Pairing: Kenan Yıldız × Reader
Genre: Romance, Angst, Realistic
Summary: During a crucial match, Kenan gets injured, and the reader, his girlfriend, struggles with fear, worry, and helplessness while supporting him through recovery.
The stadium roared with energy. Tens of thousands of fans chanting, waving scarves, the air thick with adrenaline. You sat in the VIP section, hands gripping the railing nervously, heart pounding in sync with every drumbeat from the crowd.
Kenan Yıldız, your boyfriend, was on the field, moving like poetry in motion—his agility, his speed, the way he read the game—it was mesmerizing. You’d seen him play countless times, but tonight was different. Tonight, your nerves felt stretched thin, knotted with worry you couldn’t explain.
The ball rolled toward him, and he sprinted—fast, elegant—but then something went wrong.
A tackle came from the side. A sharp, sickening collision.
“Kenan!” you gasped, jumping to your feet as the crowd erupted with a mixture of cheers and groans.
He went down, clutching his leg, grimacing in pain. Medical staff rushed onto the field as your stomach dropped. Your fingers dug into the railing, knuckles white.
The replay showed a grim twist of his ankle. “No, no, no…” you muttered under your breath, heart hammering.
A teammate tried to steady him, but Kenan shook his head, wincing. “I… I can’t…” he groaned, voice tight.
You paced backstage, phone in hand, ready to call the hospital, ready to sprint onto the field yourself if you could. When the referee finally blew the whistle and Kenan was helped off, you nearly bolted down the stairs.
By the time you reached him in the medical room, he was sitting on the stretcher, face pale, sweat dampening his hair.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… twisted it. Nothing serious.”
“Don’t ‘nothing serious’ me,” you snapped, grabbing his arm to inspect the swelling. “You’re in pain. I can see it. I can’t just sit there while you pretend.”
He tried to shrug off your hands but winced at the movement. “Okay, maybe it’s a little more than nothing. But it’s manageable.”
You knelt beside him, face tense. “Manageable doesn’t mean you go back on the field. You’re not invincible, Kenan. You’re… human.”
He reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You worry too much.”
“I worry because I care!” you shot back, voice trembling. “I can’t lose you on a stupid tackle!”
He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know. I know you care. And I… I appreciate that. But I’ll be okay. Really.”
The ambulance ride was tense. You kept a hand on his leg, rubbing gently, murmuring reassurances as the bumpy road jolted him. Every time he flinched, your chest tightened.
At the hospital, the X-rays confirmed a moderate ankle sprain and minor ligament damage. The doctor recommended rest, physical therapy, and at least six weeks off the field.
“I told you it’s not that bad,” Kenan said quietly, though he didn’t meet your eyes.
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Not that bad? You’re a professional athlete, and you can’t even walk properly. That’s a big deal!”
He reached out, grabbing your hand. “I know. I’m just… scared. Not of the injury, but of disappointing everyone. I hate sitting out.”
You softened instantly, pressing your forehead against his shoulder. “You could never disappoint me. You’re my boyfriend, Kenan. Not a machine. You need to heal, and I’m going to be here the whole time.”
He smiled faintly, squeezing your hand. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you hovering over me like this.”
“I’ll hover as much as I want,” you said with a teasing smirk. “Part of the job description.”
Over the next few days, you stayed by his side constantly. You helped him navigate crutches, cooked his meals, and insisted on carrying the groceries and his gym bag. Each small act felt like a lifeline—not just for him, but for your own peace of mind.
“Do you need help with the ice pack?” you asked one evening, kneeling beside the couch where he was sitting with his leg elevated.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, but you noticed his hand trembling as he adjusted the pack.
“Fine my foot,” you said firmly, wrapping your arms around him. “Let me help.”
He let out a soft laugh, leaning into you. “You’re relentless.”
“And you love it,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“I do,” he admitted, voice husky. “I really do.”
One night, as he was lying on the couch, you were gently rubbing his ankle, murmuring encouragement. He shifted slightly and winced.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pain flickering across his features.
“Stop apologizing,” you said softly. “This isn’t your fault. Accidents happen.”
He turned his head to look at you, his expression raw. “I hate feeling helpless.”
“You’re not helpless,” you said, cupping his face. “You just need time. That’s all. And I’ll be here every step of the way. Even when it feels impossible, even when you want to run out there and play… I’ll be your anchor.”
His eyes glistened, and he whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”
“You do,” you said firmly, leaning in to kiss him. “Every bit of you. Injured or not, strong or frustrated, tired or stubborn… I love you, Kenan.”
He exhaled slowly, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you too. Thank you for… being here. For everything.”
Weeks later, Kenan’s ankle slowly healed, but he still relied on your presence for comfort, motivation, and a gentle push toward rehabilitation. Each small milestone—taking a few steps without crutches, doing balance exercises, even watching games from the sidelines—was celebrated together.
One afternoon, while helping him do some light drills in the living room, he stumbled slightly and you caught him instinctively.
“You saved me again,” he said, laughing nervously.
“You’re my responsibility,” you said, grinning. “And I’m not giving up.”
“I’m lucky,” he murmured, eyes soft. “You’re my rock. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d cope without you.”
“You’d manage,” you teased. “But you’d be miserable.”
He chuckled, leaning into you, resting his head on your shoulder. “I guess I’m lucky in more ways than one.”
“Exactly,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. “Now, heal faster. I have plans to spoil you a little more before you’re back on the field.”
“Plans?” he asked, lifting his head, curiosity sparkling.
“You’ll see,” you said with a sly smile, pressing another kiss to his temple. “I have ideas.”
And as he leaned into your warmth, the pain of the injury faded, replaced by the comfort of knowing he wasn’t facing recovery alone. That no matter what, you’d be there—his anchor, his nurse, his girlfriend, his home.
