Summary: After coming out months prior, the team thinks Pride month is the perfect time to celebrate you.
Word Count: 3.3k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
The knock on your apartment door comes at 2:47 p.m. on a Thursday in June, which is already suspicious because nobody just shows up at your place.
You’ve spent your first season with the Seattle Torrent carefully building a reputation. Quiet, reliable on the ice, politely unavailable off it. You answer team texts just enough that no one worries, show up exactly when you’re supposed to, and disappear before anyone can convince you to come to brunch, karaoke, trivia night, or whatever chaotic bonding activity Hannah is currently trying to make happen.
Your teammates have mostly learned to read your absence as preference rather than rudeness, and you’ve been grateful for that.
So when you open the door and find Alex and Cayla standing in your hallway, Alex holding an actual physical invitation card and Cayla carrying a paper bag from your favorite Thai place, your first instinct is to wonder whose birthday you forgot.
“Before you say no,” Alex starts, which is never a good opening, “just listen.”
You lean against the doorframe, barefoot in joggers and an old Torrent practice shirt. “That depends on what I’m saying no to.”
Cayla lifts the bag. “We come in friendship, peace, and excellent noodles.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“It’s thoughtful,” Cayla says, smiling. “There’s a difference.”
Alex holds up the card. “Also, this isn’t an ambush.”
“You’re both at my apartment uninvited with food and stationery.”
“Okay,” Alex says. “It’s a gentle ambush.”
“You’re not dying, right?” you ask, because that’s the only reason you can imagine for this level of effort. “Nobody’s dying?”
“Nobody’s dying,” Alex confirms, laughing. “Can we come in? This is weird to do in the hallway.”
You step aside because you’re not actually rude, just private, and there’s a difference you’ve spent years trying to make people understand.
They file into your small living room. It’s neat and minimal, decorated in a way that suggests someone lives here but doesn’t particularly want to be perceived while doing it. Alex drops onto the couch like she’s done it a hundred times. Cayla takes the armchair, leaving you to perch on the coffee table like this is an intervention.
“So,” Cayla says, voice soft but bright. “It’s Pride Month.”
Your stomach does something complicated.
You came out four months ago, in February, during a team meeting you’d requested with shaking hands and a prepared statement you’d rewritten seventeen times. Non-binary. They/them pronouns. You’d expected awkward questions, maybe a few stumbles, maybe the usual learning curve.
What you got was immediate acceptance.
Alex squeezed your shoulder hard enough to bruise. Hilary nodded like you’d just told her something completely obvious and said, “Thank you for trusting us.” Jessie asked quietly if there was anything specific you wanted changed right away. Hannah made a note in her phone on the spot, like proper pronouns were as important as a forecheck adjustment.
The team adjusted faster than you did. Rosters were updated, media guides corrected, and everyone moved forward like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It never did.
Except now it’s Pride Month, and Alex and Cayla are in your living room with Thai food and an agenda.
“We want to do something,” Alex says, using the voice she uses when she’s trying to sound casual and absolutely is not. “For you. To celebrate you.”
“I don’t need—”
“We know you don’t need it,” Cayla says gently. “But we want to. If you’ll let us.”
Alex holds out the invitation card.
It’s beautiful. Cream cardstock, subtle rainbow foil around the edge, your name written in careful calligraphy.
You take it because refusing would somehow be more awkward than accepting.
You’re invited to a Pride celebration dinner In honor of your courage and authenticity Saturday, June 13th, 7 p.m.
Your throat tightens before you can stop it.
Alex must see the panic on your face because she immediately sits forward. “It’s just dinner. Small. Private room. Good food. People who love you. Nobody you don’t know.”
“No speeches,” Cayla adds.
Alex pauses.
You narrow your eyes. “Alex.”
“One tiny toast.”
“No.”
“One very short, heartfelt toast.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s already written.”
You stare at her.
Cayla pats your knee. “I tried to stop her.”
“No, you didn’t,” Alex says.
“I thought about it emotionally.”
Despite yourself, you almost smile.
Alex softens when she sees it. “It’s not about making you the center of attention in a way that feels awful. It’s about letting us show you that we’re proud of you. That’s all.”
You look down at the invitation again. Your name looks strange there, written so carefully. Like something worth celebrating.
That’s the part that gets you.
“Who’s coming?” you ask quietly.
“Me, Cayla, Hilary, Jessie, Hannah, Emily, Megan, CJ, and you,” Alex says.
“That’s nine.”
Alex pauses. “Okay, nine.”
Cayla turns to her. “This is why we don’t let forwards do math.”
“I score goals,” Alex says. “I don’t count chairs.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
Cayla’s expression turns softer. “Everyone there wants to be there. Not because they have to. Because they care about you.”
You swallow hard.
You could say no. If you really said no, they’d cancel it. They’d understand. They’d bring noodles and sit on your floor instead.
Somehow, that makes you want to try.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say.
Alex lights up. Cayla’s smile goes soft and proud.
“But if there’s a cake with my face on it, I’m leaving.”
“No face cake,” Alex promises.
“No spotlight,” Cayla adds. “Just dinner.”
“And maybe one toast,” Alex says.
You point at her. “I’m still deciding whether to shut that down.”
“Fair.”
They stay for another hour, eating Thai food on your couch and talking about normal things. Alex’s apartment search. Cayla’s terrible luck with plants. Hannah’s newest attempt to convince everyone that themed team karaoke would be “good for morale.” By the time they leave, you’ve almost forgotten to be anxious.
Almost.
Saturday arrives with the inevitability of a penalty shot.
You wake up at six even though dinner isn’t until seven at night, your body fully committed to betraying you with nervous energy. You go for a run, shower, and then stand in front of your closet like you’re preparing for a playoff game instead of dinner with friends.
Friends who planned a whole thing.
In your honor.
Because you came out.
You try on three shirts, reject all of them, then circle back to the first one because apparently personal growth has limits. You settle on dark jeans and a deep green button-up. After a minute, you add the small enamel Pride pin Cayla gave you last month. Subtle rainbow stripes. Small enough that you have to look for it.
In the mirror, you look like yourself.
That should be comforting.
Instead, it makes your chest feel full and strange.
They’re celebrating you being yourself, which implies that being yourself is worth celebrating. That’s still a concept you’re learning how to believe.
Your phone buzzes.
Alex: “Picking you up at 6:30. Wear something nice but comfortable. And breathe.”
Cayla: “It’s going to be good. We’ve got you. Also, Alex has been told not to over-toast.”
You stare at the messages for a long moment.
Then you text back.
You: “See you at 6:30.”
You spend the next hour pacing, drinking half a glass of water, changing your socks for no reason, and telling yourself that this is fine.
By the time Alex’s car pulls up, you’re only about sixty percent convinced.
Alex is exactly on time, because of course she is. Cayla’s in the passenger seat, and when you slide into the back, they both turn to look at you.
“You look great,” Alex says.
“You look terrified,” Cayla adds.
“Both can be true,” you manage, buckling your seatbelt.
The drive takes twenty minutes in Saturday evening traffic. You watch Seattle pass by outside the window. Pride flags hang from storefronts and apartment balconies. Rainbow decals brighten coffee shop windows. The city feels dressed up for celebration, loud, colorful, and unashamed.
It’s beautiful.
It’s also a lot.
“How many people again?” you ask, even though they already told you.
“Nine including you,” Alex says immediately.
Cayla looks impressed. “Look at that. Growth.”
“I can learn.”
“Debatable,” Cayla says.
You smile despite yourself.
The restaurant appears too quickly. Alex parks and turns off the engine, but nobody moves right away.
“You can still back out,” Alex says softly. “If you really can’t do this, we’ll turn around. We’ll get burgers, go back to your place, and pretend we never attempted personal growth.”
Cayla nods. “Zero judgment.”
You could. You really could.
But you think about the card on your coffee table. About your name in careful calligraphy. About the way your teammates learned your pronouns like it mattered, because to them, it did.
You take a breath.
“I’m good,” you say.
This time, you almost mean it.
“Let’s go.”
The private dining room is on the second floor, tucked away from the main restaurant.
Alex leads the way up the stairs. Cayla walks behind you like a very calm bodyguard. When Alex opens the door, you stop breathing for a second.
The room is warm and bright, with soft lights, a long table set for everyone, and Pride decorations that feel celebratory without being overwhelming. Small rainbow flags sit in the centerpieces. The napkins are Pride colors. A banner along one wall reads Celebrate Authenticity in elegant script.
It’s sweet.
It’s thoughtful.
It’s terrifying.
Then Hilary starts clapping.
“There they are!” she calls, grinning as everyone turns toward you. “Our guest of honor has arrived.”
“Don’t call me that,” you say immediately.
“Too late,” Hannah says. “It’s already your title for the night.”
Everyone is smiling, and your face is burning, but it’s not awful. Maybe because nobody looks like they’re waiting for you to perform. They just look happy you came.
Hilary reaches you first and pulls you into a warm hug. “Proud of you,” she says quietly, just for you. Then louder, “Also, we were waiting on you to order appetizers, so really, this is a team nutrition issue.”
That makes you laugh.
Jessie hugs you next. “You look good.”
“I spent way too long choosing this shirt.”
“It was worth it.”
Emily grins as she squeezes your shoulder. “The pin is perfect.”
Megan gives you a quick side hug and says, “We put you between Alex and Cayla so you can’t escape.”
“That feels illegal.”
“Team strategy.”
CJ lifts their water glass from the table. “For the record, I voted for escape routes. Goalies understand exits.”
“Thank you, CJ.”
“You’re welcome.”
By the time you sit down between Alex and Cayla, the sharpest edge of your anxiety has softened. The menu is already set, which is a relief because making decisions feels impossible. Alex notices and nudges your shoulder gently.
“See? No stress.”
“You’re the stress.”
“I’m also the ride home, so be nice.”
Hannah raises her glass. “Are we doing toasts? I feel like we’re doing toasts.”
“We’re not doing toasts,” you say quickly.
Alex lifts her glass.
You turn to her in betrayal. “You promised tiny.”
“It’s tiny,” she says. “Emotionally large, but verbally tiny.”
Cayla leans in. “That’s the best you were going to get.”
Everyone raises their glasses, and you pick yours up, trying not to look like you want to hide behind the centerpiece.
Alex clears her throat. “To our teammate and our friend. Thank you for trusting us with more of who you are. You make this team better by being exactly yourself, on the ice and off it. We’re proud of you, we love you, and we’re really glad you’re here.”
Your throat goes tight.
“To authenticity,” Cayla says softly.
“To authenticity,” everyone echoes.
You clink glasses. Your hand shakes a little, but nobody points it out.
The food starts arriving, and slowly, the night becomes less about being watched and more about being included. Jessie tells a story about getting lost in Seattle during her first week and accidentally ending up at a dog adoption event. Hannah announces that this is fate and the team should adopt a mascot immediately. Emily says the team already has Hannah. CJ nearly chokes on their water laughing.
Megan talks about how strange and exciting it felt to be part of a new team in a new market. Hilary tells a story from her first year in professional hockey that makes the whole table go quiet, then laugh, then quiet again in the good way. Alex keeps stealing fries off Cayla’s plate even though she has her own.
You find yourself talking more than usual.
Not a lot. Not suddenly becoming a different person. But enough.
You answer questions. You make jokes. You tell them about the first time someone used your correct pronouns in public and how you thought about it for three days afterward. You admit that the team adjusting so quickly scared you at first because you kept waiting for it to get difficult.
“It was never difficult,” Jessie says simply. “It was just you.”
That almost undoes you.
Cayla squeezes your knee under the table.
Hannah points her fork at you. “Also, for the record, anyone who made it difficult would’ve had to answer to me.”
“And me,” Alex says.
“And me,” Emily adds.
CJ smiles sweetly. “And I have goalie gear. Very intimidating.”
You laugh, and it comes out easier than you expected.
Somewhere between the second and third course, Megan looks over at you. “Can I ask something? You can tell me to shut up if it’s too personal.”
You tense a little, but nod.
“What made you decide to come out to the team?”
The table quiets, but not in a scary way. Everyone just listens.
You set down your fork, thinking.
“I was tired,” you say finally. “Of editing myself. Of using the wrong pronouns in my own head. Of feeling like I was lying every time someone assumed something about me.”
You pause.
“And I figured if I couldn’t be myself with the people I trust on the ice, then what was the point? Hockey matters. But it’s not worth disappearing for.”
For a moment, nobody says anything.
Then Hilary nods. “That’s brave.”
“It didn’t feel brave.”
“Most brave things don’t,” she says.
The conversation moves on after that, but something in your chest settles.
Not completely.
But enough.
Halfway through dessert, which is thankfully a shared selection of tiny plates and not a cake with your face on it, you excuse yourself.
The bathroom is down a short hallway. You take your time washing your hands, staring at yourself in the mirror.
Your eyes are a little red. Your face is flushed. You look overwhelmed, happy, and scared all at once.
When you step back into the hallway, CJ is leaning against the wall.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just needed a minute.”
“It’s a lot,” they say. “Being celebrated.”
You lean against the wall beside them, shoulders almost touching. “How do people do this? The visibility thing.”
CJ smiles. “Carefully. And sometimes badly.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I’m very inspirational.”
You huff a laugh.
They turn towards you a little. “You don’t have to become loud just because people see you now. You don’t have to turn into a spokesperson. You don’t have to make every part of yourself available for public consumption.”
You look down at your shoes.
“Tonight isn’t about pushing you into the spotlight,” they continue. “It’s about reminding you that you’re allowed to take up space. Quietly, loudly, privately, publicly, however you want. You get to decide.”
Your throat feels tight again. “What if being me is quiet and private and kind of boring?”
“Then that’s perfect,” CJ says immediately. “You don’t owe anyone a performance. Quiet and private is still real. It’s still brave.”
You blink fast.
“Thank you,” you say.
“Always.” They bump your shoulder. “Now come on. Hannah is trying to convince everyone to go dancing after this, and I need you to help me pretend we’re too responsible.”
“You are too responsible.”
“I know. It’s tragic.”
You laugh, surprised by how light it feels, and follow them back inside.
The dinner winds down slowly.
The check is handled before you can even think about reaching for your wallet.
“Already taken care of,” Alex says when you protest.
“You can’t just pay for my celebration dinner.”
“I can, actually. I just did.”
“That’s obnoxious.”
“That’s leadership.”
Hilary hugs you before she leaves. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “Not just for coming out. For letting people show up for you.”
Jessie squeezes your hand and says, “Really glad you’re here.”
Hannah gives you a dramatic hug and tells you that next time you’re coming to karaoke for at least one song.
“No.”
“One chorus.”
“No.”
“Backup vocals?”
“Maybe.”
She gasps like you’ve handed her a championship trophy.
Emily tells you the banner was Alex’s idea but the calligraphy was Jessie’s. Megan says the group chat is already full of pictures. CJ promises they’ll send you only the flattering ones, then immediately admits they can’t promise that because Hannah has no filter.
By the time everyone leaves, your face hurts from smiling.
Then it’s just you, Alex, and Cayla in the parking lot under the June evening sky. The sunset paints everything gold and pink, and for once, the quiet doesn’t feel like hiding.
It just feels peaceful.
“That wasn’t so bad, right?” Alex asks, unlocking the car.
“It was terrible,” you say. “I hated every minute.”
Cayla snorts. “Liar.”
You smile. “Maybe.”
The drive back to your apartment is quiet in the comfortable way. Alex keeps the music low. Cayla hums along softly from the passenger seat. Outside, Pride flags blur past in the city lights.
When Alex pulls up to your building, you don’t get out right away.
“Thank you,” you say, voice rougher than you meant it to be. “Really. I know I’m not good at this stuff. Being celebrated. Letting people care. But it meant a lot.”
Alex turns around in her seat, her expression warm. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to let us keep trying.”
“You’re stuck with us,” Cayla adds. “No take-backs.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise,” Alex says.
You flip them off affectionately, which makes them both laugh.
Inside your apartment, everything is exactly how you left it. Quiet. Neat. Safe.
But tonight, it doesn’t feel empty.
Your phone buzzes before you even get your shoes off.
Pictures from dinner. A group chat thread full of hearts, rainbow emojis, and Hannah already campaigning for karaoke. Jessie sends a photo of the invitation sitting beside your dessert plate. CJ sends one where you’re laughing at something Alex said, head tilted back, eyes bright.
You stare at that one for a long time.
You look happy.
Not overwhelmed. Not cornered. Not like someone trying to disappear.
Happy.
The invitation card is still on your coffee table where you left it that morning.
In honor of your courage and authenticity.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe being yourself, quiet, private, careful, and still figuring it out, is enough. Maybe you don’t have to be loud to be seen. Maybe being seen by the right people is what counts.
You tuck the invitation into the drawer of your nightstand where you keep important things.
Someday, you think, you’ll look back at this night and remember what it felt like to be celebrated exactly as you are.
For now, you change into comfortable clothes, make tea, and settle onto the couch. Your phone keeps buzzing with messages from your team, your friends, your chosen family.
This time, you don’t ignore them.
You answer.
Being seen is still terrifying.
But tonight, it feels a little more like being loved.
“Leah, the movie” you mumbled, feeling the girl kiss up your neck and pulling your hand to grip her waist.
“We’ve seen this movie like ten times” Leah hummed back, breathing a little heavier against your neck as her hand slid its way under your t-shirt.
“Ye were the one that suggested we watch it” you laughed, not enough to lose focus on what Leah was doing, but enough for her to realise you could potentially lose your concentration.
“Because I knew what it would lead to” Leah smirked, looking up at you with lust filled eyes as she placed her lips against yours.
“Let’s go to bed” she whispered in your ear. It wasn’t often that you needed to stray further than the couch for things to go further, but you knew exactly what Leah was after when she suggested that.
You picked the blonde up, feeling her legs wrap around your waist as you dragged the two of you up the stairs and into bed, kicking your bedroom door behind you. Leah had gotten onto the bed, trying to bite back a giggle at how easy it was her for to get her own way with you. Meanwhile, you went to your drawer to get what you needed out of it as Leah smirked at what it was exactly that you were taking out.
You got everything ready while your friend that you regularly had sex with put music on, blaring it loudly from your TV. The routine was just so natural to you both by now. You’d start slowly, just teasing and toying, before it would get a bit more intense.
“What’s up?” Katie huffed loudly, unlocking your front door and stepping inside, out of the pouring rain.
Katie knew Leah was here, she’d seen her car outside, but you and Leah had been seeing each other for so long now, nobody barely batted an eyelid anymore.
“Where are ye?” Katie shouted a little louder. When your sister got no answer again, but heard the TV blaring from the living room, she presumed the two of you were in there.
“I’m just goin’ up to grab a spare hoodie, mine’s soaked” Katie called into the empty living room.
She thundered up stairs, the noise of your bed frame banging off the wall being completely drowned out by the noise of the TV as well as the noise of music coming from your room.
“Fuck, don’t stop” Leah moaned.
“God, I wouldn’t dream of it” you groaned back.
Leah’s hands were squeezing your shoulders and she was just about to fall off cliff’s edge, when your bedroom door swung open.
“Oh my god” Katie stuttered loudly, falling backwards and slamming off the wall outside your bedroom as you scrambled to get off and out of Leah.
“Ow” Katie whined.
“What the fuck?” You shouted from inside the bedroom, thankfully your duvet covering the both of you.
“Don’t act like this is more traumatic for ye than it is for me” Katie shouted back.
She was still not in your eye line due to happily taking comfort in the hallway and not having to look at you fucking her teammate. You got up and dressed quickly, waltzing outside to your sister and closing the door to give Leah some privacy.
“Are ye actually serious right now?” You groaned, knowing she’d interrupted at the worst possible moment for Leah.
“I thought when I heard the TV on that ye were downstairs” Katie tried to explain.
“I just needed a hoodie” she shrugged.
Katie had walked in on you more times than you could count by this stage, which was one of the main reasons you moved out of her house. This was the first time however, that you and her knew the name of the girl that was naked in your bed.
“Ye can’t just walk into my bedroom when-”
“Please” Katie gagged, clutching her mouth. “I actually feel sick after seein’ that” she dramatically hunkered over, placing her hands on her knees.
“Ye didn’t even see anythin’” you frowned, pushing her away so hard that she almost toppled over.
“Hey!” She grumbled, attempting to push you back, but you stood backwards, away from her hands reach. It always annoyed Katie how fast your reflexes were, and had been since you were old enough to fight with each other.
“What do ye need? A hoodie?” You asked, opening the door again and stepping back into the room.
Leah was lying under the covers and scrolling on her phone. You gave the girl an apologetic look and stuck up your pointer finger to let her know you’d be back to finish her in a minute.
“Uh, yeah” Katie nodded, not making any type of effort to look into the room.
“Here” you mumbled, throwing her one of your hoodies. “Just give me five minutes” you added.
“No, ye cannot be serious right now” Katie sternly looked at your smirking expression.
“Five minutes, max” you repeated, closing the door and twisting the lock as Katie nearly gagged, sprinting downstairs and turning the TV up louder.
“Five minutes? Romantic” Leah sighed playfully.
“Don’t think ye will need more than that, do ye?” you shrugged, still smirking at the older girl.
“Prove it” she bit back, tugging you back in to bed and taking the top you’d put back on straight back off you.
A collision on the pitch leaves you sidelined with a severe concussion right before the Champions League semi-finals. Stripped of football and trapped in the quiet of a dark room, the psychological toll of recovery threatens to pull you under but Alexia refuses to let you drown.
Word Count 7.1k
Warnings-Concussion, panic attacks, depression, heavy angst, hurt/comfort
Masterlist
The light of a Barcelona morning filtered through the sheer curtains of your shared home. You were already awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling that familiar match day adrenaline settling into your veins.
Alexia wasn’t asleep either. She rarely was on mornings like this.
You turned your head to find her sitting up at the edge of the bed, her back to you. She was perfectly still, her hands resting on her knees as she ran through her mental visualization a quiet, ritual she performed before every single fixture.
"You're overthinking," you said softly, your voice slightly raspy from sleep.
Alexia glanced over her shoulder. An unguarded smile touched her lips. "I’m not overthinking. I’m preparing. Chelsea’s pivot is going to be aggressive today."
"And we’re going to dismantle them, just like we practiced," you replied, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. "Come here. Stop stressing before you haven't even had your coffee."
She sighed, a quiet sound of surrender, and crawled back across the bed. She settled against your side, resting her head on your shoulder. You automatically reached up, your fingers threading through her hair, massaging her scalp. For these brief twenty minutes, before the alarms went off and the club’s itinerary dictated your every move, she wasn’t the legendary captain of FC Barcelona, and you weren't the starting winger. You were just you.
"Sleep well?" she asked, her voice vibrating against your collarbone.
"Like a rock," you lied seamlessly. In truth, you’d been restless. The Champions League quarter-finals always brought a different kind of pressure, a heavier weight to carry.
Alexia tipped her head up, catching your eye. She knew you too well to buy the act, but she didn’t press. Instead, she pressed a brief kiss to your jaw. "We leave in forty minutes. Let’s get up."
The drive to the Estadi Johan Cruyff was a masterclass in shifting dynamics. In the confines of Alexia's car,her hand rested comfortably on your thigh, her thumb sketching idle patterns against the fabric of your club tracksuit. The radio hummed with a low tempo indie playlist. But the closer you got to the stadium, the more the atmosphere inside the car transformed.
The soft, affectionate girlfriend beside you slowly faded, replaced by the fierce leader. By the time she pulled into the players' parking garage, her hand had retreated to the steering wheel, her posture rigid and alert.
"Ready?" Alexia asked, cutting the engine.
"Always," you nodded.
You walked into the stadium together, but the professional distance was already established. The locker room was a sensory overload of organized disorder.
Ewa was quietly lacing up her boots across the room, while Kika and Salma were sharing a joke, their laughter cutting through the underlying tension.
You found your locker, right between Patri and Caro, and immediately got to work. You pulled on your match kit, adjusting the Blaugrana fabric before sitting down to tape your ankles.
Alexia was across the room. You watched her out of the corner of your eye as she strapped on her shin guards. There was a gravity to her presence that anchored the entire squad. Whenever she spoke, the room naturally quieted down to listen.
Pere Romeu, walked in holding his tactical clipboard, his expression all business. The music was instantly killed.
"Alright, listen up," Pere’s voice projected clearly across the room. He walked up to the tactical board, tapping a marker against the midfield zone. "Chelsea is going to come out physical. They want to disrupt our rhythm early, press high, and force errors in the transition. We do not let them dictate the pace. One-two touches. Keep the ball moving. YN—"
You looked up, meeting his eye.
" I want you finding that pocket of space behind their left-back. Make them chase you. Exploit the width."
"Understood," you confirmed, nodding firmly.
Pere ran through the final set piece assignments and defensive duties. When he finished, he stepped back, yielding the floor to the captain.
Alexia stood up. She grabbed the Senyera armband from her locker, sliding it up her left bicep with a practiced, fluid motion. She looked around the room, her gaze sharp, assessing every single player. When her eyes locked onto yours, there was no softness only a shared understanding of what was required today.
"This is our pitch," Alexia said, her voice steady. "They flew a long way to try and take our momentum. We don’t give them an inch. We play our game, we protect each other, and we leave everything on the grass. Let’s go."
A collective shout echoed through the room as the team surged to their feet.
The air in the concrete tunnel was cooler, thick with anticipation. You bounced on the balls of your feet, shaking out your hamstrings, keeping your muscles warm. Beside you, the Chelsea players lined up, their expressions equally stoic. You didn't look at them. Your focus was locked on the rectangle of bright stadium lights at the end of the tunnel.
Just before the referee blew the whistle to lead the teams out, Alexia walked down the line, giving high fives and final words of encouragement to the starting eleven. When she reached you, she didn't offer a high-five. Instead, she grabbed the back of your neck with a firm grip that sent a jolt of reassurance straight through your system.
"Cabeza fría," (Cool head) she instructed.
"Always," you repeated your morning mantra, offering a sharp nod.
She let go, jogging up to the front of the line to lead the team out.
You took a deep breath, air filling your lungs, and stepped out onto the pitch.
From the opening minute, the tempo was suffocating. Chelsea had clearly flown to Catalonia with a mission to disrupt, bringing a gritty, physical edge that aimed to fracture Barcelona’s famous possession game. They pressed high and tackled hard, leaving bruises on ankles and allowing precious little time on the ball.
Patri operated neutralizing the English counter attacks and swiftly distributing the ball to Aitana. Whenever the midfield felt congested, Alexia was there, dropping deep to receive the ball, shielding it with her body, and orchestrating the transitions with a calm precision.
You were stationed out wide on the left flank, executing exactly what Pere had demanded. In the twenty-second minute, you received a cross-field pass from Mapi. You trapped it cleanly on your chest, dropping it to your feet in one fluid motion. The Chelsea right-back was on you instantly, breathing down your neck, but you dropped your shoulder, feinted inward, and accelerated down the touchline. You cut a dangerous ball back into the box for Salma, whose shot deflected off the crossbar.
The crowd groaned, then immediately erupted into supportive applause. You jogged back to your position, catching Alexia’s eye. She offered a quick, approving nod.
It happened in the forty-first minute. The score was still nil-nil. Chelsea’s goalkeeper launched a desperate clearance kick down the pitch to relieve pressure. The ball arced high into the sky, hovering in that dangerous, ambiguous territory between the midfield line and your defensive third.
It was a classic fifty-fifty ball. You tracked its flight path, sprinting diagonally to intercept it before the opposing center-back could establish dominance.
You kept your eyes glued to the ball, timing your jump. You launched yourself, fully committed, angling your body to flick the header toward Aitana.
You never even saw the Chelsea defender coming.
She was running at full momentum from your blind spot, equally committed to the aerial duel. Instead of meeting the ball, her forehead collided with the side of your skull, right above your temple.
The sound was sickening a crack that seemed to echo even over the chanting fans.
Your brain rattled against your skull, short circuiting your motor functions mid-air. You couldn't brace yourself for the landing. You plummeted awkwardly, and the back of your head whipped back, slamming against the ground with a secondary hit.
Then, everything went blindingly white.
When your consciousness flickered back, the world was fundamentally wrong. The vibrant, roaring stadium had been replaced by a muffled underwater sensation. A high pitched ringing shrieked in your ears, drowning out everything else.
You tried to sit up, a pure instinct to keep playing, but your body refused to obey. Your limbs felt heavy, pinned to the grass by an invisible weight. A wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, making you gag weakly.
Shadows blocked out the stadium floodlights. Hands were on you pressing against your shoulders, holding your neck completely still.
"YN. YN, do not move. Stay exactly where you are."
The voice belonged to the head team physician, though her words sounded warped. She was shining a penlight into your eyes. You groaned, trying to squeeze your eyes shut and weakly swat her hand away, but someone else caught your wrist.
You forced your eyes open, fighting through the blurry double vision.
Alexia was kneeling right beside the doctor.
Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the sweat glistening on her forehead. Her eyes were wide with panic as she looked down at you.
"Ale..." you tried to speak, but your tongue felt thick and uncoordinated. The word came out as a slurred mumble.
"Estoy aquí," (I'm here) she said immediately, her voice trembling slightly. "No te muevas, por favor. Stay still."
"The stretcher is coming," the doctor announced, her tone urgent. "Pupils are unequal. We need her off the pitch now."
"I can walk," you mumbled stubbornly, your competitive drive trying to override the trauma. You attempted to move, but the moment you moved your head, the stadium spun in a nauseating carousel. You choked back a sob, the pain finally registering a splitting, blinding agony radiating from your temple down to your jaw.
"Hey. Hey, look at me," Alexia urged, leaning her face into your narrow field of vision to block out the dizzying lights and the medical staff. "You are not walking anywhere. Just breathe. Look at me."
You focused on her eyes, anchoring yourself to her while the medics swiftly maneuvered the rigid backboard next to you. The crowd was eerily silent now, a collective, held breath sweeping through the thousands of fans in the stands.
As the medical team braced your neck and began to lift you onto the stretcher, the shift in gravity sent another wave of vertigo crashing over you. You squeezed Alexia’s hand weakly.
She walked alongside the stretcher as they began to wheel you toward the tunnel, refusing to let go until the fourth official physically stepped in her path, reminding her that the match had to continue.
Alexia stopped at the edge of the touchline. You caught one last, blurry glimpse of her standing rigid, watching you disappear into the medical tunnel before she was forced to turn around and step back onto the pitch without you.
———
Consciousness returned to you in fractured, disorienting segments.
First came the smell a sterile blend of antiseptic and something you couldnt place that instantly informed you that you were no longer within the familiar concrete walls of the Estadi Johan Cruyff. Then came the physical sensations an IV needle taped securely into the back of your hand, and a persistent throbbing that hammered relentlessly against the inside of your skull with every beat of your heart.
When you finally managed to pry your eyes open, you immediately regretted it. Even the dim lighting of the room felt like staring directly into the sun. You let out a groan, squeezing your eyelids shut as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through your stomach.
"Shh, slow down. Don't force it."
The voice was incredibly soft, hovering just near your right ear.
You tried again, opening your eyes just a fraction. The blurry silhouette sitting in the plastic chair beside your bed slowly sharpened into focus.
Alexia.
She looked exhausted. Her dark hair was wet and unbrushed, indicating she had taken the fastest post match shower in recorded history. She was dressed in her standard club-issued travel tracksuit and her posture was slumped in a way she never allowed anyone outside of your home to witness.
"Hey," you managed to croak, your throat feeling like it was coated in sandpaper.
Alexia let out a breath that sounded close to a sob. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the bed, and carefully took your free hand in both of hers. She pressed her lips against your knuckles, lingering there for a longtime as if she needed the physical proof of your pulse against her mouth.
"Hi," Alexia whispered, her voice filed with emotion. She kept her tone hushed, entirely mindful of your pounding head . "How is the pain?"
"Like Patri kicked a football directly into my brain," you mumbled, attempting a weak smile.
Alexia didn’t laugh. "It wasn't a joke, YN. I thought... when you didn't move..." She trailed off, swallowing hard, unable to finish the sentence. The image of you plummeting to the ground on loop in her head.
"I'm okay," you tried to reassure her, squeezing her fingers weakly. "Who won?"
A ghost of a smile finally touched her lips, though her eyes remained shadowed with worry. "We did. 2-0. Salma found the back of the net in the second half, and a converted penalty. We secured the semi-final spot."
"Good," you breathed out, the relief making you sink deeper into the hospital pillows. "Good."
Before Alexia could respond, the door of the room opened. The doctor stepped inside, holding a digital tablet. She offered a sympathetic smile upon seeing you awake.
"Welcome back," the physician said quietly, approaching the foot of the bed. "How are the nausea and the light sensitivity holding up?"
"Both terrible," you admitted honestly, shifting uncomfortably.
"I expected as much," She nodded, tapping a few notes into her screen. "The MRI came back clear of any cranial fractures or internal hemorrhaging, which is the best news we could hope for. However, you sustained a severe Grade 3 concussion. The secondary impact with the ground did the most damage."
You felt Alexia’s grip tighten around your hand.
"What's the timeline?" you asked, the competitive anxiety already starting to bubble up beneath the brain fog. "A week? Ten days? The semi-finals are in three weeks."
The doctor exchanged a brief look with Alexia before turning her attention back to you. The pity in her eyes made your stomach sink.
"Absolutely not," the doctor stated firmly, dismantling your hopes in two words. "YN, you suffered significant trauma. The standard protocol for a Grade 3 requires absolute cognitive and physical rest. That means no screens, no reading, no bright lights, and certainly no elevated heart rate. For the first two weeks, you are effectively on strict bed rest in a dark room."
"Two weeks?" you repeated, your voice pitching up in disbelief. "I can't just lay in the dark for two weeks. I'll lose my match fitness completely."
"If you attempt to rush this, you risk Post-Concussion Syndrome, which could sideline you for the entire season, if not longer," She warned, her tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "After two weeks, we will re-evaluate. Only if you are entirely asymptomatic will we begin light activity. Realistically? You are looking at a minimum of six to eight weeks before you even touch a football again."
The words hit you harder than the Chelsea defender had. Six to eight weeks. That meant missing the semi-finals. That meant potentially missing the final if the team made it. The latter half of the season was slipping through your fingers in the blink of an eye.
"But—" you started to argue, the frustration clawing at you.
"Basta," (Enough) Alexia interrupted gently but firmly. She reached up, cupping your cheek to stop you from shaking your head. "Escúchala. (Listen to her.) You are going to follow the plan to the letter. Football can wait. Your brain cannot."
You looked at Alexia, desperately wanting to argue, but her expression stopped you. She wasn't acting as your captain right now,she was acting as your partner, and she was terrified.
"We will discharge you in the morning once we manage the nausea," Te doctor concluded softly, sensing the emotional shift in the room. "Get some sleep, YN. The real work starts tomorrow."
As the doctor slipped out of the room, leaving the two of you alone the crushing reality of your diagnosis settled over you.The physical pain in your head was excruciating, but the mental agony of being benched, of being rendered entirely useless to the squad during the most critical phase of the season, was infinitely worse.
You closed your eyes, a tear of pure frustration slipping down your temple.
Alexia shifted her chair closer, the plastic legs scraping softly against the linoleum. She stood up, leaning over the bed to press a long tender kiss to your forehead, right beside the swelling of your injury.
"I know," Alexia murmured into your skin."I know how much it hurts. But I am bringing you home tomorrow, and I am going to take care of you. We will get through this. Te lo prometo." (I promise you.)
———
The transition from the hospital to the familiar sanctuary of your shared home in should have felt like a victory. Initially, you treated it exactly like one.
When Alexia guided you through the front door the following afternoon, her hand hovering protectively near your waist, you were fueled by the stubborn, blinding hubris of an athlete. Your entire life had been defined by overcoming physical adversity. Torn ligaments, muscle strains, hairline fractures you had conquered them all through grit and aggressive physiotherapy. You genuinely believed this would be no different.
"Two weeks in the dark, Ale. It’s practically a vacation," you had joked, lowering yourself onto the bed. Alexia had already drawn the blackout curtains.
She had paused, a glass of water in her hand, her expression a mix of fond exasperation and lingering anxiety. "It's not a vacation, YN. It’s sensory deprivation. And you have the attention span of a golden retriever. You're going to hate it."
"I heal fast," you had insisted, swallowing your prescribed anti nausea medication. "I'll be jogging by day ten. Watch me."
For the first forty-eight hours, your optimism held firm. The exhaustion from the trauma kept you sedated, drifting in and out of a heavy, dreamless sleep. But by day four, the initial shock to your system began to fade.
The reality of cognitive rest was agonizing. You couldn't read. You couldn't watch television. You couldn't listen to podcasts, because the mental processing required to follow a conversation triggered a pressure behind your eyes. Your existence was reduced to staring at the ceiling and waiting for Alexia to return.
By day six, the isolation began to curdle into severe cabin fever.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Alexia was at training, preparing for the upcoming weekend fixture a league match that served as the final tune-up before the Champions League semi-finals.
You felt fine. Your headache had receded to a dull, manageable ache. The nausea was gone.
I'm fine, you convinced yourself, throwing off the blanket. I'm literally fine. The doctor is just being overly cautious.
Your phone was sitting on the dresser, banished there by Alexia to remove temptation. You stood up. The room tilted slightly, a momentary wave of vertigo washing over you, but you braced your hand against the nightstand and pushed through it. You walked over, grabbed the device, and climbed back into bed.
You just wanted to check the team group chat. You just wanted to feel connected to the outside world, to the squad you were supposed to be bleeding alongside.
You unlocked the screen. The brightness was turned down, but the blue light still hit your eyes painfully.You squinted, fighting the immediate sting, and opened your messages. There were dozens of texts videos from Kika, tactical updates from Pere, well-wishes from Mapi.
You started scrolling. Ten minutes passed. You watched a short clip of training, tracking the rapid movement of the ball across the screen.
Then, the backlash hit. And it was catastrophic.
It didn't ease in, it crashed over you like a tidal wave. A sharp spike of agony drove itself directly through your right temple, so intense it made you gasp out loud. Your phone slipped from your suddenly numb fingers, tumbling onto the bed.
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyelids, but the darkness didn't help. The room felt like it was spinning. A rush of cold sweat broke out across the nape of your neck, followed immediately by a surge of bile rising in your throat.
You scrambled out of bed.You stumbled blindly toward the en-suite bathroom, your shoulder colliding hard with the doorframe. You collapsed onto the floor right beside the toilet, dry-heaving as the migraine turned into all consuming torment.
Every single throb of your pulse felt like a hammer striking an anvil inside your skull. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. The optimism that had armored you all week evaporated, leaving you defenseless against the realization that your brain was broken.
That was exactly how Alexia found you an hour later.
The front door opened downstairs."YN? Ya estoy en casa!" (I'm home!) she called out.
When you didn't answer, her footsteps hurried up the stairs. The bedroom door creaked open.
"YN?" she asked, her voice dropping as her eyes adjusted. She spotted your discarded phone on the bed, and then she heard the whimpers coming from the bathroom.
"Fuck," Alexia hissed.
She was beside you in seconds. She didn't turn on the bathroom light. She dropped to her knees on the tile, her hands immediately finding your trembling shoulders.
"Hey. Hey, I'm here," Alexia coaxed, her voice a low, steady rumble intended to pierce through your panic. She gently gathered you into her arms, pulling your back against her chest. "Breathe with me. In through your nose."
"It hurts," you sobbed, the tears leaking from your tightly squeezed eyes, entirely unable to regulate your emotions. The concussion had stripped away your emotional filters. "Ale, it hurts so bad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"What did you do?" she asked, not with anger, but with a weary comprehension. She reached up with one hand, pressing her cool palm against your forehead.
"I just looked at my phone," you wept, your fingers digging into the fabric of her training shirt. "I just wanted to see the team. I felt fine. I swear I felt fine."
Alexia exhaled a long breath, burying her face into the curve of your neck. "You're not fine, mi amor. That's the whole point. Your brain doesn't know how to process the stimulus right now. You overloaded it."
"I can't do this," you cried, the frustration finally boiling over, eclipsing the physical pain. "I can't even look at a fucking screen for ten minutes, Ale! How am I supposed to play against Lyon? How am I supposed to play football ever again if reading a text message makes me want to throw up?"
"Stop," Alexia commanded softly, her arms tightening around you, effectively trapping you in a secure embrace. "Do not spiral. We are not talking about Lyon. We are not talking about football."
"I'm useless like this!" you practically shouted, immediately wincing as the volume of your own voice amplified the throbbing in your skull.
"No eres inútil," (You are not useless) Alexia corrected fiercely, shifting so she could press her cheek against yours. "Listen to me. You are injured. If you had torn your ACL, you wouldn't be trying to run sprints on day six, would you?"
You sniffled, shaking your head carefully against her shoulder.
"Exactly," she murmured. "This is an injury. It's just invisible. And because you can't see it, you're trying to cheat the healing process. But you can't out-stubborn a bruised brain, YN. You have to surrender to it."
The truth of her words settled over you, extinguishing the last defiant sparks of your denial. You slumped completely against her, the fight draining out of your limbs, leaving you exhausted and defeated.
"I hate this," you whispered brokenly. "I just want to be on the pitch with you."
"I know," Alexia said, her voice softening. She began to gently rub circles into your shoulders. "I hate it too. The pitch feels empty without you out there on the left wing. But I need you healthy for the rest of our lives, not just for the end of this season. Understand?"
You nodded weakly.
"Come on," she coaxed, carefully helping you stand. "Let's get you back into bed. I'm going to get you an ice pack for your neck, and I'm turning that damn phone off completely."
You didn't argue. The hubris was gone, completely shattered by the reality of the setback. As Alexia tucked you back beneath the heavy blanket, enveloping you in the dark, quiet safety of the room, you finally accepted the brutal truth the road back was going to be the hardest, slowest battle of your career.
———
The physical agony of the setback eventually receded, but in its wake, it left something far more worse.
By the end of the third week, the sharp, blinding spikes of pain had dulled into a manageable, persistent pressure at the base of your skull. The vertigo only flared when you stood up too fast. From a purely clinical standpoint, the doctor noted improvement.
But as the physical trauma subsided, the psychological erosion began.
Concussions are notorious for altering brain chemistry, severely disrupting the delicate balance of serotonin and dopamine. Coupled with the isolation and the abrupt theft of your identity as a professional athlete, the descent into depression wasn't just a possibility,it was an inevitability.
It didn't announce itself with tears or dramatics. It crept in like a heavy, suffocating fog, draining the color and purpose from your world until everything was reduced to a stagnant, exhausting grey.
The blackout curtains in the bedroom, once a necessary shield against the agonizing light, had morphed into the walls of a prison. Yet, you had no desire to open them. You stopped tracking the days. You stopped asking about the team. You stopped caring.
It was a Thursday afternoon. The squad was in the thick of the Champions League semi-finals. You knew this only because the calendar on the nightstand said so, not because you felt any connection to the event.
You were lying on your side, staring blankly at the subtle weave of the banket. You had been in that exact position for nearly four hours. You hadn't showered. You hadn't eaten the carefully prepped lunch Alexia had left in the fridge. The mechanics of swinging your legs over the edge of the bed felt like a monumental, impossible labor.
Who am I if I can't run? The thought looped endlessly in the sluggish quiet of your mind.
The front door unlocked downstairs.
She walked into the bedroom, hesitating for a second at the threshold.
"Hey," Alexia said softly. She didn't turn on the overhead lights, opting instead to leave the door cracked to let a sliver of hallway light spill across the floor.
You blinked slowly, shifting your gaze from the blanket to her. She was wearing her training gear, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looked vibrant. Alive. Anchored to the world in a way you no longer were.
"Hi," you murmured.
Alexia’s eyes scanned the room, inevitably landing on the untouched glass of water and the empty space where your lunch tray should have been. A expression of sadness tightened her features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with forced, gentle neutrality.
She walked over, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. She didn't crowd you. She reached out, her fingertips lightly tracing the curve of your shoulder.
"You didn't get up today," she observed quietly. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact, layered with quiet grief.
"I was tired," you replied, looking away from her. You weren't physically tired, you were drained of the will to exist.
Alexia sighed."YN, you have to eat something. Your brain needs fuel to repair the tissue. Let me heat up the soup."
"I'm not hungry, Ale. Just leave it."
"I can't just leave it," she pushed, her tone taking on a desperate edge. "You've barely spoken two words in the last three days. You stare at the wall. You don't even get angry anymore. I miss you being angry about the injury. This—" she gestured vaguely to your motionless form, "—this scares me."
Her honesty cut through the fog, but instead of sparking warmth or comfort, it only ignited a deep guilt. You were dragging her down. The legendary captain of Barcelona, in the most critical phase of her season, was coming home to babysit an empty shell of a partner.
"Then go back to the Ciutat Esportiva," you whispered, pulling the blanket slightly higher, curling tighter into yourself. "You shouldn't be here worrying about me. You have Lyon to focus on."
"Don't do that," Alexia countered immediately. "Do not push me away. Football is my job. You are my life. There is a massive difference."
She slid closer, entirely ignoring your defensive posture, and wrapped her arms around you. She pulled your back against her chest, burying her face into your unwashed hair. Her embrace was warm and solid, a stark contrast to the cold void expanding inside your chest.
"I feel like I'm drowning," you confessed into the dim room, the admission slipping out flat and emotionless. "I look at the ceiling, and I can't remember what it feels like to run. I can't remember what my own laugh sounds like. I'm just taking up space."
Alexia’s breath hitched against your neck. Her arms tightened around you , as if she could physically squeeze the despair out of you.
"You are healing," she whispered fiercely, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her own helplessness. "It is a long, ugly road, but you are not taking up space. You are surviving."
"I don't feel like I'm surviving," you replied, closing your eyes. "I feel like I'm already gone."
Alexia didn't have an answer for that. She couldn't offer a tactical adjustment to fix a bruised frontal lobe. She couldn't captain you out of depression.
So, she simply held you.
It was shortly after 3:00 AM when the numbness finally fractured.
The transition from apathetic void to suffocating panic didn't happen gradually. It was immediate jolting you out of a restless, fragmented sleep. Your chest seized, your lungs desperately grasping for oxygen that felt entirely out of reach. The walls of the bedroom suddenly felt claustrophobic, pressing inward, threatening to crush you beneath the weight of your own uselessness.
You scrambled out of bed, your movements erratic and uncoordinated. You didn’t want to wake Alexia she had a double training session in the morning as the squad prepared for the final stretch of the season.
You stumbled blindly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You didn't dare turn on the overhead lights, relying only on the moonlight coming through the skylight.
You gripped the edges of the marble vanity. You forced yourself to look up into the mirror.
The reflection staring back was a stranger. You looked gaunt, the shadows under your eyes heavy. But your gaze was drawn, as it always was, to the jagged, pale scar cutting through your hairline just above your right temple. The physical proof of the impact. It was fully healed on the surface, but beneath the bone, the wreckage was still dictating your entire existence.
A hysterical sob tearing its way up your throat. I am haunting my own life.
You clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, your shoulders shaking. You had spent the last three weeks building a cage around your grief, trying to lock it away so you wouldn't become an unbearable burden to the woman sleeping in the next room. You were trying to be the silent patient. But the cage was failing. The hinges were snapping under the pressure of the depression.
You slid down the front of the vanity, your legs giving out until you hit the floor. You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms, shaking uncontrollably as a full-blown panic attack consumed you.
The bathroom door opened.
"YN?"
Alexia stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the faint glow of the hallway nightlight. She was wearing one of your big t-shirts, her hair sleep-tousled, but her posture was alert. She possessed an almost supernatural radar when it came to you,the moment you had slipped out of bed, she had woken up.
"Go back to sleep, Ale," you gasped, the words muffled against your knees. "Please. I just need a minute. Just give me a minute to get it together."
Alexia didn't leave. She stepped into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind her to seal the two of you in the private sanctuary. She dropped to her knees on the cold tile, entirely ignoring the discomfort, and crawled the short distance to where you were huddled against the cabinetry.
"Look at me," she requested, her voice a low, soothing murmur.
"I can't," you wept, shaking your head frantically. "I can't, Ale. I'm trying so hard to hold it in. I'm trying to be strong so I don't ruin this season for you. If I let it out... if I let myself actually feel how much I've lost... I don't think I'll ever stop crying. I'll just fall apart completely."
Alexia came closer, eliminating the remaining distance between you. She reached out, her hands gently but firmly unwrapping your arms from your legs, dismantling your physical barricade.
"Then fall down," Alexia murmured, one hand coming up to hold the back of your head, mindful of the scars beneath. "Fall down, YN. Let the cage go. I will catch you. I will not let you hit the ground, I swear to God. Just please, let me have you. The real you. Even if she is broken right now."
The love in her voice was the final blow.
The cage shattered.
A wail tore from your lungs, a sound composed of pure heartbreak. You collapsed forward, burying your face into the crook of Alexia’s neck, your hands desperately fistfuling the fabric of her t-shirt. The apathy of the past three weeks was entirely washed away by a flood of grief. You cried for the lost matches, for the terrifying unreliability of your own brain, and for the isolating fear that you would never be the same player or person again.
She wrapped her arms securely around your trembling frame, pulling you against her chest. She rocked you gently on the bathroom floor, her lips pressed firmly against your temple, right beside the scar. She didn't tell you that everything was going to be fine or that you would be back on the pitch soon. She knew you were too smart to believe those lies right now.
Instead, she offered presence,unwavering presence.
"Llora, mi vida. Sácalo todo," (Cry, my life. Let it all out) she whispered into your hair, her own tears silently spilling down her cheeks and dropping onto your skin. "I've got you. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
You wept until your throat was raw, until your lungs ached, and until your tear ducts were entirely dry. For nearly an hour,Alexia sat on the hard bathroom tile in the middle of the night, holding you together while you fell apart.
When the sobs finally subsided you didn't pull away. You remained slumped against her, your cheek resting heavily over her heart, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of it.
The depression hadn't miraculously vanished. The road to recovery was still going to be a uphill battle against an invisible enemy. But as Alexia gently stroked your back in the quiet darkness, the crushing isolation finally began to recede.
You had let go of the cage, and just as she had promised, she hadn't let you hit the ground.
———
The breakdown on the bathroom floor didn’t miraculously make you better. It didn't cure the lingering pressure behind your eyes or suddenly make you immune to the harsh glare of a television screen.
But it did lance the infection.
By surrendering to the grief, you stopped wasting your precious, limited mental energy on maintaining a facade. You stopped fighting the current and finally allowed Alexia to help you navigate the wreckage. And slowly the fog began to lift.
You started eating the meals she made without prompting. You began sitting on the back patio at dusk instead of staring at a blank ceiling. The doctor eventually cleared you for ten-minute walks, then twenty. By the time late May rolled around, the constant vertigo had faded into a distant memory, and your emotions had leveled out.
You were healing.
It was the evening of the Champions League Final.
You weren't in the starting eleven. You weren't even on the bench. But for the first time in nearly two months, you were inside a stadium.
The doctor had granted you clearance to travel with the squad under strict, non-negotiable conditions. You were currently seated in the glass- enclosed box high above the pitch, shielded from the worst of the acoustic assault. You wore customized, noise-canceling earplugs and a pair of dark sunglasses to filter the glare of the lights.
It was sensory management, but it meant you were there.
Down on the pitch, Barcelona was engaged in an absolute war against Lyon. The score was deadlocked at 1-1.
You gripped the padded armrests of your chair, your heart pounding frantically in your chest. Your body instinctively twitched with every tactical shift, your muscle memory desperate to join the fray. It was agonizing to watch them suffer through the physical toll of the match without you, but the despair that used to accompany that feeling was gone. It had been replaced by pride.
Especially when you watched her.
Alexia was a force of nature tonight. She was everywhere. She was playing like a woman possessed, carrying the weight of the crest and, you knew deep down, the weight of the last two months on her shoulders.
In the eighty-ninth minute, the breakthrough arrived.
Patri intercepted a sloppy clearance, immediately threading a needle-sharp pass through the midfield. Aitana dummied it, letting the ball roll perfectly into the path of Alexia's run.
Alexia didn't even take a touch to settle it. From the edge of the eighteen-yard box, she struck the ball with her left foot,a curling strike that bypassed the outstretched fingertips of the Lyon goalkeeper and buried itself cleanly into the top right corner of the net.
The stadium erupted.
Five minutes later, the referee blew the final whistle.
They had done it.
The post-match chaos was a blur of falling confetti, tears, and hardware. You waited patiently in the suite until the initial trophy lift was completed and the medical staff gave you the all-clear to descend to the pitch for the family celebrations.
The moment your feet touched the pitch, the sensory input was intense You kept your sunglasses on, navigating the sea of journalists, cameras, and celebrating families.
You didn't have to look for her for long.
Alexia was standing near the center circle, a flag draped over her shoulders, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She was speaking to a reporter, but the moment her peripheral vision caught you weaving through the crowd, she abruptly stopped mid-sentence.
She offered the journalist a hasty apology and practically sprinted toward you.
She didn't care about the cameras tracking her every move. She didn't care about maintaining her public composure. Alexia crashed into you, her arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you an inch off the ground as she buried her face into your neck.
"You're here," she breathed out, her chest heaving against yours. "You're actually here."
"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," you laughed, wrapping your arms around her neck. "Ale, that goal... it was incredible. You were incredible."
Alexia set you back down on your feet, pulling back just enough to look at your face. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, scanning your features behind the tinted lenses of your glasses. She reached up, gently tracing the line of your jaw, her thumb brushing near the scar hidden beneath your hair.
"How is your head?" she asked, her voice dropping into that private, protective register meant only for you. "Is it too loud? Are the lights hurting you?"
"I'm okay," you promised softly, offering a genuine smile. And for the first time in eight weeks, it was the absolute truth. "I'm really okay."
Alexia let out a long exhale, the last of her anxiety finally dissipating.
She reached down, taking the Champions League winner's medal that hung around her own neck, she lifted it over her head and stepped forward, placing it gently around yours.
It rested against your chest. You reached up, touching it in surprise. "Ale, no. You earned this. You bled for this tonight."
"We earned this," Alexia corrected, her hands coming up to cup your cheeks. I played the minutes, YN. But you fought the hardest battle this season. You survived the dark. You came back to me."
Your throat tightened, a fresh wave of emotion pricking at the corners of your eyes. You looked at the woman who had sat on the bathroom floor with you, who had absorbed your grief, who had never once let you hit the ground.
"Next year," you whispered, leaning your forehead against hers, the promise hanging between you like an oath. "Next year, I'm going to be out there with you. We'll win it together."
"I know you will," Alexia murmured, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that slipped beneath your sunglasses.
She tilted her head, pressing her lips to yours in a slow tender kiss. The crowd roared in the background, the camera flashes popped, and the confetti continued to rain down around you.
But standing there in the center of the pitch, anchored by her touch, you finally knew that the ghost was gone. You were still YN. You were still a footballer. And you were okay.
Hi. So if anyone has watched The Artful Dodger on Disney+, this is inspired by the scene between Jack and Belle outside the hospital. Also thank you to @lyak12 for the help/inspo
(not so) Scary
Leah Williamson x Reader
Description: Leah can come across as rather terrifying.
You had known Leah for years, that balancing act of professional and personal. Of course you knew of her. The budding centre back at Arsenal and England’s soon-to-be captain had been popping up in your life since you were kids. The thorn in your side at tournaments that somehow always ended up marking you for a corner kick.
You knew she must have been lovely at some point. Lucy had told you all about her blonde friend when you were at Lyon together, Georgia following suit during your brief spell at Bayern.
You had met her a few times for awards or the occasional get-together.
You knew when you accepted the contract with Arsenal that you wouldn’t get much playing time. It was a stacked squad and you were my no means the superstar that some of the others were. But, you were dependable. Quietly ticking along in the background. Steady, like a beating drum.
You hadn’t expected Leah to be the one to greet you at the door on your first day. It was chucking it down, typical introduction to London really. But she had on one of those giant overcoats, arms folded over her chest, scowl etched on her face.
“Leah,” she nodded at you, not offering a hand.
“Hi, um, I’m Y/N”. She just nodded at you again.
She hated you. You had barely said 4 words to the woman.
It had continued like that for months, the entire first half of the season was instructional grunts and huffs. It was strange really, you knew she could be lovely. You had seen it. How her guard fell with Beth and Katie, how she smiled and chatty away amicably to Jordan or Jen.
And then there was you.
“Beth, I don’t get it.” You huffed, flopping down onto your bed. It was an away match, you were cramped into some random hotel room.
“What don’t you get, pet?”
“Leah.” You would be lying if you didn’t find her incredibly attractive. But there was something about the scowl that seemed a permanent feature whenever you were around.
You had just come back from dinner. She had been chatting along perfectly fine with Viv and Daan, laughing and joking around. And then you appeared, putting your plate down and she froze up like a snowman. The conversation screeching to an uncomfortable halt. You don’t know if it would be more awkward to leave and save face or just stick it out.
“What about Leah?”
Beth knew all about Leah. Her propensity to become mute whenever you were around. Her very obvious and incredibly funny crush on you was only confirmed to the striker after she had managed to get her drunk and confess a month earlier.
“She hates me.” You whacked the bed beneath you for emphasis.
“She doesn’t.”
“She does.” You lifted your head, making eye contact with the blonde.
“She most definitely doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh so she just ices me out and glares at me ‘cos she’s just likes me so much?” You rolled your eyes, flopping back down.
“Something like that.” Beth smiled. “Why?” You knew that Beth was a shit-stirrer when she wanted to be, loving to be in the middle of all the gossip in the changing rooms.
You swallowed. “N-no reason.”
“Mm-ok.” Beth let the situation drop with too much ease.
Training the next day felt like running through wet cement. You’d barely slept, thoughts of Leah’s frozen expression at dinner looping in your brain like an annoying highlight reel. Beth had snored happily beside you, blissfully unaware of your 3 a.m. staring contest with the ceiling.
Leah was already on the pitch when you arrived - of course she was. Hair still damp from a shower, sleeves shoved haphazardly up her arms, pacing in that way she did when she was already three steps ahead of everyone else. She glanced up when you walked out.
And promptly looked straight back down.
You clenched your jaw. Brilliant.You were back to being a shadow she pretended not to see.
Warm-up runs were uneventful until a wayward pass from Jill sent the ball bouncing toward you and Leah at the same time. You went for it. She went harder.
Your shoulders collided, hard enough that you stumbled but caught yourself.
Hard enough that Leah’s eyes snapped to yours, wide, startled.
“Sorry,” you muttered, even though she’d definitely hit you harder than necessary.
“No, I-“ she cut herself off. “It’s fine.”
But she kept staring.
You could feel it, a weight between your ribs, too heavy and too light at the same time.
Throughout drills she was sharper with you than usual. Not unkind, just… keyed up. Touches too precise, challenges too firm, instructions rushed out like she was chasing something she didn’t know how to name.
At one point, when you moved past her in a possession game, her hand brushed your waist. A nothing touch. Barely there.
You felt it for minutes.
By the time training ended, your nerves were frayed.
You were tugging your jumper over your head in the changing room when Jordan called that tubs were open. Most players trickled out, chatter fading down the hallway. You lingered, fishing for your phone in your locker.
When you finally turned around, Leah was still there.
Alone.
Leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed, pretending to scroll her phone. Badly pretending. Her foot tapped the floor, too quick, too agitated.
You froze.
She looked up immediately.
Your breath caught in your throat.
You weren’t sure why.
“I, um,” she started, then stopped, lips pressing together like she’d lost the rest of the sentence on the way out.
You should’ve left. You should’ve given her an out, pretended you didn’t see the conflict on her face. But something in you tightened—some thread pulled taut from months of dodged glances and clipped words and that awful scowl she only ever reserved for you.
So you stayed.
“Did you… need something?” you asked carefully.
Leah sucked in a breath like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “No. Just … making sure everyone’s out.”
You raised a brow.
“I’m still here.”
“I know.” she said before she could stop herself.
Silence shook between you.
You could have sworn your own heartbeat echoed off the tiles.
She looked away first, staring at the floor. “I’m not—I don’t—” Her hand came up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
That startled something loose in your chest. “You talk to everyone else.”
“That’s the problem.”
You blinked. “How is that a problem?”
Her eyes met yours then, really met yours. And suddenly you understood why people called her captain before she’d ever worn the armband. There was an honesty in her gaze that stripped you down to the bone.
“Because when I talk to you,” she said quietly, “I forget how to be normal.”
Your breath hitched.
The room felt too small.
Too warm.
Too something.
“I don’t hate you,” she added, almost painfully. “I just … get weird. Around you. And then I make it worse. And then you think I hate you even more.”
You didn’t realise you’d stepped closer until her eyes flicked to your feet. She didn’t move away.
More silence.
Tighter this time.
Charged.
You swallowed. “You get weird around me?”
Her cheeks flushed a shade you’d never seen on her. “Apparently.”
A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’re telling me that I scare you?”
“…. Maybe.”
“I’m the scary one out of us two,” you giggled nervously. She was closer now, her hand almost touching yours.
Slowly, like she had all the time in the world, she lifted her hand, letting her fingers skin lightly over your cheek bone as she pushed some hair out of your face.
“Are you afraid of me?” Leah’s hands moved back, cradling the back of your head, her fingers twisting in your roots. She angled your head back, forcing you to look at her. You swallowed your eyes never leaving her lips.
“Yes.” you whispered back. Leah couldn’t help the slow smile that spread lazily across her face. “You are the most terrifying woman I have ever met.”
“Is that a good thing?” She was impossibly close, her smell flooding your senses.
You blinked. “Depends on how you define good,”
Leah tasted like honey. Like happiness. Her lips were rough yet perfectly soft as they slotted against yours.
Leah pulled back slowly, her hand still resting against the back of your head. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with unspoken words. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in the way your lungs seemed to hesitate to take in air. You had kissed her. And she had kissed you back.
She was the first to break the silence.
“Did that… was that…” Her voice was low, almost like she was trying to convince herself of something. “Did that feel weird?”
You chuckled softly, your breath still shaky. “Weird?”
“Yeah. Like… bad weird,” she said, her brow furrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.
You shook your head, your hand coming up to touch your lips, feeling the residual warmth where she had just been. “No. No, it didn’t feel weird at all.”
Leah’s gaze softened, and she seemed to exhale for the first time since everything had shifted. She glanced down at her shoes, her fingers still gripping your hair just a little too tight, as if she wasn’t sure if she should let go.
You could feel the heat between you still, lingering, but now there was something else. It was as if the walls that had kept you apart for so long were finally crumbling, and neither of you knew exactly what came next.
Leah took a step back, but you didn’t let her go too far. Your hand reached out instinctively, brushing her arm, a silent plea for her to stay.
Her eyes flicked to yours, vulnerability evident in the way she held herself. "I’ve been… I’ve been wanting to do that for a while, you know?” she said quietly. "Or maybe I was hoping that maybe you would … figure it out, or whatever this is." She laughed awkwardly, clearly not entirely sure how to finish the sentence.
Your heart thudded in your chest. Hoping?
“Hoping for me?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, I-” She stopped, exhaling a deep breath. “I’ve been acting like an idiot for months. Trying to keep you at arm’s length when I was really just…” Leah clenched her jaw, her hands fidgeting at her sides. “I was terrified.”
“Of me?” you whispered, incredulous. You couldn’t understand it. She was this intimidating, confident woman, a captain, a leader, someone who seemed to have everything under control. And yet, here she was, telling you she’d been scared.
She nodded, her gaze avoiding yours. “I’ve never been scared of anyone before. Not like this.”
Your heart gave a little lurch in your chest. You reached for her again, this time more gently, brushing your thumb over her knuckles.
“Leah, you don’t have to be scared,” you said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Leah’s gaze lifted, meeting yours again, this time with a depth that made everything else feel distant. The noise of the world outside the locker room, the rush of people still in the building, the ticking of the clock on the wall, it all faded into the background.
She let out a small, relieved laugh, and this time it wasn’t nervous. It was real. “I guess we’re both pretty good at hiding what we really feel, huh?”
You smiled, your fingers curling around hers. “Seems that way.”
Leah moved closer, her hand coming up to rest cup your cheek, her touch steady, grounding. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she said, her voice thick with sincerity. “I didn’t know how to… how to do this without making everything weird. I thought if I kept pretending like I didn’t care, it would just be easier.”
“I get it,” you said quietly. “I get why you did it. But, Leah…” You paused, taking a breath. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”
Her eyes searched yours, almost as if looking for reassurance. She finally nodded, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I think… I think I’m done pretending.”
You couldn’t help but smile, your heart swelling with something you couldn’t quite name.
“You think?”
She leaned in, brushing her lips against yours once more, just a soft, lingering press, like a promise.
“I know.” When she pulled away, her eyes were still locked on yours, a mixture of awe and something deeper. Something more. “I don’t know what this is yet,” she murmured, “but I want to figure it out with you.”
You smiled again, pulling her back into a gentle embrace. “Me too.”
After a few seconds, Leah cleared her throat, suddenly sounding a little more like her old self. “So… what now? You wanna go grab a drink or…?”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “Are we really going to pretend like we’re not both exhausted from training?”
She raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I mean, we could always go for a takeaway?”
“Now that’s the Leah that I see with everyone else.” You grinned, feeling lighter than you had in weeks.
She winked at you. “You’re not getting out of it. Some chinese and a drink. My treat.”
“No ham sandwich? Or potato smiley?” you laughed. She just groaned, falling into you slightly, her frown returning.
“Hey,” you whined, reaching up to smooth out the crinkle. “No frowning. You’re not allowed to be scary anymore.”
——
“I don’t get it,” Katie said, her eyes tracking you and Leah from across the room, clearly intrigued by something she wasn’t understanding.
Leah had her signature frown plastered on her face, a look that made it seem like she was constantly deep in thought or ready to pounce on anyone who dared to interrupt her concentration. Her blonde hair was pulled up messily, a few strands falling out of place, but it only added to her tough-girl vibe. She was standing slightly in front of you, her posture rigid, but her focus was entirely on Steph, who was chatting away enthusiastically. Leah’s attention was unwavering, and you could tell she was listening closely, her jaw set in that familiar, slightly intense way that made everyone around her a little bit on edge.
You stood beside her, equally focused, though your body language couldn’t have been more different. You leaned a bit toward Leah, your shoulders relaxed and your gaze soft. Your expression mirrored Leah’s concentration, but where Leah had an edge to her focus, you gave off more of a calm, grounded energy. You were the calm to her storm, and it was something that those who knew you both had learned to appreciate over time.
“What don’t you get?” Lotte asked, trying to figure out what Katie was thinking as her eyes shifted between Leah and you.
“Leah and Y/N,” Katie said, her voice curious, the confusion still lingering in her tone. “They’re together, right?”
The two of them watched in silence as Leah, without missing a beat, maneuvered behind you in the queue for food. She slipped her hands onto your hips, pulling you closer as she rested her chin lightly on your shoulder. You leaned back into her, your body relaxing into the familiar warmth, while your eyes drifted over the wide selection of food laid out before you.
“Yeah, have been for years,” Lotte said with a casual nod. “Since before I came back from the States, actually.”
Katie’s eyes widened slightly. “But Leah’s so… scary,” she said slowly, as if trying to reconcile the image of the fearsome Leah she knew with the softer version she was seeing now. “And Y/N… isn’t.z”
Michelle, who had been listening quietly, joined in, her voice dripping with amusement as she kept watching you both. “Right? Like, Leah looks like she could break someone in half just by looking at them. And then there’s Y/N, all calm and chill. It doesn’t add up.”
The older girls laughed collectively, a deep, knowing laugh that didn’t poke fun at Leah’s reputation but embraced it. They knew exactly what Michelle meant - Leah had built a name for herself in the locker room as someone who demanded respect, who played hard and expected the same from those around her.
“What’s so funny?” Leah’s voice cut through the conversation, sharp and direct, as her eyes narrowed, scanning the group like a hawk. She’d clearly caught wind of the laughter.
“You’re scary,” McCabe said, grinning widely as she took a swig of her drink. “And your missus is not.”
“Oi, no I’m not!” Leah said immediately, her eyes flashing in indignation as she turned to face the group. She folded her arms across her chest, clearly not pleased with the direction the conversation had taken. “Tell them I’m not scary.”
Kim chuckled, her hand reaching out to pat Leah gently on the shoulder in a way that was both affectionate and teasing. “Yes, you are, Leah,” she said with a laugh. “And Y/N? Definitely not.”
Leah turned back to you, searching your face with exaggerated intensity. “Bubs, tell them I’m not scary,” she said, her tone dropping to a near-whine, the tough exterior cracking just a little bit.
You sighed softly, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you turned to face her. The affection in your eyes was undeniable as you met her gaze. “Baby,” you said with a soft shake of your head. “You’re terrifying.”
The group erupted into laughter again, the sound warm and familiar. Leah, though still wearing a scowl, couldn’t help but soften at your words. She knew it was true - knew that she had this intimidating presence that was hard to shake off, no matter how many times you told her she wasn’t as scary as she thought. The truth was, you loved that about her, even if it made the others wary.
Leah rolled her eyes but gave you a quick, tender squeeze around your waist. “I’m only terrifying if you’re on the wrong side of me,” she muttered, but there was a hint of a smile playing at her lips.
“Oh, we all know who wears the pants in this relationship,” Caitlin teased, leaning back in her chair, looking more than satisfied with the playful exchange. “Leah may be scary to the outside world, but Y/N’s the one who keeps her in check.”
You glanced at Leah, raising an eyebrow and shrugging.
Leah let out a dramatic sigh, clearly pretending to be exasperated. “Alright, alright,” she said, her voice carrying a of exasperation. “You all win. I’m terrifying. But don’t forget, I’m also the one who keeps Y/N from getting too wild.”
You smiled at her, leaning in for a quick kiss on the cheek. “Sure, baby. Whatever you say.”
Losing a hoodie had never brought anyone both such bad and good luck at the same time—until it happened to Leila
word count: 2.4K
A/N: English isn't my first language, so this might be absolute chaos. My apologies for that.
Leila wasn’t dramatic; she was simply a firm believer. A believer that the hoodie she wore that morning in 2011, when she signed her first professional contract with the club of her life, brought her luck. Obviously, after 15 years, the hoodie was absolutely falling apart, worn thin with a small hole in the shoulder and a coffee stain that looked like oil, because no matter how much you washed it, it wouldn’t come out. But it was her lucky hoodie and she would hold on to it for life.
So when, that Monday, she couldn’t find it anywhere before heading off to training, she feared the worst. And she had no idea just how right she was.
That morning, when she arrived at training feeling completely down, she discovered that Andrée had put her in with the reserves. But that wasn’t the only problem—she kept slipping on the pitch… a dry pitch, because the weather had given them a week’s break from the thick fog, and it had been seven days of sunshine and pleasant temperatures. However, the fourth time was the worst, as she tripped on the touchline whilst trying to keep hold of the ball as Grace pressed her and ended up ‘diving’ into one of the ice baths they’d placed along the touchline to aid recovery once training was over. When she emerged, she could see the whole team struggling to catch their breath amidst the laughter, and Andrée decided to put an end to their suffering by sending her home to rest.
The first thing she did was go back to look for her hoodie, because it couldn’t be a coincidence that she suddenly couldn’t take two steps without tripping over. She searched everywhere, emptied the wardrobe twice, looked through the whole car, checked the washing machine and even the bin, and finally, at ten o’clock in the evening, she gave up and decided to call her beloved girlfriend to complain about her awful day.
On Tuesday, she didn’t slip once, and she naively thought that the curse hanging over her like one of those dark storm clouds had finally lifted. But no. When she went to take a shower, only cold water came out. Not cold in the usual sense of the word, no—cold on the scale of a bath at the South Pole between March and September, when freezing temperatures are the norm.
After that, she arrived at her flat in Manchester, only to find the icing on the cake. At some point between the changing rooms and her home, her shampoo had decided to commit suicide, emptying itself into her training bag and killing her mobile phone in the process.
By Wednesday, her phone still wasn’t working and Leila had already given up. The loss of her wonderful hoodie had aroused the wrath of the football gods, who were punishing her for her foolishness in losing that sacred item.
Wednesday wasn’t a slip-up or a case of revenge shampoo, no. It was her car that decided to lock itself just as Leila realised she’d left the keys inside, forcing her to ask her captain, Alex Greenwood, if she could give her a lift home after training. This meant she had to explain that the world was conspiring against her for having lost her football heirloom. Alex just smiled, used to the Spaniard’s drama, and didn’t say a single word, though she did suggest she ask Y/n, Leila’s girlfriend, if she knew anything about the blessed hoodie. But Leila flatly refused, not because she’d asked her, but because, in her utter stupidity, she believed that Y/n knew she couldn’t be parted from her hoodie.
On Thursday, Leila thought the universe might give her a break, or at least not be quite so cruel. She was emotionally exhausted and just wanted Saturday night to come so she could catch the plane to London and spend a peaceful day and a half with her girlfriend. The problem was that she woke up with drops of water on her face… drops from a massive leak that hadn’t been there when she went to sleep.
Leila checked room by room and realised that apart from the living room and the bathroom, every room had a leak. When she stepped out onto the landing, she saw water running down the stairs and knew that the flat above had flooded – perhaps a burst pipe, a faulty boiler, or simply the football gods continuing to punish her for her sins, now through other people’s misfortunes.
The problem was that her neighbour upstairs wasn’t in the country, so she had to call her landlord to ask what to do. After moving several pieces of furniture out, including the mattress that refused to come through the door, like a child clinging to a bar in a playground.
—Oh no, you’re not going to beat me, you bloody mattress; I’ve seen carnage you’re not capable of processing, you bloody spring-filled foam.
In the end, Leila had to give Andrée a call to say she wouldn’t be able to make it to training because her flat looked like a waterfall. Andrée, who hadn’t had his coffee yet, sighed wearily:
—Leila, I don’t know what’s got into you this week, but you need a shaman, an exorcist or a proper clean.
Leila apologised repeatedly before hanging up and continuing to move furniture, placing buckets and mopping up water until the plumber finally arrived to turn off the water supply from the flat above.
—If I hadn’t lost my hoodie, none of this would have happened.
Leila jotted down a note on one of those Post-it notes she keeps by the front door—the ones that are perfect for adding a splash of colour to the hallway but which she never actually uses: “Find a shaman, witch doctor or similar, to remove curses”.
Leila slept in the living room, where she had laid the mattress on the floor, and woke up on the floor next to her shoes, as if the mattress itself had punished her for daring to put it anywhere else.
—You’ve beaten me this time, this time, but tonight I’m going to get my own back—she muttered as she stretched her neck, which was aching, possibly from having spent several hours in an uncomfortable position on the floor.
By the time Friday came round, Leila had considered filing a missing report, but her captain intervened, saying that no police officer in the city would take her seriously and that she would probably be admitted for a psychiatric assessment, because what sort of person would break into her house to steal a worn-out hoodie with more sentimental value than anything else?.
Leila wasn’t reassured, but she didn’t want another lecture from Andrée, so she simply nodded and considered Plan B. Although she wondered if she needed some sort of permit to put up missing posters in the neighbourhood.
After finishing a training session without incident, Leila drove to the supermarket, where she made sure she had her keys in her pocket before leaving. She didn’t want to have to ask Alex to be her chauffeur again just to fetch the spare keys from her flat. The flood the day before had made her so anxious that the only edible things she had left were a coconut yoghurt and a green pepper.
After half an hour in the supermarket, she came out with a cereal bar in her mouth and a bag in each hand. And that was probably a mistake, because as soon as she was a couple of metres from her car, a seagull swooped down too close to her face, snatching the cereal bar from her mouth before she could do anything.
—Hey, you idiot! That’s mine!” Leila exclaimed angrily as she watched the seagull devour her bar, before it cawed mockingly from the top of the building’s façade where it had perched.
Leila arrived home with her pride wounded, still muttering about that ‘damned flying rodent’. She ate a plate of pasta for dinner whilst sitting on the sofa, as the mattress she’d propped up vertically behind the sofa kept falling over and hitting her on the head every few minutes.
—I can’t wait to get to London and have a good day,— she murmured before popping the last bite of pasta into her mouth.
On Saturday, Leila woke up on the mattress and smiled triumphantly. But just as she was about to get out of bed, her foot got caught in the sheet and she fell to the floor.
—And there went the last shred of my dignity— she whispered to the floor.
But even that wasn’t the worst part of the day. When they arrived at the pitch, Andrée announced the line-up. To her surprise, Leila was in the starting eleven. She thought this meant the gods’ wrath over the loss of her hoodie had been appeased. Nothing could be further from the truth.
The first 45 minutes were an intense battle. Defending against Agyemang and Kirby together was worse than fending off a hungry bear with a spoon. And that was evident in the defence’s sole mistake, which Kirby capitalised on to make it 0-1 in the fourteenth minute.
—Damn that bloody hoodie…— she cursed to herself.
It hadn’t exactly been Leila’s fault, but in matches, a personal mistake was also a collective one.
It wasn’t until the 58th minute that Shaw levelled the score from a pass by Leila herself. Shaw ran to hug her and Leila thought, “My luck’s back.”
But the joy was short-lived. In the 70th minute, Leila, defending a corner, scored an own goal that put the away side momentarily in the lead. Fortunately for City, the assistant referee raised her flag, allowing the team to breathe a sigh of relief.
Andrée then substituted her, fearing that Leila would bring bad luck. He didn’t say a word to her, but the way he placed his hand on her shoulder after the substitution, and the look he gave her, were more devastating than any speech.
Fortunately, Yui scored the second goal before the 84th minute and the score remained that way until the final whistle.
A few hours later, Leila was waiting at the airport for her long-awaited flight to London. The final victory and the absence of further mishaps had put Leila at ease. Until, ten minutes before boarding the plane, a storm hit the airport, causing several cancellations and delays.
—Come on, don’t give me that shit— was the last thing Leila said when her flight was delayed until almost 11 pm. This meant she definitely wouldn’t make it to dinner, and Leila slumped in her seat, feeling like crying.
The plane finally took off at ten past midnight, so Leila hadn’t expected Y/n to be there to pick her up. But when she saw her girlfriend’s tired yet happy face, she forgot every single bad moment of the week.
After more than eight years together, Leila had learnt that Y/n appreciated every little detail, even those she herself failed to notice. Seeing her there, looking sleepy but with a smile from ear to ear, made her forget even the damn hoodie.
—My love— said Leila, her voice breaking and her eyes misting over with held-back tears— you didn’t have to come.
By the time she finally kissed her girlfriend, it was already Sunday, many hours later than she’d planned. But at least they had 24 hours ahead of them before they had to part ways again.
—As soon as the shops open, I’ll go with you to buy a phone— said Y/n once they’d got into her car. —It’s frustrating only being able to talk via video call.
—You say that as if seeing my lovely face were disappointing.
—I love that face, but I want my ‘good morning’ message with your selfie— replied Y/n as she fastened her seatbelt— not a 15-second call before you jump in the shower.
—You’re only saying that because you can’t join in— teased Leila again.
—Maybe— replied Y/n with a teasing smile before finally setting off.
When she got home, the first thing Leila did was take a shower and put on the pajamas she usually left at her girlfriend’s house. What she hadn’t expected at all was that when she came out of the bathroom and walked into Y/n’s bedroom, she’d find her wearing her hoodie. Her bloody lucky hoodie!
Leila froze, unable to say a single word, just opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water.
— Darling, are you alright? — asked Y/n when she saw her standing in the doorway.
— Is that my hoodie? — Leila managed to ask, still in shock.
Y/n looked down and smiled slightly.
—It is— she admitted. —I took it from your house last week.
Leila opened her mouth but couldn’t get a single word out.
—Leila? Darling? Is something wrong?
—Is something wrong?— Leila replied, pointing at the hoodie as her whole body shook. —I’ve had the worst week of my life because of you!
Leila then let it all out. She recounted every single incident that had happened since Monday because of the missing hoodie. She told how bad luck had struck her with fury time and time again. And how her ‘traitorous’ girlfriend hadn’t told her she’d snatched her most precious possession.
But then Leila noticed something; the hoodie looked different. The coffee stain had vanished. From the shoulders to the cuffs, a strip of new fabric ran down the sleeves. Strips bearing several Barça crests. Although the hoodie didn’t look new, it looked different and less worn.
—Have you altered it?— asked Leila, stunned.
—You said it made you sad to see it so worn out and that you refused to throw it away…— Y/n began, —I thought I’d fix it up…
Leila needed no further explanation; she threw herself on top of her girlfriend, tackling her like a rugby player and resting her face against the hollow between her girlfriend’s neck and shoulder.
—Thank you—she murmured, her voice choked with emotion,—thank you for loving me even with my quirks and my obsession with this hoodie. But above all, thank you for looking after me and giving me something, when I don’t even know if I want it or need it.
Y/n said nothing, she simply wrapped her arms around her
On Tuesday, when she returned to training, Leila was flawless—not a single fall, slip or mistake. It was as if the whole of the previous week had been a bad dream. Andrée wasn’t the first to notice, but he was the only one who dared to say it out loud.
—What’s changed?
Leila just smiled and replied with a cryptic remark to them all — I just needed to kiss my luck.
Beyond the Badge | Alexia Putellas x reader - Part 4
Part 4
Summary : You're Real Madrid Femenino personified, the captain, the one who joined the day the club was born. A 15-2 agreggate against Barça makes you wonder if loyalty is enough, and the Spanish camp that follows only make it worse. You've known Alexia Putellas for years but have never been close. This camp has other ideas for you both.
Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Real Madrid! Reader
Word count : 6.5k
Warnings : 18+ (smut), I won't put a warning for every chapter that contains some. I'm putting it on this one because it's the first one that does.
Masterlist
-----------
You barely register the walk to her room. Your feet carry you there, through long corridors you learned by heart through the years. 119 is written in golden letters on a plate just next to the door, “Alexia Putellas” is taped up under it, as if to remind you what you’re walking into.
You don’t even overthink it. Your breathing is still ragged, you feel 30 seconds away from collapsing. You knock on the door, Alexia answers immediately, as if she has been waiting next to it. You don’t spare her a look and go lie down on the bed, throwing your slides on the floor. You put your head in the pillow and scream in frustration.
“Hey.” Alexia says softly. She comes to sit on the other side of the bed, close to you. She caresses your back up and down in comfort. “What’s wrong ?” You can hear the worry in her voice. To be fair, it must be confusing to her.
You groan and turn your head toward her. Her eyes are full of compassion. God, you love those eyes. “My agent called, about the contract.” You scrub a hand over your face. “I still have no freaking idea what I want to do.” You feel a lump in your throat, you absolutely won’t cry in front of her. Not because of a contract.
You take a deep breath to calm yourself. “Then there is the whole shitshow created by Vicky. I’m not literally mad at her but fuck with this whole contract thing it’s starting to be too much.” You’re rambling, she doesn’t stop you.
Her thumb traces slow circles between your shoulder blades, and it feels good, it’s grounding. You could get lost against the sensation, feeling the warmth of her palm even through your shirt.
“What can I do to help ?” Alexia is nice, too fucking nice. And her eyes are soft and–. “Hey, calm down, you’re shaking.” You haven’t even realized you were, you try to breathe in and out, it isn’t working much. She presses down her hand against your lower back, you shiver at the sensation.
She misinterprets your reaction and pulls her hand back slightly, hovering in a rare moment of awkwardness. She looks like she doesn’t know quite how to comfort you, and honestly, you can’t blame her.
You take a deep breath once your heartbeat stops pounding in your temple. “I’m sorry for coming here every time I’m overwhelmed.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “Hey no.” She says quickly. “You can come here anytime you need.”
The words land somewhere behind your ribs. Suddenly looking at her feels like a terrible idea. “What a good captain.” You deflect. How weird would it be for you to run away right now ? Because you definitely trust neither your instincts nor your mind right now.
She rolls her eyes, annoyed at you. “You know I’m not doing that just because I’m your captain.” You’re not that convinced it’s true. “And I have a single room, I'd be alone otherwise.”
You chuckle, starting to finally not feel like you’re gonna break down in an instant. “Oh yeah poor you, we can switch if it’s making you suffer too much.”
“We could.” Her tone is too serious for your liking.
“I was kidding Ale. I don’t have a problem with sharing my room.”
She searches your face, relaxing at whatever she finds there. She doesn’t push. “You’re feeling a bit better ?”
You nod, better because you don’t feel like you’re gonna implode. You can still feel how tense your body is. The conversation with your agent is playing on loop in your brain. Her presence is the only thing soothing your mind, you want to feel her palm against your back again.
Alexia still has a worried look, something in your chest goes soft at the sight. You look at her face, your mind can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is. Her eyes, her lips, the feeling of her body against yours after the game against England, the way she has been opening her door without question for you. The adrenaline of panic is morphing into something else.
You also need a distraction, badly.
“Do you want to help me make a very bad decision right now ?” Confusion is written all over her face. Then your gaze drops to her lips, completely devoid of subtlety, before snapping back to her eyes. You watch recognition flare in them, followed by something much heavier.
She seems to hesitate. “I don’t want to take advantage of the state you’re in,” she whispers. Her jaw tenses. She looks away, then back at you. For a second you feel a cold shiver, worried you’ve gone too far. Then her eyes can’t stop themselves from looking down at your lips, and you exhale.
“Ale.” Her eyes snap back to yours. She’s on the edge of a cliff, you need to convince her to jump. “It’s not the first time I’m thinking about it,” you admit.
Her throat bobs, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second. Then, the distance between you vanishes. Her lips are soft against yours. Instinct takes over, your hand flies to her jaw, your thumb tracing her cheekbone. It feels great, more than great. Your mind goes blank while butterflies explode in your stomach, heat rushes through you so quickly it leaves you lightheaded.
She breaks the kiss first. When your eyes open, she’s already staring down at you, searching. She is entirely breathtaking. A smile breaks across her face, wider and softer than any victory you’ve ever seen her celebrate on the pitch.
The first words she says are “You see I was right to be trying to fix everything from the start.” She seems happy with herself, the words take a moment to register.
Oh yeah, you did basically tell her she was too much of a try hard when captaining the team. You can’t believe she’s thinking about that right now. She adds smugly “I’m a great captain, ain’t I ?” You shut her up with a second kiss. She smiles against your lips before melting when she feels your tongue.
Somehow you end up in her lap, her hands firm against your hips, grabbing the fabric of your shirt. When the kiss breaks because you unfortunately are both humans that need air, you press open mouth kisses on her jaw. You then lick the length of it. Alexia murmurs a curse and you kiss her again.
You put a centimeter of space between your two mouths. “We both know why I’m doing this, I need to take my mind off things. I don’t get why you’re doing this.” You murmur against her lips. You need to know why, to be sure she wants this.
Alexia’s eyes are dark with want, her breathing uneven. You can’t even imagine what she looks like when she’s close to coming undone. You want to discover that. “Maybe I just want to fuck you.” Her voice is lower than usual. Your brain short-circuits. For a few seconds, there's nothing but a buzzing sound. That might be the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life. You weren’t expecting Alexia of all people to say that.
As soon as thoughts come back, you kiss her again, this time more hungrily, teeth clash but neither of you care. Her hands slide under your shirt. Her palms are warm, almost sweaty. The heat of her skin against yours makes you feel like you're completely overheating. You pull back just enough to yank the fabric over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.
Alexia's eyes fix on the newly revealed skin. She has seen you like that plenty of times in a locker room. You will admit the context is a bit different. “You’re beautiful,” she breathes out. She puts her hands on the small of your back to push you closer to her, soft with her movements. She is too when she discovers your neck with her mouth. She takes her time to figure out what you like, the spots that make your breath hitch. You hump against her thigh and you can feel her smile in your neck.
Deciding Alexia is wearing far too many clothes, you reach for the hem of her shirt. You both end up laughing as you awkwardly struggle with the fabric, but you finally manage to yank it off and toss it blindly into the room. Looking down at her, your smile turns hungry. She is nothing but muscle, and you want to feel every bit of it under your palms and lips. You catch her earlobe between your teeth in a gentle nip. “Everything still okay ?”
She laughs softly. “More than okay cariño.” You weren’t expecting the endearment term, but you don’t dislike it. Your mouth goes to her neck, and her breathing stops for a second or two. You test things. First, you bite softly and she lets out a small moan, so you do it more. Then, you realize kisses don’t have much effect, so you bite and lick instead. You’re very careful to not leave anything close to a mark, that would be very hard to explain for her.
“Lie down,” you murmur. She doesn't hesitate, shifting lower until she’s flat on the mattress. Straddling her hips, you look down at her. She is a glorious sight. As your hand strokes down her abs, she flexes beneath your touch. “Show off,” you tease, swatting at her playfully.
Her thighs spread, welcoming you into the space between them. As you lower yourself, you drag your teeth lightly along her collarbone. Her hips grind up against you in response, you anchor a hand firmly on her hip to pin her to the mattress.
You always love your first time with a woman because that’s when you totally discover her body. You take your sweet time with Alexia, and she’s not complaining. Her bra is on the floor a few minutes later. She has her hand in your hair while you’re worshiping her abs, to be fair they deserve it. You know she’s getting impatient when she starts to push your head down gently.
You smile and go lower. You remove her sweats and underwear in the same motion, the teasing has gone on long enough. You part her thighs and you’re out of words for how wet she is. “Don’t comment.” She groans out. You look up at her and her cheeks are pink, it’s kinda cute.
You honor her request and stay quiet. Instead of stopping the tease like you promised yourself, you trail slow licks and sharp bites down the inside of her thighs. Her muscles twitch against your lips. The moment you move directly over her heat, her body tenses in stark anticipation, your breath catching against her cunt.
When you finally comply and lick, her whole body reacts. Her hips jump up and you put your forearm around her midriff to stop that from happening again. Her moan is low, throaty, and dangerously loud considering your surroundings. “Ale, I love that sound,” you murmur against her skin, smoothing a kiss into her inner thigh, “but you can’t be this loud here.” Without a word, she pulls a pillow over her face to bury the noise. Fuck, you miss the sound already.
Navigating her pleasure is harder in the silence, but you read her body instead. The way her hand knots into your hair, the sudden, sharp tension in her muscles. You lose all sense of time, you could spend a lifetime right here. Every low rumble buried in the pillow urges you onward. You press a single finger to her entrance, looking up to catch her eye. “Can I ?”
She gets the pillow away from her face for a second. “You don’t need to ask.” Her voice is a mess, low, hoarse, broken, you can’t believe you’ve done it. She’s pushing your head down to where it was before. Your finger enters her without any resistance, you can tell she’s already really close. You immediately enter a second one.
Her walls pulse around your fingers while your tongue keeps up its steady rhythm. It doesn’t take long for her to completely break. You feel the exact moment she comes undone. Her hips arch high against your mouth, chasing the friction, before she collapses back against the sheets. Not even the pillow can swallow the raw, broken cry she lets out.
You remove your fingers gently and move back up her body, leaving a wet trail while doing so. The pillow falls away from her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes still unfocused. You kiss her once, brief and soft, then again on her shoulder, tracing the curve of her waist while her breathing slowly settles.
As you linger over her shoulder, she hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to look at her. You can’t help the smile that breaks against her lips as you lean in. “You’re too smug,” she complains, though she doesn't pull away.
You kiss the line of her jaw and go to her ear. “You were so loud you needed a pillow to muffle your moans.” You say, your voice intentionally low, before tugging at the lobe with your teeth. She has an arm around your shoulders, her fingers dig into it at your words and you hiss because her nails are pointy.
You position yourselves on your arms so you can look down at her. “Do you still carry a strap in your suitcase ?” She rolls her eyes and swats at your shoulder while murmuring idiot. “Hey that was a genuine question.”
Her cheeks are tinted a bit pink, not from her orgasm. “I don’t have one at all times no. For quite obvious reasons I wasn’t planning to get lucky during camp.” You hum and press your mouth to the hollow of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse against your lips.
“So you were planning to get lucky during your trip to Valencia ?” It’s half teasing and half genuine curiosity. Her breath catches when you scrape your teeth against her pulse point while your right hand starts to travel down her body, she shivers when you trace her ribs. You use your left arm to not put your whole weight on her.
“Yeah, I have a girl I was seeing– Fuck.” She stops when your hand reaches the inside of her thigh and your short nails dig into the soft flesh there. You smile against her shoulder and bite it. “Why are you asking these questions right now ?” She complains.
Your hand moves between her legs, your index finger tests how wet she still is, careful to still avoid her clit for now. She’s drenched, some new wetness already coating your fingers. “Maybe I just want to hear your voice.” It’s also some curiosity that came after Vicky told you the story. You’re quite satisfied that Alexia used the past tense when talking about the girl. You won’t dwell on that, not now, not anytime really.
Shifting downward, your mouth finds her breast, swirling your tongue over her skin before pulling her into your mouth. She clamps her forearm over her face, desperately hiding her moans. You let her go with a slow, teasing drag of your teeth. She drops her arm just long enough to glare at you. “I can’t believe that’s your choice of conversation.”
Your fingers toy with her entrance, brushing past her wetness but deliberately withholding what she wants. “I think that's a perfectly appropriate topic. I would love to use a strap on you.” The sheer bluntness of it makes her breath hitch. Before she can recover, you finally sink your fingers inside her, drawing out a low, throaty moan.
It takes her a moment to collect herself enough to talk back. “I had no idea you would be such a yapper.” You chuckle against her skin, raising some goosebumps as your tongue moves to her other breast. This time she anticipates the touch, quickly burying her face in her arm to muffle the sound. It’s a shame, you don’t want any teammates hearing you through the walls, but god, you want to hear her.
Your mouth travels up her chest, a sharp bite to her forearm prompting her to uncover her face. “Imagined sex with me a lot, Putellas ?” You don’t give her a chance to answer as your fingers start moving inside her again, catching her gasp with a kiss. You track her reactions through pure instinct, the intakes of breath when you do certain movements, her fingers gripping your hip every time you hit that spot.
The kisses start to get messy the moment your thumb grazes her clit. She loses her composure completely, unraveling into a mix of breathless Catalan you don’t understand and raw noises you can’t hope to muffle. To quiet her down, you press closer, offering your shoulder for her to bite. It makes the movements a little clumsy, the angle a bit awkward, but you maneuver around it, keeping your fingers moving in a steady rhythm.
You will be able to hide the bruise on your shoulder, but your back is going to be a disaster if she keeps clawing at your skin. “Easy with the nails, tiger,” you gasp against her hair, “you’ll leave marks.” She doesn’t say anything, but she takes the hint, wrapping her hands back around your hips and smoothing her palms flat against your skin.
Her teeth on your shoulder sting, but it’s the kind of sharp pain that only feeds the pleasure. Sensing how close she is, you lock into the rhythm, driving into what’s working. Then, she snaps. Her body arches in a mirror image of her first orgasm, her teeth sinking agonizingly deep into your shoulder as she clamps down impossibly tight around your fingers. A second later, just like that, the tension breaks, and she falls quiet against the bed.
You’re careful when you remove your fingers. Alexia still has her eyes shut, breathing heavily, her whole body covered in sweat. You want to take a mental picture because she looks like a work of art. You’re proud to have done it.
She comes back to her senses slowly. When her eyes finally open, you hold her gaze and make a show of sucking your soaked fingers, drawing a breathless laugh from her. But as her eyes drift to your shoulder, her smile fades into a wince. “I didn’t realize I was biting so hard. I’m sorry,” she says softly, tracing her thumb over the rapidly forming bruise.
“Don't worry. If it had been too much, I would've told you,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss her gently. Her breathing is finally evening out, her skin growing cooler and less flushed as the adrenaline begins to fade.
Her gaze drifts down your body, her eyebrows arching. “How the hell do you still have so many clothes?” she asks. You shrug, looking down at your intact bra and sweatpants. You hadn’t really noticed the layers while your focus was entirely on making her come, but now that the dust has settled, a heavy, demanding ache is building between your thighs.
“It’s supposed to be your job to remove them,” you tease. “You’re not even the one who removed my shirt.”
An arm locks around your hips as she suddenly reverses your positions, settling herself firmly on top of you. “I had no idea you would be such a brat in bed.” Letting out a soft laugh, you guide her jaw down to meet your mouth, biting gently at her bottom lip before releasing it.
You lick her lips teasingly. “You don’t seem to mind it much.”
“I’m gonna shut you up,” she promises, her breath hot against your lips. She presses a hard kiss to your mouth, then drags her lips down your jaw to the hollow of your neck. Her untied hair brushes softly over your collarbone.
She starts nipping too hard against the sensitive skin, forcing a hiss from your throat. “Hey, easier on the teeth. I don’t mind them later on, but it’s too much right now.” She breathes an apology against your throat, instantly adjusting. Driven by the ache between your legs, you push down on her shoulder. “Ale, hurry up.” Before you can move her, she grabs your wrist, holding you completely still.
“Let me enjoy you,” she retorts, her mouth lingering at the top of your chest. Your throat goes completely dry. Looking down at her, you realize you would let Alexia do absolutely whatever she wants to you.
Then, she abruptly sits up. “I need a hair tie.” You let out a miserable groan at the sudden loss of her weight on top of you as she pads toward the bathroom. In the sudden quiet, a flicker of doubt creeps in about what the hell you’re doing. It evaporates the second she steps back out, twisting her hair into a messy bun. You take the opportunity to shamelessly drink in the sight of her naked body. Fuck, she’s a goddess.
She climbs back over you, settling into her position on top while you loop your arms securely around her shoulders. Her mouth returns to the top of your chest, but she pauses, looking up at you as her fingers play with the clasp of your bra, silently waiting for your consent. A single nod is all it takes, and she doesn’t waste a second.
Her grin turns almost boyish as she unhooks the fabric, stripping your bra away and tossing it aside. “You’re gorgeous,” she whispers against your skin before drawing one of your nipples into her mouth. Your back arches instinctively at the sudden rush of pleasure, prompting her to press a heavy hand down to steady your hips. She takes her time painting your chest with her tongue, sending waves of heat rippling through your entire body.
When she finally migrates lower, she stops at your stomach, mapping your abs with a slow, passionate mix of lips and tongue. “I have better abs than you, don’t I?” you tease, panting slightly. In lieu of an answer, she presses her thigh firmly up between your legs. The sound you let out is close to a whimper, but nobody can prove it.
“Seems like I found a way to shut you up,” she teases back. She bites gently at your stomach, testing your reaction. The desperate way you grind your hips against her thigh in response seems to give her all the satisfaction she needs.
Her hand toys with the waistband of your sweats. “Don't be a tease,” you breathe out. She tugs them down the moment you lift your hips to help her, discarding the fabric somewhere in the room. A sharp gasp escapes your lips when the chill of the A/C strikes your flushed skin.
Alexia parts your thighs with her hands, her gaze darkening. “Fuck, you’re wet. Are you turned on by your own talking ?”
You let out a breathy laugh at her words. “Your lips and tongue may have played some part too,” you admit.
She looks up at you with a radiant smile, she kisses a tender spot above your knee, her palms sliding up your inner thighs. But as her fingers start to graze your center, you grip her wrist, holding her back. Alexia instantly freezes, concern replacing the heat in her dark, dilated eyes. “Is everything okay ?”
You’re deeply touched by her immediate softness. “Yes, amor,” you murmur, the pet name slipping out naturally in your eagerness to reassure her. “It’s just that those nails aren’t going inside me.” Alexia looks down at her hands and winces in realization. The press-ons are long, and they’re the kind of pointy you don’t want to take any risks with.
“I know how to use them, it won’t hurt,” she promises softly.
You look down at her hands again. A girl had told you that exact same thing once, and you’d ended up sidelined for a week. Having to explain that particular injury to the club physios was easily the most humiliating moment of your life. “Still a no,” you state firmly.
She nods, letting the matter drop without any further argument. “If I’d known this was happening, I would have taken them off,” she whines.
Sorry Alexia, next time I will tell you in advance “Hey just so you know in a few hours I’m gonna be mad enough to fuck someone I absolutely shouldn’t be fucking.
You push the intrusive thought far away before it can ruin the momentum. Instead, you cup her chin with your right hand, tilting her face up to force her to look at you while your thumb caresses her cheek. “You do realize you have other ways to pleasure me besides your fingers, right ?”
A small fire relights in her eyes as a wicked smile creeps across her face. She plants one last kiss above your knee, her lips trailing a slow path back up your inner thigh before she finally settles herself between your legs. Strands of loose hair escape her bun, brushing softly against your skin. When she finally looks up at you, her expression is completely sinful.
“What do you want ?” She’s so close that the warm air of her breath brushes against your skin as she speaks, making you shudder.
“What do think, Alexia ?” you reply, thoroughly exasperated. Of all the times for her to play dumb, she picks right now.
“I don’t know,” she whispers, refusing to break eye contact. Her nails trail a light, maddening scratch across your abs, driving you absolutely crazy. “Want to play some poker ?”
“I think it’s a bit too late for strip poker, Ale.” You know exactly what she wants, she's waiting for you to ask her to eat you out. But two can play this game.
The low huff of her laughter sends a rush of warm air over your center, making you twitch. “I won’t get you to beg for it ?” She mocks disappointment, but the playful glint in her eyes tells you she’s secretly thrilled by your resistance. Sliding her palm upward, she presses it flat against your sternum, feeling your heart hammering wildly beneath her touch. Despite your defiant words, she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on you.
“You’ll need to do better than that next time, Capi.” You don’t know if it’s the challenge, the promise of a next time, or the deliberate use of her title that makes something snap inside her. Frankly, you don't care, because her tongue finally connects with your clit. You aren't usually the loudest, but the sudden contact forces a low, trembling moan from your throat.
“Careful of the noise, cariño,” she murmurs against your skin. In response, you press your heel firmly into her spine, pushing her back down between your thighs to make her understand she needs to get to work. A muffled huff of laughter escapes her against your sensitive skin, entirely amused by your impatience.
As she goes down on you, you guide her rhythm, adjusting her pace with a mix of breathless words and guiding hands. She is incredibly good at following orders, you quickly realize. The sensation of her mouth feels so much better than any of the thoughts you're trying to outrun. Tangling your fingers into the loose strands of her bun, you cup the back of her neck, tugging sharply whenever she hits the perfect spot. Meanwhile, your free hand blindly traces the sharp line of her jaw, mapping its rhythm as she drives you out of your mind.
Once you start getting close, you whisper, “Look at me.” The raw heat in her eyes is almost enough to push you over the edge on its own. When she begins to lower her gaze to bury herself back between your thighs, you command, “No, look at me while you do it.”
You refuse to break eye contact. The hand on her jaw shifts to the side of her face. Initially meant to direct her, it’s now the only thing keeping you anchored. Your other hand fists blindly into the sheets, white-knuckled and straining. Even though there is zero risk of her pulling away, your heels remain locked against her lower back, pinning her right where you want her.
You know she feels it the exact second your orgasm hits. It starts with a ragged gasp before you completely run out of air, your thighs locking tight as an electric rush fires through every cell of your body. She guides you through the crest of it, her tongue never missing a beat.
The moment it threatens to turn into overstimulation, you tap her cheek, and she gets the memo instantly. She trails slow, soothing kisses up your torso until her mouth meets yours, tasting yourself on her lips. You loop your arms around her shoulders, holding her steady while her head sinks into the crook of your neck as you slowly float back down to reality.
As your heart rate finally settles, you start tracing the exposed tattoos on her back with your fingertips. You don’t ask about their meanings, and she seems perfectly content with the quiet intimacy for a few minutes. “I’m gonna fall asleep,” she whispers, her breath warm against your neck.
You kiss the crown of her head, and she burrows deeper into your side. “We should at least take a shower,” you murmur. She groans in protest, even though she knows you’re right. “Come on, Capi.” You give her ass a light, playful slap to tell her it's time to move, and she instantly nips at your neck in revenge. Laughing, you untangle yourself from her and stand up. Left without your warmth, it doesn’t take her long to follow your lead.
Getting clean takes a while, given how much kissing and touching happens under the water, but you eventually finish. You quickly discover that Alexia is a massive cuddler after sex, and you find yourself liking it a lot. It takes zero convincing on her part to get you to spend the night. She offers you some of her clothes to sleep in, but you almost left the room entirely when she tried to hand you a pair of Barça shorts. Plain cotton ones had to do instead.
You settle onto the bed, laying back with her resting on top of you just like before. Her hair is untied now, draping over her bare back as you slowly run your fingers through the damp strands. “I still find it so funny that you’re such a yapper in the bedroom when you’re not like that at all in real life,” she teases softly.
A sudden wave of self-consciousness hits you, even though you know it’s stupid. “Tell me if you want me to tone it down,” you say, though it sounds a bit more broken than intended. Some of your exes hated that, and you had to make conscious efforts to tone it down with them, so you know you can.
Alexia instantly shifts from her comfortable spot against your chest to look you in the eyes. “Hey, it wasn’t a criticism. I think it’s incredibly hot.” She presses a tender kiss to your cheek, then another to your lips. You could easily get used to this. Fuck, that's a dangerous thought. Suddenly, her gaze drifts to your shoulder and she winces. “Are you sure my biting didn’t hurt too much? It looks pretty bad.”
“I already told you it was okay Ale.” You put your hand around her hips and tug her back down on top of you. “I will figure something out to hide it.”
Neither of you asks what tonight means, or if it will ever happen again. There is no easy answer to that. Or, at least, none that would satisfy either of you right now. It’s still early, considering you arrived just after dinner, but exhaustion is finally catching up to you.
You’re already starting to drift off when Alexia shatters the quiet by bringing up the one topic you wanted to avoid. “You should really start talking about your contract, you know,” she says softly. “Not necessarily with me, but if you just let the clock run out without weighing your options, you're going to regret it. Even if you would have chosen Real anyway.”
You let out a long sigh. Maybe it’s because you’re in a great mood after the sex, but your mouth talks for you. “It’s just… It feels like there is what I want to do and there is the rational thing to do.”
Alexia hums in acknowledgement. “I feel like the heart should always beat the reason. But that’s particularly true in your situation.” Maybe Alexia is an idealist, you’re not. You’re so fucking afraid of making the wrong choice.
“I feel like my heart is telling me to stay just because it’s safe, not because it’s the best choice.” Staying at Madrid where friends, family, and your childhood club are is just so easy. You’re not sure it’s what’s best for your career.
“You’re looking at it too much like there is a good and a wrong answer.” Her tone is soft, her thumb is caressing your side, the words still sting. “Career choices are rarely that easy. You have to choose what is the most likely to make you the happiest in the long run. And that depends on a ton of things : winning trophies, money, closeness to family and friends, the atmosphere in the club you’re joining, the city you’re going to. And happiness isn’t a perfect equation, especially when it’s related to football where results can’t be predicted. You can make the right choice on paper and have it end up being the wrong one because life happens.”
“Very reassuring.” You say ironically. Alexia is trying and you’re maybe being a little too mean. “Thank you, for the words. I think I have trouble figuring out how happy football can make me.” That’s not an admission you make often. You love football with your whole heart, you’re not sure you want it to be your whole life.
“What do you mean ?” You can hear she’s perplexed, it must be confusing for Alexia to hear someone say that.
“It’s just… I’ve never won at club level, so I don’t know how much winning makes it worth it. I’ve also never been the closest of friends with my teammates. Like yeah, I will hang out with them outside of the mandatory things from time to time, but I don’t want my whole circle to be about it. In Madrid, most of the people I hang out with don’t give a fuck about football. I feel like having a life outside of it makes it easier to commit to it when I’m actually on the pitch or training. Like it’s easier to not burn out.”
That’s why I never messed with another footballer before, you add mentally.
You continue. “Munich was miserable for that. I didn’t really realize it at the time because I couldn’t compare. But god, I’ve been so much happier in Madrid. At the same time maybe it was only the context, maybe I was too young when I went to Bayern. It would be perfect if there was another club in Spain I could go to, so I could still be fairly close to everyone. But I’m never going to Barcelona.”
“I mean you could consider it.” You roll your eyes and gently bite her earlobe, she jumps in surprise. “Idiot.” She mumbles.
“I think… I would love to experience somewhere else, just for one year and if I’m miserable, I can go back. But I’m afraid of burning bridges with Real. And I’m afraid that they’re gonna perform while I’m gone. Imagine if Real reaches the semis of the Champions League the season I’m not here ? I would be miserable. Why can’t I fucking duplicate myself.”
She laughs softly at your words. Then takes a more serious tone. “You’re linking the comfortable choice with it being the bad choice. As you said, football isn’t what you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Everyone tells me football is too much what I am, you know. Even Jenni told me that.” Her laugh is almost bitter. “Olga told me that all the time too.”
“Wait, Olga as in our teammate, since when ?” You interrupt, trying to make some sense.
“No !” She laughs. “Olga is the name of my ex, she has nothing to do with football.” That was an awkward mistake to make on your part. “Anyway, my injury forced me to reconsider things. I was actually more available for my friends and family, hanging out with them more. I realized everything I was missing out on because of football. It’s so easy to get caught up with the constant pressure from everyone : the media, the fans, the front office…”
“Do you think you would have left Barça at one point, if not for the injury ?” You’re curious.
“Yeah.” She answers honestly. “And then I would have realized everything that’s not football that I have in Barcelona.” There’s a pause. “To be clear, I’m not saying our situations are entirely comparable. I have the luck that my childhood city also has the best club in Europe. It’s easier to stay when you’re winning everything, it would be stupid not to. I just wanted to say to not push aside too much the outside of football aspects when taking the decision.”
“Thank you, a lot.” You say sincerely. You kiss the top of her head. “I think it really helps to talk about it, it’s just hard to.”
“Anytime.” She answers without hesitation. She snuggles even closer to you. “We should go to sleep.”
You look at your phone, it’s only 10PM, why did you decide to be a professional athlete again ? “Yeah, I will put my alarm early so I can go back to my room with Vicky before she wakes up. I will just tell her I came back late in the night.”
“Okay,” Alexia says softly. She moves to turn off the bedside lamps as you set up the alarm to 6AM. Once the room is dark, she gets back to her previous position on top of you. She kisses you, a long one but without heat behind it, before her head settles on your shoulder. One of your arms circles her waist, while the other circles her shoulders. “Goodnight cariño,” she whispers.
“Goodnight Ale,” you whisper back. In the back of your mind, a million alarm bells are screaming at you, a frantic reminder of just how compromising this situation truly is. But exhaustion has taken over. Wrapped up in her warmth, you let her touch drown out the noise until there is nothing left but silence.
-----------
A/n : It was my first time writing smut, I'm quite happy with how it turned out (Don't ask me how much time I spent writing and rewriting it, I know the whole scene by heart now). I hope it doesn't feel too rushed.
Also because it has been a subject recently, having short/long nails doesn't correlate to being a lesbian and/or in a relationship. r just doesn't like the idea of them inside her ✌️
Summary: Being the Chief of Neurosurgery at Hospital Vall d'Hebron is an elite, high-stakes life; being Alexia Putellas’s secret girlfriend is an entirely different kind of stress. When you overhear Alexia brutally downplaying your relationship to her inner circle just to protect her privacy, you don't fight. You just glaze over. You match her secrecy with a total, frozen wall of clinical silence. But when months of heartbreaking distance and back-to-back craniotomies push your body past its breaking point, you collapse on the hospital floor. Receiving a terrifying call from the ER, a frantic Alexia has to rush to your bedside, face the devastating fallout of her own words, and fight with everything she has to win back the brilliantly funny, unbreakably clingy woman she nearly destroyed.
The brain was entirely an organ of electricity and structural tolerance. It could process trauma, map intricate motor pathways, and withstand the extreme pressure of a high-speed collision, provided the blood supply remained pure. But as the Chief of Neurosurgery at Hospital Universitari Vall d'Hebron, you knew that even the most brilliant neural networks had a definitive, absolute threshold. If you pushed a system too hard without letting it cool down, the circuits would simply melt.
For three years, your relationship with Alexia Putellas had been your sanctuary—the one place where you didn't have to be the youngest, sharpest surgical chief in the country.
It was a beautiful, hyper-passionate romance that everyone in your close-knit surgical department joked about because of how utterly, shamelessly clingy you were. Despite your high-stress career cutting into human skulls, the moment you stepped through the door of her villa in Pedralbes, you transformed. You were the girl who would wrap herself around Alexia’s back like a koala while she tried to cook dinner, the one who would crawl into her lap on the sofa and refuse to move for hours, burying your face in her neck until she laughed that rich, raspy laugh and held you against her chest like you were the only solid thing in her world. Alexia loved it. She matched your energy completely, her powerful athlete's arms locking you against her body with a fierce, possessive warmth that made you feel utterly invincible.
But that beautiful reality came with a shadow: it was completely, entirely secret.
Alexia was a global icon, her every movement tracked by the media, her private life an endless source of public speculation. At first, you didn't mind the shadows. You were a busy woman; you had a department to run, a residency program to oversee, and a never-ending rotation of complex craniotomies. You didn't need the flashing cameras. You didn't need the red carpets.
But hiding a three-year relationship required a heavy tax. It meant deleting your digital footprint, leaving her house through the service elevator, and sitting in the stadium stands three rows behind her family, pretending you were just an acquaintance from the medical consultant staff if anyone looked too closely.
You had tolerated the sacrifice because you believed the foundation was unbreakable. Until the night the structure gave way.
It was a late Friday evening, following a massive Champions League victory at the Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys. Alexia had hosted a small, private gathering at her home for a few childhood friends from Mollet and a couple of influential sports executives who had helped manage her commercial image. Because you had just finished a grueling twelve-hour surgical shift removing a complex glioma, you had arrived late, slipping through the back entrance into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
As you walked down the short, tiled corridor leading toward the auxiliary lounge, you heard voices through the partially open oak door.
"Come on, Ale, we saw the way that doctor looks at you," a prominent sports agent scoffed, his voice dripping with casual, elite cynicism. "She’s been at almost every private dinner this month. The media is starting to ask if she's more than just a medical advisor. Is she the reason you haven't been linked to anyone else? Are you actually dating her?"
You stopped in the shadow of the hallway, your hand freezing against the cold glass of water. A soft, hopeful flutter bloomed in your chest. You wondered, just for a fraction of a second, if after three years, Alexia was finally going to claim you out loud in front of her inner circle.
Then, Alexia’s laugh echoed through the room. It wasn't the warm, genuine sound that usually vibrated against your skin when you slept. It was sharp, cold, and laced with a defensive, dismissive armor.
"¿Qué dices? No, por favor," Alexia said, her tone carrying an air of total indifference that made your blood instantly run cold. "Y/N is just a neurosurgeon the club utilizes for head trauma consultations. She's great at her job, sure, but she's completely exhausting to be around outside the hospital. She's way too needy, constantly hovering around me like a lost puppy because her own life is just boring charts and operating theatres. She’s just convenient company when I need to decompress between training blocks, guys. It’s nothing real, I promise you. I wouldn't date someone that high-maintenance."
The world simply stopped spinning.
The air in the corridor felt like liquid nitrogen as it rushed into your lungs. Exhausting. Needy. Lost puppy. Convenient company. The words didn't just pierce your heart; they completely, surgically dismantled your entire reality. The very clinginess she had spent three years encouraging, the affection she claimed kept her grounded, was suddenly reduced to an embarrassing, high-maintenance nuisance she mocked to protect her precious privacy. To save herself from a moment of uncomfortable scrutiny from a sports agent, she had completely rewritten your entire love story into a pathetic joke.
You didn't cry. You didn't storm into the room to demand an apology. When a neurosurgeon encounters a catastrophic, uncontainable hemorrhage on the operating table, her emotions freeze into total absolute zero. Panic is a luxury for people who don't hold lives in their hands.
You quietly set the glass of water down on the console table, walked out of the back door, and drove your car back to your small, empty apartment near Vall d'Hebron without looking back a single time.
The silence began the next morning, and it was absolute.
When Alexia woke up, she sent her usual morning text: "Woke up and my koala wasn't here :( Did you have to go in for an emergency surgery, mi amor? Call me the second you're free, I miss you."
The message was marked as read. But no answer came.
By Monday, the silence had transformed into a terrifying, unyielding wall. Alexia had called you twenty times, each attempt dropping straight into the void of a standard corporate voicemail. She sent endless messages, watching the grey ticks turn blue instantly, but the screen remained entirely blank. The complete, sudden withdrawal of your presence felt like the sudden loss of oxygen in a room.
On Tuesday evening, completely beside herself with an uncontainable panic, Alexia drove straight to Vall d'Hebron. She knew your schedule by heart; she knew you were finishing a grand rounds presentation at 7:00 PM. She waited outside the secure glass doors of the neurosurgery administrative wing, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her heart hammering against her ribs.
When the doors finally slid open, you walked out, flanked by three senior residents and an attending physician. You were wearing your navy blue scrubs beneath a perfectly pressed white lab coat, your hair pulled back into a sharp, professional twist. You were explaining a complex ventricular shunt procedure, your voice carrying that effortless, funny, and brilliant spark that always made your students adore you.
"Y/N!" Alexia called out, her voice cracking slightly as she took a step forward, completely forgetting the hospital staff around you.
The residents stopped, their eyes widening as they recognized the legendary Barcelona captain standing in their hallway.
You stopped too. But your face didn't change. Your hazel eyes, which usually filled with an absolute, radiant joy whenever she appeared, were completely blank. Looking at you was like staring at an unyielding pane of surgical glass.
"Ah, Captain Putellas," you said, your voice entirely level, professional, and completely devoid of a single ounce of warmth. You turned to your residents with a calm, clinical smile. "Go ahead to the ICU and prepare the post-op orders for bed four. I will join you in five minutes."
The doctors nodded quickly, sensing the sudden, suffocating drop in atmospheric pressure, and hurried down the hall.
Once they were out of sight, Alexia took a desperate step closer, her hands reaching out to grab your arm. "Y/N, thank God. Why haven't you answered my texts? I’ve been going out of my mind for three days. I went to your apartment, but you changed the entry code—"
"Please do not touch me in a professional environment, Captain," you said smoothly, stepping back just enough to keep a definitive, unyielding physical distance between you. You didn't raise your voice; you didn't look angry. You looked like an attending physician speaking to a stranger who had lost their way in the corridor. "If the club requires an evaluation for a head injury or a neural consultation, please have your athletic department submit a formal request through the administrative portal. My schedule is currently entirely booked with actual medical emergencies."
Alexia felt the air leave her lungs as if she had been hit by a stray tackle. The coldness in your voice was a physical strike. "What... what are you doing? Why are you calling me that? Y/N, please, it's me. It's Alexia. What happened?"
"I am simply maintaining the boundaries you require," you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere just past her left ear, completely refusing to lock eyes with her. "Out of sight. In secret. Like an exhausting, high-maintenance puppy that doesn't actually exist in your real life. I wouldn't want to overextend my welcome as your 'convenient company,' Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a craniotomy to perform."
Before she could form a single word, you turned on your heel, your white coat billowing slightly behind you as you walked through the secure double doors, the magnetic lock clicking shut with a heavy, definitive thud.
Alexia stood frozen in the middle of the sterile hospital hallway, the realization crashing down on her like a physical weight. The hallway. The auxiliary lounge. Her mind raced back to Friday night—the careless, defensive, arrogant words she had thrown out to a sports agent just to avoid a moment of personal vulnerability, to keep her world locked in its safe, sterile box. She had forgotten that you were in the house. She had completely forgotten that you were coming from a twelve-hour shift just to see her.
"No," Alexia whispered, her hands dropping to her sides as a sickening, suffocating wave of guilt flooded her stomach. She had built a fortress to protect her privacy, but she had accidentally crushed the only woman who made the fortress worth living in under the rubble.
The next two months were a brutal, agonizing descent into absolute hell for Alexia Putellas.
An elite athlete is trained to handle adversity. When a match is slipping away, Alexia knew how to double her efforts, increase the intensity, and force a victory through sheer strength of will. But you weren't a football match; you were a brilliant neurosurgeon who had completely erased her from the architecture of your life.
You blocked her personal phone. You blocked her on every digital platform. When she sent massive arrangements of lilies and white roses to your private office at Vall d'Hebron, you quietly told the nurse to distribute them to the pediatric oncology ward, never keeping a single petal. When she waited outside the hospital parking garage at 2:00 AM in the pouring rain, hoping to just see your face, you drove past her car without a single glance, your eyes fixed straight ahead on the road.
The complete, total absence of your warmth was destroying her.
Alexia couldn't sleep. Her performance on the pitch began to suffer; her passing was uncharacteristically sloppy, her presence in the midfield distracted and hollow. During a training session at Joan Gamper, Mapi León had finally grabbed her by the training bib after Alexia missed three consecutive tactical runs.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Ale?" Mapi demanded, her eyes full of genuine concern. "You look like a ghost. You've lost weight, your head isn't in the game, and you look like you’re about to collapse. Is this about Y/N? What happened?"
Alexia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, broken sob that shocked her teammate. "I broke it, Mapi. I said something horrible to protect the secret, and she heard me. She won't look at me. She won't speak to me. She looks right through me like I’m made of glass."
"Then you don't stop fighting," Mapi said softly, her hand resting heavily on Alexia’s shoulder. "A neurosurgeon spends her whole life fixing things people think are impossible. If you want her back, you have to show her that you're willing to throw away the whole damn box just to hold her hand in the light."
But while Alexia was dying of heartbreak in Pedralbes, you were dying of sheer, unadulterated exhaustion at Vall d'Hebron.
Burnout among surgical chiefs is a silent killer. To cope with the gaping, agonizing void in your chest where Alexia’s warmth used to be, you had thrown yourself into your work with a terrifying, self-destructive intensity. You took every on-call shift. You volunteered for every emergency trauma surgery. You spent forty-eight consecutive hours in the operating theatre, living on bitter hospital coffee and stale vending machine crackers, completely refusing to let your mind rest for even a second. If you stopped working, the memory of her laugh would find you. If you slept, you would dream of her arms around your waist. So, you simply refused to sleep.
Your colleagues noticed. Your chief resident, a close friend named Dr. Lucas Méndez, had tried to intervene multiple times. "Y/N, you look grey. Your hands are steady under the microscope, but you’re running on pure adrenaline and spite. You need to go home. You’ve done four craniotomies in thirty-six hours."
"I'm fine, Lucas," you had muttered, your voice raspy and thin as you stared at a set of MRI scans. "The department needs me."
The breaking point arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon, precisely nine weeks after the night in the corridor.
You had just finished a grueling, five-hour emergency surgery to repair a ruptured aneurysm in an eight-year-old child. The procedure had been a complete success, but the physical and emotional toll was the final straw your system could bear. As you walked out of the scrub room, tearing your surgical mask from your face, a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit you.
The sterile white walls of the corridor began to spin rapidly, turning into a blur of fluorescent light. A high-pitched ringing filled your ears, completely blocking out the sound of the hospital alarms. Your knees felt like water, your lungs refusing to expand as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across your forehead.
"Dr. Y/N?" a nurse called out, her voice sounding a million miles away. "Doctor, are you—"
Before she could finish the sentence, your vision went completely black. Your body collapsed like a deck of cards, your head narrowly missing the metal chart trolley as you hit the linoleum floor of the surgical ward, completely unconscious from sheer physical exhaustion, profound dehydration, and a heart that had simply run out of fuel to pump.
At the Ciutat Esportiva, the afternoon training session had just concluded. Alexia sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, her head bowed, staring blankly at the floor tiles while her teammates showered around her. She felt a heavy, suffocating dread in her chest all day, an unexplainable weight that made it hard to breathe.
Suddenly, her phone, resting on the bench beside her, began to vibrate violently.
An unknown, corporate landline number flashed across the screen. Normally, Alexia ignored unsaved numbers during training, but an instinct older than her career made her slide the screen open instantly.
"¿Sí?" she said, her voice raspy.
"Is this Alexia Putellas?" a sharp, authoritative voice asked. The background noise was a chaotic symphony of rhythmic bleeps, rushing footsteps, and overhead pages. A hospital.
Alexia’s blood turned to ice instantly. She stood up from the bench, her hand gripping the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "Yes. Who is this?"
"This is Dr. Elena Torres from the Emergency Department at Hospital Vall d'Hebron," the voice said, urgent but professional. "We have Dr. Y/N here. She collapsed outside the surgical theatres twenty minutes ago due to severe physical exhaustion, acute dehydration, and a critically low blood pressure spike. She’s stable now, but she's completely unresponsive to standard discharge protocols and is currently on an IV drip in ER Bay Three. Before she lost consciousness completely, she had her phone open to your contact info from an old chat archive. We need an immediate family member or designated contact to come down here, sign her medical leave forms, and take her home. She cannot be left alone in this state."
The locker room completely vanished from Alexia’s field of vision.
"I'm coming," Alexia choked out, a cold, violent wave of terror gripping her throat. "I’m ten minutes away. Please... please take care of her. I’m coming right now."
She didn't change out of her training kit. She didn't grab her bag. She threw her car keys into her pocket, ran out of the facility in her slides, and tore down the highway toward Vall d'Hebron like a woman running out of a burning building. The speed limit didn't exist. The traffic didn't exist. The only thing that existed in her universe was the terrifying image of your brilliant, funny, beautiful face lying pale under a harsh hospital sheet.
When she arrived at Vall d'Hebron, she didn't care about the people recognizing her in the lobby. She sprinted through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Department, her chest heaving, her eyes wild as she scanned the signs until she found the high-security entrance to the treatment bays.
"Emergency Bay Three!" Alexia gasped to the triage nurse, slamming her palms down against the desk. "Dr. Y/N. I’m Alexia Putellas. They called me."
The nurse looked up, her expression softening with a mixture of recognition and gravity. She pointed down the long, chaotic corridor. "Bay Three is on the left, Captain. The attending doctor is waiting for you."
Alexia threw the curtain aside, her breath catching in her throat as she stepped into the small, sterile cubicle.
The sight broke something fundamental inside her soul.
You were lying on the narrow hospital bed, looking incredibly small beneath the coarse white blanket. Your face was almost translucent, your lips dry and chapped, with deep, purple-grey hollows beneath your closed eyes. A clear plastic oxygen cannula sat beneath your nose, and a thick IV line was taped to the back of your pale hand, pumping fluids into your exhausted system. The brilliant, sharp, hilarious Chief of Neurosurgery looked entirely deflated—broken by the very world she had tried so hard to cure.
Dr. Elena Torres, an older physician with a stern, no-nonsense expression, stood at the foot of the bed, reviewing a chart. She looked up as Alexia entered, her eyes dropping to Alexia’s sweaty training gear.
"You're the emergency contact?" Dr. Torres asked, her voice clipped.
"Yes," Alexia whispered, her eyes never leaving your face as she walked slowly to the side of your bed, her knees trembling so badly she had to grip the metal guardrail to stay upright. "What... what happened to her? She’s a doctor here. How did nobody see this coming?"
"Doctors are the worst patients, Miss. Putellas," Dr. Torres said with a heavy, tired sigh. "Your girlfriend has performed fourteen complex neurosurgical operations in the last three weeks alone. She has taken every night shift, skipped every administrative break, and according to her department’s cafeteria logs, she hasn't eaten a proper meal in days. Her body simply ran out of glucose and fluid. She didn't faint; her nervous system literally shut itself down to prevent a cardiac arrest from sheer stress and fatigue."
Alexia closed her eyes, a hot, agonizing tear sliding down her cheek, burning her skin. She did this because of me. I drove her to this.
"She needs absolute rest," Dr. Torres continued, handing Alexia a clipboard of medical leave documents. "I have signed her off from the surgical department for the next three weeks, effective immediately. Her keys are in that plastic basin. If you are going to take her home, you need to ensure she drinks fluids, eats solid food, and does absolutely nothing but sleep. If she stands up before tomorrow morning, her blood pressure will drop again. Can you handle that, or should I admit her to the observation ward?"
"No," Alexia said fiercely, her voice thick with emotion as she signed her name across the bottom of the forms with a shaking hand. "She’s coming home with me. I will take care of her. I swear to you, she won't lift a finger."
The drive back to the villa in Pedralbes was conducted in a heavy, fragile silence. You had partially regained consciousness when the nurses moved you to a wheelchair, but your mind was entirely hazy, your body feeling like it was encased in lead. You hadn't even had the strength to protest when you saw Alexia lifting you carefully into the passenger seat of her SUV, wrapping a thick fleece blanket around your shivering shoulders.
When she pulled into her private garage, she didn't let you try to walk. She reached into the car, sliding one powerful arm beneath your knees and the other securely behind your back, lifting your slight frame against her chest in one smooth, protective motion.
Your head automatically rolled into the crook of her neck, an ancient, instinctual habit your body refused to forget even through the fog of your exhaustion. You inhaled the familiar scent of her skin—laundry detergent, sweat, and that deep, intoxicating warmth that had always meant safety to your tired brain.
"Alexia..." you mumbled, your voice a tiny, dry scratch against her skin. "Let me down. I can walk. I have to go back to the ICU..."
"Cállate, mi vida," Alexia whispered fiercely, her voice breaking as she carried you through the private elevator straight into her massive, sunlit master bedroom. "You are not going back to any hospital. You are staying right here."
She laid you down on the giant, king-sized bed with an tenderness that felt almost holy. She carefully stripped off your stiff hospital scrubs, leaving you in a soft, oversized cotton t-shirt, and pulled the heavy, down comforter up to your chin.
For the next two hours, you slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the afternoon sun had softened into a warm, amber twilight, casting long, lazy shadows across the white walls of the room. The room smelled of fresh lavender and hot chicken broth.
You shifted your head slightly on the plush pillow, and your breath instantly caught in your throat.
Alexia hadn't left. She was sitting directly on the hardwood floor right beside your bed, her back resting against the mattress, her knees pulled up to her chest. She had finally changed out of her training kit into a pair of worn grey sweatpants, but she looked completely shattered. Her face was buried in her palms, her broad shoulders shaking with quiet, rhythmic sobs that she was desperately trying to muffle so she wouldn't wake you.
The sight of the formidable, unshakeable captain of Barcelona weeping on the floor like a heartbroken child completely dissolved the last lingering remnants of your defensive wall. You were a doctor; you knew when a wound had been cleaned, and you knew when it was time to let the tissue heal.
Slowly, with an immense effort, you slid your hand out from beneath the heavy comforter, your pale fingers reaching out until they gently brushed against the soft hair at the nape of her neck.
Alexia bolted upright instantly, her head snapping around, her hazel eyes wild and completely drenched in tears. When she saw that you were awake, your eyes clear and focused on her, a sharp, choked gasp escaped her lips.
"Hey," you whispered, a tiny, fragile smile touching your dry lips. "Why are you crying on the floor? You look like you're the one who survived a twelve-hour shift."
"Y/N," Alexia breathed, her voice a total wreck. She didn't hesitate. She scrambled up onto the mattress, moving with a desperate, frantic energy, but she stopped just an inch away from you, her hands hovering over your face, trembling violently, completely terrified to touch you without your permission. "Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you need water? The doctor said you needed to drink this broth, I have it right here—"
"Alexia," you said softly, interrupting her frantic rambling. You reached up, your hand catching her wrist, your fingers sliding down until they interlocked with hers, your grip surprisingly warm despite your weakness. "Come here."
A loud, broken sob escaped her lips at the simple invitation. The two months of agony, the walls of silence, the terrifying image of you on that ER bed—it all collapsed in a single second. She slid down onto the bed beside you, her powerful arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, terrifyingly tight grip, burying her face into the crook of your neck as she wept openly, her entire body shaking against yours.
"Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento," Alexia cried into your skin, her voice thick and raw with an unbearable weight of guilt. "I am so sorry, Y/N. I am so sorry for the horrible, disgusting, cowardly things I said to those people in the lounge. I was terrified of the media, I was caught off guard, and I used the worst words in the world to protect a secret because I was a coward. I didn't mean a single word of it. I swear on my life, I swear on everything I am... you are not exhausting. You are not a puppy. You are my entire world."
She pulled back just enough to look down into your eyes, her hands framing your face, her thumbs desperately wiping away the stray tears that were beginning to pool in your eyes.
"I loved every single second you wrapped yourself around my back," Alexia wept, her hazel eyes burning with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "I loved the way you would sit in my lap for hours. I missed it so much, Y/N. I spent two months living in an empty house that felt like a tomb because my koala wasn't here. When the hospital called me today... when they told me you collapsed because you were working yourself to death to avoid me... I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. Don't do this to me again. Please. Punch me, scream at me, hate me if you have to... but don't run away into the dark where I can't protect you."
You stared up at her, your chest heaving as the sheer volume of her devotion completely filled the empty space in your soul. You saw the raw, bloodshot truth in her eyes. You saw the physical toll the separation had taken on her own body. She had spent two months fighting a war against the very walls she had built, and she had completely demolished them just to get to your bedside.
"Your apology is structurally sound, Putellas," you choked out through a tearful, wet laugh, your hands rising to grip her forearms. "But your tactical execution during that dinner was absolutely atrocious."
Alexia let out a loud, breathless laugh through her tears, her face lighting up with a radiant, emotional joy that made her look like herself again. "I know. I'm an idiot. A complete, total idiot. But I fixed it, Y/N. I swear I fixed it."
She reached into her sweatpants pocket, pulling out her phone and sliding the screen open with a shaking thumb. She turned the screen toward you.
It was a live post on her official Instagram account—the one with over three million followers. It was a beautiful, candid photograph you didn't even know she had taken months ago, showing you sitting on her terrace in the evening light, your hair loose, laughing at something she had said, looking absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
The caption beneath the photo was written in large, bold letters in both Catalan and Spanish:
“The most brilliant mind in the world, the finest surgeon at Vall d'Hebron, and the only woman I will ever love.”
The comments section was already a chaotic, exploding waterfall of millions of likes, red hearts, and messages of support from fans, teammates, and the entire sporting community. She hadn't just thrown away the box; she had exploded it in front of the entire world.
Your breath completely caught in your throat, a fresh wave of hot, ecstatic tears blurring your vision as you looked from the screen back up to her face. "Alexia... your sponsors... the club executives..."
"Let them talk," Alexia whispered fiercely, tossing the phone onto the nightstand, completely dismissing the entire global media landscape with a wave of her hand. She leaned down, her face stopping just centimeters from yours, her breath warm against your lips. "Let the whole world write the stories. Out there, I am the player. But in this room, on this bed, I am just a woman who is completely, desperately in love with her girlfriend. I don't care about the cameras anymore, Y/N. I just need you. I need my clingy, beautiful doctor back. Please."
The final wall of doubt inside your soul completely turned to dust.
"Okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "But I told you... I am incredibly high-maintenance when I'm sick."
"Sé lo que me espera," Alexia murmured with a breathless, beautiful smile, and then she closed the final distance.
The kiss was entirely different from the cold, professional distance of the last nine weeks. It was deep, possessive, and filled with a profound, overwhelming warmth that completely healed every single broken circuit in your exhausted brain. Alexia’s lips parted yours with a smooth, intoxicating hunger, her tongue tracing your lower lip with a reverent sweetness that made your soul vibrate. Her powerful arms slid beneath your back, lifting your upper body off the mattress to pull you completely flush against her chest, holding you so tightly it felt like she was trying to fuse your ribs together.
You let out a soft, satisfied sigh into her mouth, your arms instantly locking around her neck, your fingers tangling into the short blonde hair at the base of her skull, pulling her closer, tasting the salt of her tears and the rich sweetness of the broth she had prepared.
When she finally pulled back, just an inch, she didn't let you move. She shifted her body until she was lying completely flat on the mattress beside you, her long legs tangling with yours beneath the heavy comforter, her arm sliding beneath your head to act as a permanent pillow.
The moment she was settled, the high-key, shameless clinginess that defined your relationship returned with a violent, roaring vengeance.
Now that the angst was gone, your body completely demanded the comfort it had been starved of for months. You shifted your hips, crawling across the sheets until your entire front was pressed tightly against her side. You threw your right leg completely over her powerful thighs, pinning her down, and buried your face directly into the warm crook of her neck, your fingers digging into the fabric of her t-shirt as if you were trying to burrow inside her skin.
Alexia let out a rich, deep laugh—that beautiful, raspy sound you had missed so much—and her arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling your hips even closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between your bodies. She began pressing sweet, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, and the soft skin behind your ear, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles across your back.
"Madre mía, te extrañaba tanto," Alexia murmured against your skin, her voice full of a warm, sleepy contentment that vibrated straight into your chest. "My little koala is back."
"Shut up," you mumbled into her collarbone, your voice drowsy but full of an absolute, unbreakable happiness as the warmth of her body finally allowed your nervous system to fully cool down. "You said I was a lost puppy. Now you have to deal with the consequences."
"I will deal with them for the next fifty years," Alexia whispered softly, tightening her grip around you, her nose nudging your jawline affectionately. "Drink your broth first, and then you can sleep for three weeks. I’m not letting you go to the bathroom alone, understood?"
"Understood, Captain," you sighed, your eyelids growing heavy as the absolute safety of her presence finally allowed your brain to drift toward a deep, natural sleep.
Outside the windows of the villa in Pedralbes, the rain continued to fall softly over the hills of Barcelona, but inside the master bedroom, the lights were bright, the secrets were dead, and the foundation was completely unbreakable. The surgical chief had officially left the operating theatre, and she was finally home—safe, warm, and entirely clung to the only heart that mattered.
i never thought jenni would get to the point where she is posting such messages for pride, but here we are. how far she has come 🥹
to the same music, thousands of stories come together. some celebrate, others remember, but all move forward. because every step taken with pride, lights the way for someone else. 🌈✨
and they, my friends, are light. the kind that never leaves you alone in the darkness. it might sound corny, but few things are as true as that.
Summary: After your team's Walter Cup win, you find out that you are so much more worthy of celebration.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
The champagne burns your throat, but you drink it anyway.
Around you, the locker room is pure chaos. Laura has the Walter Cup lifted above her head like she personally plans to carry it around Montreal for the next three business days. Pou is yelling something in French that makes half the room laugh and the other half cheer louder. Someone has started a chant that has no real rhythm, no clear words, and absolutely no chance of stopping anytime soon.
Your jersey is soaked through with champagne and sweat. Your hair is stuck to your forehead. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You won.
You actually fucking won.
For a second, you let yourself believe the moment is as simple as that. The Cup gleams under the locker room lights. Your teammates are laughing, crying, and throwing their arms around anyone close enough to grab. You should feel untouchable. You should feel like every early morning, every bruise, every missed family dinner, every lonely road trip, every doubt, every sacrifice has led to this exact moment.
Then Abby catches your eye from across the room.
She is grinning, bright and breathless, her face flushed from celebration. She looks genuinely happy for you, with the kind of softness in her eyes that always manages to find the vulnerable parts of you no matter how carefully you hide them.
And just like that, the joy catches on something sharp.
You want to call your mom.
Not the mom who told you not to contact her again. Not the one who looked at you like loving who you loved had somehow erased every version of you she had raised. You want the mom from before. The one who used to braid your hair before tournaments. The one who kept orange slices in her purse and yelled at refs even when she barely understood the call. The one who would have screamed herself hoarse watching you lift the Walter Cup.
You miss someone who is still alive, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Hey!” Laura crashes into your side, nearly knocking you off the bench. She smells like champagne, sweat, and victory. Her arm wraps around your shoulders as she laughs right against your ear. “We fucking did it!”
You blink yourself back into the room and smile. This one is real, even if it wobbles a little at the edges.
“We did.”
“Speech!” someone shouts.
“Oh, absolutely,” Pou says, already reaching for you. “Champion speech. Come on.”
“Nope. No, no, no,” you protest, but Pou is stronger than she looks and far more determined than anyone should be after playing championship-level hockey.
Suddenly you are in the middle of the room, standing beside the Cup while your teammates chant your name. You say something about the team, about belief, about how proud you are to share this with them. The words aren’t fake. You mean every one of them.
But they aren’t the whole truth either.
The whole truth is messier. It is joy sitting right beside grief. It is winning the biggest thing you have ever won and still feeling the empty space where your family should be.
Then Laura whistles so loudly you flinch, Pou throws an arm around you, and Abby raises her bottle from across the room like a private toast.
For a moment, the ache quiets.
Not gone. Not fixed.
Just quieter.
And tonight, maybe that is enough.
Three weeks later, your apartment feels too still.
The city outside is alive with early summer noise, but inside, everything is muted. Your keys land on the counter with a dull clatter. Your practice bag hits the floor beside the door. You stand there in sweats and an old team hoodie, waiting for something you cannot name.
Your phone sits on the kitchen table, screen dark.
There are unread texts. Laura sent a meme that made no sense without context. Pou sent a reminder about dinner. Abby sent a simple "You okay?" that you have read six times and still haven’t answered.
There is nothing from your parents.
Nothing from your sister.
Three weeks since the Cup, and still silence.
You open Instagram even though you know better. The Victoire’s celebration post is buried now, but you scroll until you find it. There you are, laughing with Laura’s arm around your waist, one hand pressed against the Cup like you were afraid it might disappear. You look happy. You look like someone living the exact dream she fought for.
The comments are full of pride and celebration.
REPRESENTATION MATTERS.
My daughter wants to be just like you.
You stare at that one for a long moment.
Then you lock your phone and set it face-down.
The strange thing about winning is that everyone assumes it fills every empty space. It doesn’t. Sometimes it just shines a spotlight on the places that are still hollow. You are a champion now, but there is still no one to call who remembers you sleeping with your stick beside your bed, no one who can tease you about how you used to cry when your skates were tied too tight, no one who loved the kid version of you before she knew there would be conditions.
Pride Month starts this week. Montreal’s festival is coming up soon.
Last year, you skipped it. The year before, you went alone and cried in a bathroom stall while rainbow confetti stuck to the bottom of your shoes. This year, you’re a Walter Cup champion. This year should be different.
You want it to be different.
You just don’t know how to get there.
The knock comes at ten at night.
You ignore it.
The knock comes again, harder this time.
“I know you’re home,” Laura calls through the door. “Your light is on, your location is on, and I swear to God, if you make me stand out here like a creep, I will start singing.”
You stare at the door.
“I’m choosing Celine Dion,” she adds.
That gets you moving.
When you open the door, Laura is standing there in a Victoire hoodie, her hair damp from a shower, holding a grocery bag in one hand and wearing the expression of someone who has already decided she isn’t leaving.
She takes one look at you and softens.
“Oh, babe.”
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
Laura lifts the grocery bag. “I brought emergency snacks, so clearly neither of us believes that.”
Despite yourself, you almost smile.
She steps inside, nudging the door shut with her foot. “You disappeared from the group chat. You skipped the bar. You did that thing at practice where you answer every question with ‘yeah’ even when no one asked you a yes-or-no question.”
“I was tired.”
“You were lying.”
“Also tired.”
“That part I believe.”
You lean back against the counter while she starts unloading the bag. Chips. Sour candy. Two bottles of your favorite soda. A container of strawberries because Laura insists emotional breakdowns require balance.
She doesn’t push right away. That is the thing about Laura. She can be blunt as hell, but she knows when to give silence some room.
Finally, she says, “You wanted them to call.”
Your throat tightens.
You look away.
Laura’s voice gentles. “Your family.”
“I won the Walter Cup,” you say, and the words come out smaller than you wanted. “And I still wanted my mom.”
Laura stops unpacking. She crosses the kitchen and pulls you into her arms without asking, like she already knows you would say no if given the chance.
You hold it together for exactly three seconds.
Then you break.
Laura holds you through it. No speeches. No forced bright side. Just her hand moving slowly up and down your back while you cry into her hoodie.
“I hate that I still care,” you whisper.
“Of course you care,” she says. “They’re your family.”
“They don’t want me.”
Laura pulls back enough to look at you. Her eyes are wet, but her voice is steady.
“Then they are missing out on the best parts of you.”
You let out a broken little laugh. “That sounds like something from a bad movie.”
“Maybe. But I’m right, so I don’t care.”
That earns a real laugh this time, shaky but there.
Laura smiles, then squeezes your hand. “Listen to me. You are not doing Pride alone this year. You are not sitting in this apartment convincing yourself that their rejection gets to decide how much joy you are allowed to have.”
“Laura—”
“Nope. I have decided. Very official. Team meeting level decision.”
“You cannot team-meeting my emotional crisis.”
“I absolutely can, and I will bring Pou in if necessary.”
You groan, but it feels less heavy than it did five minutes ago.
Laura reaches for her phone. “Good. Now we are texting the group chat.”
“What are you saying?”
“That we are doing Pride properly. As a team. With snacks, jerseys, and aggressive love.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It should.”
Pou and Laura’s apartment is already full when you arrive the next night.
There are shoes by the door, drinks on the counter, and someone laughing so hard in the kitchen that they sound like they are losing a fight with their own lungs. The wedding photo on the wall catches your eye for a second. Laura and Pou are smiling at each other like the rest of the world has politely disappeared.
It aches a little to look at.
Not because you resent them. You could never. It is just hard sometimes to see proof that love can be that steady when your own life has made it feel so breakable.
“Finally!” Pou calls from the living room. She is in joggers and a faded Team Canada shirt, sitting like a captain even on her own couch. “Our guest of honor.”
“I was told there would be snacks,” you say.
“There are snacks,” Laura says. “And emotional accountability.”
“I was not told about the second part.”
“That was implied.”
You end up wedged between Laura and Abby on the couch, a blanket thrown across your lap. Abby’s thigh presses against yours, and neither of you moves away.
That is how things have been with Abby for a while. Close, then too close. Together, then scared. Broken up, then not quite apart. The two of you have never been good at clean lines. Even now, her presence feels like a question you aren’t ready to answer and an answer you are afraid to trust.
Pou claps her hands once. “Okay. Here is what is happening.”
Someone from the kitchen mutters, “Oh boy.”
“We won the Cup,” Pou continues. “We are champions. Pride is next week. We are going as a team.”
A cheer goes up.
“In jerseys,” Laura adds.
A louder cheer.
“With sunscreen,” Pou says, pointing around the room. “Because last time half of you looked like lobsters.”
“Homophobic,” someone says.
“SPF is not homophobic,” Pou shoots back. “Sunburns are preventable.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
Laura notices immediately and looks far too pleased.
Pou’s expression softens when she turns back to you. “We are also going because you deserve to feel celebrated. Not as a headline. Not as representation. As you.”
The room quiets.
Your fingers tighten around the blanket. “I don’t want everyone making this a thing.”
“It is already a thing,” Laura says gently. “Because we love you.”
“I don’t want to be a charity case.”
Abby’s hand slips under the blanket and finds yours.
Pou leans forward. “This is not charity. This is what teams do. This is what families do. You have shown up for us over and over again. Let us return the favor.”
You look around the room.
These women know you. They know your coffee order and your pregame habits. They know you cannot sleep before big games. They know you pretend to hate team karaoke but somehow know all the words. They know what you look like after a win, after a loss, after the phone call with your mother that left you silent for two days.
They are not the family you started with.
But they are here.
That has to matter.
“Okay,” you say softly.
Laura immediately throws both arms in the air. “She said okay!”
The room erupts like you have just scored in overtime.
You laugh into your hand, embarrassed and overwhelmed and, for the first time in weeks, not entirely sad.
Abby squeezes your hand under the blanket.
You squeeze back.
The bar after dinner is loud, crowded, and full of people who seem determined to make the Cup celebration last until someone physically removes them from the premises.
You nurse the same beer for an hour while your teammates dance, yell over the music, and accept congratulations from strangers. It is chaotic, but in a warmer way than the locker room had been. Less shocking. Easier to breathe inside.
You are watching Laura attempt to teach someone a dance she clearly made up on the spot when Abby appears beside you.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
She nods toward the back patio. “Air?”
You follow her outside.
The June night is warm, the sky deep blue above the city. The music is still there, but muffled now, softened by the walls. A group of people passes on the sidewalk below, one of them wearing a pride flag like a cape.
Abby leans against the railing. You stand beside her, close enough that your shoulders brush.
“You seemed lighter tonight,” she says.
“Laura threatened me with more Celine Dion.”
“That would do it.”
You smile. Abby smiles too, and for a second, things feel easy.
“I’m glad you’re coming to Pride,” she says after a moment. “With us.”
“Laura didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“She loves you.”
“I know.”
“We all do.”
You look at her then.
Abby’s eyes stay on yours. “I do.”
Your heart gives a painful little twist. “Abby.”
“I’m not trying to make it complicated,” she says quickly, then laughs under her breath. “Well. More complicated.”
“That might be impossible.”
“Fair.” She looks down at her hands. “I just wanted you to hear it. Especially now.”
You stare out at the street, at the rainbow flags in windows, at the city getting ready to celebrate something you are still learning how to hold without flinching.
“It scares me,” you admit. “Wanting this. Wanting you. Wanting my family to come around. Wanting to be proud and happy and not feel guilty about it. It all feels like too much to lose.”
Abby is quiet for a moment.
Then she says, “Maybe we don’t have to solve everything tonight.”
You glance at her.
“Maybe Pride can just be Pride,” she continues. “Maybe the Cup can just be the Cup. Maybe you and me can just be… whatever we are right now. No labels we are not ready for. No pretending we don’t care either.”
“That sounds almost healthy.”
“I know. Weird for us.”
You laugh, and Abby’s smile widens.
Then her hand comes up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers brushing your cheek.
“I’m scared too,” she says. “But I still want to be here.”
The kiss happens softly. No dramatic rush. No desperate attempt to fix everything with one touch. Just Abby leaning in, you meeting her halfway, the warmth of her hand at your jaw.
She tastes like beer and mint gum.
When you pull back, her forehead rests against yours.
“So,” she says. “Pride?”
You breathe out, and for once, the word does not feel impossible.
“Pride.”
Montreal Pride arrives in color.
Flags ripple from balconies. Music spills from every direction. People laugh, dance, chant, hug, and pose for photos in the middle of the street, as if the whole city has agreed to become one enormous celebration.
You stand at the edge of it in your Victoire jersey, the one with your number on the back. Laura is on your left. Pou is on your right. Abby stands just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her presence without needing to turn around.
Behind you, the rest of the team stretches across the sidewalk in maroon and navy.
A united front.
“Ready?” Laura asks.
You look at the crowd. It is massive, loud, overwhelming.
It is also beautiful.
You take a breath.
“Ready.”
You walk in together.
People notice almost immediately.
“Holy shit, that’s the Victoire!”
“Can we get a picture?”
“You won the Cup!”
The team is swallowed by celebration. Fans rush over with phones, jerseys, and wide smiles. Someone asks Pou to sign a hat. Laura poses for three photos in a row, making a different ridiculous face in each one. Abby gets pulled into a group selfie and somehow still manages to look calm.
You are laughing when a girl steps in front of you.
She cannot be more than sixteen. She is wearing a Victoire hat and a pride flag tied around her shoulders. Her hands shake a little as she holds out a marker.
“Could you sign this?” she asks.
“Of course.”
You sign the brim of her hat carefully.
She looks like she wants to say something else, so you wait.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she says, voice quiet beneath the noise of the festival. “For being out. For winning and being out. It makes it feel… possible, I guess.”
Something in your chest goes tender.
You glance at Laura. She is watching with glassy eyes, trying very hard to pretend she is not.
You turn back to the girl. “It is possible. Even when it feels hard. Even when some people don’t understand. You still get to be yourself.”
The girl nods quickly and hugs you before hurrying back into the crowd.
For a second, you cannot move.
Then Abby’s hand touches the small of your back.
“You okay?” she asks.
You look out at the festival. At the flags. At your team. At the girl disappearing into the crowd with her signed hat and pride-flag cape.
“Yeah,” you say, surprised to realize it is true. “I think I am.”
The day keeps moving after that.
There are photos, autographs, and too much sun. Pou lectures everyone about water. Laura buys you rainbow sunglasses from a vendor and insists they are “champion eyewear.” Abby steals them five minutes later and looks unfairly good in them. Someone hands you a pride flag, and you drape it around your shoulders.
By the time a reporter from a local queer magazine approaches, you are tired, sun-warmed, and lighter than you have felt in months.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says. “What does it mean to you to be a queer champion?”
For a moment, the old instinct returns.
Be careful. Make it clean. Make it easy for other people to hear.
Then you look at your team.
Laura gives you an encouraging nod. Pou stands with her arms crossed, proud and protective. Abby watches you with a softness that steadies you. Around them, your teammates are laughing, signing jerseys, taking pictures, and making space for you without making a spectacle of your pain.
You think of your parents. You think of the call that never came. You think of the little girl you used to be, the one who loved hockey before she understood what shame could cost.
Then you answer.
“It means I get to be whole,” you say. “For a long time, I thought I had to separate parts of myself. Hockey over here. Identity over there. Grief somewhere else where no one could see it. But today, standing here with my team, I don’t feel split apart.”
Your voice shakes, but you keep going.
“I am a hockey player. I am queer. I am a champion. I am still healing. All of those things can exist together. And I have people who celebrate every part of me.”
The reporter smiles softly. “That is beautiful.”
Laura pulls you into a hug the second the reporter walks away.
“I am so proud of you,” she whispers.
You hug her back, tighter than usual.
“I’m proud of me too,” you say.
And this time, it does not feel like something you are trying to convince yourself of.
It feels true.
Later, when the sun starts to set and the festival begins to soften around the edges, you end up at a quieter bar with Laura.
Your feet hurt. Your face is warm from the sun. Your throat is tired from talking. Somewhere a few blocks away, your teammates are probably still dancing, still being loud, still refusing to let the day end.
You and Laura sit near the window, beers in hand, watching the sky turn pink and gold over the city.
“Hell of a day,” Laura says.
You tap your bottle against hers. “Hell of a day.”
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then you look down at your drink. “I still miss them.”
Laura doesn’t ask who.
“I think I thought today would make that go away,” you admit. “Or at least make it smaller.”
She nods. “Did it?”
You think about it.
“No,” you say honestly. “But it made everything else bigger.”
Laura smiles a little. “That counts.”
You lean back in your chair. “I used to think if I won enough, if I became impressive enough, they would have to see me again. Like maybe the Cup would prove I was still worth loving.”
Laura’s expression softens.
“But today, I kept thinking about that girl. The one with the Victoire hat.” You smile faintly. “She didn’t care whether my parents were proud of me. She was proud of me. You were proud of me. The team was proud of me. And for the first time, it felt like maybe that mattered just as much.”
“It does,” Laura says firmly. “Actually, I would argue it matters more because we have excellent taste.”
You laugh. “There it is.”
“I held back for a long time. Very mature of me.”
“Extremely.”
Laura reaches across the table and squeezes your hand. “You are allowed to grieve them. I would never tell you not to. But you are also allowed to enjoy what you have built without feeling like it is second place.”
You look out the window at the city.
The grief is still there. It probably will be for a long time. But it is not swallowing everything anymore. It has company now. Joy. Pride. Friendship. Love that shows up at your door with snacks and threatens Celine Dion. Love that fills an apartment and a parade route and a quiet bar at sunset.
Love that chooses you back.
“I think Pride felt good today,” you say. “Really good.”
Laura grins. “That’s because you were with us.”
“That and the champion sunglasses.”
“Obviously.”
You laugh, and it feels easy. Real.
Outside, the city glows. Somewhere nearby, music starts up again, distant and bright. Your phone buzzes on the table with a message from Abby.
“Proud of you today. Also, I still have your sunglasses.”
You smile down at the screen.
Laura notices. “Abby?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, that is absolutely Abby.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.
You type back.
“Keep them. They look better on you anyway.”
A response comes almost immediately.
“Dangerous thing to admit. I may never return them.”
You are still smiling when you set the phone down.
Laura lifts her beer. “To chosen family.”
You lift yours too.
“To chosen family,” you say. Then, after a second, you add, “And to being worth celebrating.”
Laura’s grin softens into something proud.
“Damn right.”
You drink to that.
To the Cup. To Pride. To Laura, Pou, and the team. To Abby, complicated and gentle and still there. To the girl in the Victoire hat. To the younger version of you who deserved this kind of day long before she knew how badly she needed it.
You drink to grief that no longer gets the whole room.
You drink to joy that has finally found its way back in.
And for the first time in a long time, you believe there will be more of it.
You're a starting centre back for Arsenal Women's team, composed, vocal, one of the leaders on the pitch. Fans admire you for your intelligence and calm authority.
Online, though, you have a different kind of voice, a hugely respected writer on Tumblr with an alias, known for deeply emotional, character driven smutty women’s football fan fiction. People in the fandom hang on your updates. You've built a reputation for getting players right, their mannerisms, their dynamics, their quiet moments.
No one knows how close you actually are to the source.
Part 4
Word Count: 7K
The meeting gets added to your calendar with almost no warning.
11:30 — Internal.
That’s it, there was no explanation.
Which usually means one of two things in football contract discussions, or bad news dressed up in professional language. Still, you walk into the boardroom mostly calm, because you aren’t worried.
Why would you be? You’re vice-captain, one of the best centre-backs in the league if not the world and a starter for both club and country.
You’ve built your entire adult life inside these walls, so when you step into the room and see your agent already sitting there, Arsenal’s sporting director, someone from the executive board and HR, something cold settles quietly in your stomach.
Not panic, just peaks your instinct, football teaches you quickly when something’s wrong, “Morning,” you say evenly, pulling your chair out.
Nobody looks particularly comfortable, that’s never a good sign.
Your agent gives you a brief look as you sit beside him, the kind that tells you he already knows how this conversation ends.
You lean back slightly in your chair anyway, composed externally, always composed. The sporting director folds his hands together, “First of all,” he begins, “this isn’t an easy conversation.”
There it is corporate football language, you almost laugh, instead you just nod once, “Okay.”
He continues carefully, like every sentence has been rehearsed beforehand, “We want to acknowledge everything you’ve contributed to this club. Your professionalism, leadership, consistency”
You stop listening halfway through, not outwardly, outwardly you still look attentive, but internally, your body already knows.
You’ve been in football long enough to recognise the shape of an ending before it arrives, “after a lot of internal discussion,” he says finally, “the club has decided not to renew your contract at the end of the season.”
Silence, not dramatic silence, just stillness the sort that presses strangely against your ears.
You don’t react immediately your face stays unreadable, because football trains that into you too, never let people see the hit land in real time. The sporting director keeps talking something about transition and about long term vision.
Then the phrase, “A new era for Arsenal Women.” Your jaw tightens slightly, “We’re looking to move in a different direction stylistically,” he says carefully. “Something fresher.”
You stare at him for a moment, you wonder vaguely if he realises how insulting that sounds, like you’re a shirt they’ve grown tired of wearing, not a player who’s bled for this club since she was 9 years old.
Beside you, your agent shifts slightly in his seat, you keep your voice calm, “What exactly does that mean?”
The executive board member answers this time, “We feel the squad is entering a transitional phase.”
Corporate nonsense, empty language designed to avoid accountability, you hold eye contact anyway, “So after captaining this team, winning trophies here, playing through injuries for this club…” Your voice remains level, “…I’m suddenly not part of the future.”
Nobody answers immediately, which is answer enough, the sporting director exhales quietly, “This decision isn’t a reflection of your quality.”
That almost makes you smile, almost, because it very obviously is or at least that’s how it feels sitting here. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small, you lean back slightly further in your chair instead of letting any of it show, “Alright,” you say simply.
The executives look almost relieved by your composure, like they’d prepared for anger, crying. Some emotional reaction that would make them uncomfortable.
Instead you just sit there quietly absorbing the fact that the club you gave your entire life to has decided you no longer fit the aesthetic of their future.
Then comes the second hit, “There is another aspect we wanted to discuss,” the sporting director says carefully. Your stomach sinks further, of course there is, “With your contract expiring in the summer…” He pauses briefly. “If suitable offers arrive during the January window, the club would be leaning towards facilitating a transfer.”
The words land heavier than the first part somehow, because suddenly this isn’t we’re parting ways eventually, it’s we’re ready now and would like to make financial gain from it.
You stare at the table for a second, not because you’re emotional, because you need exactly one second to lock everything back down before speaking.
Next week, the winter transfer window opens next week and Arsenal are already preparing to move you on.
You nod once slowly, “Understood.”
It all feels strangely surreal, because a small, stupid part of you genuinely believed you’d retire here.
When the meeting finally ends, chairs scrape quietly against the floor, people thank you for your professionalism.
You almost laugh again professionalism, the favourite word in football whenever someone wants you to swallow heartbreak quietly.
Your agent gathers his things beside you while the executives start filing out awkwardly.
The sporting director pauses before leaving, “For what it’s worth,” he says carefully, “this wasn’t an easy decision.”
You look at him finally, really look at him, then nod once, “I’m sure it wasn’t.” And somehow your calmness seems to make him feel worse than anger would have.
The door closes behind them and silence fills the room, your agent exhales heavily first, “You okay?”
You stare ahead for a long moment the Arsenal crest hangs on the wall opposite the table. You’ve walked past that badge almost every day for years and suddenly it already feels like it belongs to somebody else, “Yeah,” you say quietly, not true not even slightly, but you’re a footballer and footballers learn very early that sometimes your heart gets broken in meeting rooms instead of stadiums.
🔴
The rumours start leaking three days later, because football clubs love discretion right up until they don’t.
You wake up one Thursday morning to seventeen missed calls from your agent and a push notification from Twitter.
BREAKING: Multiple top European clubs interested in Arsenal vice-captain y/n ahead of January window.
Your stomach drops before you even open it, then it gets worse, Spanish clubs, French clubs, Two different WSL rivals. One article mentions a potentially record breaking fee for a defender in the women’s game.
Another says Arsenal are open to negotiations, open to negotiations like you’re an asset already halfway out the door, you stare at the screen too long before locking your phone again.
At training that afternoon, nobody mentions it directly at first, but football dressing rooms are ecosystems information spreads through them before words even get spoken.
The second you walk into the gym, conversations dip slightly, eyes flick up then away, Beth eventually breaks first.
“They’re chatting shit,” Beth Mead says immediately while strapping tape around her wrist. “You’re not leaving.”
You force a shrug, “Haven’t read it.”
A lie, everyone knows it’s a lie, Leah watches you carefully from across the room, because unlike the others, she notices what’s underneath your calm.
You’ve become quieter over the last few weeks in a way that goes beyond normal brooding, you drift through training now like somebody only half present.
Still professional and excellent, but elsewhere mentally and unfortunately, Leah knows you well enough to recognise when you’re retreating inward, “You alright?” she asks later during passing drills.
“Fine.” Always the same answer.
She traps the ball beneath her boot instead of passing it back immediately, “You don’t have to do that with me.”
Something in your chest tightens sharply, because you know exactly what she means, the automatic deflection and emotional shutdown.
You glance away first, “I said I’m fine.”
Leah studies you for another second before finally knocking the ball back toward you, but the crease between her brows never fully disappears after that.
Everything feels wrong, training, matches, home, it feels like your entire life is happening publicly without your permission like you’re slowly losing ownership of yourself piece by piece. Every version of you being discussed by strangers constantly while the actual you quietly drowns underneath all of it.
At training, you become almost frighteningly composed your emotions lock down so tightly they barely leak out at all anymore.
You train harder, speak less, headphones on constantly eyes distant, even your laughter disappears almost completely. That’s what finally worries people, because you’ve always been quiet, but not empty.
One afternoon before the final match before Christmas break, you’re sat alone in the changing room long after most of the girls have gone out to train.
The room hums softly with distant noise from outside then the bench dips beside you, you already know who it is before looking up. Leah sits beside you quietly, elbows resting on her knees for once, she doesn’t joke immediately.
She just sits there for a minute in silence with you, “You’re disappearing a bit.”
Your jaw tightens slightly, “I’m right here.”
Leah looks sideways at you, “No,” she says softly, “Not really.”
The words hit harder than you expect because the awful thing is you think she might be right somewhere over the last few weeks, your life stopped feeling like yours entirely and you don’t know how to get it back.
You sit there staring at the floor between your feet while Leah waits beside you quietly not pushing. That’s the thing about Leah for all the talking she does, she knows when silence matters too.
You’re tired so unbelievably tired and suddenly the effort of holding everything upright all the time feels impossible. You rub a hand slowly across your jaw before exhaling quietly, “They’re not renewing me.”
The sentence lands flat between you, Leah stills instantly beside you, “What?”
You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, “My contract.” Your throat feels tight suddenly. “They’re not renewing it.”
“Who told you that?”
“The club.” You laugh once softly through your nose, humourless, “Pretty official, apparently.”
Leah’s expression shifts from confusion to outright disbelief, “No.”
You nod faintly, “They want a new era.” The bitterness creeps in before you can stop it, “Fresh direction. Fresh squad.”
Leah stares at you like she genuinely cannot process what she’s hearing, “That’s insane.”
You shrug automatically even though the movement feels stiff, “It’s football.”
“No, fuck that.” Her voice sharpens immediately, “That’s actually insane.” You look away because hearing someone else say it out loud somehow makes the whole thing feel more real. Leah leans back slightly on the bench beside you, one hand dragging over her face, “They can’t seriously think this club is better without you.”
You swallow hard, “They do.”
“No.”
“They literally told me, Leah.”
“I know what they told you.” She looks furious now, “I’m saying they’re wrong.”
Your jaw tightens sharply at that, because part of you wants to believe her so badly it almost hurts, but another part the bigger part already feels cut loose from the place, “They’ve had offers,” you say quietly after a moment.
Leah’s head turns immediately, “What?”
“The window opens next week.” You stare ahead blankly, “Apparently there are offers they don’t think they can refuse if I’m leaving anyway.”
The silence after that feels enormous, you can practically see the moment Leah understands what this actually means, end of an era reduced to transfer negotiations before January.
“That’s why you’ve been like this,” she says softly.
You huff another quiet laugh, “Probably.”
Leah looks at you for a long moment, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
That nearly breaks you, because the truth is you hadn’t told anyone because saying it aloud made it real, because if you kept it contained inside your own head maybe Arsenal still belonged to you somehow.
You stare at your hands instead, “I didn’t know how.” Your voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Leah’s expression softens immediately, “Oh, Y/N.”
Your eyes burn instantly as you look away hard toward the row of lockers opposite you, embarrassment floods you immediately after.
You hate crying, hate it, especially here, especially over football, but the grief has been sitting inside your chest with nowhere to go, “They don’t even seem sad about it,” you say quietly, voice rougher now, “That’s the worst part.”
Leah stays silent beside you.
You laugh shakily once, wiping quickly at your face before anything properly falls, “I was nine,” you whisper, “Nine.”
The number hangs painfully in the air, nine years old walking into Arsenal’s academy for the first time, building your whole life around one badge.
Leah’s eyes glisten slightly immediately because she understands exactly what that means, nobody outside football really gets it, how clubs stop being jobs, how they become homes, identities, versions of yourself.
“They said ‘fresh’ like I’m…” You shake your head slightly, “Like I’m old furniture.”
“You are not disposable.”
Your mouth tightens hard, “Feels a bit like I am.”
Leah reaches over then, gripping the back of your neck briefly the way she always does after difficult matches, “You listen to me,” she says firmly, “Any club in the world would kill to have you.” You close your eyes briefly because that almost makes it worse somehow, “You shouldn’t have to leave the club you want to be at.”
And there it is the real wound underneath everything else, because yes, there are huge offers from massive clubs, guaranteed champions League football, money that would change your life, but none of it feels like Arsenal, none of it feels like home.
A tear finally slips free despite your best efforts, you wipe it away immediately, jaw clenched tight with humiliation, “Sorry.”
Leah looks genuinely offended, “Don’t apologise for that.”
You laugh weakly through the remnants of the emotion, “Bit pathetic.”
Her expression hardens instantly, “Absolutely not.”
You shake your head again, staring down at your hands, “I just thought…” Your throat tightens painfully, “I thought I’d retire here.”
The words nearly break both of you, because Leah thought that too everyone did, Leah nudges your shoulder lightly against hers, “You know what I think?” You glance sideways at her tiredly, “I think they’re going to realise what they’ve done the second you walk out the door.”
Your mouth twitches faintly despite everything, “Very dramatic.”
“I mean it.”
You believe she does, you just sit there shoulder to shoulder in the quiet changing room while the weight of it settles properly between you.
You stare ahead at the Arsenal badge stitched onto the pile of training gear across the room and suddenly your chest hurts so badly it feels difficult to breathe around it, because you can still remember everything.
Being nine and terrified on your first academy day, the smell of wet grass at training, the first time you pulled the shirt on properly. Your first senior appearance, winning trophies, losing finals, captaining the team. Every version of yourself exists somewhere inside this club and now they’re just done with you.
You scrub harshly at your face again before another tear can fall, but it’s pointless now. Once the crack starts, everything underneath it comes flooding through too quickly to stop.
Beside you, Leah exhales shakily, “You know what’s horrible?” she says quietly, you shake your head slightly, “I can’t picture this place without you.”
Your face folds before you can stop it, shoulders curling inward slightly as another tear slips free, “Fuck,” you whisper hoarsely, laughing weakly through it, “I hate this.”
Leah’s eyes are bright now too, “Yeah,” she says thickly. “Me too.”
You both sit there trying unsuccessfully to pull yourselves together for about ten seconds before Leah suddenly wipes angrily at her own face, “Oh, brilliant,” she mutters. “Now you’ve got me crying.”
That gets a broken laugh out of you, “Sorry.”
“You really need to stop apologising every time you have a feeling.”
You shake your head again, still smiling faintly through tears now, “You’re supposed to be the emotionally stable one.”
Leah snorts wetly, “You’ve known me too long to say something that stupid with confidence.”
You laugh again properly this time, even while wiping at your eyes, “I just don’t understand how it became this.”
Only months ago you were vice-captain, starting every week, one of the faces of the club aand now Arsenal are quietly preparing to move you before Christmas.
Leah wipes at her face again before leaning back against the lockers behind you both, “You know they’ll regret it.”
You stare ahead blankly, “Maybe.”
“No. Not maybe.” Her voice firms slightly despite the tears still clinging to it, “They will.”
You want to believe her, but right now all you can think about is how easy it seemed for the club to let you go, “I feel stupid,” you admit quietly.
Leah frowns immediately. “Why?”
“Because I actually thought loyalty mattered here.”
Football is cruel like that, you can love a club with your whole chest and still end up sitting in a nearly empty changing room being told you no longer fit the project.
Leah’s eyes shine again, “You know what the worst part is?” she says softly, you glance toward her, “The girls are gonna lose their minds."
That almost makes you laugh again, “Beth’ll probably stage a protest.”
Your throat tightens again unexpectedly at that, because you hadn’t let yourself think much about the others yet.
You drop your head into your hands again briefly, “God.”
Leah reaches over and rubs a hand slowly across your upper back another tear slips free before you can stop it and this time you don’t even bother hiding it.
Leah’s crying quietly beside you now too, eyes red as she stares ahead, “This is shit,” she whispers.
You nod, “Yeah.” And for a little while longer, the two of you just sit there together grieving something that hasn’t even fully ended yet.
🔴
Christmas break arrives without feeling remotely like a break, the training ground empties out gradually over the final few days before everyone disperses home, but the atmosphere around you stays strange.
People keep looking at you like they’re trying not to say the wrong thing, which honestly feels worse than normality would.
The rumours online have only intensified now too, every major football account seems to have an opinion on your future. Barcelona. Lyon. Chelsea. Wolfsburg.
Articles analysing your tactical profile like you’re already gone. Fans arguing over transfer fees beneath pictures of you wearing the Arsenal captain’s armband.
You stop reading all of it after a while, because none of them actually understand what hurts.
You spend Christmas mostly quiet, your family notice it immediately, of course they do, but they don’t push too hard.
Your mum just keeps making cups of tea and sitting near you in silence the way she used to after difficult academy matches when you were younger.
You find yourself staring at old Arsenal photos more than once over the holidays, tiny academy kits, youth tournaments, sixteen year old you grinning beside Leah after your senior debut, an entire life stitched together in red and white.
By New Year’s Day, you feel hollowed out by it and the offers start becoming real, meetings, calls.
Your agent flying back and forth constantly, you try to approach everything professionally because that’s what football teaches you to do. Smile politely, discuss projects, talk about ambition and systems and long term vision like your chest isn’t quietly caving in underneath it all.
Still, some clubs are easier to dismiss than others, Chelsea is an immediate no, your agent doesn’t even argue. “I couldn't do that to the Arsenal fans.”
“Correct.”
Lyon is tempting, Wolfsburg too, but nothing fully settles nothing feels right.
Then one evening your agent calls while you’re halfway through reading in your flat, his tone changes before he even says the words, “Barcelona want a meeting.”
You go very still, because some part of you knew that was coming eventually. You just didn’t expect your stomach to react quite so violently when it finally did.
“They’ve been asking quietly for weeks what your figures are,” he continues carefully. “But now they are willing to negotiate.”
“When?”
“They want you in Spain after New Year as soon as possible.” Silence stretches briefly down the phone, then your agent adds carefully, “They’re serious, Y/N.”
You already know that, Barcelona don’t pursue players half heartedly when they do, especially not defenders.
You stare out across your dark flat for a long moment Barcelona the best team in the world. The club every player secretly measures themselves against and somehow the thought doesn’t make you excited first.
It makes you sad, because accepting Barcelona means accepting Arsenal is really over.
Your agent lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again, “There’s something else.”
You already hate the tone, “What?”
“It's money as your agent, I would highly highly recommend you do not turn down” Your eyes close immediately. Your agent continues, “They don't offer this kind of money out to anybody. They want you to hear the project directly from them. Not through media. They’re arranging meetings with senior players too.” Senior players. Meaning captains. Meaning. Nope. Absolutely not thinking about that. “You still there?” your agent asks.
“Unfortunately.”
He laughs quietly, “You don’t have to decide immediately.” But you do eventually. That’s the awful thing about football even heartbreak comes with deadlines.
🔴
The first morning back at London Colney feels wrong before you even get out of the car. Cold January air hangs low across the training ground, grey clouds pressing heavy overhead while players gradually filter into the building carrying coffees and overnight bags and normal conversations.
Everything around you keeps moving normally while your entire life quietly fractures underneath it.
You sit in your car for an extra minute before forcing yourself out your phone buzzes almost immediately it was your agent, you ignore it for now.
Inside, the changing room hums softly with sleepy energy, Beth Mead is already talking too loudly about some reality show nobody else watches.
Alessia Russo is half buried inside a hoodie eating cereal from a tupperware container and Leah Williamson looks up the second you walk in.
Immediately reading something in your face her expression sharpens slightly. You look away first, because if Leah asks how you are before you’re ready, you genuinely might lose your composure in the middle of the changing room.
You get changed mostly in silence the conversation around you drifts in and out without fully landing.
Your chest has felt tight all morning because now it’s real enough that keeping it a secret feels unfair somehow.
Beth notices first when you barely react to one of her jokes, “That’s concerning,” she says slowly. “Normally you at least pretend I’m funny.”
You zip your training jacket up slowly, “Can I talk to you three before we go out?”
The wording alone is enough to shift the mood instantly, Beth straightens slightly, Alessia lowers her spoon.
The changing room gradually empties around you while the rest of the girls head out toward the gym until eventually it’s just the four of you left.
You lean back against the lockers, arms folded tightly across your chest mostly to keep yourself physically together.
Beth frowns first, “You’re scaring me a bit.”
You swallow once then force the words out before you can lose your nerve, “They’re not renewing me.”
The room goes completely still, even though Leah already knew hearing it aloud again visibly hits her anyway.
Beth blinks at you, “…What?”
Alessia’s face falls instantly, “No,” she says immediately, like denial alone might undo it.
You nod faintly, “They told me before Christmas.”
Beth stares at you in genuine disbelief, “That’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“No, I know but—” She cuts herself off sharply, emotion flashing across her face too fast to hide. “What do you mean they’re not renewing you?”
You laugh once quietly through your nose, humourless, “They want a new direction apparently.”
Leah’s jaw visibly tightens beside you at the phrasing. Beth looks furious immediately, “That is absolute bullshit.”
Alessia just looks heartbroken already, “But you’re” She gestures helplessly. “You’re you.”
You almost smile at how genuinely distressed she sounds, “That’s apparently not enough anymore.”
“No,” Beth says sharply, “No, fuck that.” The anger in her voice catches slightly at the edges with real emotion underneath it.
You look down briefly toward the floor before continuing quietly, “They’re willing to sell in now if the offers are good enough.”
That lands even worse Alessia’s eyes widen immediately, “They want you gone now?”
You shrug automatically which was a defensive habit of yours, “Contract expires in summer anyway.”
“That’s disgusting,” Beth mutters.
Leah’s been quiet this entire time watching you carefully probably noticing the way you haven’t once said Arsenal are making a mistake and just accepted it. Like somewhere underneath everything you’ve already started grieving properly.
Beth folds her arms tightly, “Who?" You glance up, "What clubs?”
You hesitate briefly, “Lyon.”
Beth grimaces slightly but nods, “Okay.”
“Wolfsburg.”
Alessia looks faintly overwhelmed already, “And…”
You stop immediately regretting continuing, Leah closes her eyes briefly beside you like she already knows exactly what’s coming.
“Oh no,” Beth says slowly.
You exhale quietly, “erm, a few WSL teams have made offers, London City, United, City, Chelsea” You swallow, "Best overall package so far is Barcelona, with.. my package and obviously trophy opportunities and the players I will get to play with."
Alessia whispers, “Oh my god.”
Beth actually looks winded, Leah rubs a hand slowly across her face, Barcelona isn’t just another transfer, it means leaving England.
Barcelona means the best team in the world looked at Arsenal’s vice-captain and decided they wanted her just solidify what a good player they are about to loose.
Beth stares at you for a long moment, “…Would you go?”
The question settles heavily in the room you look away immediately, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want to leave Arsenal, but Barcelona feels impossible to ignore. “The money is…” You pause briefly, “A lot.”
Beth snorts softly through the emotion, “Very professional analysis there.”
You huff a faint laugh despite yourself, “My agent basically threatened me if I turned it down.”
“That good?”
“That good.”
Leah finally speaks then, quietly, “Do you want to go?”
Your throat tightens immediately, because nobody’s actually asked you that yet, not tactically or financially, but emotionally. Do you want it?
You stare at the floor for a long moment before answering honestly, “I don’t know.”
That’s the worst part, because part of you already sees it too clearly, the football, the challenge, the level and beneath all of that a warm brown gaze and slightly broken English and a woman who’d pulled you away on a touchline because she thought you were ignoring her.
You scrub a hand across your jaw quickly.
Beth watches you carefully, “…This is a bit lesbianically tragic, isn’t it?”
You look up in disbelief, Alessia makes a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry, even Leah’s mouth twitches, “You are genuinely unbelievable,” you mutter.
“I’m coping.”
“With that?”
Beth points at you dramatically, “You accidentally manifested your own enemies to lovers transfer saga.”
“There are no enemies involved! Or lovers for that matter”
Leah raises an eyebrow immediately you stop talking, because unfortunately you no longer sound convincing even to yourself.
🔴
The meeting room is too quiet that’s the first thing you notice when you walk in.
Usually before training there’s chatter, people half awake with coffees in hand, Beth talking too loudly about something ridiculous while Alessia laughs beside her.
Today it’s subdued, because the rumours exploded overnight after the club announcement was scheduled internally everyone already knows something’s coming.
You take your usual seat near the back beside Leah, arms folded tightly across your chest while players gradually settle, nobody looks at you directly for too long that somehow hurts the most.
At the front of the room, Renée Slegers stands quietly beside the projector screen, expression carefully composed.
You already know what she’s going to say, still doesn’t stop your stomach twisting. The room eventually settles completely silent, Renée exhales softly before speaking, “I wanted to speak to everyone together before this becomes public later today.”
Immediately the atmosphere shifts heavier, you stare down at your hands.
“After discussions between the club and player…” Renée continues carefully, “…Sunday’s match at the Emirates will be Y/N’s final game for Arsenal Football Club.”
Silence, real silence this time the kind that physically presses against the room nobody moves at first, because hearing it aloud makes it real in a completely different way.
Your final game at the Emirates for Arsenal, you keep your face neutral through sheer force of habit. Footballer composure, media composure, the same mask you’ve worn through injuries and finals and devastating losses but beside you, Leah’s eyes close briefly.
Across the room, Beth looks openly furious already and Alessia’s face folds almost immediately, “Oh my god,” she whispers quietly to herself.
Renée keeps speaking gently about your contribution to the club, your leadership, your legacy, every word somehow making your chest ache worse.
Legacy, such a strange word when you’re only twenty nine and still feel like the terrified nine year old walking into Arsenal academy for the first time.
“We’ll have opportunities to celebrate Y/N properly this weekend,” Renée finishes softly, “But I and Y/N wanted this group to hear it from us first.”
Nobody speaks immediately after, then Beth suddenly stands up altogether, “This is bullshit.” The bluntness of it almost makes you laugh.
Renée’s expression softens sadly, “Beth—”
“No, seriously,” Beth says emotionally, “This club is actually insane.”
A few nervous laughs break weakly around the room through the heaviness, but nobody disagrees which is what makes it worse.
Leah stares ahead silently beside you, jaw tight, then one by one the girls start moving not toward the door, but toward you.
Alessia gets there first and practically throws herself into your arms before you can react properly, “You can’t leave,” she says tearfully into your shoulder.
Your throat tightens instantly, “It’s one plane journey away, drama queen.”
“That’s not the point.”
Beth hugs you next hard enough to nearly crack ribs, “You better become the most expensive defender in history,” she mutters angrily against your hair.
You laugh weakly despite yourself, “Very touching sentiment.”
“I’m serious.” You know she is.
The room dissolves into something emotional and messy after that, the girls hugging you some crying openly, others just sitting beside you quietly because they don’t know what to say and through all of it you feel strangely detached.
Like this is happening to somebody else, like maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and still belong here.
🔴
The Instagram post goes live at exactly 2pm, a photo of you in Arsenal colours, a statement underneath thanking you for your years of service to the club.
Your phone becomes unusable within minutes notifications crash endlessly across the screen, fans in complete disbelief.
no fucking way
arsenal have genuinely lost their minds
this better be fake
She's our best defender!
who allowed this???
Edits flood social media almost immediately, videos of your best tackles, captaining the team, celebrating trophies, young academy photos beside current ones an entire childhood and adulthood compressed into internet grief within hours.
You stop looking eventually, because every comment somehow makes it feel more final.
🔴
That night your flat feels painfully quiet you shower make tea you barely drink, fold laundry just to keep your hands occupied.
Eventually you end up sitting in bed in oversized Arsenal pyjama bottoms and an old hoodie, staring blankly at your ceiling while exhaustion settles deep into your bones.
Your phone buzzes beside you, you almost ignore it automatically then you see the name, Alexia Putellas
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, you open the message slowly.
Alexia:
I shocked. I never think you leave Arsenal
You stare at it for a long moment then finally type back.
You:
It wasn’t my decision.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Alexia:
They just let you go?
You best centre back in world?
Your eyes burn suddenly not because of the compliment, because of how genuinely confused she sounds by it like the idea itself doesn’t make sense to her.
You stare at the messages too long without replying, your chest feels hollow again exhausted right down into your bones. Eventually you just lock the phone and place it face down on the bedside table.
You can’t do this tonight, can’t explain Arsenal politics or grief or betrayal or the unbearable feeling of being unwanted by the only club you ever truly belonged to.
So instead you switch the lamp off pull the duvet higher over yourself and lie there in darkness listening to the quiet hum of London outside your windows while your entire life changes around you.
By the time sleep finally drags you under, your unanswered messages are still glowing faintly somewhere beside the bed.
🔴
The Emirates has never sounded like this before, you notice it the second the team bus pulls underneath the stadium, even through tinted windows.
The noise rolls through the glass in waves chants already echoing outside hours before kick-off.
Beside you, Leah glances sideways from her seat, “You okay?”
You nod automatically and lie automatically, “Fine.”
Leah just hums softly like she doesn’t believe you for a second anymore nobody really does these days.
As the bus doors open, the noise doubles instantly phones flash, supporters scream your name from somewhere behind barriers and then you see the banners.
Thank You Y/N.
One of our own.
Forever Arsenal.
Your throat tightens so fast it almost hurts, you lower your head slightly as you walk inside, headphones on despite no music actually playing.
The tunnel feels strangely surreal today like every step is happening underwater, staff stop you more than usual with little touches on your shoulder with quiet good lucks their expressions too emotional to meet properly.
Inside the dressing room your shirt is already hanging in your spot, your name, your number one last time at the Emirates, you stare at it slightly too long before sitting down.
Nobody’s particularly loud today even Beth’s energy is muted beneath the emotion hanging around the room.
Eventually Renée gives the team talk, but you barely absorb most of it your pulse has been too loud in your ears since arrival.
Then right before you head out Leah stands the room quiets almost immediately and she looks directly at you, “You know there’s nothing I can actually say here that’ll cover what you mean to this club.”
Your jaw tightens instantly, oh no, no no no, absolutely not before kick off.
Leah continues anyway, “You’ve carried this badge with more pride than anyone I know.” The room is completely silent now, “You made this place better,” she says softly, “For all of us.”
Your eyes burn immediately as around you, several girls already look emotional too, Beth openly wipes at her face, Alessia looks seconds away from sobbing.
Leah’s own voice catches slightly before she clears it, “So whatever happens after today…” She gives you a small, shaky smile, “You’re Arsenal forever. Alright?”
Something in your chest cracks painfully open, you nod once quickly because speaking feels dangerous, Leah steps forward first and pulls you into a hug.
The room follows after that arms everywhere, hands gripping your shoulders, emotion of familiar voices all blurring together.
You laugh weakly somewhere in the middle of it despite the tears burning behind your eyes, “This is deeply embarrassing.”
“No,” Beth says thickly beside you, “This is your fault for being loveable.”
“That’s disgusting, actually.”
A few watery laughs break through the room, then the tunnel official appears it was time to line up, you pull yourself together the best you can.
🔴
Walking out at the Emirates feels heavier and louder than usual the second your boots hit the tunnel floor, the stadium erupts. Your name thunders around the Emirates so loudly it physically vibrates through your chest.
You freeze for half a second, because suddenly every memory crashes into you at once, you force yourself forward anyway, supporters hold scarves high in the stands and then you see it.
North Bank, a massive banner stretched across rows of seats, HOME IS WHERE Y/N IS.
Your composure nearly disappears completely, “Jesus Christ,” Beth mutters somewhere behind you emotionally.
Leah bumps her shoulder lightly into yours as you line up, “You with me?”
You swallow hard, “Trying.”
The match itself becomes strangely sharp after kick-off, like your body understands before your brain does, every tackle clean, every pass precise, your focus absolute.
Football has always made the rest of the world quieter, today especially. The crowd sings your name constantly, every defensive action applauded like it means something bigger.
Midway through the second half, you slide across to stop a dangerous counterattack near the edge of the box, perfect timing, a perfect tackle.
You stay down for half a second after clearing it, chest heaving against the grass while noise crashes around you from every direction, grief hits you so hard it feels almost unbearable.
When you stand again, Leah grabs the side of your head briefly as she passes, “Best centre back in the world,” she mutters fiercely.
Arsenal win, you barely remember the final whistle itself only the noise afterwards which was deafening. The second the whistle blows, you sit on the grass then lay back hands over your face, your teammates surround you instantly. Beth crying openly, Alessia somehow crying harder, Leah hugging you so tightly you can barely breathe.
Then the stadium announcer says your name, and the entire Emirates stands, sixty thousand people rising to their feet at once, applauding, cheering.
Your face folds before you can stop it, “Oh no,” you laugh shakily through tears immediately. “Nope.” But it’s pointless now, emotion crashes through you too fast to contain.
You clap toward the supporters weakly while tears spill properly down your face for the first time in public, because this is goodbye an actual goodbye.
The lap of appreciation afterwards nearly destroys you completely, you walk slowly around the Emirates with the girls beside you while supporters continue singing your name. Scarves wave, children hold signs asking you not to leave and somewhere around halfway across the pitch you finally break properly.
Just quiet devastation head bowed briefly while tears fall faster than you can hide them, Leah notices instantly her arm loops around your shoulders without hesitation while Beth grabs your hand from the other side.
“You okay?” Alessia asks tearfully.
You laugh weakly through it, “No.” Honest for once.
The stadium keeps singing anyway, long after the final whistle, long after the speeches, long after you stand alone one final time in the centre circle staring up at the stands that raised you.
Eventually the lights begin dimming around the Emirates, staff waiting quietly near the tunnel.
Time to go.
You stand there for one last second in Arsenal red, trying desperately to memorise everything, with your chest aching so badly it feels impossible to carry, you turn and walk back down the tunnel.
🔴
Hours later, your flat is silent the adrenaline has long gone. What’s left behind is exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones.
Your bag still sits packed near the door, you showered eventually, mostly just to wash the pitch and tears and stadium lights off your skin.
Now you sit cross legged on your bed in an old Arsenal hoodie, hair still damp, staring blankly at your phone.
Instagram open an empty caption box waiting, you’ve typed and deleted about fifteen different versions already. Too emotional, too cold, too angry, too grateful. Nothing feels right for something that meant your entire life.
Eventually, around one in the morning, you stop trying to sound composed and just write honestly.
I don’t really know how to put twenty years into one post.
I joined Arsenal when I was nine years old. I was a quiet kid with a backpack bigger than me and a dream that felt far too big to say out loud properly.
This club became my second home before I even understood what that meant.
It gave me some of the best days of my life. Some of the hardest too. It gave me teammates that became family, coaches who shaped me, supporters who carried me through moments I didn’t think I could carry myself through.
Every version of me exists somewhere inside Arsenal.
The little girl desperate to be good enough.
The teenager making her debut.
The player living out dreams at the Emirates.
The vice captain.
The person.
I always thought I’d leave this club one day feeling ready.
I don’t think you ever really are.
Today was one of the hardest and most beautiful days of my life. Walking out at the Emirates for the final time and hearing that support is something I genuinely don’t think I’ll ever have words for.
Thank you for every chant, every message, every banner, every little girl wearing my shirt, every person who believed in me long before I believed fully in myself.
Thank you to every teammate I’ve shared a dressing room with. Especially this current group. You made this place feel like home every single day.
And thank you to Arsenal.
For raising me.
I don’t know what comes next yet. But I know wherever football takes me, a part of me will always belong here.
Forever grateful.
Forever Arsenal ❤️
The comments start flooding in almost immediately, fans first, former teammates, pundits, the England girls, players from across Europe.
Your phone buzzes nonstop against the duvet beside you while you lie there emotionally exhausted staring at the ceiling.
Eventually, despite yourself, you open the comments and that’s somehow what finally nearly breaks you again.
leahwilliamson:
Don’t really have words for this one. Proud of you always. My favourite person forever ❤️
bethmead:
Actually crying again thanks a lot. Love you endlessly idiot ❤️
alessia:
not me sobbing in bed at 1am 😭 i love you so much
mariona:
Very lucky club next ❤️
katie_mccabe11:
My favourite centre half. Arsenal won’t be the same without you kid ❤️
liawaelti:
It was an honour to share this team with you. Incredible player, better person ❤️
stina.blackstenius:
Thank you for everything ❤️
caitlinfoord:
forever one of the best ❤️
Alexgreenwood:
World class. Don’t let anyone make you forget that ❤️
keira_walsh:
privilege to play against you (sometimes less fun than others) ❤️
GeorgiaStanway:
❤️❤️❤️
laia_codina:
Top top player ❤️
alexiaputellas:
🤍
You stare at that last comment the longest, long enough your screen eventually dims slightly in your hand, because somehow out of every comment underneath the post that’s the one that settles deepest in your chest. Even after all that's happened and came in the last few weeks, she'd still publicly support you.
The Perfect Crime (Or Almost) || Irene Paredes x Little Sister!Reader x Clara Serrajordi
The synergy between Y/N Paredes and Clara Serrajordi on the pitch is a blessing for Barça, but in real life, it’s a chaotic nightmare.
Based on this request-> here, I hope you like it!!
Masterlist
---
Clara and you had met long before moving up to the Barça first team.
Before the spotlights. Before the full stadiums. Before pressure even had a name.
You met on smaller pitches, with worn-out goals and impossible hours, where football still felt more like a game than a responsibility.
And since then, you never stopped being yourselves.
Chaotic. Competitive. Incapable of taking anything completely seriously for more than five minutes.
Everyone knew that wherever one was, the other would be too. And that synergy, which on the pitch was a blessing for the team, in real life was a nightmare. Because if one had a questionable idea, the other didn't just back it up; she improved it with a level of audacity that only youth and a lack of fear can give.
That afternoon, after training, they had called Irene, your sister, into a meeting. Therefore, with her being your driver, you had to wait for her to come out. Clara had decided to keep you company under the excuse of having someone give her a ride home.
However, both of your patience had run out far too quickly, and to make matters worse, you were hungry.
That in itself was already dangerous, because the problem was that hunger always made the two of you creative.
"Fifteen minutes," Clara scoffed, letting her head drop against your shoulder as you both watched the door of the sports complex. "Irene said fifteen minutes fifteen minutes ago."
"That is technically still punctuality, Paredes version."
"That is technically a crime."
You let out a small laugh from the bench where you were waiting, still with your sports bag between your feet. Training had been long, suffocating, and your stomach had been protesting for half an hour.
"We can wait."
Clara looked at you as if you had just proposed a national tragedy. "Or..."
That single word was already a bad sign.
You turned your head slowly. "No."
"I haven't even said anything."
"Because I know you."
The smile that appeared on her face confirmed all your worst forebodings. "Irene's car is literally right there."
Your eyes followed the direction of her finger.
And there it was. The car perfectly parked. Spotless.
Intimidatingly spotless.
"Clara."
"Listen to me first."
"No."
"Just for food."
"No."
"Ten minutes."
"No."
"Patri once told me that impulsive decisions build character."
You turned immediately. "That is completely false."
"Well, maybe not in those exact words."
It didn't take Clara long to convince you, because when she wanted to, she could be extremely persuasive.
So, five minutes later, you were walking toward the car.
The worst part was that it wasn't even the first time you had taken the emergency keys that Irene left "just in case." Although normally that "just in case" implied something much less questionable than escaping for food without warning. (Plus, most of the time, you always went with a responsible adult)
"This is a bad idea," you murmured.
"The best stories start like this."
"So do police reports."
Clara ignored the comment as she settled into the passenger seat with absolute happiness.
"God, this is so comfortable," she commented, adjusting the rearview mirror with a grin from ear to ear. "Come on, ten minutes and we're back. Nobody will ever know."
You sighed as you started the engine. The sound of the motor came to life with a smooth, expensive purr that only served to remind you of the massive amount of money your older sister's favorite toy cost.
"Don't let it stall," Clara warned, stretching her legs across the passenger space as if she owned the vehicle. "If the car senses your fear, it will automatically lock up. It's modern technology, Y/N. It doesn't forgive weakness."
"Shut up, Serra," you murmured, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that your knuckles turned white while your attention fully submerged into the road, though a small laugh was already escaping your lips.
Barcelona kept moving around you with that familiar chaos of motorbikes, traffic lights, and people walking fast. Clara controlled the music as if she were the DJ of an improvised festival while debating with you whether burgers were more worth it than tacos.
"Tacos," you insisted.
"Burgers."
"Tacos."
"I can't believe you are so gastronomically limited."
"I can't believe you talk like that while I'm driving my sister's stolen car."
"Borrowed," Clara corrected immediately. "Stolen implies criminal intent."
"And what is this?"
Clara pretended to think about it. "A nutritional emergency."
In the end, as always when it came to food, the burgers won. They got the order in record time and, with the paper bags giving off a glorious scent, they started the drive back to the Ciudad Deportiva.
They had plenty of time. Twelve minutes. A resounding success.
Until you drove back into the underground parking lot.
"Okay, park exactly where it was," Clara directed, gesturing with her hands as if she were guiding a plane landing. "Left, left... a little more. Watch out for the pillar."
"Clara, I know perfectly well where the pillar is, I've been seeing it the whole seas..."
The sound appeared before you finished the sentence. It wasn't deafening, but in the silence of the underground parking lot, it echoed like a bomb.
The car came to a dead stop. You froze completely, hands glued to the steering wheel and eyes wide open. The car music kept playing in the background, creating a ridiculous contrast with the emptiness that had just formed in your stomach.
Slowly, like in a horror movie where you know the monster is right behind you, you turned your head to the right.
Clara had frozen halfway through putting another fry into her mouth. Her face had lost all its color, taking on a white shade that confirmed your worst nightmares.
"Tell me that was something else," you pleaded in a thread of a voice.
"That wasn't the car."
You blinked slowly. "Oh my God."
"It could have been... the floor."
"Clara."
"The acoustics of the parking lot are deceptive," she insisted, as if she were trying to convince herself too.
"Clara."
"Okay, fine, maybe it wasn't the floor," she admitted, slowly lowering the french fry without taking a bite. "But we shouldn't assume the worst-case scenario either. Think positive."
"What is positive about this?"
"That the engine is still running."
You turned off the car immediately. The silence that flooded in was sepulchral, broken only by the rustling of the paper bag from the burgers. You unbuckled your seatbelt at record speed and got out of the car, practically tripping over your own boots. You crouched down next to the front right wing, ignoring the cold of the concrete, and fixed your eyes on the disaster.
It wasn't a subtle scratch that you could hide by rubbing it with your hoodie sleeve. It was a deep scrape, about fifteen centimeters long, that had stripped the dark blue paint away to reveal the metallic gray underneath. And to top off the artwork, the friction against the corner of the concrete pillar had slightly dented the bodywork inward.
"She's going to kill us," you whispered, resting your forehead against your knee. "She won't wait for the season to end. She's going to disinherit me."
Clara put both hands to her head when she reached your side. "Oh God."
"CLARA."
"IT WASN’T ME!"
"YOU WERE DIRECTING!"
"AND YOU WERE DRIVING!"
"BECAUSE YOU GAVE ME HORRIBLE INSTRUCTIONS!"
"I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD A PERSONAL VENDETTA AGAINST PILLARS!"
You leaned against the car with an expression of absolute horror.
Because the problem wasn't the scratch. It was whose car it belonged to.
Irene Paredes. Your sister.
Owner of an admirable patience. Except when it came to her things.
And particularly her car.
"Let's see..." Clara said, inspecting the battle scar while narrowing her eyes. "Panic doesn't solve problems. If you look at it from far away, with your eyes a bit squinted and under the right light... you can still see it a whole lot, okay, sorry. Don't look at me like that."
"It's Irene's car!" You gave her a light hit on the shoulder, your eyes wide. "That woman cleans the rims with a toothbrush on Sundays! She has a mental radar for any damage!"
"Then we hide it!" she blurted out, grabbing you by the shoulders so you would stop hyperventilating. "Think fast. We go into the locker room, put the keys exactly where they were, and act normal. When Irene comes out and sees the dent, she'll think someone hit it while she was in the meeting. A delivery truck. Or a board member's car. Yes, we blame the board. Nobody dares to contradict Irene, but they aren't going to investigate a board member's car either."
"That is the most cowardly, low-down, and worst-structured lie I have ever heard in my entire life," you said, staring at her.
Clara opened her mouth, offended. "Thank you, I try to innovate."
You looked at her with absolute incredulity while she kept analyzing the dent as if she were looking at a tactical setup and not the probable end of your football careers.
"We can't hide it."
"We can try."
"Clara—"
"Listen to me before you panic again."
"I haven't stopped panicking!"
Clara ignored that. She crouched next to the scratch and passed a finger close to the exposed metal with an alarming amount of concentration.
"Okay... damaged paint, small dent..."
"“Small”." You said in disbelief.
"I am being emotionally responsible."
"That looks like a war wound."
Clara looked up. "I've seen TikToks of people fixing worse things."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because when a sentence starts with 'I've seen TikToks,' it usually ends in the emergency room."
"You’re so dramatic."
"You convinced me to steal a car!"
"Borrow—"
"Don't you finish that word."
Clara closed her mouth. For three full seconds, neither of you said anything.
Just the silent parking lot. The smell of the burgers going cold. And Irene's car staring at you both accusingly from every possible angle.
"Okay," Clara broke the silence, standing up with a dramatic sigh. "There's no time to debate our options. There are less than ten minutes left before your sister finishes signing documents or whatever it is captains do."
She helped you up while she kept talking. "We go in, return the keys, sit down to eat the burgers, and if anyone asks, we were on the bench the whole time debating climate change."
You didn't have the strength to protest. The real fear of Irene had left you in a state of absolute submission. You walked through the corridors at a fast pace, trying not to let your sneakers squeak against the floor.
Entering the locker room, which luckily was still empty, you approached your sister's locker with trembling fingers. You opened her bag and slid the keys back into the exact same pocket you had taken them from.
"Step one complete," Clara whispered, sitting on the wooden bench and opening the paper bag with an enthusiasm that bordered on psychopathic. "Now, let's eat. Stress burns calories."
You sat next to her, but the first bite of your burger tasted like pure cardboard. Your eyes went constantly from the locker room door to the clock on the wall. Five minutes. Seven minutes. Nine minutes.
The doorknob turned.
Clara swallowed a piece of a fry almost without chewing and adopted a posture of being deeply focused on her phone. You froze, the burger halfway to your mouth, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
Irene walked into the locker room. She was carrying a folder with the club's logo under her arm and the serious expression she always had after discussing tactical blocks and schedules, but upon seeing you both, her expression softened a little.
"Hey, peques," Irene said, placing the folder on her locker with a weary sigh. "What a drag they put us through with those preseason matches. Thank goodness we're finally going home. Clara, are you ready? I'll take you."
Clara and you looked at each other out of the corner of your eyes. A visual dialogue of a millisecond:
"Does she know?"
"No, impossible."
"Smile, damn it, smile!"
"Irene!" Clara exclaimed with a friendliness so exaggerated it was ridiculous. "You... you look great today. Really. That tracksuit looks spectacular on you. It really highlights your presence."
Irene stopped, her hand halfway to opening her bag. She looked at Clara with narrowed eyes, that same steady, icy stare she used to intimidate rival forwards before they took a corner.
Then, she shifted her gaze to you.
And that was enough for the panic to rush right back up to your throat. Because there was something universally terrifying about being watched by Irene Paredes when she suspected something.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't dramatize. She just stared.
And that was so much worse.
Her eyes moved slowly from you to Clara. Then to the bag of burgers. Then back to both of you.
"What did you break?"
The silence was immediate.
Clara opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"What?" she laughed nervously. "What a specific question."
Irene let out a short, tired exhale as she opened her bag.
"You've been complimenting me for forty seconds on a tracksuit I wear three times a week and that literally looks just like yours," she said, pointing at Clara without looking at her. "And my sister looks like a hostage in an international negotiation."
You straightened up way too quickly. "We're not being weird."
Irene arched an eyebrow.
Clara intervened immediately. "Exactly. Completely normal."
"Uh-huh."
Your sister leaned against the locker, crossing her arms. "Last chance."
Clara looked at you out of the corner of her eye. You looked at her.
And at that exact moment, you both made the worst possible decision.
"Nothing." The answer came out perfectly synchronized.
Irene blinked. "Perfect."
She took the keys out of her bag and twirled them around her finger. "Let's go then."
Your heart plummeted. Because of course.
OF COURSE.
The car.
Clara went rigid next to you. "Right now?"
"Right now?" Irene repeated Clara's words with an agonizing slowness, stopping the swing of the keys. "I don't know, Serra, unless you'd prefer to sleep here in the locker room. Yes, right now."
You jumped to your feet, feeling your legs tremble.
"It's just... Clara hasn't finished eating yet!" you blurted out, pointing at the paper bag as if it were proof of life. "And you know what the club nutritionists say, Irene. Leaving digestion halfway cuts off the metabolic rhythm. It's extremely dangerous."
"Extremely dangerous," Clara seconded, nodding her head so fast you almost feared she would give herself whiplash. "An imminent risk of muscle injury, captain. If I were you, I'd wait another ten short minutes sitting right here. Talking about life. About... about how beautiful the sky looks today."
"How curious," she murmured. "Because I could swear that before I left, you both wanted to leave already."
Nobody spoke, and Clara smiled.
A horrible smile. Tense. Artificial. "People evolve."
Irene locked her gaze onto you. "Y/N, you are blinking so much it looks like your eyes are sending out Morse code."
She took a couple of steps forward. The jingling of the keys in her hand sounded in your ears like the bells of judgment day itself. She stopped right in front of you both, forcing you to look up from the bench. Her analytical gaze moved down from your suspiciously pale faces to Clara's hoodie, dropped to the floor, and stopped.
Following the direction of her eyes, you discovered with horror the loose end that ruined everything.
On the floor, right next to Clara's bag, was a crumpled drive-thru receipt with the time perfectly printed on it: 16:48.
Irene crouched down with agonizing elegance, picked up the little piece of paper with two fingers, and read the contents out loud.
"Two large meals, extra fries, and barbecue sauce. Sixteen hours and forty-eight minutes. In other words, exactly 20 minutes ago." Irene looked up, locking her eyes on you. "The restaurant is two kilometers from here. Unless you've grown wings, you used a car. And given that neither of you has..."
The silence that flooded the locker room was so dense you could almost cut it with scissors.
"It was a truck," Clara blurted out all at once, unable to take the pressure any longer.
"A what?" Irene arched an eyebrow.
"A board of directors' truck!" Clara exclaimed, standing up and gesturing chaotically. "We were... we were walking back with the food, completely innocent and as pedestrians, when we saw a huge truck lose control in the underground parking lot. It crashed into your car, Irene. A vehicular tragedy! We tried to stop it, but it fled the scene. If I were you, I'd ask for the club's security footage right now. We have to report the board members."
You covered your face with both hands, sinking into the wooden bench.
"That is the most cowardly, low-down, and worst-structured lie I have ever heard in my entire life," you whispered, repeating the exact words you had told her in the parking lot.
"I am trying to save us, Y/N!" Clara shot back in a desperate whisper.
"Save yourselves from what, Serra?" Irene's voice fell like a bucket of cold water. "If the phantom truck of the board of directors hit my car... why are your faces completely white, and furthermore, why is there a grease mark right on the unlock button of my key fob?"
Slowly, you pulled your hands away from your face and looked at your older sister with the softest, most regretful eyes you could possibly manage.
"We were so hungry, Irene..." you admitted in a thread of a voice. "And the keys were right there, so lonely... and the concrete pillar moved. I swear it moved on its own, it appeared out of nowhere."
Your words hung in the air while she kept holding the receipt between her fingers, looking at you with that calmness that foreshadowed a diplomatic disaster.
Beside you, Clara had stopped pretending to have any dignity and looked like she was reconsidering every single decision that had brought her to this moment.
"I want to understand the timeline," she said with a terrifying serenity. "So let's go step by step. Because maybe I'm missing something."
You felt your heart keep beating violently inside your chest.
"I was in a meeting. You two were waiting for me. And at some point between 'we are hungry' and 'the phantom truck of the board of directors'... you decided to take my car."
Clara raised a finger. "Borr—"
Your murderous glare shut her up immediately, and Irene continued.
"You drove to a restaurant."
You barely nodded.
"You bought burgers. And then you turned a parking lot pillar into a participant to cover up your lack of ability to drive properly."
Your sister placed the keys on the bench and rubbed her forehead.
And for a second—just one—she reminded you less of the Barça captain and more of your older sister.
"Why lie?" she asked then, lowering her voice a bit.
The question hit you harder than any scolding.
"Because…" you looked at the floor, "I thought you were going to be furious. I'm really sorry. We didn't mean to mess it up. We were just hungry and it seemed like a good idea at the time… and then the hit happened and we panicked."
Irene watched you for a few seconds.
"And you," she turned toward Clara.
Clara straightened up as if she were standing before a court. "I'm sorry too."
"A lot?"
"A whole lot."
"More than how sorry you were while you were organizing a cover-up?"
Clara hesitated. "…yes?"
"And the truck?"
"That was maybe a bit too creative."
Irene let out some air through her nose. It wasn't exactly a laugh, but it was dangerously close.
You noticed it. And Clara did too. Because both of you looked at each other out of the corner of your eyes with a suicidal shred of hope.
Irene saw you exchange that look and arched an eyebrow. "Don't mistake patience for absolution."
The hope died instantly.
Your sister picked up the keys again. "Let's go."
Your stomach dropped once more. "To the car?"
"Yes, Y/N. To the car. I want to see the crime."
Clara muttered something that sounded like a prayer as she grabbed her things and linked her arm through yours.
The walk to the parking lot was unbearably silent. The only sounds were sneakers against the floor and the faint jingling of the keys in Irene's hand.
Both of you walked half a step behind her, like two convicts being escorted to their public execution.
When they turned the corner and the car came into view, Irene stopped.
She observed the damaged side. The scratch. The dent.
The stripped paint. And the famous pillar.
Her eyes went from the car to the concrete. Then back to the car.
Then she turned her head toward you both.
"…Fifteen centimeters."
Clara swallowed hard. "Twelve if we're being optimistic."
Irene ignored her. She approached slowly, passed her hand near the damage, and examined the surface with the precision of a forensic detective.
You were barely breathing. The silence stretched out for so long that you started considering pretending to faint.
"Do you know what bothers me the most?"
"The dent?" you asked weakly.
"No." Irene straightened up and looked at you both. "That you parked terribly."
The silence lasted for half a second. And then Clara let out a choked noise. You were left with your mouth wide open, halfway between relief and utter confusion.
"If you were going to wreck it, you could have at least left it centered."
Clara looked at you. You looked at Clara, and both of you burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh," you whispered, horrified.
"I'm trying," she gasped, "but I thought she was going to kill us."
"I'm still considering it," she said.
Irene watched you both for a few seconds, shaking her head. With that impossible mix of exhaustion, incredulity, and resigned affection that only older sisters mastered.
"But," she said, putting her hands into her tracksuit pockets. "You two are paying for the repairs."
The laughter died immediately.
"Both of us?" Clara said.
"Both of you."
"But I was only moral support."
"Hey!!" you said, offended, as you smacked her arm.
Irene got into the car and you both followed immediately, while Clara muttered something about starting to sell non-essential organs.
"Okay, tomorrow first thing I'm going to talk to the coaching staff. For the next two weeks, you two are going to be officially in charge of collecting all the balls, cones, and bibs after every training session. And if a single ball is missing from the inventory, another week will be added."
Clara stopped muttering. "I'm sorry... what?"
Irene adjusted the rearview mirror with absolute calmness as she started the car. "You heard me."
The engine came to life, and the familiar sound only managed to increase your sense of an anticipated funeral.
"Two weeks," Clara repeated, as if she needed to process it out loud. "Of picking up... things?"
"Balls, cones, and bibs," Irene listed with surgical serenity as she drove out of the parking lot. "Football community service."
You were still trying to take it all in.
"Is that an official punishment, or did you just make it up?"
"I am the captain. The line between those two things is very flexible."
Clara put a hand to her chest. "This is an abuse of power."
"This is the consequence of actions."
"But we are already going to pay for the car!"
"Correct."
"Then this is a double penalty!"
Irene didn't even look at her.
"Two weeks is a whole lot," you protested.
"It could have been three."
"Irene!"
"Y/N."
You sighed and crossed your arms.
The car moved in silence toward your homes. The perfect crime had been an absolute disaster, the truck lie had lasted less than a minute, and a month of hard labor and empty pockets awaited you, but as Clara reached into the bag again to rescue the last french fry and winked at you, you knew that at least the story had been worth it.
Summary: You just moved to a new city for school, and you definitely don't need distractions, but then you meet a woman that peeks your interest.
Word count: 12.2k
A/N: I'm wishing Vicky and rest of the family all my thoughts after the passing of her mom🙏❤️
(The text between brackets and in red is the translation from Dutch to English.)
The cold morning air of St. Albans hit your face the minute you stepped out of your halls of residence. It was still early, so you had enough time to start your day with a good cup of coffee and work on your homework. It was so cold outside, even though it's spring. Luckily, you have enough experience with cold weather. You moved from the Netherlands 3 months ago to study Arts in music here in England.
It isn't that a school in the Netherlands didn't offer the same study, because it did. It was more like you wanted to see a new culture and figure out which genre you want to invest in. And if you had to be honest with yourself, you always had loved England. When you were around 17, you told your parents that once you were old enough and had enough money, you would move to England.
So, here you were, in England, on a cold morning. The quad this early in the mornings was usually empty, but you had left quite late, so there were already a few students walking around. Your first class starts in an hour, so you still have time to work on some stuff. 2 months ago, your teacher announced a whole new concept, something your university hadn't done before. He announced that everyone in class needed to write their own song and would perform it at a small bar.
You were so excited back then when you heard the news, but as the night drew closer, you started to feel nervous. The only times you had performed were in front of family, and there were only like ten people; now, you didn't know how many people would be there. You told yourself you didn't have stage fright, but you started really to doubt that. It was fine, you're going to be fine, what's the worst that could happen?
Nope, you didn't let your mind go there; you didn't want to jinx it. You walked off campus through the university gates. There was a small cafe located just a few buildings away. It was a coffee shop you walked into the first day you arrived here, after you had moved all your stuff. "Good morning, y/n," The barista greeted you. The barista, Belle, was your first real friend here. She already finished school and opened her own coffee shop.
"Hi," You greeted her back, shrugging your jacket from your shoulders. You looked around. The shop was still empty; it usually was when you were there. No normal person would be at a coffee shop this early. "The usual, please," You said with a smile, walking up to the counter. "Yes, m'am." Belle saluted you and got to work. "So, excited for the open night thingy?" You shrugged lightly with your shoulders.
"Excited? Yes," You said, leaning against the counter, "nervous as hell? Heck yeah." Belle chuckled softly, pouring you coffee in a mug. "And here I thought that you loved to perform," Belle said, handing you the coffee. "I do, but I never–" You cut yourself off with a sigh, shaking your head lightly. "You had never what?" Belle asked, her eyes intrigued when they met yours. "I just have never performed for a big crowd," You admitted, rubbing the back of your neck.
"Oh," was all Belle said. "Yeah, oh," You groaned. "But, you do love to perform, right?" You nodded with your head. You loved writing about what had happened in your life; heck, you even wrote a song when you found out you'd been accepted into St. Albans University. "I'm just afraid that I'll mess things up, and I'll be the laughing stock of the school, especially when my professor had said that he had high expectations from me," you groaned, dropping your head on the counter, and Belle patting the back of your head.
"How is your song coming along?" You lifted your head, standing up. "I have a song," You muttered, looking quickly at your bag where your notebook was. Belle raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter.
"I have a song, but nobody has heard it yet," You said, fidgeting with your ring. It was a nervous habit of yours, but it helped you calm down. You looked back at Belle when she stayed quiet. You gave Belle a suspicious look because she was deep in thought, which is very dangerous. After all, it's Belle. "I need you to hear me out, because I have an idea," Belle said cautiously as you eyed her some more. "I don't like that sentence coming from your mouth, not one bit," You muttered, but stayed quiet, giving Belle the green light to continue.
"We have this open mic evening, people can perform just for fun, so maybe you can perform." You opened your mouth to say no, but this wasn't a bad idea. Your shoulders dropped as you let out a defeated sigh. "When is it?" Belle smiled victoriously, as if she had just won the lottery. "In two nights, at 8 PM," Belle informed you, handing you a pamphlet of the event.
"It's a yearly thing. It attracts a lot of people." You looked at the pamphlet, everything in your body screamed that you should say no, but instead, "I'm in," You said, still not really sure, but couldn't help the slight smile. Belle came from behind the counter, pulling you into a hug. "Oh my god!" Belle shrieked in your ear, hugging you tighter.
After you finished your coffee, you walked back to school. The nerves in your system are going through the roof right now. What had you agreed to? Who in their right mind would agree to what you just agreed to? There was this nagging feeling in you that this was going to blow up right in your face, and you would end up still being the laughing stock of the school for the next century. You walked through the hallways, more students filling the paths to classes.
"y/n!" Spinning around, your eyes met green eyes. Lily was one of your first friends you made here. The weird thing was, she studied something entirely different. The university was big, so it had different sections of the school where different subjects were taught. Lily has blonde hair that just reached her shoulders. She always has headphones around her neck, and her computer is either in her hands or in her school bag.
Lily studies data science. You didn't know much about it, only that you needed a computer and worked with numbers. "Whoa, Lily, what's the hurry?" You asked with a smile, balancing Lily by her arms when she stopped right in front of you, almost colliding with you. Lily pushed her glasses up. You had told Lily many times that her glasses were too big for her, but she never listened and never got new ones.
"Remember the Python test that I had last week?" You stared at her, the what? "I'm sorry, but the what?" Lily looked at you incredulously, like you just offended her entire bloodline. "Python," Lily stated again, like that alone would clear the confusion, "analyzing large datasets and building artificial intelligence, and much more," Lily explained. You just nodded, even though you had no idea what all of that meant.
"So, I'm guessing you got the result back?" You asked, tilting your head slightly. "Yes! I got 89% on my test!" Lily shrieked, happiness radiating off her. Your face softened. Lily had been rambling nonstop to you ever since she made the test. It drove you insane sometimes, but the girl loved what she was doing, so who were you to take away that joy? "Wow! That's so good to hear, I knew you could do it!" You beamed in excitement.
"You're one of the best in your class!" Lily glared at you. "What?" You asked, your eyes turning to confusion. "I'm not one of the best''. I am the best!" Lily said proudly. You just shook your head, laughing softly. "Of course, how could I forget?" You teased, earning a small slap to the shoulder. Lily glared at you for another second before she was smiling again. "It just sucks that this score doesn't count for the exams for the end of the year," Lily muttered, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
You gave her a sympathetic look, silently telling her that she would pass this year. "Enough about me, how is your assignment for the song contest thingy coming along?" You shook your head, smiling. "It's not a contest," You clarified as the two of you started walking to your locker. "It's not?" Lily frowned, confusion clearly visible. "No, it isn't. It's more like a test," You said, gesturing to Lily, because of the test she just talked about. "A test?" Lily echoed.
"Yes, just like your test on paper gets a grade, my song will get a grade." Lily finally started to catch on as she nodded her head in understanding. "Oh, I see." The two of you reached your locker and unlocked it with the key. Lily leaned against the locker next to yours while you put your books into the locker. "I have a song," You said, answering Lily's previous question. "Why do I feel like there's going to be a but?" Lily muttered, giving you a flat look.
"Because there is," You groaned, dragging both hands down your face. You stared into your locker as if it personally offended you. In all fairness, your locker had offended you in your first week. "It's just, nobody has heard it yet, and-" You tried to say, but Lily's voice cut you off. "Isn't that the whole point of a new song? That nobody has heard it yet?"
You gave Lily a flat look. You love Lily, you really do, but she never really listens, like really listens. "Yes, that's the whole point of a new song." You gave Lily that. "But, I just never performed for a big crowd," you explained, closing your locker and locking it. You waited for Lily to tease you. She always did, but now? Nothing. No teasing comment, no laughter, no nothing. You turned your head, your eyes locking with Lily's.
"I know I always tease you, but from the stuff you forced me to listen to, I'm sure you'll pass the assignment," Lily said honestly, giving you a reassuring look. "Thanks, and for the record," You said with a soft smile, "I never forced you to listen to the stuff I wrote." Lily laughed at that, and so did you. "If you want, you can perform the song for me first, and I can give it a fake rating." Your lips twitched. That was really sweet, and you will probably take Lily up on that offer.
"How does tonight sound?" You asked. Lilly looked a bit startled; she didn't think you would actually agree on it. "Oh my god, I'm getting to hear your song first," Lily beamed, hugging you tightly. You already felt the nerves going through you, but you just needed to rip the band-aid clean off, no hesitation, not anymore. You were going to this, even if it scared you to death.
Later that day, after all your classes were done, you were in your room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, your guitar in your lap, as you were just plucking out melodies out of thin air. Your notebook lay open in front of you on the bed. The pages were filled with crossed-out lyrics, scribbled notes in the margins, and fresh lines written beneath the ruined ones. You hummed softly as you read the lyrics. This was the song you were going to perform at the open-mic night at Belle's cafe, and you could turn this in as the song for your assignment, but you weren't sure of that yet. You cleared your throat and strummed the guitar.
"It's something unpredictable, but in the end, it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
Letting out a heavy sigh, you tapped your guitar nervously with your nails, a beat instantly forming. It's a good song, at least, that's what you thought of it, but what if your professor didn't? What if he thinks it sucks? What if you don't pass this assignment? The grade for this assignment counts as half if you want to pass this year. A knock on your door dragged you out of your spiraling. You placed your guitar on the bed and walked to the door.
"Hi," Lily said, an excited smile on her face. You stepped aside so Lily could enter. Your room was nothing special. It was just a single bed in the corner, a desk on the opposite wall, your closet next to your desk, and your guitar stand stood at the foot of the bed. You sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh, rubbing your hands against your thighs. Shaking your head, you took your guitar and gestured for Lily to take a seat.
"So, what's the song about?" Lily asked, taking a seat on your desk chair, spinning in it. "Just about when I would leave the Netherlands and move to England," You answered, as you finetuned the guitar. "Ready?" You asked, glancing at Lilly. "Yes," Lilly said, nodding her head and straightening herself. You started, but your hands were shaking so violently that you needed to stop, muttering under your breath, "fuck," before forcing yourself to start over.
"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road."
Your voice was shaking, but you forced yourself to keep going. You needed to do this. You wanted to do this. This was your dream, ever since you were little; now you just needed to take the final step.
"Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go."
"So make the best of this test, and don't ask why."
You were finally settling into it now, the nerves shrinking into small waves instead of the violent currents from earlier. You had forced your eyes shut, afraid to look at Lily's face. Afraid that you would crumble when you did, so you did what you have seen multiple artists do: close your eyes and do what you do best.
Lily was in complete shock. She had heard you whisper-sing in her presence, but never fully like now. Your voice was so clear, pouring every emotion you had into words. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
When you sang the last part of the song, Lily's tears were fully falling now as she wiped them away. The song was beautiful, and your voice fitted it so perfectly. Your fingers shook as you played the final notes, so you went off-key slightly, but Lily didn't notice; she couldn't, she was so in awe of what you were doing.
"It's something unpredictable."
"But in the end, it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
"Oh my god," Lily breathed out, "That was beautiful, y/n." Pride swelled in your chest. Lily's reaction was exactly what you wanted from your songs. Let people feel the song as if they were experiencing it themselves so that they can put their feelings into words. You wanted people to hear your songs and finally feel understood, even if you were the one putting those feelings into words for them.
"Are you okay, Lily?" You asked softly, because Lily was clearly not okay. "I'm fine, I'm totally fine," Lily said quickly, wiping the remaining tears from her cheeks. You just chuckled lightly, deciding not to go into it further.
The night of the open-mic event came sooner than you thought, because here you were, setting things up together with Belle and Lily. You stood behind the counter, your back resting against it, your eyes staring at nothing in particular. "Lily, please, just move the table!" Belle yelled from across the shop, her brown hair falling into her face. Belle had informed you that this was always the biggest night for her shop. Belle glared at Lily, who was doing something on the shop's laptop.
You assumed that Lily was updating the laptop. She had grilled you once when your laptop was two updates behind, so from that moment on, you did the updates immediately so that you wouldn't be met with a storm called Lily. "Belle, your laptop was six updates behind, and your laptop is very old," Lily informed the bar owner, who was giving dagger eyes at the tiny blonde, who finally set the laptop down.
"Noted, now can you help me move these tables?" Belle asked, gesturing at three tables in the middle of the room. "Ay yay, captain!" Lily beamed, quickly moving to where Belle was waiting. You were still standing at the counter, your fingers tapping nervously on the surface. Shaking your head, you took your notebook and went over the lyrics again. By now, you probably know the lyrics like the back of your hand, because it was your own damn song that you wrote.
You sucked your lip between your teeth, tearing some of the skin in the process. It was a very bad nervous habit of yours, something you needed to quit doing, otherwise you would ruin your lips. You wrote down in your notebook to buy a nervous ring or something, because tearing your lip until it bleeds isn't a good nervous habit. You placed your notebook back on the counter and finally turned your head to the chaos that was happening to your right.
If it were a cartoon, Belle would have steam coming from her ears because Lily was not listening to Belle at all. Poor Belle, she doesn't know that Lily only listens when it comes to numbers. A sigh left your lips as you pushed yourself off the counter and walked toward the duo. "How's it going here?" You asked in a teasing tone, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "She's not listening to my instructions, like at all," Belle muttered under her breath, loud enough for you to hear, but low enough that Lily didn't notice.
"Okay," you said, clasping your hands together, "what can I do? Before you start strangling Lily in your mind." Belle let out a sigh and muttered, " Too late for that." Your shoulders shook when you tried to hold your laughter, pressing your lips together. "Don't," Belle warned you, giving you a flat look. Immediately, you raised your hands in surrender.
"Can you–just set up the mics, please?" You saluted Belle dramatically and headed to the stage, but heard Belle mutter under her breath, "Why am I friends with two idiots?" There was no real bite behind it. Belle was just stressed, granted, this event was always the busiest evening of the shop. As you stepped on stage, you plugged everything in with wires, tested the mics and boxes, and, at last, turned on the radio to see if everything was connected correctly.
You just put on a random playlist and made sure the wires weren't all across the stage. Knowing yourself, you would trip over them, so to prevent disaster, you made sure the stage was clear of any wires. When the last things were in place, the three of you stood at the counter, looking at how everything was set up. "So," Belle started, setting her mug down, "are you excited for tonight?" Belle couldn't stop smiling. She was so happy that you finally decided to let everyone hear how amazing you are.
"Yes, but also fucking terrified," You admitted, staring down at your mug. "That's understandable," Lily said lightly, smiling at you. "As you said, this is your test. People are always nervous before a test, at least, I was pretty nervous for my Python test." Belle stared at Lily but then back at you, mouthing, "Python?" You just shook your head, mouthing back, "Long story."
"Yeah, Lily's right," Belle quickly said before Lily could get suspicious of the silence after she spoke. "But, honestly?" You looked at Belle, waiting for what she was going to say as you fidgeted with your fingers. "You should just be yourself. I've heard you sing before, and you absolutely rock!" Belle beamed, nudging you with her shoulder. "You could always close your eyes, you know? And when you feel comfortable enough, you open them," Lily stated.
Both you and Belle looked at Lily. That was actually really good advice. "I'll keep that in mind," You muttered as your eyes wandered to the stage that was set. "Or if you're nervous, look at Belle." You gave Lily a look. "Belle is the calm friend between her and me. If you would look at me, you would probably crumble from the nerves," Lily said before taking a sip from her drink. "Fair point," You said with a smile, bringing your mug to your lips. As the clock ticked closer to 8 PM, you felt the nerves low in your stomach, but not from fear; it was from excitement to perform in front of a big crowd for the first time.
The coffee shop was already crowded when Victoria and a few other teammates entered. "This looks cozy," Kyra beamed, her eyes going over the room. "It's not bad," Leah hummed in agreement. "Is there some open-mic night?" Alessia asked, gesturing to the stage that stood against the opposite wall. Everyone followed Alessia's hand, and in fact, there was a stage. "In fact, there is," Steph said, holding out a paper to the rest. Vic took the paper and read what was on it.
"This is a yearly event, and the people performing are from St. Albans University," Vic explained, placing the paper on the nearest table. "So, we want to spend the evening here?" Leah asked the others, who all nodded. The group walked to a table with a clear view of the stage, people muttering as they passed. The group had just come back from a match. It was the North London Derby. Arsenal had won 5-2, so they wanted to celebrate.
"Beers?" Vic asked, and the others nodded. Vic walked through the crowd, people chattering about school stuff. Vic had gathered that most people were students, not all of them. There was no line at the counter, so Vic could order right away. "Good evening," A brunette greeted Victoria with a bright smile. The woman wiped her hands dry on a towel.
"What can I get you?" Victoria ordered seven beers and told the barista where they were sitting. Vic didn't immediately turn around; she just turned her head to the stage, where a group of boys was setting up their instruments. "What's this open-mic night all about?" The barista returned with the first two beers and placed them on the tab. "Sorry?" She asked. "This," Vic said again, gesturing to the stage. "Oh, yeah, some students from the university had an assignment, and they asked if they could perform here." Vic nodded in understanding.
"Oh wow." Vic turned her attention back to the woman, but she was looking over Vic's shoulder. "Arsenal women are here?" A small smile tugged at Vic's lips, nodding with her head. "Yep," Vic said, popping out the 'p'. "And you are?" Belle smiled lightly. "I'm Belle, the owner of the shop." Vic nodded in understanding, looking back at the room. "Nice place you got here." Belle gave Vic a thankful smile. "Where are you from?" Vic laughed softly, shaking her head.
"It's the accent, isn't it?" Belle nodded with a smile and said, "Yeah, you don't really have a British accent." Vic groaned slightly. She really thought she had improved with her English. "I'm from the Netherlands." Belle's eyebrows shot up, earning a confused look from Vic. "What?" Belle just shook her head, saying, "Nothing." Vic eyed her for a second longer, but decided not to go further into it.
"Well, thanks for the drinks," Vic said, taking the pints from the counter. As she walked back to their table, the mic was tested on stage, someone tapping it with their hand. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Belle said through the mic, her eyes going over the biggest crowd so far for this event. Vic reached their table and set the pints down. "Yesss, beer!" Katie cheered as she, of course, took the first glass.
"Katie, we didn't win the Champions League, please, don't drink as much as you did back then," Leah said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No way, we just won the North London Derby, I'm digging in," Katie replied with a grin, taking a big sip from her beer. Kyra laughed loudly; Alessia and Steph shook their heads; Caitlin gave Katie a loving look; Vic tried to hold her laughter, but her shoulders shook; while Leah dropped her head on the table, giving up on all that's holy.
"Okay, please give her a round of applause. Here is Cecily," Belle announced, clapping in her hands as she put the mic on the mic-holder. Vic and the others clapped in their hands, all their eyes on the stage as a black-haired girl stepped on the podium, her smile as bright as the sun.
After an hour, most of the performances were done. They all had been good, even though Katie had covered her ears when a guy performed with a violin. Vic wasn't a specialist, but even she could tell that the violin wasn't tuned, if that even was a thing for violins. "How much more do we have to endure?" Katie mumbled into her hands. "C'mon, Katie, they weren't all that bad," Alessia said. Katie glared at the English striker because that was a total lie.
"You can't tell me that those last two performances were music to your ears," Katie grumbled, giving Alessia a flat look. "Technically speaking, it was music to my ears, but not really good music," Alessia said, muttering the last part under her breath. "Guys, please tell me you aren't criticizing students," Leah said, shaking her head lightly. "They're students, they're still learning," Steph now said, agreeing with Leah on this.
"Fine, fine, but if the next one is just as bad as the other two just now, we're leaving," Kyra grumbled from where she was sitting. Both Leah and Steph shook their heads as they looked back at the stage where you were setting everything up.
You were the last one to perform. When you heard Belle tell you that you wanted to strangle her, she knew that when the last person would perform, the cafe was filled more than when the first people would perform. You were setting up your guitar for the hundredth time, fine-tuning it until your fingertips hurt. You dared to look at the crowd. Most people slumped in their seats.
You had noticed by the third act that most people weren't paying attention anymore. You shook your head. There was no point in dwelling on that. It was your turn in a few minutes, and you were already dreading the thought that people would only half listen to you. As you were adjusting the strap of your guitar, Belle walked back onto the stage, giving you a reassuring look before taking the mic from the stand. "Alrighty! The last performance is already here! Make some noise, everybody!" Belle yelled into the mic. Yeah, you definitely wanted to strangle her now.
You also noted to yourself that if you ever needed a wingwoman to hype the crowd before a performance, you knew who to call. Some people in the crowd cheered, while others stayed quiet. You let out a heavy sigh and hung your guitar around your neck, checking again if you tuned it right. "Give a round of Applause for, y/n!" Belle announced. You walked up to the mic, giving Belle a small glare, but she just blew a kiss and walked off the stage.
You stood in the middle of the stage, breathing hard into the mic, accidentally making it squeak. "Sorry," you immediately said, stepping slightly back from the mic as you saw people wince from the sound. "Hello, everyone." You started. Your usually decent English accent had apparently abandoned you completely. Great.
"I wrote this song when I left home to start a new challenge in a different country." You swallowed the lump in your throat, looking down at your guitar. "I hope you enjoy it." You strummed the guitar once, but winced when you had your fingers completely on the wrong chords. "Fuck," You muttered, forgetting there was a mic in front of you, so a few people in the crowd snickered. Well, you had their attention now. You started again, having found the right chords.
"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road."
"Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go."
"So make the best of this test, and don't ask why."
Your voice was shaky, so you did what Lily told you earlier. You closed your eyes, strumming your guitar. You took a breath before continuing.
"It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.""It's something unpredictable, but in the end, it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
Your nerves had settled as seconds passed. Your fingers weren't shaking that much anymore; you were almost at ease. Doing the things that you loved the most and for the first time, in front of a crowd that wasn't your own family. Across the room, Vic was totally mesmerized by you. It wasn't because of your voice, well, partly, but mostly because of how you recovered so quickly from your mistake in the beginning.
She saw that you didn't crumble. She saw someone take a deep breath, close their eyes, and start again. "You're staring," Vic whipped her head toward the voice. Alessia's eyes had something mischievous in them, a knowing smirk on her lips. "I am not," Vic shot back, her cheeks reddening just slightly.
Your voice dragged Vic's eyes back to the stage. All the people who had been slumping into their seats were now giving you their full attention, even Katie sat up straight, her eyes soft. Vic related to the lyrics. It was hard for her when she left the Netherlands for England, moving to a completely new country where she barely knew anyone.
"Sure you're not," Alessia replied, deciding not to go into it further as she shifted her attention back to you. You sang the last lyrics, strumming your guitar one final time, before stopping. The cafe erupted into cheering. You saw people at the far end of the cafe whistling through their fingers. A swell of pride bloomed in your chest. You did it, you performed your song, and people liked it. It was overwhelming, but in a good way.
You couldn't have dreamed that people were cheering, and for you no less. As the crowd settled down, you walked off the stage, only to be wrapped in the arms of Lily and Belle, who both were shrieking, Lily mostly just shrieked because Belle was.
"You were amazing," Belle shrieked, hugging you tighter. You knew that Belle was excited for you, but if she ever wanted to hear you perform again, then she really needed to loosen her hold because she was practically cutting off all your circulation points. "Belle," you wheezed out, "I'm getting no air here." Belle immediately loosened her hold, giving you an apologetic look.
"Sorry," She muttered, letting you go immediately. "You were absolutely amazing, like, so good." Your cheeks turned pink at the praise. "Okay, you're getting a beer, it's on the house," Belle announced, dragging both you and Lily to the tab. "No, no, it's fine," You said. "Let me just help with the orders at the bar." Both Belle and Lily gave you an incredulous look. Belle, because you deserved a drink, and Lily, because who would want to work voluntarily? You just stared at them, not giving in. "Look, I just did something terrifying, I don't need alcohol to calm my nerves, alright? I left those on stage," You told your two friends, rolling up your sleeves up to your elbows.
Belle let out a sigh, finally giving in. "Fine," she muttered, still not agreeing with you. "Lily, could you get the orders of the couple in the back?" Lily scrunched her nose. Belle just gave her a flat look, and Lily eventually moved her feet, muttering something about "couples suck," before she walked through the crowd.
You stood behind the counter, your eyes scanning the room. You still couldn't believe that you performed in front of them all. Your mind was still catching up with that fact. The pride you felt earlier is still going through your body. Belle approached you with a tray of snacks and held it out. "Could you give these to the group of girls there?" Belle asked as you took the tray, your eyes following Belle's gaze. You saw a group of women wearing tracksuits with a logo you recognized, but you couldn't quite place where you'd seen it before.
"Sure," You said and moved your feet. When you were within hearing range, you heard one of the women say. "Vic, you were totally staring at her," followed by laughter from the table. Your cheeks turned pink. You could tell that they were talking about you. Shaking your head, you cleared your throat, and the group immediately turned to you. You saw that a few were pressing their lips together, trying very hard not to laugh.
Your attention shifted to a shorter woman with dark-blonde hair, her eyes already locked on you. "Eumh, you guys ordered snacks?" You managed to say, still feeling the eyes of the woman on your left on you. "Yes, I'm starving," the woman sitting in one of the corners said, her Irish accent slipping through.
"Congratulations, you were very good out there." You turned your head to where the voice was coming from. You could tell that the woman wasn't from England, but from Australia. "Thanks," you said with a shy smile, glancing at the badge on one of the tracksuits. Then it dawned on you, the cannon, the red and white tracksuits. You were talking to Arsenal women.
You followed the league for a bit when you moved to England, because ever since you came here, the city had been promoting the Women's Champions League. "You had such an amazing voice!" You jumped at the volume when someone said that, turning to the woman with freckles, her hair in a low bun. "Kyra, you don't need to yell," another Australian accent said. "What, she has an amazing voice," The woman, Kyra, you assumed said.
"Thanks," You said again. You looked again at the woman who hadn't taken her eyes off you. You gave her an awkward smile, but she quickly tore her eyes off you. "Sorry about her." Your eyes now landed on a blonde woman. You knew her: Leah Williamson, captain of the Lionesses and vice-captain of Arsenal. "It's okay," you assured the blonde defender.
"Here are your snacks," you quickly added, setting the tray down on the table, "enjoy." You turned on your heel and walked back to where Belle was standing, raising an eyebrow at you. "What was that about?" Belle asked when you were close enough, warily looking at you. "Nothing," You said quickly, too quickly. "That's Victoria Pelova," Belle told you casually, no context. You drummed with your fingers on the edge of the counter, giving Belle a confused look.
"Who?" Belle just pointed subtly to the woman who had been looking at you the whole time when you were at the Arsenal table. "How do you know her?" You asked, your voice lower than usual. Okay, that was new. Why did you sound like that? Belle turned to you, her back leaning against the counter, raising an eyebrow at you. "Oh, wow," Belle said, letting out a low whistle. You frowned at her, not liking that whistle at all.
"What?" Belle just shook her head, a small teasing smirk playing on her lips. "Nothing, absolutely nothing," Belle said, pressing her lips together. You narrowed your eyes at her, and Belle just couldn't hold her laughter anymore, holding her stomach, as she doubled over. "Oh, girl," Was all Belle said, wiping the tears from the laughter away from under her eyes. You just shook your head because Belle wasn't giving you any reason why she was acting like this.
As the evening continued, music blasted from the stereos, people danced on the dance floor, and some played drinking games. Lily had wandered off to a quiet corner, typing aggressively on her laptop. "Oh, for the love of god," Belle groaned, pushing herself off the counter, ready to drag Lily back to help around, but you quickly took Belle's wrist, pulling her back.
"Don't," You simply said, releasing Belle's wrist. "She promised to help," Belle reminded you. "No, correction, she begged to help us tonight," Belle corrected, folding her arms across her chest, and let out a puff. You just shook your head, smiling lightly. "Belle, you do know that Lily only suggested that to see people perform and not literally approach people, asking them what they wanted to order?" Belle stayed silent, and that was an answer enough for you.
"Look, just let Lily be. She isn't as extroverted as you," You said softly, glancing at Lily for a second, and saw her still typing on her laptop. "I swear, if she types any harder, keys are going to fly off that thing," you hummed in amusement. Belle turned around to look at Lily. "Okay…that looks intense," Belle agreed, spinning around to face you again. Belle's eyebrows rose, earning a confused look from you. "What?" Belle didn't say anything; she just bolted away from the counter, heading to a table that was far away from the counter.
You just shook your head, turning around, but froze when one of the players from Arsenal stood in front of you, the same woman who had stared at you when you brought the snacks over. "Eumhh…hello?" You greeted the woman. You hadn't caught her name when you were over there, but not greeting her at all would be rude.
"Hi." You raised an eyebrow. The woman's voice was hoarse, but she quickly cleared her throat and tried again. "Hi." You observed the woman. She was nervous; you could tell that much about how her shoulders were tense, her fingers tapping nervously on the counter. "Can I help you?" Startled, the woman met your eyes. "No–yes, I mean, of course, why else would I be standing at the counter?" The woman said, rambling all her words together.
You watched her in amusement. You looked over the woman's shoulder, seeing her teammates snickering from where they were sitting, but when they saw you watching them, the menu became the most interesting thing in the world. "You were really good up there." The woman's voice drew your attention back to her, leaving you with a puzzled look. "Your performance," the woman clarified, nodding toward the stage. Right. "Thanks," You said with a smile.
"I kind of related to the song." The statement threw you off. You didn't expect her to say that, or anyone for that matter, but now you were intrigued by why she related to the song. Your shoulders sagged as you leaned against the counter. You didn't know what to do. Ask the woman why she related to the song? Let her continue? "It's scary to move abroad." The woman's voice brought you back to the present. "Yeah," you breathed out, looking down for a second, "it really is," you confessed.
For you, moving abroad was the scariest thing in the world. Going to a country where you knew no one. Making new friends, fitting in with the right people, and keeping up with homework and assignments. "You aren't from here?" The woman looked up. "From England, I mean. You weren't born here?" The woman let out a soft laugh, the sound filling your ears. It was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard. "No, I'm not from here," The woman clarified. "I moved here from the Netherlands." Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Je komt uit Nederland?" ("You're from the Netherlands?") You asked, your Dutch slipping from your mouth by accident. The woman was caught off guard when she heard her native language from you. "You speak–jij spreekt Nederlands?" ("You speak Dutch?") The woman asked, quickly changing from English to Dutch.
"Ja, ik kom ook uit Nederland." ("Yes, I'm from the Netherlands too.") You said, giving the woman a reassuring smile. "Ik ben–god, do we speak Dutch to each other or English?" ("I'm–") The woman asked. You just gave her a light shrug and said, "Whatever you're comfortable with." The woman nodded before speaking again, "I'm Vic, I mean, Victoria. Pelova, Victoria Pelova, that's who I am," Vic said, her cheeks turning pink when she realized that she apparently couldn't introduce herself to someone new anymore.
Was the conversation awkward? Yes. Yes, it was. Did you find it adorable that Victoria was stuttering over her words? Yes. Yes, you did. "Nice to meet you, Vic, Victoria Pelova. I'm y/n y/l/n." You introduced yourself to the flustered woman. Your eyes landed on Belle briefly, but you quickly looked away when she started to kiss the air, pushing her lips out. You give her the middle finger just out of view from Victoria.
Honest to god, you were really going to strangle Belle one day. Shaking your head, you turned your attention back to Victoria, whose cheeks were still pink. You almost said that she was cute when she blushed, but quickly swallowed the words, because that would be weird to tell someone you had just met.
You quickly recovered from the thought, shaking your head. "So, why did you choose Arsenal?" Victoria met your eyes. "What do you mean?" You laughed softly. "The club. Why Arsenal?" You clarified, tapping the badge on Victoria's tracksuit before you could stop yourself. When you realized what you'd done, you quickly pulled your hand back as if the tracksuit had burned you. "I don't know," Victoria said, shrugging her shoulders.
"I always followed Arsenal men, but started to follow the women when I found out that they existed, and mostly, I followed Arsenal because one of the best strikers played there. The same striker that I play with my national team," Victoria clarified. You nodded in understanding. "You follow football?" The question caught you off guard. "I usually only watch when the men's or women's national team plays during tournaments, but I'm not that invested that I would be sitting in front of the TV trying to watch games, but I've been following the WSL for a while now too," You said honestly.
"That's fair, but can I give you a recommendation for something to do?" You gestured lightly with your hand, telling Vic to continue. "Next week, we play Chelsea at home." You frowned at that, because you had heard on the news that Arsenal had won their second match against Chelsea in the league. "Don't you like–play the same opponent twice?" Victoria nodded with her head.
"Yes, but this is the second leg of the quarter-final of the Champions League. We won the first leg 0-1 at Stamford Bridge," Vic clarified your earlier question. "Oh, wow, that's good," You said, giving her a shy smile. "We play next Wednesday, the second leg at a full sold-out Emirates." You let out an impressive whistle. You knew that women's football was improving, but so much that they sold out stadiums midweek was impressive on another level; not even men's teams managed to do that.
You felt something flutter in your stomach. What was she asking? "If you want, I can send you some tickets, maybe even for your friends as well." The offer shocked you to the core. It was sweet of Victoria to offer this to you, but there was absolutely no need. "As nice as that offer is, you don't have–" Victoria's voice cut you off, "I want to." Her voice was soft, her eyes warm. You tilted your head lightly. Why was Victoria really offering you this?
"You just didn't come here to compliment me on my performance, did you?" Vic's face reddened. "I–eummh, j-just wanted to be friendly," Vic sputtered, her brain failing to form any coherent word. The answer left you oddly disappointed. "B-but your performance was good as well, it was really good–I mean, m-more than good," Vic stuttered on, afraid that she had offended you.
"Vic." Her nickname slipped out before you could think about it, but you quickly cleared your throat and corrected yourself. "Victoria, I was just messing with you," You teased, a teasing smile playing on your lips. You didn't know where the teasing came from; it was almost like you felt so at ease with her that you allowed yourself to tease without being judged.
"How late is the match?" You eventually asked, wondering whether Victoria really meant the offer or if it was just a way to keep talking to you. "At 20:00, but the stadium opens at 18:30." Your eyebrows shot up. "Why so early?" Victoria shrugged. "So fans can watch us warm up and stuff," Vic explained.
"Hey, you." You closed your eyes when the voice you absolutely didn't want to hear came when you were talking to Victoria. "Belle, hi," You muttered in a hiss, giving her your best glare. "Aren't there any tables you need to serve?" Belle just shrugged with her shoulders as she leaned against the counter, having no intention of leaving.
"We will accept the offer, Victoria," Belle said, ignoring your question. "We what now?" You hissed under your breath, because what the hell! Had she eavesdropped on your conversation just now? Belle ignored you again as she took a napkin and wrote something on it. You eyed her suspiciously. "Here," Belle said, slipping the napkin to Victoria, "you can call her when you have the tickets." You snapped your head so fast toward Belle as if you were an owl.
"Thanks? I guess," Victoria said hesitantly. "Vic! C'mon!" Victoria turned around, but not before giving you a quick smile. When you saw Victoria and her teammates leave, you turned your attention back to Belle. "What was that? Why did you give her my number?" You hissed, slapping Belle on her arm. "What? She offered to see you again. In no universe would I not give her your number," Belle said easily, rubbing her arm with her hand where you had slapped her.
"You should thank me." You laughed without humor. "Thank you? I should yell at you!" Belle just smiled, patting you on the arm. "Then, just thank me when the two of you are married and have a dog." You gaped at her. Your words have officially failed you because when you didn't say anything, Belle just walked away with an evil laugh.
Victoria sat at her locker, staring at her phone as if she didn't know how to use it. She had added you to her contacts, but hadn't messaged you yet. What was she supposed to say? 'Hey, it's me. You know? The stranger you met at the coffee shop and handed your phone number to.' It sounded so stupid. "What are you doing?" The voice brought Vic back to the present. "Nothing," Vic muttered, putting her phone into her bag. "Vic," Alessia said, looking at her friend who was about to have a meltdown.
"What's going on?" Vic let out a heavy sigh, dropping back on the bench. Alessia didn't push her; she never did when something was on someone else's shoulders. Victoria let out a heavy sigh and handed her phone to Alessia. "Who-who's number is this?" Alessia asked and turned her head back to the Dutch midfielder, only to see that her cheeks had gone slightly pink. "It's nobody," Victoria muttered, snatching her phone back.
"Vic, you added a 'nobody' to your contacts?" Victoria groaned when she heard the teasing tone in Alessia's voice, one she didn't like at all. Alessia looked at the contact name again, but Victoria had literally put 'nobody' as their name. "You know, usually people give contacts nicknames because it's either they're having an affair or are mad at them," Alessia stated, giving Victoria an amused look.
"Wait? Are you having an affair?" Alessia asked, shocked when Victoria didn't answer. "What? No!" Victoria said immediately, giving Alessia an offended look. "How could you even think that I'm like that!" Alessia quickly raised both hands, getting confirmation of her question from Victoria's reaction. Victoria let out a heavy sigh, shaking her head.
"It's the singer from the coffee shop," Victoria muttered, her cheeks turning pink once more. "The one you had been staring at when she was performing?" Victoria gave Alessia a flat look. "I was not staring at her." Alessia laughed at that, dramatically wiping the tears from her eyes. "Vic, please, you were definitely staring," Alessia said, still laughing as Victoria kept glaring at her. "I did something really stupid." Alessia's eyebrows rose, clearly intrigued.
"Oh, what did you do?" Victoria stared at the floor, hoping that it would open so she could hide in there. "Vic, it can be that bad," Alessia said with a laugh. "If you mean not bad as in I just didn't offer her and her friends tickets to our second leg match against Chelsea in two days, then no, it isn't that bad," Victoria said, rubbing both hands down her face, groaning in her hands. "Oh, my god, you did not," Alessia laughed, her head tilting back. "I-I didn't know why I offered it, I just did," Victoria said, groaning once more in her hands.
"Now you're just figuring out how to text her," Alessia stated, her laughter subsiding a little. Victoria just nodded, staring at her phone again. "What if she doesn't want to go?" Victoria asked, making Alessia frown slightly. "She already said yes to the offer, no?" Victoria shook her head. "She didn't, her friend did," Victoria muttered, her thumb hovering over the keyboard of her phone. "Oooff, how did–what's her name again?" Alessia asked. "y/n." Alessia nodded. "
So, how did y/n react when her friend accepted the offer?" Victoria shook her head. It was all kind of vague. Victoria was close to them, but they had turned their heads back and had whispered, so she didn't hear anything. "I don't know, y/n's friend gave me y/n's number, but I haven't texted her yet," Victoria said, looking at Alessia for help. "What should I text her? I have never done this before." Alessia's eyes softened, placing a comforting hand on the Dutch midfielder's shoulder.
"Okay, do you have the tickets?" Victoria nodded. "What kind of tickets did you buy?" Victoria stayed quiet because, in the excitement, she had bought tickets that included a meet-and-greet with the players afterward. "Vic, what kind of tickets did you buy?" Alessia asked again.
"In my excitement, I accidentally bought the meet and greet tickets." Alessia froze. She pressed her lips together, trying but failing not to laugh. Victoria glared at her as Alessia doubled over, holding her stomach, and wiped tears from her eye with her free hand.
"You can laugh later at how stupid I've been, but you need to help me with what I need to text her," Victoria grumbled, shoving Alessia lightly. "Okay, give me your phone," Alessia said, still laughing a little, her shoulders shaking.
Victoria: Hey, it's me, the girl you met at the coffee shop two nights ago, and the one who offered you tickets. Here they are. All the information you need is in the tickets. I'm excited to see you again😉.
"There, done," Alessia said, giving Victoria her phone back. Victoria stared at the message. "You send a message with an emoji?" Victoria yelled, but Alessia had already bolted out the door.
It was in the afternoon, when you were sitting in the cafeteria with Lily, that your phone pinged. You pulled out your phone to see who had messaged you, but you frowned when you saw it was an anonymous person. Hesitantly, you opened the message and let out a relieved sigh when you read that Victoria had texted you. But the relief quickly vanished, leaving nerves.
You saw the PDF documents added to the message. You knew it was the tickets, but now it felt more real. "You look like you just got a message that you failed a test." Lily's voice dragged you back to the present. "I'm sorry, what?" You asked, shaking your head, meeting Lily's green eyes. "Your face, when you read the message you just received," Lily clarified, pointing to your phone in your hand. "I-it's nothing," You muttered, putting your phone away.
"If you say so," Lily hummed, turning her full attention back to her computer in front of her. "So," you started, earning a hum from Lily, "do you maybe want to go to a football match on Wednesday?" Lily startled, looked up, giving you a confused look. "That's not really my thing," Lily said, gesturing to her computer, that that's more of her thing, instead of sitting in a cold stadium and watching 22 people running after a ball. "Yeah, I should've guessed," You said with a laugh, popping a fry in your mouth.
After a while, you left the university and headed to Belle's shop. You entered the shop. It was very quiet. good. You really needed Belle's full attention. "Good afternoon," Belle greeted you with a smile as she was cleaning up the last few tables. "Hi," You greeted, taking a seat at a table. "Okay, what happened?" Belle asked, taking a seat across from you. "Victoria sent the tickets through an hour ago," You muttered.
"Did she now?" Belle hummed, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "Don't," You warned her, pointing a finger at her. "You did this." Belle laughed lightly, not even phased about your tone. "Girl, please," Belle laughed, shaking her head, "I only did what you were too afraid to do. To say yes to Victoria's offer." You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but closed it just as quickly, because Belle was right. You wanted to say yes to the offer, but your brain short-circuited when Victoria offered it.
"What kind of ticket did she give you?" You frowned, confusion written all over your face. "There are different kinds of tickets?" Belle chuckled again, holding out her hand. You pulled your phone out and handed it to Belle. "Yes, there are different kinds, dummy," Belle teased, unlocking your phone. "You have club members' tickets, season tickets, meet and greet tickets, and just normal tickets," Belle explained, her thumb going over your phone.
"You haven't put her in your contacts yet?" Belle asked, shocked, turning the phone to you, so you could see that there was still a phone number at the top instead of a name. "I'm sorry, but I was a bit shocked that she actually meant her offer," You muttered, crossing your arms in front of your chest. "Sure," Belle replied, turning the phone again. "Okay, let's see what kind of tickets we have." You just shook your head, reconsidering all your life choices.
"Oh, my god," Belle said, putting you on high alert. "What?" Belle only met your eyes, her mouth open. "Give me that," You snapped, snatching your phone from Belle's hand. You read the text on the screen. You stilled when you read, 'Meet and greet tickets'. "She did not," You groaned, dropping your phone on the table. "I think a certain Arsenal player has a crush on you," Belle teased, her face all smug. "W-what? N-no, s-she doesn't! She–god, she barely knows me! I-we met once-" You sputtered, your cheeks flushing pink at what Belle said.
"And you gave her your number that same evening," Belle added, casually looking at her nails. You glared at Belle because she gave Victoria your number, not you. "No, you did!" You said, throwing your arms in the air. Belle just shrugged, taking your phone again. "What are you doing?" You asked, seeing Belle type something.
You: Thanks for the tickets, can't wait to see you again!🤭😌
Belle handed you your phone, and you immediately looked at what she had done. "You texted her back? With emojis?" You asked, shocked, your mouth wide open. "You're welcome," Belle replied, giving you a mischievous smile. "I should hate you," You muttered, your voice lacking the usual spite when you actually meant something like that.
"But you don't, especially, because I'm coming with you on Wednesday and let you burrow one of my Arsenal shirts, and I'll make you a coffee, it's on the house," Belle said confidently, giving you a wink before standing up and walking to the counter. "It better be good coffee," You muttered, staring at the message again. Your eyes drifted back to the wink emoji. Surely she didn't mean anything by it. Right?. "I only make good coffee," Belle replied with a laugh. Shaking your head, you closed your phone. Wednesday was going to be an interesting night, for sure.
Time flies when you're nervous as hell because you are now in Belle's apartment. You sat on her bed while Belle was going through her closet. "What exactly are you looking for?" You eventually asked when Belle was still going through her closet aggressively. "Just," Belle muttered, "hold on, I think I almost found it." You frowned.
"Found what?" You asked, and at that moment, Belle spun around, holding a red and white jersey victoriously up. You raised an eyebrow, eyeing the shirt she had in her hands. "This, my sweet friend, is the jersey you're going to wear tonight," Belle announced, throwing the jersey your way. You caught it easily with one hand. You held the jersey in both hands to inspect it better. "Let me guess, Alessia Russo is your favorite player." It wasn't a question; you were simply stating a fact.
"How'd you guess?" Belle asked, but she didn't really need an answer, since all her Arsenal jerseys had Russo on the back. You just shook your head and put on the shirt. "Look at that, proper Gunner right there," Belle teased as she was putting on her perfume. "I'm sorry, a proper what now?" You asked as you stood up to look in the mirror. "A Gunner. You know? That's the nickname Arsenal fans have." You just stared at her. You had never heard that word in your life.
"OMG, I really need to teach you a lot about football, don't I?" Belle groaned, taking your hand and pulling you out of the room. "You don't need to teach me anything," You muttered, pulling your hand free from Belle's hold. "I know how football works," You stated, giving Belle a flat look when you reached the kitchen. "Do you know what offside is?" Belle asked with a mischievous look in her eyes.
"Yes, the striker can't pass the last defender when the ball is played or needs to be behind the ball when both the player with the ball and the striker are past the last defender," You explained. Belle gaped at you; she really didn't expect that you knew what the offside rule was. "Told you, I know my stuff," You huffed, an amused smile playing on your lips. "Alright, alright," Belle said as she held both hands up in defense, "you know your stuff indeed." You smiled proudly, taking a sip from the water that Belle had handed to you.
"How do you know so much about football anyway?" You eventually asked, placing your glass on the table. "By watching it, dummy," Belle said quickly, too quickly. You saw her cheeks flushing lightly, making you raise a single eyebrow. You only tilted your head lightly when Belle groaned. "You aren't just a fan of Alessia Russo, are you?" You teased.
Belle glared at you, but you saw that her cheeks turned from pink to bright red. "OMG, you have a crush on Alessia Russo," You said with a gasp, smiling from ear to ear. "No, no, shut up," Belle said quickly, pointing a finger at you. "We are going to an Arsenal match because you are totally wipt on Victoria Pelova. Don't change this outing to me," Belle said, the accusing finger still pointed at you, and smiled when it was your turn for your cheeks to burn bright red.
"Okay, how late do we need to head to the stadium?" Belle glared at you. She knew you were changing the subject, but she didn't comment. Instead, Belle looked at her watch. "Right about now. Let's go!" Belle said as she jumped off the counter. You drank the last bit of water before placing the glass by the sink. "Let's cheer your girlfriend on," Belle said, giving you a wink and a mischievous look.
"She is not my girlfriend," You muttered, following Belle out the front door. "Not yet." Belle was quick to correct you as she closed the door and locked it. You just rolled your eyes, no energy to go into this again. Belle can be delusional all she wants. You are going to a match because a FRIEND invited you. Nothing more and nothing less, or at least, that's what you told yourself.
"Let's go, slow poke," Belle said and hopped down the stairs, her brown hair going from left to right. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," You said, walking down the stairs. "Your first Arsenal match!" Belle shrieked from excitement, wrapping her arm around you. "First live match," you corrected her, hugging her back tightly.
"Oh, potato potahto," Belle said, waving a dismissive hand in front of her. You let out a chuckle, shaking your head lightly. "That's not how the saying works," You told Belle, bumping your shoulder with hers. "Yeah, yeah," Belle said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Okay, what do you think the score will be?" Belle asked eventually. "I don't know, they're both good," You stated.
"But Arsenal have a 2-0 advantage because of their first leg match." You nodded in understanding. "Can I just say, Arsenal will go through, but I don't know the score." Belle considered that for a few seconds before giving in. "Yeah, that will do," Belle said as the two of you continued to walk, the top of the Emirates Stadium already visible from over the buildings of the street you were walking through.
The minute you stepped down the stairs inside the stadium, you were in complete awe. The atmosphere inside the Emirates was amazing. From your section, you could see everything clearly. You were high enough to see everything around, but low enough that you could at least see who was playing the ball. The match started with Chelsea pressing high because they needed to score first to be in the race for the semi-finals.
Belle couldn't sit still next to you, even if it were the 40th minute, and it was still 0-0 in this match. Victoria wasn't starting, but Belle had told you that she would definitely get subbed on in the second half and score a goal for you. You had rolled your eyes at that, but couldn't deny that your stomach fluttered at the thought. "Hello, ladies." Both you and Belle turn your heads. A man with an Arsenal suit stood next to you, an earpiece in his ear.
"I just wanted to ask what players you wanted to meet after the match," He clarified. Before you could say anything, Belle's voice filled the space around you. "Alessia Russo and Victoria Pelova." The man nodded and said something through the earpiece. "Thank you and enjoy the match," The man said with a nod, and walked back up the stairs. You turned your attention back to the field and just in time to see Katie McCabe kicking a free kick into Chelsea's penalty area, and Stina heading it into the back of the net.
Both you and Belle jumped up from your seats together with the other fans in the stadium. "Your goal scorer is Stina Blackstenius!" The speakers loudly announced it, earning another loud cheer from the fans around the stadium. You clapped in your hands, cheering from the top of your lungs. "We have this in the bag," Belle puffed, smiling from ear to ear. "You do know that we still need to play 65 minutes?" You stated, giving Belle a flat look.
"I think I need to teach you some football rules," You teased, coming back to what Belle had said to you before you left her apartment. "Very funny, but I'm manifesting," Belle stated as she sat back down. Shaking your head, you sat down as well. Your eyes drifted to the sidelines, where players were warming up. Victoria was one of them, laughing at something her teammate said. As if Victoria knew you were staring, she looked up in your direction, her smile widening when her eyes landed on you as your cheeks turned pink.
As the match neared half-time, Arsenal got a counter. Caitlin sprinted down the line, passing the ball to the middle, where Alessia was completely free. She gave the ball a nudge to the right and took the shot. The ball was low and bounced right in front of the Chelsea keeper, but the strike was so hard and fast that the keeper couldn't get a hand on it.
"Yes!" Belle screamed, jumping from her seat again. She turned with her back to the field so that she could show off her Russo jersey. You just smiled and cheered along, clapping in your hands once more while the whole stadium celebrated the goal. Your eyes drifted to the sideline again. Victoria jumped into her teammate's arms, her hands up in the air as if she were on a rollercoaster. To be fair, this match was a rollercoaster.
When Chelsea kicked off again, the match continued for a few minutes, but then the referee whistled for half-time. "What are your thoughts so far?" Belle asked, stretching lightly. "It's so cool," You said, looking around the stadium. The fans continued to chant, singing along to the music from the stadium speakers. After 15 minutes, both teams returned to the field.
You looked down, and a smile appeared when you saw that Victoria got subbed on. "Substitution for Arsenal, number 12, Frida Maanum." The crowd cheered at the announcement. "Number 21, Victoria Pelova will replace her!" Now you cheered as well, rising from your seat, clapping in your hands.
The referee blew for the second half to begin. Chelsea pressed more and more. They needed to play all-or-nothing. You sat on the edge of your seat the entire second half. Arsenal are defending for their lives. Chelsea got a corner, but through a scrimmage, Arsenal managed to clear it. The ball landed directly at Victoria's feet, her teammate gesturing to her to run.
Chelsea's goalkeeper had come to the opposite side of the field for the corner, so Victoria ran. Two Chelsea players are hot on her tail. All the Arsenal fans in the stand rose from their seat, you and Belle included. When Victoria reached the edge of Chelsea's penalty box, she shot the ball in the goal. The crowd erupted, Arsenal's bench emptied, and Chelsea players fell to the ground when the final whistle followed after Victoria had scored.
"Let's fucking go!" Belle cheered in your ear as she hugged you tightly. "Yess!" You yelled, jumping along with Belle. "They did it!" Belle shrieked, hugging you even tighter. "Yeah, she did it," You said softly to yourself, looking down where Victoria got jumped by her teammates, warmth spreading through your chest at the sight. You saw Victoria look up briefly before teammates jumped in front of her, blocking her view of you.
The changing room was an absolute party. Music blasting from the speaker, teammates jumping to the music. Victoria sat at her cubby, putting the last few things in her bag. "Alessia, Vic," A man said. "You two have been picked for a meet and greet." Victoria stilled. Right. She had accidentally bought you meet and greet tickets. She didn't know whether she'd actually bought them by accident or just wanted to see you again, and that was the first thing that came to your mind.
Either way, Victoria was all of a sudden a nervous wreck. When she saw you in the stands, smiling at you, she thought she would evaporate. "Vic!" Alessia said, snapping her fingers in front of the eyes of the Dutch midfielder. "Yes, I'm coming," Victoria quickly said as she stood up and picked up her bag. "So," Alessia hummed, her voice teasing, "are you excited to see her again?" Victoria just gave a nonchalant shrug, even though inside, she was screaming like a kid.
She had been waiting for this moment, to see you again, to talk to you again, and now the moment was there. "Yeah," Victoria replied. Alessia stared at her. That was it? Only a yeah? "Wow, no need to sound excited," Alessia teased, bumping her shoulder with Victoria's. Victoria glared at Alessia, earning a laugh from the striker. Alessia held her hands up in defense, choosing wisely not to tease any further.
The two of them walked into the room, but Victoria stopped in the doorway when her eyes landed on you. "Of course," Victoria muttered when she saw that you were wearing an Alessia Russo jersey. Alessia frowned and followed her teammate's gaze, her eyes landing as well on the name on the back of your jersey.
Alessia's eyes flicked to the name on the back of the shirt before landing on Victoria. "Oh." Alessia shook her head before speaking, "c'mon." Victoria didn't move at first, but eventually made herself move toward you and Belle. As if on cue, you turned around, meeting Victoria's eyes. "OMG, Alessia, I'm your biggest fan!" Belle shrieked beside you. Alessia laughed softly, subtly guiding Belle away from you, so you and Victoria had some privacy. "Hi," you said with a smile, but your smile faltered when Victoria didn't greet you back or meet your eye. You didn't know what was happening.
Did you do something? What could you have done to get greeted like this? "You played really well," you told her, but Victoria barely reacted. You turned your head to look behind you when you saw Victoria look over your shoulder. Belle was still all over Alessia. "Thanks." You turned your head back at the short answer. You frowned again.
"D-did I do something?" You asked softly, tapping your fingers nervously against your thigh. Your question hadn't even fully left your mouth when Victoria answered, "No." The answer was too quick, too short again. "Then why are you looking at me like–that?" You asked, gesturing vaguely with your hand. "Like what?" Victoria said again too quickly. "Like I did something to insult you," you answered with a sigh.
"I just thought…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Never mind," Victoria muttered, dropping her hand. "Vic." Her nickname slipped past your lips before you could overthink it. You saw the softening of Vic's eyes at that. Vic let out a heavy sigh. "I thought you asked for Alessia," Vic stated, looking everywhere except for your eyes. "What?" You frowned, confusion written all over your face. Victoria nodded to the shirt you were wearing.
You looked down at the jersey. Right, the shirt Belle had given you with Russo on the back, realization hit you at once. "This?" You laughed, shaking your head. "It's not even mine," You clarified, seeing Victoria's shoulders finally relax. "It's not?" You shook your head and pointed to the brunette behind you. "No. Belle shoved it in my hands when we were heading to the stadium. I needed to wear at least something Arsenal related." Victoria laughed, finally. "So, she gave you a jersey from Russo?"
"She's obsessed, you have no idea," You said, finally relaxing. "If I had a jersey of yours, I would've worn that." Victoria looked up at that, her eyes lighting up. "You would?" Vic asked, surprised, her heart beating hard against her ribcage.
"Yes," you said with a nod. "Sorry that I acted like that just now, I was just–" You smiled lightly, and finishing for her, "jealous?" Vic's cheeks turned bright red, like she had been sunbathing without putting on sunscreen. "Yeah, that," Vic muttered, rubbing the back of her neck once more.
"I'll forgive you," You started, a teasing smile on your lips when Vic met your eyes, "only if you decide to get some coffee with me sometimes and not in Belle's shop," you finished, reassuring Vic on the last part. "You mean a date?" Vic asked carefully, not really believing that you were actually asking her. "I never said date, but now that you mentioned it," You teased, and any retort Vic had ready was out the window.
Summary: You just moved to a new city for school, and you definitely don't need distractions, but then you meet a woman that peeks your interest.
Word count: 12.2k
A/N: I'm wishing Vicky and rest of the family all my thoughts after the passing of her mom🙏❤️
(The text between brackets and in red is the translation from Dutch to English.)
The cold morning air of St. Albans hit your face the minute you stepped out of your halls of residence. It was still early, so you had enough time to start your day with a good cup of coffee and work on your homework. It was so cold outside, even though it's spring. Luckily, you have enough experience with cold weather. You moved from the Netherlands 3 months ago to study Arts in music here in England.
It isn't that a school in the Netherlands didn't offer the same study, because it did. It was more like you wanted to see a new culture and figure out which genre you want to invest in. And if you had to be honest with yourself, you always had loved England. When you were around 17, you told your parents that once you were old enough and had enough money, you would move to England.
So, here you were, in England, on a cold morning. The quad this early in the mornings was usually empty, but you had left quite late, so there were already a few students walking around. Your first class starts in an hour, so you still have time to work on some stuff. 2 months ago, your teacher announced a whole new concept, something your university hadn't done before. He announced that everyone in class needed to write their own song and would perform it at a small bar.
You were so excited back then when you heard the news, but as the night drew closer, you started to feel nervous. The only times you had performed were in front of family, and there were only like ten people; now, you didn't know how many people would be there. You told yourself you didn't have stage fright, but you started really to doubt that. It was fine, you're going to be fine, what's the worst that could happen?
Nope, you didn't let your mind go there; you didn't want to jinx it. You walked off campus through the university gates. There was a small cafe located just a few buildings away. It was a coffee shop you walked into the first day you arrived here, after you had moved all your stuff. "Good morning, y/n," The barista greeted you. The barista, Belle, was your first real friend here. She already finished school and opened her own coffee shop.
"Hi," You greeted her back, shrugging your jacket from your shoulders. You looked around. The shop was still empty; it usually was when you were there. No normal person would be at a coffee shop this early. "The usual, please," You said with a smile, walking up to the counter. "Yes, m'am." Belle saluted you and got to work. "So, excited for the open night thingy?" You shrugged lightly with your shoulders.
"Excited? Yes," You said, leaning against the counter, "nervous as hell? Heck yeah." Belle chuckled softly, pouring you coffee in a mug. "And here I thought that you loved to perform," Belle said, handing you the coffee. "I do, but I never–" You cut yourself off with a sigh, shaking your head lightly. "You had never what?" Belle asked, her eyes intrigued when they met yours. "I just have never performed for a big crowd," You admitted, rubbing the back of your neck.
"Oh," was all Belle said. "Yeah, oh," You groaned. "But, you do love to perform, right?" You nodded with your head. You loved writing about what had happened in your life; heck, you even wrote a song when you found out you'd been accepted into St. Albans University. "I'm just afraid that I'll mess things up, and I'll be the laughing stock of the school, especially when my professor had said that he had high expectations from me," you groaned, dropping your head on the counter, and Belle patting the back of your head.
"How is your song coming along?" You lifted your head, standing up. "I have a song," You muttered, looking quickly at your bag where your notebook was. Belle raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter.
"I have a song, but nobody has heard it yet," You said, fidgeting with your ring. It was a nervous habit of yours, but it helped you calm down. You looked back at Belle when she stayed quiet. You gave Belle a suspicious look because she was deep in thought, which is very dangerous. After all, it's Belle. "I need you to hear me out, because I have an idea," Belle said cautiously as you eyed her some more. "I don't like that sentence coming from your mouth, not one bit," You muttered, but stayed quiet, giving Belle the green light to continue.
"We have this open mic evening, people can perform just for fun, so maybe you can perform." You opened your mouth to say no, but this wasn't a bad idea. Your shoulders dropped as you let out a defeated sigh. "When is it?" Belle smiled victoriously, as if she had just won the lottery. "In two nights, at 8 PM," Belle informed you, handing you a pamphlet of the event.
"It's a yearly thing. It attracts a lot of people." You looked at the pamphlet, everything in your body screamed that you should say no, but instead, "I'm in," You said, still not really sure, but couldn't help the slight smile. Belle came from behind the counter, pulling you into a hug. "Oh my god!" Belle shrieked in your ear, hugging you tighter.
After you finished your coffee, you walked back to school. The nerves in your system are going through the roof right now. What had you agreed to? Who in their right mind would agree to what you just agreed to? There was this nagging feeling in you that this was going to blow up right in your face, and you would end up still being the laughing stock of the school for the next century. You walked through the hallways, more students filling the paths to classes.
"y/n!" Spinning around, your eyes met green eyes. Lily was one of your first friends you made here. The weird thing was, she studied something entirely different. The university was big, so it had different sections of the school where different subjects were taught. Lily has blonde hair that just reached her shoulders. She always has headphones around her neck, and her computer is either in her hands or in her school bag.
Lily studies data science. You didn't know much about it, only that you needed a computer and worked with numbers. "Whoa, Lily, what's the hurry?" You asked with a smile, balancing Lily by her arms when she stopped right in front of you, almost colliding with you. Lily pushed her glasses up. You had told Lily many times that her glasses were too big for her, but she never listened and never got new ones.
"Remember the Python test that I had last week?" You stared at her, the what? "I'm sorry, but the what?" Lily looked at you incredulously, like you just offended her entire bloodline. "Python," Lily stated again, like that alone would clear the confusion, "analyzing large datasets and building artificial intelligence, and much more," Lily explained. You just nodded, even though you had no idea what all of that meant.
"So, I'm guessing you got the result back?" You asked, tilting your head slightly. "Yes! I got 89% on my test!" Lily shrieked, happiness radiating off her. Your face softened. Lily had been rambling nonstop to you ever since she made the test. It drove you insane sometimes, but the girl loved what she was doing, so who were you to take away that joy? "Wow! That's so good to hear, I knew you could do it!" You beamed in excitement.
"You're one of the best in your class!" Lily glared at you. "What?" You asked, your eyes turning to confusion. "I'm not one of the best''. I am the best!" Lily said proudly. You just shook your head, laughing softly. "Of course, how could I forget?" You teased, earning a small slap to the shoulder. Lily glared at you for another second before she was smiling again. "It just sucks that this score doesn't count for the exams for the end of the year," Lily muttered, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
You gave her a sympathetic look, silently telling her that she would pass this year. "Enough about me, how is your assignment for the song contest thingy coming along?" You shook your head, smiling. "It's not a contest," You clarified as the two of you started walking to your locker. "It's not?" Lily frowned, confusion clearly visible. "No, it isn't. It's more like a test," You said, gesturing to Lily, because of the test she just talked about. "A test?" Lily echoed.
"Yes, just like your test on paper gets a grade, my song will get a grade." Lily finally started to catch on as she nodded her head in understanding. "Oh, I see." The two of you reached your locker and unlocked it with the key. Lily leaned against the locker next to yours while you put your books into the locker. "I have a song," You said, answering Lily's previous question. "Why do I feel like there's going to be a but?" Lily muttered, giving you a flat look.
"Because there is," You groaned, dragging both hands down your face. You stared into your locker as if it personally offended you. In all fairness, your locker had offended you in your first week. "It's just, nobody has heard it yet, and-" You tried to say, but Lily's voice cut you off. "Isn't that the whole point of a new song? That nobody has heard it yet?"
You gave Lily a flat look. You love Lily, you really do, but she never really listens, like really listens. "Yes, that's the whole point of a new song." You gave Lily that. "But, I just never performed for a big crowd," you explained, closing your locker and locking it. You waited for Lily to tease you. She always did, but now? Nothing. No teasing comment, no laughter, no nothing. You turned your head, your eyes locking with Lily's.
"I know I always tease you, but from the stuff you forced me to listen to, I'm sure you'll pass the assignment," Lily said honestly, giving you a reassuring look. "Thanks, and for the record," You said with a soft smile, "I never forced you to listen to the stuff I wrote." Lily laughed at that, and so did you. "If you want, you can perform the song for me first, and I can give it a fake rating." Your lips twitched. That was really sweet, and you will probably take Lily up on that offer.
"How does tonight sound?" You asked. Lilly looked a bit startled; she didn't think you would actually agree on it. "Oh my god, I'm getting to hear your song first," Lily beamed, hugging you tightly. You already felt the nerves going through you, but you just needed to rip the band-aid clean off, no hesitation, not anymore. You were going to this, even if it scared you to death.
Later that day, after all your classes were done, you were in your room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, your guitar in your lap, as you were just plucking out melodies out of thin air. Your notebook lay open in front of you on the bed. The pages were filled with crossed-out lyrics, scribbled notes in the margins, and fresh lines written beneath the ruined ones. You hummed softly as you read the lyrics. This was the song you were going to perform at the open-mic night at Belle's cafe, and you could turn this in as the song for your assignment, but you weren't sure of that yet. You cleared your throat and strummed the guitar.
"It's something unpredictable, but in the end, it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
Letting out a heavy sigh, you tapped your guitar nervously with your nails, a beat instantly forming. It's a good song, at least, that's what you thought of it, but what if your professor didn't? What if he thinks it sucks? What if you don't pass this assignment? The grade for this assignment counts as half if you want to pass this year. A knock on your door dragged you out of your spiraling. You placed your guitar on the bed and walked to the door.
"Hi," Lily said, an excited smile on her face. You stepped aside so Lily could enter. Your room was nothing special. It was just a single bed in the corner, a desk on the opposite wall, your closet next to your desk, and your guitar stand stood at the foot of the bed. You sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh, rubbing your hands against your thighs. Shaking your head, you took your guitar and gestured for Lily to take a seat.
"So, what's the song about?" Lily asked, taking a seat on your desk chair, spinning in it. "Just about when I would leave the Netherlands and move to England," You answered, as you finetuned the guitar. "Ready?" You asked, glancing at Lilly. "Yes," Lilly said, nodding her head and straightening herself. You started, but your hands were shaking so violently that you needed to stop, muttering under your breath, "fuck," before forcing yourself to start over.
"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road."
Your voice was shaking, but you forced yourself to keep going. You needed to do this. You wanted to do this. This was your dream, ever since you were little; now you just needed to take the final step.
"Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go."
"So make the best of this test, and don't ask why."
You were finally settling into it now, the nerves shrinking into small waves instead of the violent currents from earlier. You had forced your eyes shut, afraid to look at Lily's face. Afraid that you would crumble when you did, so you did what you have seen multiple artists do: close your eyes and do what you do best.
Lily was in complete shock. She had heard you whisper-sing in her presence, but never fully like now. Your voice was so clear, pouring every emotion you had into words. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
When you sang the last part of the song, Lily's tears were fully falling now as she wiped them away. The song was beautiful, and your voice fitted it so perfectly. Your fingers shook as you played the final notes, so you went off-key slightly, but Lily didn't notice; she couldn't, she was so in awe of what you were doing.
"It's something unpredictable."
"But in the end, it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
"Oh my god," Lily breathed out, "That was beautiful, y/n." Pride swelled in your chest. Lily's reaction was exactly what you wanted from your songs. Let people feel the song as if they were experiencing it themselves so that they can put their feelings into words. You wanted people to hear your songs and finally feel understood, even if you were the one putting those feelings into words for them.
"Are you okay, Lily?" You asked softly, because Lily was clearly not okay. "I'm fine, I'm totally fine," Lily said quickly, wiping the remaining tears from her cheeks. You just chuckled lightly, deciding not to go into it further.
The night of the open-mic event came sooner than you thought, because here you were, setting things up together with Belle and Lily. You stood behind the counter, your back resting against it, your eyes staring at nothing in particular. "Lily, please, just move the table!" Belle yelled from across the shop, her brown hair falling into her face. Belle had informed you that this was always the biggest night for her shop. Belle glared at Lily, who was doing something on the shop's laptop.
You assumed that Lily was updating the laptop. She had grilled you once when your laptop was two updates behind, so from that moment on, you did the updates immediately so that you wouldn't be met with a storm called Lily. "Belle, your laptop was six updates behind, and your laptop is very old," Lily informed the bar owner, who was giving dagger eyes at the tiny blonde, who finally set the laptop down.
"Noted, now can you help me move these tables?" Belle asked, gesturing at three tables in the middle of the room. "Ay yay, captain!" Lily beamed, quickly moving to where Belle was waiting. You were still standing at the counter, your fingers tapping nervously on the surface. Shaking your head, you took your notebook and went over the lyrics again. By now, you probably know the lyrics like the back of your hand, because it was your own damn song that you wrote.
You sucked your lip between your teeth, tearing some of the skin in the process. It was a very bad nervous habit of yours, something you needed to quit doing, otherwise you would ruin your lips. You wrote down in your notebook to buy a nervous ring or something, because tearing your lip until it bleeds isn't a good nervous habit. You placed your notebook back on the counter and finally turned your head to the chaos that was happening to your right.
If it were a cartoon, Belle would have steam coming from her ears because Lily was not listening to Belle at all. Poor Belle, she doesn't know that Lily only listens when it comes to numbers. A sigh left your lips as you pushed yourself off the counter and walked toward the duo. "How's it going here?" You asked in a teasing tone, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "She's not listening to my instructions, like at all," Belle muttered under her breath, loud enough for you to hear, but low enough that Lily didn't notice.
"Okay," you said, clasping your hands together, "what can I do? Before you start strangling Lily in your mind." Belle let out a sigh and muttered, " Too late for that." Your shoulders shook when you tried to hold your laughter, pressing your lips together. "Don't," Belle warned you, giving you a flat look. Immediately, you raised your hands in surrender.
"Can you–just set up the mics, please?" You saluted Belle dramatically and headed to the stage, but heard Belle mutter under her breath, "Why am I friends with two idiots?" There was no real bite behind it. Belle was just stressed, granted, this event was always the busiest evening of the shop. As you stepped on stage, you plugged everything in with wires, tested the mics and boxes, and, at last, turned on the radio to see if everything was connected correctly.
You just put on a random playlist and made sure the wires weren't all across the stage. Knowing yourself, you would trip over them, so to prevent disaster, you made sure the stage was clear of any wires. When the last things were in place, the three of you stood at the counter, looking at how everything was set up. "So," Belle started, setting her mug down, "are you excited for tonight?" Belle couldn't stop smiling. She was so happy that you finally decided to let everyone hear how amazing you are.
"Yes, but also fucking terrified," You admitted, staring down at your mug. "That's understandable," Lily said lightly, smiling at you. "As you said, this is your test. People are always nervous before a test, at least, I was pretty nervous for my Python test." Belle stared at Lily but then back at you, mouthing, "Python?" You just shook your head, mouthing back, "Long story."
"Yeah, Lily's right," Belle quickly said before Lily could get suspicious of the silence after she spoke. "But, honestly?" You looked at Belle, waiting for what she was going to say as you fidgeted with your fingers. "You should just be yourself. I've heard you sing before, and you absolutely rock!" Belle beamed, nudging you with her shoulder. "You could always close your eyes, you know? And when you feel comfortable enough, you open them," Lily stated.
Both you and Belle looked at Lily. That was actually really good advice. "I'll keep that in mind," You muttered as your eyes wandered to the stage that was set. "Or if you're nervous, look at Belle." You gave Lily a look. "Belle is the calm friend between her and me. If you would look at me, you would probably crumble from the nerves," Lily said before taking a sip from her drink. "Fair point," You said with a smile, bringing your mug to your lips. As the clock ticked closer to 8 PM, you felt the nerves low in your stomach, but not from fear; it was from excitement to perform in front of a big crowd for the first time.
The coffee shop was already crowded when Victoria and a few other teammates entered. "This looks cozy," Kyra beamed, her eyes going over the room. "It's not bad," Leah hummed in agreement. "Is there some open-mic night?" Alessia asked, gesturing to the stage that stood against the opposite wall. Everyone followed Alessia's hand, and in fact, there was a stage. "In fact, there is," Steph said, holding out a paper to the rest. Vic took the paper and read what was on it.
"This is a yearly event, and the people performing are from St. Albans University," Vic explained, placing the paper on the nearest table. "So, we want to spend the evening here?" Leah asked the others, who all nodded. The group walked to a table with a clear view of the stage, people muttering as they passed. The group had just come back from a match. It was the North London Derby. Arsenal had won 5-2, so they wanted to celebrate.
"Beers?" Vic asked, and the others nodded. Vic walked through the crowd, people chattering about school stuff. Vic had gathered that most people were students, not all of them. There was no line at the counter, so Vic could order right away. "Good evening," A brunette greeted Victoria with a bright smile. The woman wiped her hands dry on a towel.
"What can I get you?" Victoria ordered seven beers and told the barista where they were sitting. Vic didn't immediately turn around; she just turned her head to the stage, where a group of boys was setting up their instruments. "What's this open-mic night all about?" The barista returned with the first two beers and placed them on the tab. "Sorry?" She asked. "This," Vic said again, gesturing to the stage. "Oh, yeah, some students from the university had an assignment, and they asked if they could perform here." Vic nodded in understanding.
"Oh wow." Vic turned her attention back to the woman, but she was looking over Vic's shoulder. "Arsenal women are here?" A small smile tugged at Vic's lips, nodding with her head. "Yep," Vic said, popping out the 'p'. "And you are?" Belle smiled lightly. "I'm Belle, the owner of the shop." Vic nodded in understanding, looking back at the room. "Nice place you got here." Belle gave Vic a thankful smile. "Where are you from?" Vic laughed softly, shaking her head.
"It's the accent, isn't it?" Belle nodded with a smile and said, "Yeah, you don't really have a British accent." Vic groaned slightly. She really thought she had improved with her English. "I'm from the Netherlands." Belle's eyebrows shot up, earning a confused look from Vic. "What?" Belle just shook her head, saying, "Nothing." Vic eyed her for a second longer, but decided not to go further into it.
"Well, thanks for the drinks," Vic said, taking the pints from the counter. As she walked back to their table, the mic was tested on stage, someone tapping it with their hand. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Belle said through the mic, her eyes going over the biggest crowd so far for this event. Vic reached their table and set the pints down. "Yesss, beer!" Katie cheered as she, of course, took the first glass.
"Katie, we didn't win the Champions League, please, don't drink as much as you did back then," Leah said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No way, we just won the North London Derby, I'm digging in," Katie replied with a grin, taking a big sip from her beer. Kyra laughed loudly; Alessia and Steph shook their heads; Caitlin gave Katie a loving look; Vic tried to hold her laughter, but her shoulders shook; while Leah dropped her head on the table, giving up on all that's holy.
"Okay, please give her a round of applause. Here is Cecily," Belle announced, clapping in her hands as she put the mic on the mic-holder. Vic and the others clapped in their hands, all their eyes on the stage as a black-haired girl stepped on the podium, her smile as bright as the sun.
After an hour, most of the performances were done. They all had been good, even though Katie had covered her ears when a guy performed with a violin. Vic wasn't a specialist, but even she could tell that the violin wasn't tuned, if that even was a thing for violins. "How much more do we have to endure?" Katie mumbled into her hands. "C'mon, Katie, they weren't all that bad," Alessia said. Katie glared at the English striker because that was a total lie.
"You can't tell me that those last two performances were music to your ears," Katie grumbled, giving Alessia a flat look. "Technically speaking, it was music to my ears, but not really good music," Alessia said, muttering the last part under her breath. "Guys, please tell me you aren't criticizing students," Leah said, shaking her head lightly. "They're students, they're still learning," Steph now said, agreeing with Leah on this.
"Fine, fine, but if the next one is just as bad as the other two just now, we're leaving," Kyra grumbled from where she was sitting. Both Leah and Steph shook their heads as they looked back at the stage where you were setting everything up.
You were the last one to perform. When you heard Belle tell you that you wanted to strangle her, she knew that when the last person would perform, the cafe was filled more than when the first people would perform. You were setting up your guitar for the hundredth time, fine-tuning it until your fingertips hurt. You dared to look at the crowd. Most people slumped in their seats.
You had noticed by the third act that most people weren't paying attention anymore. You shook your head. There was no point in dwelling on that. It was your turn in a few minutes, and you were already dreading the thought that people would only half listen to you. As you were adjusting the strap of your guitar, Belle walked back onto the stage, giving you a reassuring look before taking the mic from the stand. "Alrighty! The last performance is already here! Make some noise, everybody!" Belle yelled into the mic. Yeah, you definitely wanted to strangle her now.
You also noted to yourself that if you ever needed a wingwoman to hype the crowd before a performance, you knew who to call. Some people in the crowd cheered, while others stayed quiet. You let out a heavy sigh and hung your guitar around your neck, checking again if you tuned it right. "Give a round of Applause for, y/n!" Belle announced. You walked up to the mic, giving Belle a small glare, but she just blew a kiss and walked off the stage.
You stood in the middle of the stage, breathing hard into the mic, accidentally making it squeak. "Sorry," you immediately said, stepping slightly back from the mic as you saw people wince from the sound. "Hello, everyone." You started. Your usually decent English accent had apparently abandoned you completely. Great.
"I wrote this song when I left home to start a new challenge in a different country." You swallowed the lump in your throat, looking down at your guitar. "I hope you enjoy it." You strummed the guitar once, but winced when you had your fingers completely on the wrong chords. "Fuck," You muttered, forgetting there was a mic in front of you, so a few people in the crowd snickered. Well, you had their attention now. You started again, having found the right chords.
"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road."
"Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go."
"So make the best of this test, and don't ask why."
Your voice was shaky, so you did what Lily told you earlier. You closed your eyes, strumming your guitar. You took a breath before continuing.
"It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.""It's something unpredictable, but in the end, it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
Your nerves had settled as seconds passed. Your fingers weren't shaking that much anymore; you were almost at ease. Doing the things that you loved the most and for the first time, in front of a crowd that wasn't your own family. Across the room, Vic was totally mesmerized by you. It wasn't because of your voice, well, partly, but mostly because of how you recovered so quickly from your mistake in the beginning.
She saw that you didn't crumble. She saw someone take a deep breath, close their eyes, and start again. "You're staring," Vic whipped her head toward the voice. Alessia's eyes had something mischievous in them, a knowing smirk on her lips. "I am not," Vic shot back, her cheeks reddening just slightly.
Your voice dragged Vic's eyes back to the stage. All the people who had been slumping into their seats were now giving you their full attention, even Katie sat up straight, her eyes soft. Vic related to the lyrics. It was hard for her when she left the Netherlands for England, moving to a completely new country where she barely knew anyone.
"Sure you're not," Alessia replied, deciding not to go into it further as she shifted her attention back to you. You sang the last lyrics, strumming your guitar one final time, before stopping. The cafe erupted into cheering. You saw people at the far end of the cafe whistling through their fingers. A swell of pride bloomed in your chest. You did it, you performed your song, and people liked it. It was overwhelming, but in a good way.
You couldn't have dreamed that people were cheering, and for you no less. As the crowd settled down, you walked off the stage, only to be wrapped in the arms of Lily and Belle, who both were shrieking, Lily mostly just shrieked because Belle was.
"You were amazing," Belle shrieked, hugging you tighter. You knew that Belle was excited for you, but if she ever wanted to hear you perform again, then she really needed to loosen her hold because she was practically cutting off all your circulation points. "Belle," you wheezed out, "I'm getting no air here." Belle immediately loosened her hold, giving you an apologetic look.
"Sorry," She muttered, letting you go immediately. "You were absolutely amazing, like, so good." Your cheeks turned pink at the praise. "Okay, you're getting a beer, it's on the house," Belle announced, dragging both you and Lily to the tab. "No, no, it's fine," You said. "Let me just help with the orders at the bar." Both Belle and Lily gave you an incredulous look. Belle, because you deserved a drink, and Lily, because who would want to work voluntarily? You just stared at them, not giving in. "Look, I just did something terrifying, I don't need alcohol to calm my nerves, alright? I left those on stage," You told your two friends, rolling up your sleeves up to your elbows.
Belle let out a sigh, finally giving in. "Fine," she muttered, still not agreeing with you. "Lily, could you get the orders of the couple in the back?" Lily scrunched her nose. Belle just gave her a flat look, and Lily eventually moved her feet, muttering something about "couples suck," before she walked through the crowd.
You stood behind the counter, your eyes scanning the room. You still couldn't believe that you performed in front of them all. Your mind was still catching up with that fact. The pride you felt earlier is still going through your body. Belle approached you with a tray of snacks and held it out. "Could you give these to the group of girls there?" Belle asked as you took the tray, your eyes following Belle's gaze. You saw a group of women wearing tracksuits with a logo you recognized, but you couldn't quite place where you'd seen it before.
"Sure," You said and moved your feet. When you were within hearing range, you heard one of the women say. "Vic, you were totally staring at her," followed by laughter from the table. Your cheeks turned pink. You could tell that they were talking about you. Shaking your head, you cleared your throat, and the group immediately turned to you. You saw that a few were pressing their lips together, trying very hard not to laugh.
Your attention shifted to a shorter woman with dark-blonde hair, her eyes already locked on you. "Eumh, you guys ordered snacks?" You managed to say, still feeling the eyes of the woman on your left on you. "Yes, I'm starving," the woman sitting in one of the corners said, her Irish accent slipping through.
"Congratulations, you were very good out there." You turned your head to where the voice was coming from. You could tell that the woman wasn't from England, but from Australia. "Thanks," you said with a shy smile, glancing at the badge on one of the tracksuits. Then it dawned on you, the cannon, the red and white tracksuits. You were talking to Arsenal women.
You followed the league for a bit when you moved to England, because ever since you came here, the city had been promoting the Women's Champions League. "You had such an amazing voice!" You jumped at the volume when someone said that, turning to the woman with freckles, her hair in a low bun. "Kyra, you don't need to yell," another Australian accent said. "What, she has an amazing voice," The woman, Kyra, you assumed said.
"Thanks," You said again. You looked again at the woman who hadn't taken her eyes off you. You gave her an awkward smile, but she quickly tore her eyes off you. "Sorry about her." Your eyes now landed on a blonde woman. You knew her: Leah Williamson, captain of the Lionesses and vice-captain of Arsenal. "It's okay," you assured the blonde defender.
"Here are your snacks," you quickly added, setting the tray down on the table, "enjoy." You turned on your heel and walked back to where Belle was standing, raising an eyebrow at you. "What was that about?" Belle asked when you were close enough, warily looking at you. "Nothing," You said quickly, too quickly. "That's Victoria Pelova," Belle told you casually, no context. You drummed with your fingers on the edge of the counter, giving Belle a confused look.
"Who?" Belle just pointed subtly to the woman who had been looking at you the whole time when you were at the Arsenal table. "How do you know her?" You asked, your voice lower than usual. Okay, that was new. Why did you sound like that? Belle turned to you, her back leaning against the counter, raising an eyebrow at you. "Oh, wow," Belle said, letting out a low whistle. You frowned at her, not liking that whistle at all.
"What?" Belle just shook her head, a small teasing smirk playing on her lips. "Nothing, absolutely nothing," Belle said, pressing her lips together. You narrowed your eyes at her, and Belle just couldn't hold her laughter anymore, holding her stomach, as she doubled over. "Oh, girl," Was all Belle said, wiping the tears from the laughter away from under her eyes. You just shook your head because Belle wasn't giving you any reason why she was acting like this.
As the evening continued, music blasted from the stereos, people danced on the dance floor, and some played drinking games. Lily had wandered off to a quiet corner, typing aggressively on her laptop. "Oh, for the love of god," Belle groaned, pushing herself off the counter, ready to drag Lily back to help around, but you quickly took Belle's wrist, pulling her back.
"Don't," You simply said, releasing Belle's wrist. "She promised to help," Belle reminded you. "No, correction, she begged to help us tonight," Belle corrected, folding her arms across her chest, and let out a puff. You just shook your head, smiling lightly. "Belle, you do know that Lily only suggested that to see people perform and not literally approach people, asking them what they wanted to order?" Belle stayed silent, and that was an answer enough for you.
"Look, just let Lily be. She isn't as extroverted as you," You said softly, glancing at Lily for a second, and saw her still typing on her laptop. "I swear, if she types any harder, keys are going to fly off that thing," you hummed in amusement. Belle turned around to look at Lily. "Okay…that looks intense," Belle agreed, spinning around to face you again. Belle's eyebrows rose, earning a confused look from you. "What?" Belle didn't say anything; she just bolted away from the counter, heading to a table that was far away from the counter.
You just shook your head, turning around, but froze when one of the players from Arsenal stood in front of you, the same woman who had stared at you when you brought the snacks over. "Eumhh…hello?" You greeted the woman. You hadn't caught her name when you were over there, but not greeting her at all would be rude.
"Hi." You raised an eyebrow. The woman's voice was hoarse, but she quickly cleared her throat and tried again. "Hi." You observed the woman. She was nervous; you could tell that much about how her shoulders were tense, her fingers tapping nervously on the counter. "Can I help you?" Startled, the woman met your eyes. "No–yes, I mean, of course, why else would I be standing at the counter?" The woman said, rambling all her words together.
You watched her in amusement. You looked over the woman's shoulder, seeing her teammates snickering from where they were sitting, but when they saw you watching them, the menu became the most interesting thing in the world. "You were really good up there." The woman's voice drew your attention back to her, leaving you with a puzzled look. "Your performance," the woman clarified, nodding toward the stage. Right. "Thanks," You said with a smile.
"I kind of related to the song." The statement threw you off. You didn't expect her to say that, or anyone for that matter, but now you were intrigued by why she related to the song. Your shoulders sagged as you leaned against the counter. You didn't know what to do. Ask the woman why she related to the song? Let her continue? "It's scary to move abroad." The woman's voice brought you back to the present. "Yeah," you breathed out, looking down for a second, "it really is," you confessed.
For you, moving abroad was the scariest thing in the world. Going to a country where you knew no one. Making new friends, fitting in with the right people, and keeping up with homework and assignments. "You aren't from here?" The woman looked up. "From England, I mean. You weren't born here?" The woman let out a soft laugh, the sound filling your ears. It was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard. "No, I'm not from here," The woman clarified. "I moved here from the Netherlands." Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Je komt uit Nederland?" ("You're from the Netherlands?") You asked, your Dutch slipping from your mouth by accident. The woman was caught off guard when she heard her native language from you. "You speak–jij spreekt Nederlands?" ("You speak Dutch?") The woman asked, quickly changing from English to Dutch.
"Ja, ik kom ook uit Nederland." ("Yes, I'm from the Netherlands too.") You said, giving the woman a reassuring smile. "Ik ben–god, do we speak Dutch to each other or English?" ("I'm–") The woman asked. You just gave her a light shrug and said, "Whatever you're comfortable with." The woman nodded before speaking again, "I'm Vic, I mean, Victoria. Pelova, Victoria Pelova, that's who I am," Vic said, her cheeks turning pink when she realized that she apparently couldn't introduce herself to someone new anymore.
Was the conversation awkward? Yes. Yes, it was. Did you find it adorable that Victoria was stuttering over her words? Yes. Yes, you did. "Nice to meet you, Vic, Victoria Pelova. I'm y/n y/l/n." You introduced yourself to the flustered woman. Your eyes landed on Belle briefly, but you quickly looked away when she started to kiss the air, pushing her lips out. You give her the middle finger just out of view from Victoria.
Honest to god, you were really going to strangle Belle one day. Shaking your head, you turned your attention back to Victoria, whose cheeks were still pink. You almost said that she was cute when she blushed, but quickly swallowed the words, because that would be weird to tell someone you had just met.
You quickly recovered from the thought, shaking your head. "So, why did you choose Arsenal?" Victoria met your eyes. "What do you mean?" You laughed softly. "The club. Why Arsenal?" You clarified, tapping the badge on Victoria's tracksuit before you could stop yourself. When you realized what you'd done, you quickly pulled your hand back as if the tracksuit had burned you. "I don't know," Victoria said, shrugging her shoulders.
"I always followed Arsenal men, but started to follow the women when I found out that they existed, and mostly, I followed Arsenal because one of the best strikers played there. The same striker that I play with my national team," Victoria clarified. You nodded in understanding. "You follow football?" The question caught you off guard. "I usually only watch when the men's or women's national team plays during tournaments, but I'm not that invested that I would be sitting in front of the TV trying to watch games, but I've been following the WSL for a while now too," You said honestly.
"That's fair, but can I give you a recommendation for something to do?" You gestured lightly with your hand, telling Vic to continue. "Next week, we play Chelsea at home." You frowned at that, because you had heard on the news that Arsenal had won their second match against Chelsea in the league. "Don't you like–play the same opponent twice?" Victoria nodded with her head.
"Yes, but this is the second leg of the quarter-final of the Champions League. We won the first leg 0-1 at Stamford Bridge," Vic clarified your earlier question. "Oh, wow, that's good," You said, giving her a shy smile. "We play next Wednesday, the second leg at a full sold-out Emirates." You let out an impressive whistle. You knew that women's football was improving, but so much that they sold out stadiums midweek was impressive on another level; not even men's teams managed to do that.
You felt something flutter in your stomach. What was she asking? "If you want, I can send you some tickets, maybe even for your friends as well." The offer shocked you to the core. It was sweet of Victoria to offer this to you, but there was absolutely no need. "As nice as that offer is, you don't have–" Victoria's voice cut you off, "I want to." Her voice was soft, her eyes warm. You tilted your head lightly. Why was Victoria really offering you this?
"You just didn't come here to compliment me on my performance, did you?" Vic's face reddened. "I–eummh, j-just wanted to be friendly," Vic sputtered, her brain failing to form any coherent word. The answer left you oddly disappointed. "B-but your performance was good as well, it was really good–I mean, m-more than good," Vic stuttered on, afraid that she had offended you.
"Vic." Her nickname slipped out before you could think about it, but you quickly cleared your throat and corrected yourself. "Victoria, I was just messing with you," You teased, a teasing smile playing on your lips. You didn't know where the teasing came from; it was almost like you felt so at ease with her that you allowed yourself to tease without being judged.
"How late is the match?" You eventually asked, wondering whether Victoria really meant the offer or if it was just a way to keep talking to you. "At 20:00, but the stadium opens at 18:30." Your eyebrows shot up. "Why so early?" Victoria shrugged. "So fans can watch us warm up and stuff," Vic explained.
"Hey, you." You closed your eyes when the voice you absolutely didn't want to hear came when you were talking to Victoria. "Belle, hi," You muttered in a hiss, giving her your best glare. "Aren't there any tables you need to serve?" Belle just shrugged with her shoulders as she leaned against the counter, having no intention of leaving.
"We will accept the offer, Victoria," Belle said, ignoring your question. "We what now?" You hissed under your breath, because what the hell! Had she eavesdropped on your conversation just now? Belle ignored you again as she took a napkin and wrote something on it. You eyed her suspiciously. "Here," Belle said, slipping the napkin to Victoria, "you can call her when you have the tickets." You snapped your head so fast toward Belle as if you were an owl.
"Thanks? I guess," Victoria said hesitantly. "Vic! C'mon!" Victoria turned around, but not before giving you a quick smile. When you saw Victoria and her teammates leave, you turned your attention back to Belle. "What was that? Why did you give her my number?" You hissed, slapping Belle on her arm. "What? She offered to see you again. In no universe would I not give her your number," Belle said easily, rubbing her arm with her hand where you had slapped her.
"You should thank me." You laughed without humor. "Thank you? I should yell at you!" Belle just smiled, patting you on the arm. "Then, just thank me when the two of you are married and have a dog." You gaped at her. Your words have officially failed you because when you didn't say anything, Belle just walked away with an evil laugh.
Victoria sat at her locker, staring at her phone as if she didn't know how to use it. She had added you to her contacts, but hadn't messaged you yet. What was she supposed to say? 'Hey, it's me. You know? The stranger you met at the coffee shop and handed your phone number to.' It sounded so stupid. "What are you doing?" The voice brought Vic back to the present. "Nothing," Vic muttered, putting her phone into her bag. "Vic," Alessia said, looking at her friend who was about to have a meltdown.
"What's going on?" Vic let out a heavy sigh, dropping back on the bench. Alessia didn't push her; she never did when something was on someone else's shoulders. Victoria let out a heavy sigh and handed her phone to Alessia. "Who-who's number is this?" Alessia asked and turned her head back to the Dutch midfielder, only to see that her cheeks had gone slightly pink. "It's nobody," Victoria muttered, snatching her phone back.
"Vic, you added a 'nobody' to your contacts?" Victoria groaned when she heard the teasing tone in Alessia's voice, one she didn't like at all. Alessia looked at the contact name again, but Victoria had literally put 'nobody' as their name. "You know, usually people give contacts nicknames because it's either they're having an affair or are mad at them," Alessia stated, giving Victoria an amused look.
"Wait? Are you having an affair?" Alessia asked, shocked when Victoria didn't answer. "What? No!" Victoria said immediately, giving Alessia an offended look. "How could you even think that I'm like that!" Alessia quickly raised both hands, getting confirmation of her question from Victoria's reaction. Victoria let out a heavy sigh, shaking her head.
"It's the singer from the coffee shop," Victoria muttered, her cheeks turning pink once more. "The one you had been staring at when she was performing?" Victoria gave Alessia a flat look. "I was not staring at her." Alessia laughed at that, dramatically wiping the tears from her eyes. "Vic, please, you were definitely staring," Alessia said, still laughing as Victoria kept glaring at her. "I did something really stupid." Alessia's eyebrows rose, clearly intrigued.
"Oh, what did you do?" Victoria stared at the floor, hoping that it would open so she could hide in there. "Vic, it can be that bad," Alessia said with a laugh. "If you mean not bad as in I just didn't offer her and her friends tickets to our second leg match against Chelsea in two days, then no, it isn't that bad," Victoria said, rubbing both hands down her face, groaning in her hands. "Oh, my god, you did not," Alessia laughed, her head tilting back. "I-I didn't know why I offered it, I just did," Victoria said, groaning once more in her hands.
"Now you're just figuring out how to text her," Alessia stated, her laughter subsiding a little. Victoria just nodded, staring at her phone again. "What if she doesn't want to go?" Victoria asked, making Alessia frown slightly. "She already said yes to the offer, no?" Victoria shook her head. "She didn't, her friend did," Victoria muttered, her thumb hovering over the keyboard of her phone. "Oooff, how did–what's her name again?" Alessia asked. "y/n." Alessia nodded. "
So, how did y/n react when her friend accepted the offer?" Victoria shook her head. It was all kind of vague. Victoria was close to them, but they had turned their heads back and had whispered, so she didn't hear anything. "I don't know, y/n's friend gave me y/n's number, but I haven't texted her yet," Victoria said, looking at Alessia for help. "What should I text her? I have never done this before." Alessia's eyes softened, placing a comforting hand on the Dutch midfielder's shoulder.
"Okay, do you have the tickets?" Victoria nodded. "What kind of tickets did you buy?" Victoria stayed quiet because, in the excitement, she had bought tickets that included a meet-and-greet with the players afterward. "Vic, what kind of tickets did you buy?" Alessia asked again.
"In my excitement, I accidentally bought the meet and greet tickets." Alessia froze. She pressed her lips together, trying but failing not to laugh. Victoria glared at her as Alessia doubled over, holding her stomach, and wiped tears from her eye with her free hand.
"You can laugh later at how stupid I've been, but you need to help me with what I need to text her," Victoria grumbled, shoving Alessia lightly. "Okay, give me your phone," Alessia said, still laughing a little, her shoulders shaking.
Victoria: Hey, it's me, the girl you met at the coffee shop two nights ago, and the one who offered you tickets. Here they are. All the information you need is in the tickets. I'm excited to see you again😉.
"There, done," Alessia said, giving Victoria her phone back. Victoria stared at the message. "You send a message with an emoji?" Victoria yelled, but Alessia had already bolted out the door.
It was in the afternoon, when you were sitting in the cafeteria with Lily, that your phone pinged. You pulled out your phone to see who had messaged you, but you frowned when you saw it was an anonymous person. Hesitantly, you opened the message and let out a relieved sigh when you read that Victoria had texted you. But the relief quickly vanished, leaving nerves.
You saw the PDF documents added to the message. You knew it was the tickets, but now it felt more real. "You look like you just got a message that you failed a test." Lily's voice dragged you back to the present. "I'm sorry, what?" You asked, shaking your head, meeting Lily's green eyes. "Your face, when you read the message you just received," Lily clarified, pointing to your phone in your hand. "I-it's nothing," You muttered, putting your phone away.
"If you say so," Lily hummed, turning her full attention back to her computer in front of her. "So," you started, earning a hum from Lily, "do you maybe want to go to a football match on Wednesday?" Lily startled, looked up, giving you a confused look. "That's not really my thing," Lily said, gesturing to her computer, that that's more of her thing, instead of sitting in a cold stadium and watching 22 people running after a ball. "Yeah, I should've guessed," You said with a laugh, popping a fry in your mouth.
After a while, you left the university and headed to Belle's shop. You entered the shop. It was very quiet. good. You really needed Belle's full attention. "Good afternoon," Belle greeted you with a smile as she was cleaning up the last few tables. "Hi," You greeted, taking a seat at a table. "Okay, what happened?" Belle asked, taking a seat across from you. "Victoria sent the tickets through an hour ago," You muttered.
"Did she now?" Belle hummed, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "Don't," You warned her, pointing a finger at her. "You did this." Belle laughed lightly, not even phased about your tone. "Girl, please," Belle laughed, shaking her head, "I only did what you were too afraid to do. To say yes to Victoria's offer." You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but closed it just as quickly, because Belle was right. You wanted to say yes to the offer, but your brain short-circuited when Victoria offered it.
"What kind of ticket did she give you?" You frowned, confusion written all over your face. "There are different kinds of tickets?" Belle chuckled again, holding out her hand. You pulled your phone out and handed it to Belle. "Yes, there are different kinds, dummy," Belle teased, unlocking your phone. "You have club members' tickets, season tickets, meet and greet tickets, and just normal tickets," Belle explained, her thumb going over your phone.
"You haven't put her in your contacts yet?" Belle asked, shocked, turning the phone to you, so you could see that there was still a phone number at the top instead of a name. "I'm sorry, but I was a bit shocked that she actually meant her offer," You muttered, crossing your arms in front of your chest. "Sure," Belle replied, turning the phone again. "Okay, let's see what kind of tickets we have." You just shook your head, reconsidering all your life choices.
"Oh, my god," Belle said, putting you on high alert. "What?" Belle only met your eyes, her mouth open. "Give me that," You snapped, snatching your phone from Belle's hand. You read the text on the screen. You stilled when you read, 'Meet and greet tickets'. "She did not," You groaned, dropping your phone on the table. "I think a certain Arsenal player has a crush on you," Belle teased, her face all smug. "W-what? N-no, s-she doesn't! She–god, she barely knows me! I-we met once-" You sputtered, your cheeks flushing pink at what Belle said.
"And you gave her your number that same evening," Belle added, casually looking at her nails. You glared at Belle because she gave Victoria your number, not you. "No, you did!" You said, throwing your arms in the air. Belle just shrugged, taking your phone again. "What are you doing?" You asked, seeing Belle type something.
You: Thanks for the tickets, can't wait to see you again!🤭😌
Belle handed you your phone, and you immediately looked at what she had done. "You texted her back? With emojis?" You asked, shocked, your mouth wide open. "You're welcome," Belle replied, giving you a mischievous smile. "I should hate you," You muttered, your voice lacking the usual spite when you actually meant something like that.
"But you don't, especially, because I'm coming with you on Wednesday and let you burrow one of my Arsenal shirts, and I'll make you a coffee, it's on the house," Belle said confidently, giving you a wink before standing up and walking to the counter. "It better be good coffee," You muttered, staring at the message again. Your eyes drifted back to the wink emoji. Surely she didn't mean anything by it. Right?. "I only make good coffee," Belle replied with a laugh. Shaking your head, you closed your phone. Wednesday was going to be an interesting night, for sure.
Time flies when you're nervous as hell because you are now in Belle's apartment. You sat on her bed while Belle was going through her closet. "What exactly are you looking for?" You eventually asked when Belle was still going through her closet aggressively. "Just," Belle muttered, "hold on, I think I almost found it." You frowned.
"Found what?" You asked, and at that moment, Belle spun around, holding a red and white jersey victoriously up. You raised an eyebrow, eyeing the shirt she had in her hands. "This, my sweet friend, is the jersey you're going to wear tonight," Belle announced, throwing the jersey your way. You caught it easily with one hand. You held the jersey in both hands to inspect it better. "Let me guess, Alessia Russo is your favorite player." It wasn't a question; you were simply stating a fact.
"How'd you guess?" Belle asked, but she didn't really need an answer, since all her Arsenal jerseys had Russo on the back. You just shook your head and put on the shirt. "Look at that, proper Gunner right there," Belle teased as she was putting on her perfume. "I'm sorry, a proper what now?" You asked as you stood up to look in the mirror. "A Gunner. You know? That's the nickname Arsenal fans have." You just stared at her. You had never heard that word in your life.
"OMG, I really need to teach you a lot about football, don't I?" Belle groaned, taking your hand and pulling you out of the room. "You don't need to teach me anything," You muttered, pulling your hand free from Belle's hold. "I know how football works," You stated, giving Belle a flat look when you reached the kitchen. "Do you know what offside is?" Belle asked with a mischievous look in her eyes.
"Yes, the striker can't pass the last defender when the ball is played or needs to be behind the ball when both the player with the ball and the striker are past the last defender," You explained. Belle gaped at you; she really didn't expect that you knew what the offside rule was. "Told you, I know my stuff," You huffed, an amused smile playing on your lips. "Alright, alright," Belle said as she held both hands up in defense, "you know your stuff indeed." You smiled proudly, taking a sip from the water that Belle had handed to you.
"How do you know so much about football anyway?" You eventually asked, placing your glass on the table. "By watching it, dummy," Belle said quickly, too quickly. You saw her cheeks flushing lightly, making you raise a single eyebrow. You only tilted your head lightly when Belle groaned. "You aren't just a fan of Alessia Russo, are you?" You teased.
Belle glared at you, but you saw that her cheeks turned from pink to bright red. "OMG, you have a crush on Alessia Russo," You said with a gasp, smiling from ear to ear. "No, no, shut up," Belle said quickly, pointing a finger at you. "We are going to an Arsenal match because you are totally wipt on Victoria Pelova. Don't change this outing to me," Belle said, the accusing finger still pointed at you, and smiled when it was your turn for your cheeks to burn bright red.
"Okay, how late do we need to head to the stadium?" Belle glared at you. She knew you were changing the subject, but she didn't comment. Instead, Belle looked at her watch. "Right about now. Let's go!" Belle said as she jumped off the counter. You drank the last bit of water before placing the glass by the sink. "Let's cheer your girlfriend on," Belle said, giving you a wink and a mischievous look.
"She is not my girlfriend," You muttered, following Belle out the front door. "Not yet." Belle was quick to correct you as she closed the door and locked it. You just rolled your eyes, no energy to go into this again. Belle can be delusional all she wants. You are going to a match because a FRIEND invited you. Nothing more and nothing less, or at least, that's what you told yourself.
"Let's go, slow poke," Belle said and hopped down the stairs, her brown hair going from left to right. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," You said, walking down the stairs. "Your first Arsenal match!" Belle shrieked from excitement, wrapping her arm around you. "First live match," you corrected her, hugging her back tightly.
"Oh, potato potahto," Belle said, waving a dismissive hand in front of her. You let out a chuckle, shaking your head lightly. "That's not how the saying works," You told Belle, bumping your shoulder with hers. "Yeah, yeah," Belle said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Okay, what do you think the score will be?" Belle asked eventually. "I don't know, they're both good," You stated.
"But Arsenal have a 2-0 advantage because of their first leg match." You nodded in understanding. "Can I just say, Arsenal will go through, but I don't know the score." Belle considered that for a few seconds before giving in. "Yeah, that will do," Belle said as the two of you continued to walk, the top of the Emirates Stadium already visible from over the buildings of the street you were walking through.
The minute you stepped down the stairs inside the stadium, you were in complete awe. The atmosphere inside the Emirates was amazing. From your section, you could see everything clearly. You were high enough to see everything around, but low enough that you could at least see who was playing the ball. The match started with Chelsea pressing high because they needed to score first to be in the race for the semi-finals.
Belle couldn't sit still next to you, even if it were the 40th minute, and it was still 0-0 in this match. Victoria wasn't starting, but Belle had told you that she would definitely get subbed on in the second half and score a goal for you. You had rolled your eyes at that, but couldn't deny that your stomach fluttered at the thought. "Hello, ladies." Both you and Belle turn your heads. A man with an Arsenal suit stood next to you, an earpiece in his ear.
"I just wanted to ask what players you wanted to meet after the match," He clarified. Before you could say anything, Belle's voice filled the space around you. "Alessia Russo and Victoria Pelova." The man nodded and said something through the earpiece. "Thank you and enjoy the match," The man said with a nod, and walked back up the stairs. You turned your attention back to the field and just in time to see Katie McCabe kicking a free kick into Chelsea's penalty area, and Stina heading it into the back of the net.
Both you and Belle jumped up from your seats together with the other fans in the stadium. "Your goal scorer is Stina Blackstenius!" The speakers loudly announced it, earning another loud cheer from the fans around the stadium. You clapped in your hands, cheering from the top of your lungs. "We have this in the bag," Belle puffed, smiling from ear to ear. "You do know that we still need to play 65 minutes?" You stated, giving Belle a flat look.
"I think I need to teach you some football rules," You teased, coming back to what Belle had said to you before you left her apartment. "Very funny, but I'm manifesting," Belle stated as she sat back down. Shaking your head, you sat down as well. Your eyes drifted to the sidelines, where players were warming up. Victoria was one of them, laughing at something her teammate said. As if Victoria knew you were staring, she looked up in your direction, her smile widening when her eyes landed on you as your cheeks turned pink.
As the match neared half-time, Arsenal got a counter. Caitlin sprinted down the line, passing the ball to the middle, where Alessia was completely free. She gave the ball a nudge to the right and took the shot. The ball was low and bounced right in front of the Chelsea keeper, but the strike was so hard and fast that the keeper couldn't get a hand on it.
"Yes!" Belle screamed, jumping from her seat again. She turned with her back to the field so that she could show off her Russo jersey. You just smiled and cheered along, clapping in your hands once more while the whole stadium celebrated the goal. Your eyes drifted to the sideline again. Victoria jumped into her teammate's arms, her hands up in the air as if she were on a rollercoaster. To be fair, this match was a rollercoaster.
When Chelsea kicked off again, the match continued for a few minutes, but then the referee whistled for half-time. "What are your thoughts so far?" Belle asked, stretching lightly. "It's so cool," You said, looking around the stadium. The fans continued to chant, singing along to the music from the stadium speakers. After 15 minutes, both teams returned to the field.
You looked down, and a smile appeared when you saw that Victoria got subbed on. "Substitution for Arsenal, number 12, Frida Maanum." The crowd cheered at the announcement. "Number 21, Victoria Pelova will replace her!" Now you cheered as well, rising from your seat, clapping in your hands.
The referee blew for the second half to begin. Chelsea pressed more and more. They needed to play all-or-nothing. You sat on the edge of your seat the entire second half. Arsenal are defending for their lives. Chelsea got a corner, but through a scrimmage, Arsenal managed to clear it. The ball landed directly at Victoria's feet, her teammate gesturing to her to run.
Chelsea's goalkeeper had come to the opposite side of the field for the corner, so Victoria ran. Two Chelsea players are hot on her tail. All the Arsenal fans in the stand rose from their seat, you and Belle included. When Victoria reached the edge of Chelsea's penalty box, she shot the ball in the goal. The crowd erupted, Arsenal's bench emptied, and Chelsea players fell to the ground when the final whistle followed after Victoria had scored.
"Let's fucking go!" Belle cheered in your ear as she hugged you tightly. "Yess!" You yelled, jumping along with Belle. "They did it!" Belle shrieked, hugging you even tighter. "Yeah, she did it," You said softly to yourself, looking down where Victoria got jumped by her teammates, warmth spreading through your chest at the sight. You saw Victoria look up briefly before teammates jumped in front of her, blocking her view of you.
The changing room was an absolute party. Music blasting from the speaker, teammates jumping to the music. Victoria sat at her cubby, putting the last few things in her bag. "Alessia, Vic," A man said. "You two have been picked for a meet and greet." Victoria stilled. Right. She had accidentally bought you meet and greet tickets. She didn't know whether she'd actually bought them by accident or just wanted to see you again, and that was the first thing that came to your mind.
Either way, Victoria was all of a sudden a nervous wreck. When she saw you in the stands, smiling at you, she thought she would evaporate. "Vic!" Alessia said, snapping her fingers in front of the eyes of the Dutch midfielder. "Yes, I'm coming," Victoria quickly said as she stood up and picked up her bag. "So," Alessia hummed, her voice teasing, "are you excited to see her again?" Victoria just gave a nonchalant shrug, even though inside, she was screaming like a kid.
She had been waiting for this moment, to see you again, to talk to you again, and now the moment was there. "Yeah," Victoria replied. Alessia stared at her. That was it? Only a yeah? "Wow, no need to sound excited," Alessia teased, bumping her shoulder with Victoria's. Victoria glared at Alessia, earning a laugh from the striker. Alessia held her hands up in defense, choosing wisely not to tease any further.
The two of them walked into the room, but Victoria stopped in the doorway when her eyes landed on you. "Of course," Victoria muttered when she saw that you were wearing an Alessia Russo jersey. Alessia frowned and followed her teammate's gaze, her eyes landing as well on the name on the back of your jersey.
Alessia's eyes flicked to the name on the back of the shirt before landing on Victoria. "Oh." Alessia shook her head before speaking, "c'mon." Victoria didn't move at first, but eventually made herself move toward you and Belle. As if on cue, you turned around, meeting Victoria's eyes. "OMG, Alessia, I'm your biggest fan!" Belle shrieked beside you. Alessia laughed softly, subtly guiding Belle away from you, so you and Victoria had some privacy. "Hi," you said with a smile, but your smile faltered when Victoria didn't greet you back or meet your eye. You didn't know what was happening.
Did you do something? What could you have done to get greeted like this? "You played really well," you told her, but Victoria barely reacted. You turned your head to look behind you when you saw Victoria look over your shoulder. Belle was still all over Alessia. "Thanks." You turned your head back at the short answer. You frowned again.
"D-did I do something?" You asked softly, tapping your fingers nervously against your thigh. Your question hadn't even fully left your mouth when Victoria answered, "No." The answer was too quick, too short again. "Then why are you looking at me like–that?" You asked, gesturing vaguely with your hand. "Like what?" Victoria said again too quickly. "Like I did something to insult you," you answered with a sigh.
"I just thought…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Never mind," Victoria muttered, dropping her hand. "Vic." Her nickname slipped past your lips before you could overthink it. You saw the softening of Vic's eyes at that. Vic let out a heavy sigh. "I thought you asked for Alessia," Vic stated, looking everywhere except for your eyes. "What?" You frowned, confusion written all over your face. Victoria nodded to the shirt you were wearing.
You looked down at the jersey. Right, the shirt Belle had given you with Russo on the back, realization hit you at once. "This?" You laughed, shaking your head. "It's not even mine," You clarified, seeing Victoria's shoulders finally relax. "It's not?" You shook your head and pointed to the brunette behind you. "No. Belle shoved it in my hands when we were heading to the stadium. I needed to wear at least something Arsenal related." Victoria laughed, finally. "So, she gave you a jersey from Russo?"
"She's obsessed, you have no idea," You said, finally relaxing. "If I had a jersey of yours, I would've worn that." Victoria looked up at that, her eyes lighting up. "You would?" Vic asked, surprised, her heart beating hard against her ribcage.
"Yes," you said with a nod. "Sorry that I acted like that just now, I was just–" You smiled lightly, and finishing for her, "jealous?" Vic's cheeks turned bright red, like she had been sunbathing without putting on sunscreen. "Yeah, that," Vic muttered, rubbing the back of her neck once more.
"I'll forgive you," You started, a teasing smile on your lips when Vic met your eyes, "only if you decide to get some coffee with me sometimes and not in Belle's shop," you finished, reassuring Vic on the last part. "You mean a date?" Vic asked carefully, not really believing that you were actually asking her. "I never said date, but now that you mentioned it," You teased, and any retort Vic had ready was out the window.
Summary:- You feel devastated upon hearing the news of Alexia’s departure.
Words:- 4k
Warnings:- ALEXIA IS LEAVING!!
——
Home for a lot of people, is a square box, surrounded by four pillars. The white covered with frames they cherished, treasured memories stored at each corner. Faces that they've known their whole life, surround them as soon as they enter the space. Dining while sharing stories everyone around is legally obliged to be part of. A sense of safety and love hovering in the air which they didn't have to earn.
Yeah, that might be the definition of home but it didn't necessarily read the same for everyone.
A place to call your home was everything you'd ever wanted. The four pillars were the same. Except for frames, the white stood empty, reflecting the neglect you’d experienced over the years. The corners stood their stance, except it was haunted with memories of your mom telling you to shut it and stop acting baby instead of a loving mother who pulled you into her embrace and whispered everything would be okay when you stubbed your toe.
Dinner was shared between the three, but instead of stories, silence consumed all. Younger you tried to fill it with your giggles and recited your time at kindergarten only for it to be turned down immediately by your father, declaring ‘peace’ and quiet were the only requirements at the table. Anything you had to say was not appreciated and it was made clear to you.
You would’ve almost thought this was normal, that this was how any ‘family’ would operate, that ‘I love you’ were not words that were spoken around in a household, not something you'd have to be reminded of once in a while.
It was just a term that you knew existed. That you knew strayed far from the commands of your parents, lived in the space where your head was bowed as they shouted, floated in the distance you kept from them so as not to get into their face. Reachable but never close to be in the palm of your hands.
You'd almost learned that maybe love was exactly that. Never to expect it from anyone because it was never going to be showered at you anyway. But the universe had a lucky card for you in its pocket.
That card had a title known as football and underneath, spelt in fourteen beautiful letters was a name called Alexia Putellas.
A name that gifted you the family you had always desired, always yearned for. A love that was unconditional and went beyond any expectation, beyond any limits. Just there, just present, just fully yours.
A quick parents teacher meeting, a suggestion from your PT sir to get you into Barcelona’s youth academy as their coaches had reached out to him enquiring about you after you had impressed them with your exceptional skills and asked if you were available to join and an even quicker agreement by your parents to get you in so they could have more time off.
Well if that stung, stepping onto that field definitely made up for it. Cause stood on those green grasses was Barcelona’s captain, who you would soon realise was everything you had been missing all along.
What started with a soft, almost cautious ‘Hola, nena’ to a very shy little girl standing at the back of the group, barely speaking to anyone, soon turned into hours long of conversation between both.
The stories from school which you weren't allowed to tell were welcomed by Alexia with all her heart, a soft smile always lingering on her lips whenever you recreated a scenario with enthusiasm, hands flying in all directions to exaggerate the point.
A proud expression and praise always on the tip of her tongue when you brightly told her about your milestones and achievements in class.
Having heard about personal cheerleaders from various strangers, finding one for your own definitely made it better.
The laugh, the uncontrollable ones where your shoulder shook, your teeth showed and you had to clutch your stomach because it hurt to even breathe was born out of Alexia's ability to do silly little tricks around you; weird keepy-uppies, being nutmegged and giving you a pout as if it wasn't intentional at all.
And honestly, Alexia would do it everyday without complaint if it meant your sweet, sweet melody kept murmuring in her ears.
The wounds and bruises which were earlier met by annoyed looks, were now taken care with tender kisses and gentle dabs of cotton soaked in antiseptic around the area, Alexia’s touch almost featherlight, brows furrowed in worry as she blew soft air to make it hurt less every time you hissed.
The ice cream dates which although doesn't sound much, meant everything to you, sometimes as a reward for making her proud, which you did on a daily basis for her even if it just constituted you kicking a ball from the corner, and sometimes just because.
As years passed, you grew, with a hand constant in yours, with a warm forehead kiss and a lingering ‘love you’ becoming non-negotiable. A sweet little girl, her chica, found a permanent place in Alexia’s heart. A place no one could replace, no one could move. It belonged to you and only you.
And as you were officially promoted to the first team, you couldn't have been more grateful. For the chance to build your own family, for the pitch, for the team, for Alexia.
To you,
Alexia was home and home was Alexia.
There was no difference between them, there could never be.
So when the news of her leaving arrived, it felt like a knife that plunged within and settled deep in your chest, heavy and immovable. Each syllable of that information shattered something you’ve spent years creating.
Rooted the fear of abandonment that you’ve only just escaped. It felt like betrayal, felt like a sacred promise being broken by the same hands that spent decades nurturing it.
Sure, you had seen many rumours jump around on the internet. But you paid no mind to it. It was ridiculous, it had to be. For you, it was set in stone that Alexia would never leave Barcelona - that Alexia would never leave you.
Anything besides that was not comprehended by you, not even a thought that would likely circle after viewing so many false claims.
A bubble you'd created around yourself and peacefully lived in, until one day Alexia pulled you aside, and sat you down beside her, taking your hands in hers and squeezing them tightly. You knew right away that no good news was about to follow just by looking into her deep hazel green eyes and the sigh that escaped before any coherent sentence.
“I have to tell you something.” Alexia had said. There was pain in her voice, which you realised was soon going to be echoed from every inch of your body with the subsequent words.
“What is it?” There was silence after that. Maybe Alexia was giving you time to prepare for whatever’s to come next but it didn't. Every millisecond that was unfilled was a further push down your inmost dread.
“I won't be here anymore.” She held your gaze as she said it and you could see the impact her own choices were having on her. The grip on your hands becoming tighter, the lights revealing something dangerously shiny in her orbs she was trying so hard not to let loose, her voice cracking, the same thing your heart did when the words were delivered. “I mean in - in Barcelona, by the end of the season.”
Time stopped. Maybe not for everyone else, but it most certainly did for you. The world, which was clear a second ago, became blurry as the tears welled. The room, which was spacious, suddenly started to close in at a threatening pace, ready to crush you and every dream you'd ever had in a quick snap.
Alexia’s lips were moving, you could make that much, but she might as well have been speaking gibberish because nothing settled with you after ‘I won’t be here.’ You were frozen right there and then, frozen in a place where you could literally see your safety net, your shield behind which the 11-year-old you hid when everything felt too loud, too heavy, break into a million pieces right in front of you.
Alexia was tugging at your fingers, maybe asking for a response, to check how you were feeling. But you stayed dead silent, staring right past her into the abyss, into the void that had its claws coming straight for you.
You could barely feel anything; or maybe you felt everything too much, too sudden, too devastating. And the brunette in front of you was asking you to voice it out. But how could you? Which potential set of alphabets carried the power that could explain what this was doing to you?
How could you describe that it felt like the family you had built, that she had helped build with you, was now being snatched by her very hands?
How could you demonstrate that you were mourning the loss of the arms that sheltered you in their warmth, the face you immediately searched for every time you scored; the shoulders that carried you and ran around the field after every game you won, would now just be a wish you desperately clung to?
How could you put across that you were shit scared to lose the grip that she held on to your palms? Afraid that if you moved even an inch, the touch would disappear in a foreign land and you would never find it again?
“Say something nena.” she had pleaded.
But you didn't. You couldn't. Because if you did, it would become real. And that could not happen, you wouldn't survive it. It was a joke, a cruel and brutal joke your capí was playing with you, perhaps a prank devised by Vicky to get back at you and you wouldn't give in to it.
No, you wouldn't.
So your response was pulling yourself away from her, untangling your hand from hers and taking a stance, only for your legs to feel like jelly and buckle at any moment under the weight that was forced upon you.
Alexia stood up too. The heartbreak was screaming from every inch of her skin. If hearing the news made you miserable, delivering it was just as difficult and you not uttering anything against it made it 100x worse than she had imagined.
She reached out, wanting to hold you close again. Only for you to take a step back, and again until you turned your back and bolted out the door.
Because that was a nightmare, a bad dream you were experiencing. You were asleep, some demon had definitely possessed your mind for you to imagine such horrible things.
Yes, that was the only correct explanation for all of it.
And as you ran, you slapped and pinched yourself multiple times, desperate enough to try anything and everything to get yourself to wake up.
And until you did, you would run, even if it meant till the end of the earth. Because stopping meant, you'd had to face the truth, accept a fact, a life that didn't have Alexia by your side every day of the week. And you weren’t ready to acknowledge it, you weren't sure if you ever could.
The whole team had spent the entire day searching for you. Alexia’s vocal had almost given out after screaming your name on top of her lungs but to no success. It was almost like you had vanished into thin air.
But in reality, you were just hiding behind some old and abandoned equipment, both hands clasped around your mouth so the sound of your violent sobbing wouldn't escape, hidden in a dark room so that your trembling body wouldn't give you away.
And you would wait there, until the sun rose and the night dipped, till the cruel world was replaced with the fairy-like illusion you'd ever want to live in.
——
Fools always live in an imagination they create for themselves. After yesterday, you weren't far away from being one of them.
And you wanted nothing more than to be them. To continue to live in that blissful, happy little world you had curated for yourself. A world that didn't bag Alexia and put her miles away.
Oh, how you wished that when you opened your eyes the next day that world would still exist.
But it didn't. Instead it came holding a reality check in the form of a farewell for your Capí. An event that would make it painfully true, painfully real.
Getting yourself there had taken everything. Every single step down that corridor was an experience you wished would stop. You didn't realise that one day keeping a foot in front of the other could prove to be such a difficult task.
You’d told yourself it was just another sunrise, another normal 24 hours that would pass, that it didn’t mean anything, that showing up didn’t mean accepting it. But the size of the crowd that had gathered, the cameras, the banners, they didn’t care about your denial. They were indifferent to the bubble you were desperately trying to keep intact.
You positioned yourself at the far edge, half hidden. Close enough that leaving would’ve felt like a betrayal you couldn’t live with. Far enough that hopefully no one would notice if you fell apart.
You kept your eyes low for most of it. Cause looking up would mean looking at her. And that would break you into pieces you weren't sure anyone would be able to gather.
You kept repeating yourself that this was all just a show. That there's probably someone waiting on the sideline, ready to pop out and yell late April Fools' Day into the mic.
But then Alexia began to speak.
The careful words, the sincere gratitude towards everyone who had been a part of her journey, the years she had spent playing for her team and how she was going to carry it in her heart wherever she next stops.
And then the applause started.
It rose like a wave, enormous and all-consuming, and so brutally, devastatingly final. It filled every corner, bounced off every surface until it was all you could hear and it was real, it was there. It was happening. Right in front of you, right now, with no darkness to hide in and no sleep to escape into.
You felt the first tear before you even realised you were crying. Then another. You pressed your lips together so tightly they went white, hands balled into fists at your sides, shoulders rigid, absolutely refusing to make a single sound because this was her moment. Her farewell. And you would not make it about yourself, you would not, even as everything inside you screamed.
So you stood there and you let the applause wash over you and you let the tears fall silently and you watched the woman who was your home say goodbye to hers.
And the denial, stubborn and fierce as it had been, quietly died at your feet.
——
Alexia had hardly been able to step into the room when a body collided with her at full force, knocking her off balance for a minute before she regained her composure, enveloping her in a hug so tight it almost hurt.
You had crashed into her with all your might, your pose giving in to a run the moment you heard her footsteps approaching close. Your hands fisting the back of her shirt in a death grip, face landing against her chest as your tears soaked the fabric.
You had tried avoiding the truth entirely, tired pretending it wasn't going to happen, hoping the problem would solve itself, but nothing could make it go away. So you played your last shot, something you should've done in the first place before it got too late.
“Please don't leave,” you begged, voice muffled by your sobs and her shirt where your front was currently pressed. “Please, Ale. Please don't go.”
The words finally departed your lips, the same ones that you wanted to scream since yesterday, the ones that had been stuck in your throat since the moment Alexia had sat you down.
“Please, Alexia” Your voice broke as did Alexia’s heart with each word. Your cries only grew more grievous as did your pleas “I promise I won't be a bother to you anymore and I will listen to everything you say. I will never ever create trouble with Vicky anymore if that's what you want. But please don't go, Ale. Please don't leave me.”
Desperation dripped from every letter and if Alexia wasn't already crying before, she sure did now. You didn't care if you looked seven instead of seventeen weeping in her arms. If that's what it took to get her to stay, you would do it without a second thought.
Alexia had to bite her bottom lip to stop the shattering noise that was bubbling inside. She knew the goodbyes were going to be hard, but this right here, a snotty mess in her arms, no one could brace her for that. No amount of preparation in the world could make her steady enough to witness the pure agony that laced her nena’s voice.
She didn't interrupt your wails or your pleads, instead wrapped both her arms around you tightly and pulled you in even closer, if that were possible, and placed the firmest kiss against the crown of your head, filled with all the love she could possibly muster, lingering however long you both required it to be.
Alexia could sense that you had only now started to wrap your head around the situation, that it was only now that the news was actually hitting you full force, that your fractured cries were you trying to process everything.
And so she let you. She would give you all the time you needed, however much you asked without any hesitation. Because that's what she had always done and that's what she was always going to do.
Rocking you both gently, she let you cry your heart out, her own tears merging with your hair.
Time passed, she didn't care. Some teammates and staff tried entering, unaware of the duo present and understood from one look from their Captain, that they needed this space and stepped out respecting it.
Eventually Alexia had led you both to the couch, her hold on you not relaxing once. You weren't even aware of it as your face stayed hidden against her, not ready to face the world yet.
“Look at me, nena.” She murmured eventually, her voice rough from her own emotions she was trying hard to gulp.
You shook your head violently against her chest, tightening your hold. You couldn't. Looking at her meant viewing the finality in her eyes. It meant facing the decision you knew she couldn't take back. And you didn't want to do it. Desperately, intensely, wanted to foil it and throw it somewhere far, so you wouldn't have to talk about it.
“Look at me.” she whispered again, gentler this time, as she coaxed you out of your shell. She shifted slightly, moving her hands to cup your face and tilting it up, her thumbs wiping the endless stream of tears on your cheeks.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“But you are.” You were quick to cut her off, your voice sounding impossibly young, impossibly innocent. “You are going away, you are leaving me.”
Because that's exactly what it felt like to you. That's all you could think since the words had first landed.
“Listen to me carefully,” Alexia’s voice took an edge, her hands not moving from your face even, not letting you retreat back into her chest even as you tried. She needed you to hear it clearly and drill that into yourself. “I’m not leaving you. I could never leave you, that's not even an option. I will call you everyday until you get fed up and decide to block me. I will fly back the very second you need me. There’s nothing that could keep me from coming home to my nena.”
Her voice was firm, and her bloodshot eyes carried that definitiveness that told you she meant everything she said.
But fear spoke louder to you, the inevitable change that was condemning made it harder to believe.
“But it's not going to be the same, Ale.” you whispered back, your voice worn out from crying “One day you're going to wake up that's isn't here but I still will be. I’m still going to kick the ball around at training but you won't be there. It won't ever be the same, nothing will.”
Alexia closed her eyes for just a second. Not because she didn’t have an answer, but because the weight of how right you were sat heavy on her too.
“I know,” she agreed, there was no argument, there couldn't be one. “You’re right, it's not going to be the same. And it's going to hurt. For both of us.”
“Then why are you leaving? Just stay.” The same plea you had been repeating, the same hope you had been fostering, surfacing yet again.
“Because you know I can't baby,” Alexia’s voice cracked, no matter how much she tried for it to not. “It’s the right decision for the team, for everyone.”
“It isn't for me!” A fresh wave of tears broke from you at the confession “I don't want to be anywhere that isn't with you. Take me with you.”
Alexia pulled you in again. She couldn't bear looking at you like this but there wasn't anything she could do either, instead of letting time take control and stay with you in the moment for a fraction longer.
“If I could, I would take you with me in a heartbeat. I too don't want to be anywhere that isn't with mi chica.” Alexia spoke softly, trying her best to keep her words from wobbling. One hand firmly keeping your head tucked against her chest while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back.
“But Barcelona needs you more, the team, the badge needs you more.” Even the thought of being far from you was eating away at Alexia but she knew it had to be done. She knew it was important for you to understand why what she was doing was necessary for the future that was about to come.
“My work here is done, nena. It’s time I let you and the others do theirs. I’ve done all I could for the club, I've created my legacy. And it's only right that I step aside to give you the chance to create yours.”
You didn't respond to that. You just pressed yourself closer to her. Because somewhere deep within your brain, the logical part that was still somehow functioning amidst the chaos that had ensued, knew that Alexia was right.
Knew that Alexia deserved to be free from the responsibilities that she had carried on her shoulders for years. Knew that it was only right she got the chance to enjoy the game she so wholeheartedly loved without the constant pressure. Knew that she had emptied herself for the club and that it was only fair she spent the last phase of her career rebuilding the pieces of herself she had given away to it.
“I will miss you.” Was the only whisper you could muster. It was the truth in the simplest form, nothing more needed to be added to showcase how much weight and emotions these four bare words held.
“Mi chica.” Alexia pressed a kiss to your forehead as she held on to you, for however long she could, “I will miss you too. So, so much. You'll always be mine and nothing will change that. Te quiero mucho, mi nena.”
“I love you too, Ale. You’ll always be my home.”
——
A/n
Call me dramatic, idc. This is exactly how I'm feeling.
Come cry with me and tell me what you think. Any and all thoughts are always appreciated💗💗
what's up ?! @silentwolfsstuff - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
