do with it.”
He swallowed hard, eyes glistening. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to make promises I couldn’t keep.”
“But you already did,” she said. “Every time you came back. Every time you looked at me like I was home.”
He held out his pinky, trembling slightly. “Promise me forever?”
She linked hers with his. “Forever.”
He leaned closer, hovering above her, breath mingling with hers. “Can I kiss you now?”
She nodded.
And he kissed her like he was rewriting every goodbye. Like he was carving her name into his soul. Passionate. Fierce. Tender. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for forgiveness—it gave it.
Under the Auckland sky, with the ghosts of their past watching and the future waiting quietly in the wings, they finally stopped running.
Summary: A brutal clash, a sideline glance, and a moment that steals the spotlight—Pat Carrigan’s biggest game might not be about footy at all.
Masterlist
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The lights at Suncorp Stadium burned brighter than usual. Maybe it was the pressure of finals week looming, maybe it was the roar of 50,000 fans, or maybe—just maybe—it was her.
Pat Carrigan rolled his shoulders as he stood in the tunnel, jersey clinging to his frame, the captain’s armband snug around his bicep. Adam Reynolds was out, and Pat had been handed the reins. But that wasn’t what made his stomach twist.
She was here. Y/n. Somewhere in the crowd. Their relationship was new—private, not secret—but tonight felt different. Tonight, he wanted to show her something. Not just the grit and grind of footy, but the heart behind it. His heart.
The whistle blew. The game began.
From the first set, the Storm came in swinging. Rough tackles, sly elbows, and relentless pressure. Pat took hit after hit, driving forward, rallying his boys. But the Storm were clinical, and the Broncos were rattled.
Then came the call.
Deine Mariner—sent to the sin bin for being off-side. The same thing Storm had been dishing out all night. Pat’s jaw clenched. He stormed toward the ref, voice raised, eyes blazing.
“You’ve let them do that all game! And now you send him off? That’s a joke!”
Y/n watched from the sideline, fingers twisted in the hem of her jacket. She’d never seen him like this—so raw, so fired up. She knew how much this meant to him. Not just the win. The leadership. The legacy.
And maybe… her.
The game dragged on. Eighty minutes of bruises, sweat, and sheer willpower. But the Broncos clawed their way back. Try after try. Reece Walsh danced through the line. Kotoni Staggs bulldozed defenders. And Pat—Pat was everywhere. Tackling, passing, leading.
Final whistle: Broncos 30, Storm 14.
The crowd erupted. Pat dropped to his knees, chest heaving, eyes scanning the sideline until they landed on her.
Y/n hesitated. She’d never walked onto the pitch before. But tonight felt different. She stepped forward, heart pounding, ten metres from the cameras, just behind the crew interviewing Pat for the Footy Show.
He was answering questions—something about defensive structure and momentum shifts—but his eyes kept flicking to her. The commentators noticed.
“Patty, you got someone distracting you over there?” one teased.
Pat chuckled, tried to refocus. “Sorry, yeah—just… someone special.”
Y/n smiled, soft and nervous. That was all it took.
Mid-answer, Pat broke into a grin so wide it made the crowd laugh. “Sorry, lads,” he said, handing the mic back and jogging toward her.
The cameras followed.
“Hi,” he said, breathless and glowing.
“Hi,” she whispered.
Then he pulled her in—arms around her waist, lips on hers, the kind of kiss that made the stadium forget the scoreline. The commentators lost it.
“Well, that’s one way to celebrate a win!”
“Carrigan’s got more than footy on his mind tonight!”
Pat returned to the mic, cheeks flushed, grin unstoppable. “Sorry about that,” he said, voice light.
The teasing didn’t stop, but he didn’t care. He was in love. And tonight, under the stadium lights, with the bruises of battle still fresh and the warmth of her hand in his—he’d never felt more victorious.
📸
Pat Carrigan (@ppaattyycarrigan)
@ppaattyycarrigan: We won the game. But I think I won something bigger tonight.
Tagged: @y/n_username
---
💛Liked by @jordan.riki, @walshyy07 and 87,492 others
@walshyy07: Bro finally soft launched and hard launched in the same night 😂 proud of ya captain 🫶
@kotonistaggs1: That’s my skip! 🫡 She’s a keeper.
@nrlupdates: Forget the scoreline, this was the real highlight of the night 👏
@broncosfanpage: THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭😭
@footyshowofficial: We were just trying to talk footy and he said “sorry lads” and kissed his girl. Iconic.
@stormfan_87: We lost but this was kinda cute ngl
@bronxnation: Carrigan just gave us the rom-com ending we didn’t know we needed 🥹
@suncorpstadium: Stadium lights, stadium love 💡❤️
📸
Y/n (@y/n_username)
@y/n_username: Not sure who won tonight, but I left with the captain.
Tagged: @ppaattyycarrigan
———
💛liked by @brisbanebroncos, @ppaattyycarrigan, @xaviercoates and 63,218 others
@brisbanebroncos: Captain Carrigan doing it all tonight 👏
@ppaattyycarrigan: You were the best part of my night x
@walshyy07: Man tackled love harder than he tackled the Storm boys
@kotonistaggs1: Skip’s got game on and off the field 😏
@jordanriki: Bro kissed her like he was diving for a try 😂 respect
@nrl: That’s what we call a post-match highlight
@melbournestorm: We’ll take the L, but that was smooth
@suncorpstadium: That kiss had better crowd reaction than the final try
Giggling and kicking my feet as I wrote this one. I love Patty 💛🏉✨ this is based on last nights game :)
Request: Hi , may I request a Nathan cleary x wife actress Latina American , imagine where she sings at his game and watches with their children just something cute 🥰 and ends in smut? If u write that if not that’s fine
Masterlist
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The stadium buzzed with anticipation, a sea of maroon and black rippling under the floodlights. Penrith Panthers fans filled every seat, their chants echoing like thunder. But for her, the noise faded into a hum. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart as she stepped onto the field, mic in hand, heels sinking softly into the turf.
She adjusted the silk scarf tied around her wrist, a quiet nod to her abuela, who used to wear one just like it when she sang boleros in the kitchen. Her family had flown in from Miami for the match, and she could feel their presence like a warm breeze at her back.
Nathan stood at centre field, his gaze locked on her even as he cradled their son, Luca, in one arm. The toddler wore a miniature Panthers jersey, curls peeking out from under his cap, one hand gripping his father’s collar with sleepy trust. Nathan’s other hand rested on his hip, his stance confident but his eyes soft, watching her like she was the only thing that mattered.
She gave him a small nod, and he smiled. That smile. The one that had melted her heart the first time they met on a film set in Sydney, when she was fresh off a whirlwind press tour and he was just a rising star with a quiet charm and a wicked sidestep.
The anthem began.
Her voice rose, smooth and rich, weaving through the stadium like silk and smoke. Every note carried her pride—not just for the team, but for the man who led it. Her husband. Her home. Her heart. She sang with the fire of her heritage, the rhythm in her blood, and the grace of every woman who had come before her. The crowd roared at the final crescendo, but all she saw was Nathan, eyes glistening, Luca clapping with tiny hands.
The game was brutal. Melbourne Storm came in hard, tackles flying, tempers flaring. She watched from the family box, fingers curled around her coffee cup, nerves dancing in her stomach. Luca sat beside her, munching on popcorn, occasionally pointing at the screen and yelling “Daddy!” with the kind of joy that made her chest ache.
Nathan played like a man possessed. Every pass, every kick, every tackle. He was everywhere. And when he scored the final try, sealing a 28–14 win, the stadium erupted. She didn’t wait for the cue. She was already halfway down the tunnel, Luca bouncing in her arms.
Nathan spotted them instantly. Mud-streaked and breathless, he jogged toward them, arms wide. He lifted Luca first, spinning him in the air, then pulled her into a hug that felt like coming home. Cameras flashed, commentators chuckled, but Nathan didn’t care. He kissed her temple, whispered, “You were perfect,” and held her like the world had stopped.
Later, in their suite overlooking the city, Luca finally drifted off between them, his tiny snores soft and rhythmic. Nathan turned to her, eyes still glowing from the win, but something deeper simmering beneath.
“You were the best part of tonight,” he murmured, brushing her hair back.
She laughed, low and warm. “Even better than that try?”
He leaned in, lips grazing her collarbone. “Way better.”
The city pulsed outside, but inside, time slowed. Her dress slipped down her shoulders, his hands tracing familiar paths with reverence. They moved together like a dance—slow, deliberate, full of love and longing. Every kiss was a promise, every touch a memory. The game was over, but their night had just begun.
And in the quiet hours that followed, wrapped in each other’s arms, they celebrated a victory that was theirs alone.
I’m sorry if this is really bad >_< I might rewrite later and expand
Summary: One cruel comment, one protective boyfriend, and a reminder that the Broncos boys don’t play when it comes to family.
Masterlist
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The first half had been a blur of tackles, line breaks, and the deafening roar of the crowd. As the halftime siren echoed, Jordan Riki jogged towards the tunnel, sweat glistening on his brow, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The Broncos were holding their own, and Jordan's performance had been solid, showcasing the aggression and athleticism that had become his trademark over his five seasons with the team .
As he approached the tunnel entrance, the usual chorus of cheers and jeers from the crowd intensified. But one voice cut through the noise with a venom that made Jordan's blood run cold.
"Oi, Riki! How's it feel knowing your missus is just hopping from one Bronco to another? First Carrigan, now you? She's making her way through the team!"
Jordan's steps faltered. The words hit him like a high tackle, unexpected and jarring. He turned sharply, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on a man with a smug grin, clearly pleased with himself.
"Say that again!" Jordan shouted, his voice a mix of anger and disbelief.
The man laughed, repeating his taunt louder, drawing the attention of nearby spectators and players.
Before anyone could react, Jordan lunged towards the barrier separating the players from the crowd. His teammates, still making their way off the field, froze in shock.
"Jordan, no!" Pat Carrigan shouted, sprinting forward.
Reece Walsh, ever the quick one, reached Jordan first, grabbing his arm. "Mate, it's not worth it!"
Pat joined them, placing a firm hand on Jordan's shoulder. "He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Let it go."
Jordan's chest heaved, his fists clenched, but he allowed his teammates to guide him down the tunnel, the jeers fading behind them.
The game had ended in a hard-fought victory for the Broncos. The team was elated, but Jordan's earlier confrontation lingered in his mind.
As he exited the locker room, freshly showered and dressed, he spotted Y/N waiting nearby. Her eyes met his, concern evident in her gaze.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," he replied, pulling her into a tight embrace.
They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the stadium fading into the background.
"I'm sorry about earlier," Jordan began. "That guy... what he said..."
Y/N pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. "You don't have to apologise. People will talk, make assumptions. But we know the truth."
He nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I just hate that they dragged you into it."
She smiled gently. "It comes with the territory. Dating an NRL player isn't exactly low-profile."
Jordan chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Still, I want to protect you from all that."
"And you do," she assured him. "Every day."
They stood together, the night air cool around them, finding solace in each other's presence amidst the chaos of the world they navigated together.
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The apartment was quiet, the city noise muted behind double-glazed windows. The post-game high had given way to a different kind of energy—slower, softer. Familiar.
Y/N padded barefoot across the living room, wearing one of Jordan’s oversized training shirts that hung mid-thigh. Her makeup was long gone, and her hair was piled in a messy bun, but he looked at her like she’d walked off a runway.
He was curled on the lounge, damp curls still wild from the shower, legs stretched out, TV remote in one hand. When she sat beside him, he automatically opened his arms, and she melted into his side like she was made to fit there.
“Hey, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into her temple.
“You okay?” she asked, voice gentle. She didn’t need to clarify. They both knew what she meant.
Jordan sighed, his fingers tracing slow circles into her thigh. “Yeah. Now I am.”
There was something unshakably grounding about home. About her. About the way her cheek pressed against his chest like she could hear every beat of his heart and know exactly what it meant.
“I hated seeing you like that,” she admitted after a pause. “So angry. So... not you.”
He nodded. “I was just so mad. Not about what he said about me—I’ve heard worse. But dragging you into it? Making you seem like—like you’re some groupie or a pass-around?” He scoffed. “You’re my everything.”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy but steady. “I know. And I know it’s just noise. But thank you. For caring so much.”
Jordan leaned down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to her lips. “I’d fight the whole stadium if I had to.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring,” she teased, smiling into his mouth.
He grinned, pulling her fully into his lap. “Okay, not the whole stadium. Maybe just that one muppet in the third row.”
They both laughed, and the tension of the night cracked and softened like sugar in hot tea.
“I don’t want to share you with the media or the rumours,” he admitted quietly. “But I’d rather go through all of that if it means I get to have nights like this. Us. Here.”
Her fingers found the chain around his neck—simple, silver, always tucked under his jersey. She tugged it gently, just enough to make him meet her eyes.
“Then let’s just stay right here a bit longer,” she whispered.
Jordan wrapped his arms tighter around her, one hand cradling the back of her head as he kissed her again—longer this time, slower. Everything he couldn’t say with words lived in that kiss. His gratitude. His love. His vow.
The TV hummed in the background, but neither of them paid it any mind. Wrapped in each other, tangled in warmth and quiet promises, it felt like the world had finally stilled.
And for once, being Jordan Riki didn’t mean being the forward with a highlight reel or a headline.
It just meant being hers.
—————
The sun cast a golden hue over the backyard, where the aroma of sizzling sausages mingled with the laughter of close friends. Reece Walsh stood at the grill, tongs in hand, flipping steaks with practiced ease. His three-year-old daughter, Leila, darted around the yard in a mini Broncos jersey, her giggles echoing as she chased bubbles blown by Y/N.
Jordan Riki lounged on a deck chair, a content smile on his face as he watched Y/N and Leila play. Pat Carrigan sat nearby, sipping a cold drink, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
"Auntie Y/N! Look at this!" Leila exclaimed, holding up a dandelion she had found.
Y/N knelt down, examining the flower with exaggerated interest. "Wow, that's beautiful, Leila! You're quite the explorer."
Leila beamed, then turned to Jordan. "Uncle Jordy, can you help me make a flower crown for Auntie Y/N?"
Jordan chuckled, rising from his seat. "Of course, princess. Let's find some more flowers."
As Jordan and Leila scoured the yard for blossoms, Reece glanced over his shoulder, a grin on his face. "She's got you wrapped around her little finger, mate."
Jordan shrugged, smiling. "Can't say no to that face."
Pat leaned back, watching the scene unfold. "It's like our own little family here."
Reece nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah, it is. Leila adores you all. She talks about Auntie Y/N and Uncle Jordy all the time."
Y/N joined them, brushing grass from her knees. "She's a sweetheart. It's easy to love her."
Leila returned, a makeshift crown of daisies and dandelions in her hands. "Auntie Y/N, for you!"
Y/N took the crown, placing it on her head with a laugh. "Thank you, darling. I feel like a queen."
Jordan scooped Leila up, spinning her around as she squealed with delight. "You're the best, Leila."
As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the yard, the group settled around the outdoor table, sharing food, stories, and laughter. In that moment, amidst the clinking of glasses and the soft hum of conversation, they found comfort in their chosen family, bound not by blood, but by love and shared experiences.
———-
Jordan Riki (@jordanriki)
@jordanriki:
Blood doesn’t make a family. Loyalty does. Don’t play with ours 🤝🖤 #NoOneTouchesHer #BBQAtWalshys
📍Brisbane 🧡 liked by @walshyy07, @ppaattyycarrigan and 68,203 others
Reece Walsh (@walshyy07)
@walshyy07:
Family first. Always. Say what you want. But if you’re loud enough to say it near our people, just know—we hear it. #AuntieY/N #LeilaApproved #Don’tMessWithOurCircle
📍Backyard therapy 💛 liked by @jordanriki, @y.n.username and 82,771 others
Pat Carrigan (@ppaattyycarrigan)
@ppaattyycarrigan:
Day ones only. Keep the noise out. BBQ, beers, and real ones. #ProtectOurOwn #SheWasThereBeforeThe Hype
📍Home 🔥 liked by @walshyy07, @nrlonnine and 75,114 others
Comments:
@brisbroncosfan: “The subtle shade is not so subtle 😂💅 Protect Y/N at all costs!!”
@nrlteaqueen: “We all know what this is about 👀 and they’re 1000% right for it.”
@lilwalshyfan: “Leila calling her Auntie Y/N 😭 the cutest. I love this friend group sm.”
@nrlgossipcentral: “So... Pat wasn’t her boyfriend?? 👀”
Summary: Reece Walsh's girlfriend, in the crowd at Accor Stadium.
Masterlist
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The roar of 80,000 voices was thunderous, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.
It was only a few minutes in—barely enough time for my nerves to settle—when I saw it. Reece stepped up into the line, trying to spark something down that left edge, and then—
Whack.
A sickening crunch. Heads clashing. Bodies slamming into turf.
I stood before the crowd around me even reacted.
“Oh my god.” “Oi, he’s knocked out.” “Send him, ref!”
The words came from every direction, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Reece. He wasn’t moving. Not properly. The trainers were already running.
My throat went dry.
From our seats, I could just make out his curls sprawled against the grass, the weight of a stadium suddenly pressing down like cement. I didn’t care that I was in a Maroons jersey in the middle of a New South Wales-heavy section. I didn’t care that everyone was yelling about Joseph Sua’ali’i being sent off. I couldn’t look away from Reece.
And then I saw it—his hand twitch.
He was conscious. But dazed. The medic was speaking to him, holding fingers up, checking his pupils. He tried to push himself up, but his legs didn’t quite follow.
“HIA,” someone muttered behind me. “He’s done.”
I sat back down, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I wanted to be down there, wanted to push through the sideline barrier and get to him, to check he was really okay and not just putting on that brave face he always does.
But all I could do was watch.
Joseph was sent off—first State of Origin send-off in years—but it didn’t matter. The scoreboard didn’t matter. The chants from Blues fans didn’t matter. My boy was off the field, and I didn’t know if he’d be alright.
My phone buzzed.
Chris: “He’s gone for HIA. Looks like they’re ruling him out. I’m gonna try and find out more.” Me: “Tell him I’m here.”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit still.
State of Origin is meant to be brutal. Fierce. Gladiatorial.
But tonight, watching him walk off, eyes glassy and mouth slack, it just felt cruel.
——
The fluorescent lights in the tunnel were harsh, clinical, nothing like the roar and chaos of the stadium just an hour earlier. Now it was quiet—too quiet. Just the shuffling of staff, the occasional burst of laughter from a distant corridor, and the thud of boots hitting locker room tiles.
She didn’t wait for permission. One of the QLD support staff nodded at her and stepped aside, and she was in.
The locker room was a mess—muddy boots, ice packs, strapping tape everywhere. Some of the boys sat slumped on benches, still in jerseys, still sweating. Others were in recovery gear, already halfway through a beer. But all she could see was him.
Reece.
Sitting in the corner, wrapped in a maroon hoodie, hood half-up like it could hide the glassy glaze still in his eyes. There was a bandage above his eyebrow, and an ugly red scrape blooming on his cheekbone. He was still. Too still.
Her breath caught as she walked toward him, arms already shaking.
He looked up and smiled softly. “Hey.”
She dropped to her knees in front of him. “Are you okay?” Her voice cracked mid-sentence. She didn’t mean for it to—had been holding it together all night—but it cracked anyway.
“I’m okay,” he whispered.
But his voice was hoarse, quiet. A little distant. Like his body was here but his mind was still out on the turf, blinking up at the sky, trying to remember where he was.
“You’re not,” she whispered back, fingers brushing gently against his jaw. “You were out cold, Reece. I thought—” Her throat closed again. “I thought you weren’t gonna get up.”
“I’m here,” he murmured, reaching for her hands. His grip was warm, steady. “Look at me. I’m here, alright?”
She nodded, but tears were already spilling down her cheeks, hot and messy. She wiped at them quickly, embarrassed, but he just leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I’m okay,” he repeated. “Swear on everything. Trainers said I passed the protocols, just got ruled out for precaution. I’ll be sweet.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend the hit hadn’t replayed in her mind a hundred times already, that she hadn’t Googled "long-term concussion symptoms" in the bathroom stall at halftime.
“I hated watching that,” she whispered. “I hated not being able to run out there and—god, Reece, I was just stuck in the stands watching you go limp and I couldn’t—”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know, baby.”
His hand came up, brushing the tear track from her cheek with his thumb. He looked tired, but solid. Grounded. Still him.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he added.
“You didn’t scare me,” she lied. Then gave a shaky laugh. “Okay, maybe just a little.”
That earned her a proper smile. Soft and crooked and entirely him.
“I’d take the hit a thousand times if it meant I got to come off the field and have you waiting for me.”
She choked on another tear-laced laugh, burying her face into the crook of his neck as he pulled her in, arms tight around her waist.
“I love you,” she mumbled against his hoodie.
“I love you too,” he said immediately, without a second’s hesitation. “Always.”
Around them, the room buzzed on with post-game noise—boys laughing, staff packing up, ice bags popping open—but in their corner, it was quiet.
Just two people clinging to each other, under the harsh lights, after the longest night.
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