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.”
“She absolutely will.”
“And Alessia cries at literally everything.”
Leah smiles weakly, “You leaving might actually kill her.”
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.
