Enemy colours | Aggie Beever-Jones x Arsenal fan!Reader
Where Aggie tries to get you to wear her Chelsea hoodie
Woso masterlist | Words: 1.2k
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“Another win for the Arsenal!” You cheer as you lift your PlayStation controller. “Another? That was our first game.” Your lips curled up in an evil smirk, and Aggie knew instantly she wasn't going to like your answer.
“Oh, because I'm counting the real life derby from last weekend.” Aggie rolls her eyes, "You're insufferable." She laughed.
“You chose this life when you decided to date an Arsenal fan.” Aggie chuckles, “That I did.” She leans in and kisses your lips.
When she pulls away she holds your eye contact, the rivalry gone for a moment, until she exclaims, “Rematch!” And you're right back to where you were before the kiss, ready to beat her Chelsea team.
By some miracle from the universe, you're able to beat Aggie again with a last minute goal to break the tie. As the final whistle blows you turn around with your lips pursed, wanting to make a London is red comment, but knowing you are pushing your limits on rivalry jokes with your girlfriend.
“This game is rigged.” She puts her controller down in disappointment. You put yours down as well and turn her way. Instead of making another joke, you climb onto her lap and kiss her. Her arms snake around your back, instantly forgetting she'd just lost twice as she pulls you closer and kisses you back.
Eight months ago, you'd never imagined you'd end up dating a Chelsea player. Now eight months later, somehow, you'd learned to live with the rivalry. At least most of the time.
Your family had strongly objected to the idea of you dating a Chelsea player. Then Aggie showed up with flowers, charmed your mum within ten minutes, and spent the afternoon helping your dad carry things into the shed. They'd reluctantly decided she was the exception.
“Wanna play another?” Aggie asks as you move off her lap again. You smile, “Yeah, sure, if you want to lose to Arsenal again.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes playfully. “No way in hell.”
Aggie goes to set up the next game, but sees you shivering beside her. “Hold on, let me grab you a hoodie first.” You smile as she rushes off, Aggie had a talent for noticing the little things, and you loved how she instantly took action.
She rushes back into the room, as though it were a matter of life or death that you needed that hoodie. She holds it out to you. “Thank-” you stop yourself when you see the blue Chelsea badge peeking out. “No way.”
Aggie moves the hand that's holding the hoodie down in confusion, “What’s wrong?”
“Seriously Ags?” Your girlfriend looks genuinely confused so you keep talking. “That’s Chelsea.”
“I swear that was unintentional.” She moves the hoodie. “But it's mine, see? It has my number.”
You look at her, trying to figure out if she's messing with you or if she is being genuine.
“You wear my clothes all the time. Especially my football stuff.” Aggie was still staring at you in confusion, which was enough to tell you she genuinely didn't understand.
“Your England football stuff, not your Chelsea stuff. That is different. England is my country too, I support England. Chelsea not so much.”
Aggie nods in understanding. “Okay, well I will grab you another hoodie then.” She pauses for a moment as she looks at the screen, her smirk grows when an idea pops into her head. “If you win the next match.”
“What?” You look between her and the screen. “If you win, I will grab you another hoodie. If I win, you will wear this one.”
You think about it for a moment. You have won both games so far, and your track record overall is also slightly in your favour. Aggie knows you like a challenge and don't like backing down from one, so her chances of you agreeing are high.
“Fine.” You say, already regretting your competitiveness not knowing when to back down from a challenge.
Aggie puts the hoodie down beside her and settles back onto the sofa to start the next game.
It was looking like you were going to bring the match into extra time, but this time it was Aggie scoring a last second winner.
“Rigged you said, right?” You say instantly. “We can't use a rigged game for a challenge.”
Aggie simply takes the hoodie and holds it out in front of you. “A deal is a deal.”
You roll your eyes and reluctantly take the hoodie from her. “Fine, but I want to make another deal.” You put on the hoodie, because, as much as you hated having to wear it, a bet was a bet.
“We play again. If I win, I get to exchange this hoodie for a non-Chelsea one.”
“What if I win?” Aggie asks. “Then I will have to keep wearing this awful thing.” She laughs at the clear disgust written on your face. “Deal.”
“So, how do I look?” You ask with the hoodie now fully on. Silently cursing how ridiculously comfortable it was.
“Perfect.” Your girlfriend answers with a proud smile.
“Wrong.” You say back instantly. “I look like a traitor.” Aggie laughs and you can't help but smile a little, but you quickly compose yourself again. “No pictures.”
“No pictures.” Aggie repeats.
“I mean it. If my dad finds out I am wearing this, he will disown me.” Aggie looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Dramatic much?” You shake your head. “This is deeper than just you and me, and you know it.”
“No pictures, I promise.” She grabs the front of your her hoodie, and pulls you in for a kiss. “But I at least have to kiss you while you're wearing this.”
“Let's just play the game so I can get this off.”
You fight hard during the game, but Aggie gets an easy win this time. You drop the controller next to you with a deep sigh. “This is Sock Gate all over again.”
Aggie knows not to comment on her win. Having to wear her Chelsea hoodie is probably already too close to the rivalry limit. But the Sock Gate mention cements that, so she just turns off FC26.
“How about a movie?” You nod, clearly still annoyed at the loss. She lets you pick the movie, hoping to smooth things over a little.
It doesn't happen often that you're on opposite sides of the sofa watching a movie, and Aggie didn’t like the distance between you one bit, but luckily you gave in quickly. Shuffling closer to her already after ten minutes of the movie, and leaning into her side within the first fifteen.
Aggie looks down at you curled up into her side and smiles to herself when her eyes land on the Chelsea badge on your chest. You might be wearing it because you lost the bet, but you were still wearing her hoodie, and she loved it when you wore her clothes. Especially when it was her personalised clothing.
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Hi my lovelies - so I thought I'd have a little break between requests and so I wrote this. It's angsty and I probably won't have a part 2 cos I like the way it ended and I'm not even sure where I would take it to be honest. Anyways, I hope you like it <3<3<3
You Hate Me
Lucy Bronze x sister!Reader
Description: Lucy has always hated you and you just want to know why
You felt like an outsider in your family your whole life. You were the youngest sibling by quite some way. Lucy was 12 when you were born. She didn’t really want another younger sister. She was happy with the way things were. She was the middle child - crazy and reckless with a passion for sport that would take her all over the globe.
Her parents already struggled with money. She and Jorge already had to do jobs around the neighbourhood to help out wherever possible. Sophie was thinking about what she could do when she moved up to secondary school. They couldn’t handle a baby. They couldn’t handle the extra costs you would bring. Would she have to give up football? She knew it was selfish to think of that, but football was her life. She couldn’t … wouldn’t … give it up without a fight.
For Lucy, football wasn't just a pastime; it was her escape, her freedom, and the one thing in her chaotic life that she had complete control over. On the field, she could be anyone she wanted – strong, fast, unstoppable. The thought of losing that terrified her. It wasn't just about the sport itself; it was about the future she had envisioned. Scouts had already begun to take notice of her, murmurs of potential scholarships floated in the air, and dreams of playing professionally, of leaving this small, suffocating town behind, had started to take shape.
But now, with a new baby on the way, everything seemed uncertain. The baby meant more bills, more attention diverted away from her, and likely, more sacrifices to be made. The prospect gnawed at her, a constant weight in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be angry at you – after all, it wasn’t your fault – but the resentment was there, simmering beneath the surface. Every time she laced up her boots, the fear that it could be for the last time haunted her.
The pressure at home only seemed to increase. Her parents were stretched thin, their arguments about money becoming more frequent and more intense. The once-occasional requests for her and Jorge to contribute had now turned into expectations. It was no longer about just helping out; it was about survival. Lucy found herself picking up extra shifts at the local café, babysitting for the neighbours, and doing whatever odd jobs she could find, all while trying to keep up with her schoolwork and football practice. She was exhausted, but she refused to let it show.
At night, when the house was quiet and the weight of the day settled heavily on her shoulders, she would lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn't stop thinking about what might happen if she was forced to give up football. It wasn’t just a game to her – it was her way out, her shot at something better. Without it, she feared she would be stuck in this life forever, trapped by the same financial struggles that had plagued her parents.
As your arrival grew closer, the tension in the house became palpable. Her parents tried to reassure her that things would be okay, that they would find a way to make it work, but their words felt hollow. Lucy could see the worry in their eyes, the strain in their voices. They were trying their best, but their best might not be enough. And that terrified her.
Lucy made a silent vow to herself: no matter what happened, she would find a way to keep playing. Even if it meant waking up before dawn to practice on her own, even if it meant working twice as hard to make up for the lost time, she wouldn't let go of her dream. Football was more than just a sport to her; it was her lifeline, her hope for a future that didn’t involve the same struggles her parents faced.
She knew it would be a battle, but Lucy had never been one to back down from a fight. If keeping her dream alive meant fighting harder than she ever had before, then so be it. She was ready for whatever came her way, even if that meant taking on the world with the weight of her family’s struggles on her shoulders.
There were complications. Mum had felt something was wrong. You were born too early. That’s what her dad had said one Thursday afternoon when they got home from school. Lucy could see the strain on her parents' faces as they tried to stay positive, but the cracks were beginning to show. The early birth meant more than just an unexpected arrival – it meant weeks, maybe even months, of additional stress. There would be doctors' appointments, hospital visits, and possibly medical bills that they wouldn't be able to afford. Mum and Dad would need to take more time off work, and that meant even less money coming into the house. They were already stretched thin, barely making ends meet, and this was another blow they couldn’t afford.
For Lucy, it felt like the family was being pulled even further apart. She knew what more time off work for her mum meant – less money for groceries, fewer new things, and more unpaid bills piling up on the kitchen table. The thought of how this would affect them all was overwhelming. Dad’s tired eyes and Mum’s forced smiles told her everything she needed to know – they were worried, really worried.
And as much as Lucy tried to focus on her own life – school, football, friends – she couldn’t shake the growing sense of responsibility she felt. She saw how hard her parents were working, how much they were sacrificing, and it made her want to do more, to somehow lessen the burden that had fallen on their shoulders. She picked up extra shifts at her part-time job and offered to help more around the house, even though she was already stretched thin. She stopped asking for new things, for trips, for anything that might add to the growing financial strain.
But no matter how much she tried to help, the reality was inescapable. The early birth meant more than just financial strain – it meant that your health would be a constant concern, at least for a while. The house became quieter, the usual buzz of activity replaced by a tension that Lucy couldn’t ignore. Conversations were hushed, and there was a heaviness in the air, a kind of unspoken worry that everyone carried with them.
She remembered how, before all this, her parents would talk about the future with cautious optimism – how they would make it work, how they would find a way to manage. But now, the future seemed uncertain, clouded by the reality of hospital visits and medical expenses. The joy that had once been associated with your arrival was overshadowed by the fear of what might come next.
You had turned out fine. You were discharged from the NICU six weeks later. You were a little small, a little underdeveloped, but you were fine. The doctors’ visits still happened regularly until you were about three years old, but then you were declared fit as a fiddle. A perfectly normal, healthy child.
Except you weren’t, or at least you didn’t feel like it. From an early age, you could sense that something was off. You couldn’t quite understand it back then, but you felt it in the way Lucy would close her bedroom door just as you toddled over, eager to join in whatever she was doing. You felt it in the way she would snatch things out of your hands, things you just wanted to look at, things she was showing Sophie and Jorge without a second thought. The sting of rejection was something you became all too familiar with, even before you could fully comprehend what it meant to be unwanted.
You didn’t understand why Lucy seemed to dislike you so much. You were just a child, desperate for her attention, for her approval. But no matter how hard you tried, you could never seem to break through the wall she had built between you. You remember watching her from a distance, her laughter and excitement as she talked about football with Sophie and Jorge. You wished you could be a part of that world, but it always felt like there was an invisible barrier keeping you out.
Your parents, older than those of your friends, were tired. You could see it in their eyes, in the way they moved through the day with a sort of weary determination. They did their best, you knew that. But their best often wasn’t enough. They were stretched thin – between work, bills, and keeping up with the demands of raising four children, there wasn’t much left over for you. The attention you craved, the affection you needed, was often redirected elsewhere – toward Lucy’s burgeoning football career, Jorge’s new hobbies, Sophie’s interests.
You lived in hand-me-downs – clothes that didn’t quite fit right, toys that had lost their newness long before they reached you. You quickly learned to ask for little, to keep your wants and needs to yourself. Birthdays became a delicate dance of low expectations. You remember the time you asked for that big Barbie dollhouse when you were five. You had seen it in a catalog and had imagined how much fun it would be, but when you shyly mentioned it, the reaction was swift and harsh. Lucy shouted at you, her voice filled with anger and frustration. “Are you kidding? We can’t afford that! Stop being so selfish!” The words hit you like a slap, and you learned that day to make your wishes smaller, quieter, more manageable.
It wasn’t just the material things, though. It was the sense that you were always in the way, that your presence was more of a burden than a joy. The more you tried to blend in, the more you felt invisible. Your parents were simply too tired, too overwhelmed to notice the small things – like the way your face lit up when you finally mastered riding your bike, or how proud you were when you brought home a picture you had drawn at school. There was no one to share those victories with, no one to tell you that you were doing well.
Lucy’s disdain only seemed to grow as you got older. She was focused, driven, her eyes set on her future in football. Every spare penny went toward her training, her gear, her travel expenses for matches. And you, you were just there, existing in the shadow of her ambition. It wasn’t that she went out of her way to be cruel; it was more that she simply didn’t have the space in her life for you. You were the uninvited guest, the afterthought.
You remember the looks – the ones she would give you when you tried to talk to her, or when you reached out for some connection. They were cold, distant, as if you were a stranger in your own home. It made you feel small, insignificant, like you didn’t belong. You tried to be helpful, to stay out of her way, but nothing you did seemed to change how she felt about you.
It was confusing, the way you were treated differently. Sophie and Jorge seemed to get along just fine with Lucy. They had their own interests, their own ways of bonding with her, and you were always the odd one out. It hurt, more than you could put into words. You wanted to be close to them, to be part of the sibling camaraderie you saw in other families, but it always felt just out of reach.
As the years went by, you withdrew into yourself. You learned to entertain yourself, to find comfort in solitude, because trying to fit into their world was too painful. The isolation was lonely, but it was safer than risking the rejection that had become all too familiar. You built your own little world, where you didn’t have to worry about whether or not you were wanted, where you could be yourself without fear of being turned away.
You were thirteen when you were gifted something that changed your life. It came at a time when the house had finally quieted down, the once chaotic energy of your siblings replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. All three of them – Lucy, Sophie, and Jorge – had moved out, each one carving out their own path, their own life away from the confines of your childhood home. Lucy was about to move to Lyon, Sophie had landed her dream job in a bustling city, and Jorge was travelling, always chasing the next big adventure. They were all living their best lives, while you were left behind, navigating the echoes of their absence.
With them gone, the purse strings had loosened a little. The financial pressures that had always weighed so heavily on your parents seemed to ease with each sibling's departure. There were fewer mouths to feed, fewer expenses to cover. For the first time, there was a little breathing room – a bit of space for something more than just the basics. And in that space, something unexpected happened.
On your thirteenth birthday, your parents handed you a small, neatly wrapped box. The excitement you had long suppressed bubbled up cautiously, a mix of anticipation and doubt. You had learned to keep your expectations low, to shield yourself from disappointment, but this time, something felt different. As you carefully peeled away the wrapping paper, your heart skipped a beat. Inside was a camera – an old, second-hand one, but to you, it was a treasure beyond measure.
Your parents had saved up for it, they explained, seeing how much time you spent doodling and drawing, how your eyes would light up whenever you saw something beautiful. They wanted to give you something that was just yours, something that could help you express yourself, to capture the world as you saw it.
The camera became your constant companion. You took it everywhere, eager to capture the beauty you saw in even the smallest things – the way the light filtered through the leaves of the trees in your backyard, the subtle smile on your mother’s face when she thought no one was looking, the old, weathered buildings in town that seemed to whisper stories of a time long past. Through the lens, you began to see the world differently, noticing details and moments that had always slipped by unnoticed.
But more than that, the camera gave you a voice. It allowed you to tell your own stories, to frame your own experiences in a way that was meaningful to you. It was your way of processing the complicated emotions that had built up over the years – the loneliness, the longing, the sense of not quite fitting in. With each click of the shutter, you were able to capture a piece of yourself, to express feelings that had always been too difficult to put into words.
And as you delved deeper into photography, something else began to happen. You started to see yourself differently. The shy, withdrawn girl who had always felt like an outsider was slowly transforming into someone with a purpose, with a passion. The camera gave you confidence, a sense of control over your own narrative that you had never felt before. It didn’t matter that you had grown up in the shadow of your siblings, or that you had often felt neglected and overlooked. With your camera, you were finally able to step out of that shadow and into your own light.
Your parents noticed the change in you. They saw how the camera brought you out of your shell, how it gave you something to look forward to, something to be proud of. They encouraged you, in their own quiet way, to keep going, to explore this new passion. For the first time, they seemed to truly see you – not just as their youngest child, but as an individual with your own dreams, your own talents.
At fifteen, you were asked to participate in the local exhibition. You had won a competition for the local paper, and this was the prize. ‘Alnwick by the Locals’ – it was to be put on display up at the castle. You had asked Lucy if she could make the trip over from France.
Lucy had been away for so long that you weren't sure if she'd even come. Her life in France was a whirlwind of training and matches, and the little requests you made felt insignificant against the backdrop of her bustling career. Still, you hoped – hoped that this time, she might see things differently.
When the day of the exhibition arrived, you could hardly contain your excitement. The castle was adorned with your photographs, each framed image capturing slices of life in your small town. You stood by your display, anxiously scanning the crowd for any sign of Lucy. Your heart raced with a blend of nerves and anticipation.
As the afternoon wore on, there was still no sign of her. You tried to push the disappointment aside, focusing instead on the visitors who stopped by to admire your work. They complimented your eye for detail and the way you had managed to capture the essence of Alnwick. Each positive comment felt like a small victory, a validation of the passion and effort you had poured into your photography.
You were losing hope fast. She wasn’t coming. Of course she wouldn’t come. She hadn’t responded to your text message asking her to come and giving her a date. She hadn’t responded to the email you had sent with her ticket attached. All she had to do was book the flights. It had been luck that it landed on a free weekend for her. You wouldn’t have asked otherwise.
As the afternoon stretched on, your excitement began to wane, replaced by a creeping sense of disappointment. Each passing minute seemed to amplify the absence of the one person you had hoped would be there to witness your moment of triumph. You forced yourself to stay positive, engaging with the visitors who complimented your work, but the empty space where Lucy should have been felt like a physical ache.
You wandered through the exhibition, making small talk with guests and answering their questions about your photographs. The praise for your work was a small comfort, but it couldn’t fully compensate for the gap left by Lucy’s absence. The castle, once a place of eager anticipation, now felt like a grand but empty stage, highlighting the solitude you felt.
By the time the exhibition was winding down, the weight of Lucy’s no-show had settled heavily on your shoulders. You packed up your things with a mix of resignation and sadness, feeling the sting of what could have been. Your parents, who had come to support you, tried to lift your spirits with kind words and encouragement, but their efforts fell short of erasing the feeling of emptiness. Your other siblings had turned up. Your sister-in-law had appeared, holding a bunch of flowers and looking around the space in wonder. Why couldn’t she have been your actual sister?
In the quiet of the car ride home, you tried to focus on the positive aspects of the day – the success of the exhibition, the connections you had made with people who appreciated your work. But it was hard not to remember that Lucy hadn’t turned up.
Back at home, you retreated to your room, muttering something about being tired and disappearing upstairs before anyone could stop you. Your room was covered in photographs. You didn’t have many of you as a child – a downside of being the youngest of four to very tired parents you supposed. There was one that you kept pinned above your bed. It was the day you were brought home from the hospital. You were in Jorge’s arms as Lucy and Sophie stood either side of him, all of them beaming brightly. You were fairly sure it was the only photo you had of Lucy smiling at you. The rest of the photographs were taken by you. Jorge and your father. Sophie and your mother. Your parents in the stands waiting for Lucy to play. Narla chasing a ball. Your grandparents looking out to sea.
You knew opening social media wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the third picture you saw. Lucy, sitting next to Keira and Georgia – wide smiles and happy faces. She was in Manchester. She had made the trip over to England after all. Just not to see you. The image was a punch to the gut. Lucy, in a casual outfit, her hair pulled back, was surrounded by her friends, their joy on full display. You could almost hear their laughter through the screen, see the ease and comfort of their togetherness. The pain in your chest grew even more.
You hadn’t been told she was moving back to Manchester. Mum had mentioned it in passing, commenting that she was so excited to finally be able to see her daughter play with comparative ease. You had lied when she asked you why you looked confused – making up something about homework you had remembered you needed to complete. The pain was something you were so used to by now, that you were surprised it still hurt. The last time you saw her at home was Christmas. She had missed your birthday completely – again. But that was fine. You could play happy families for a few weeks whilst she was back. You had been to a few football matches for hers – only the big ones. The Champions League finals mainly. The rest of the time you made up excuses. Homework was a reliable one. You were just too busy. Exams were around the corner, you couldn’t afford to take the time off, even for just one weekend.
You had become adept at masking your feelings, but the truth was, each time you saw Lucy’s life in the media, each time you heard about her successes and adventures, it reinforced the distance between you. It was as if she existed in a different world, a world where you didn’t quite belong. Even when she was physically present, her mind seemed to be elsewhere, her focus entirely on her career and her own life.
You hadn’t been told that Lucy would be moving to Barcelona either. Another thing she failed to mention. You knew that Lucy and your parents met up in Manchester regularly – it was easier for them to make the trip to watch her games that it was for her to travel to you. But you would have thought she would’ve mentioned it at the Euros. The night after they won was the longest you had spent in her presence since you were about twelve. She had willingly drawn you into a side hug as your parents snapped a photo of all their children. Looking back, it was clearly the alcohol in her system, and the adrenaline high she was still running on.
You had been dragged over to Australia too. Not that you let your parents know about your distaste in going. You couldn’t do that to them. They knew that Lucy and you had a strained relationship, but not how deep the cuts ran. You would not be the one to tell them that either. It would break their hearts to find out that their favourite daughter, and their youngest child barely co-existed together. No, you were more than happy to put up a front for them. They had given you everything, it was the least you could do.
“Hi, I’m Ona, it’s nice to meet you.” She smiled amicably, a bit nervous perhaps, but she seemed nice enough.
“Hola, Soy la hermana de Lucy … o la llamas Lucía?” She blinked, startled by your Spanish.
“Tú hablas español?” she asked impressed.
“Un poco, hice español A-level en la escuela. Pensé que sería una buena manera-” You joked, ignoring the strange looks from Lucy.
“Ona, c’mon, I think your parents want you.” Lucy’s voice cut through yours, effectively cutting you off.
You had been so hopeful, so eager to make a connection, but the moment had been abruptly cut short by Lucy’s interference. At the time, you had shrugged it off, thinking it was just Lucy’s usual impatience. Now, however, it seemed like yet another piece in the puzzle of Lucy’s world that you never fully understood.
The news of not-quite-breakup with Keira, and her new relationship with Ona reached you indirectly, through snippets of social media posts and the occasional mention by your parents. They were often caught up in their own busy lives, struggling to balance the constant demands of work and home. Conversations about Lucy's new life was interspersed with discussions about their own challenges, leaving little room for deeper insights or personal connection.
Ona, who you had briefly met in the whirlwind of the World Cup, was now a fixture in Lucy’s life. The contrast between their lives and yours felt even starker. While Lucy was jet-setting across Europe and building a new chapter in Barcelona, you were back in your small town, navigating the complexities of your own world through the lens of your camera.
It was the biggest day of your young life. You had been asked to put up ten photographs on display in London. Your photographs were going to be seen in London. By paying members of the public. The significance of the event was almost overwhelming. You had worked tirelessly to curate the best of your collection, selecting pieces that told a story, captured emotions, and showcased your unique perspective.
The morning of the exhibition, you arrived at the gallery with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The building was impressive – an elegant space with high ceilings and large windows that let in natural light, perfect for showcasing art. You were greeted by the curator, who showed you to your designated space and helped you set up your work. It was surreal to see your photographs hanging on the walls, each one carefully framed and lit to perfection.
You had only met Ona a few times, when she had been brought to England to meet your family. She was kind and sweet. Maybe it was because you were relatively close in age, but you couldn’t shift the familiar sting. Why couldn’t she have been your sister instead? It was the summer, the Olympics in full swing, so you knew it was too much to ask for her to be there. But you couldn’t help the small bubble of hope that Lucy would turn up.
You had it on good authority from Keira, Leah and Georgia that she had agreed to go. Ona’s game was due to finish at 4 pm the day before opening night. The journey would probably be tiring for Lucy, but she had promised her friends she would be their. If not for you then to see them before pre-season started up again.
The day of the exhibition arrived, and you were enveloped in the excitement of seeing your work displayed in such a prestigious venue. The gallery buzzed with activity as people streamed in, their voices a mix of appreciation and curiosity. The atmosphere was electric, and you tried to focus on enjoying the moment, even though the small, nagging hope that Lucy would show up lingered at the back of your mind.
Hours passed, and as the evening drew closer, you began to accept that she might not make it. The crowd was engaged and appreciative, and the positive feedback was reassuring, but the absence of your sister was a constant ache. You tried to push it away, concentrating instead on the connections you were making and the compliments you were receiving.
Your parents had come, and their pride was evident in their smiles and the way they spoke about your work. They marvelled at how far you had come and how talented you were. Their support and encouragement were the best comfort you could have asked for, and you felt a sense of accomplishment in sharing this achievement with them.
Just as the event was winding down, you were approached by Keira, Leah, and Georgia, who were all beaming with excitement. They had come to show their support and to catch up with you after the event. Why couldn’t Lucy do the same thing? Did she really hate you so much that she couldn’t even fake it for a few hours for the sake of her sister?
“We told Lucy about the exhibition,” Leah said, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she looked around the space.
“She said she would come back for it.” Keira added, her tone warm but carrying a hint of concern.
Keira had always been the one who was more in tune with the undercurrents of relationships, and she knew how complicated things were between you and Lucy. She was the only one who truly understood the depth of the tension that simmered beneath the surface. She had offered to take you and Lucy out for lunch – letting your parents rest after the long day of travel.
During that lunch, Lucy’s walls were visibly up, and her responses were curt and distant. The conversation often felt forced, with long pauses and polite but empty exchanges. It was strange Keira had watched with a mix of frustration and disbelief as Lucy struggled to engage, offering only grunts and monosyllabic words in response. She had never seen Lucy like that. She was usually great with kids. She usually revelled in making them laugh and enjoy their time with her. She had watched you sink further and further into yourself, until she was the only one speaking, a far cry from how dinners with Lucy’s family normally looked.
When the subject of family came up in conversation, Keira’s knowledge of the strained dynamics between you and your sister was never far from her mind. Keira’s attempt to mend the gaps had been a sincere effort, but it usually just ended in a fight between Lucy and her girlfriend. You often wondered why you couldn’t have had Keira as a sister instead.
“But … we haven’t heard anything from her today.” Georgia confessed; her voice tinged with concern.
Keira, ever the perceptive one, gave Georgia a sharp nudge, a silent reminder to tread carefully. She glanced over at you, who had been trying to mask your disappointment with a forced smile, though the tightness around your eyes betrayed your emotions.
“I’m sure she’s just caught up with something,” Keira said, trying to sound reassuring. “She’ll be here soon, I promise.” Her words were meant to comfort, but Keira couldn’t shake the worry that Lucy’s absence might be more than just an oversight. You knew otherwise, Lucy wouldn’t be coming.
Leah, sensing the shift in mood, quickly changed the subject. “Your photos are absolutely stunning,” she said, her enthusiasm genuine.
“Thanks, Le,” you smiled back at her. “Did you see the one of you guys?”
“What? I’m … we’re in here?” She clearly hadn’t made her way to the back of the room yet.
“Yeh, it was after the Euros.”
Leah and Keira were standing together on the makeshift dancefloor, a vibrant space that had been hastily set up for the occasion. Their laughter and the rhythm of the music filled the air as they danced with uninhibited joy. Wrapped around their shoulders were colourful flags, their bright hues fluttering with every movement. The flags added an extra splash of festivity to their energetic performance.
Amidst the swirl of movement, Georgia bounded up to them with infectious enthusiasm. She launched herself into the scene, her head playfully peeking out from between Leah and Keira. Her excitement was palpable, adding a new dimension of liveliness to the group. The trio's shared joy and friendship were evident in their spontaneous and carefree expressions.
“Wow,” Leah breathed. She was in genuine awe. She remembered that day like it was yesterday, she remembered the moment she saw the camera being aimed at her, a quiet but smiling you behind it.
Keira joined her, leaning in to get a closer look. “You really captured the energy of that moment. It’s like I can hear the music just looking at it.”
You smiled at their reactions, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over you. “I’m glad you like it. That was one of those moments where everything just felt perfect, you know? The music, the people, the atmosphere. It was one of those nights that you just want to hold on to forever.”
Georgia nodded, her smile widening. “And you’ve done just that. It’s not just a photograph; it’s a piece of that night.”
Keira looked around at the rest of the exhibition. “Seriously, all of your work is amazing. You’ve got such a unique perspective. It’s like each photo has its own story.”
“Thank you, Kei. Coming from you … that means a lot.” Keira was the closest thing you had to a sister that cared. Not that Sophie didn’t care, but she had a similar indifference that Lucy had. It wasn’t as bad, but you only really saw her on the holidays and if she ever came home for a weekend.
As the night came to an end, you couldn’t shake off the lingering disappointment. The exhibition had been a success, but the empty space left by Lucy’s absence felt like a heavy shadow. Another milestone in your life had come and gone, and once again, you hadn’t been important enough for her to show up. You couldn’t fathom why she hated you so much. She showed up to Sophie’s things, and Jorge’s. Why not yours?
The weight of this realisation grew heavier with each passing moment. As you the taxi took you back to your hotel, the quiet of the car only seemed to amplify your sadness. By the time you arrived, you were in no mood to face the evening alone with your thoughts. Maybe ordering a bottle of the strongest thing they had from the hotel bar wasn’t your best idea. But you were alone and sad after what should’ve been the best day of your life.
The hotel room was big and expensive – your one treat to yourself in congratulations. A luxury suite in a five-star hotel in London. The alcohol burned your throat, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to sit with your emotions any longer. You wanted to stop feeling. Anything to numb the pain that had been a constant your whole life.
You weren’t sure when the idea came to you. One minute you were on the hotel balcony, wallowing in your sadness with the bottle in your hands, the next you were pulling out your phone. You weren’t expecting her to answer. You weren’t even sure she had your number saved.
When her voicemail finally picked up, the sound of her voice – a cheerful and upbeat recording informing you she couldn’t make it to the phone and to leave a message for her – felt like a final slap in the face.
“Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” you giggled, the alcohol making you feel oddly detached from the situation. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”
You took a deep breath, struggling to keep your words coherent. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”
Your voice wavered, and you wiped a stray tear from your cheek. “Remember that time you said you’d come to my year 6 school play? You didn’t make it. And the Alnwick Castle exhibition thingy? And my GCSE results meal? And my A-level party? And my uni send-off? I know you didn’t want another sister. I don’t think I even appear on your Wikipedia page. I know ‘cos I use it to keep updated on your life. You never tell me anything so.” You took another shuddering breath and a swig from the bottle.
“What was it this time? Did Ona need you? I know you’re at the Olympics for her. I like Ona. She’s really nice. And funny. And pretty. I wish she was my sister instead of you. Or Keira… Keira was good… is good. She actually cares about me. She showed up today.” A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, and you shook your head, trying to push away the tears.
“I don’t know what I ever did to you, Lucy.” You stared at the dark hotel room around you. “I don’t know why I even bother sometimes. Maybe I should just stop pretending that you’re ever going to be there for me. Maybe I should just stop hoping for something that’s never going to happen.”
Your voice softened, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I’ve tried to be understanding, to see things from your side. I know you’re busy, and I get that life doesn’t always align. But it’s like I’m always on the outside of your world, never really part of it. It’s exhausting, waiting for something that never comes.”
A long silence followed as you struggled to gather your thoughts. “Anyway, I don’t expect you to call back. I don’t expect you to make any grand gestures or anything like that. I really need to stop expecting anything from you. I just needed to say it. I needed to get it off my chest, even if it’s to your voicemail.”
You let out a long sigh, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness. “Take care, Lucy. I hope things are going well with you, even if I’m not a part of it and you hate me for the rest of your life. I really do.”
It was another hot day in France. The sun beat down on Lyon, the heatwaves fogging the horizon. The cobblestone streets shimmered in the intense light, and the usually bustling markets were quieter than usual, with vendors seeking refuge in the shade of their awnings. The air was thick with the scent of fresh baguettes and ripe fruit, but even these familiar aromas seemed to waver in the oppressive heat.
Outside, the rhythmic clatter of a bicycle's wheels on the pavement was one of the few sounds cutting through the heat. The cyclist, a young woman with a wide-brimmed hat, pedalled slowly, her face glistening with perspiration. She was on a mission to find a place where the heat was more bearable, perhaps a hidden garden or a cool courtyard where she could rest and escape the relentless sun.
Ona looked back towards Lucy, who was still in bed, her dark hair splayed out over the pillow like a cascade of midnight. The room was filled with a soft morning light that filtered through the thin curtains, casting a warm glow on the walls. Ona smiled, feeling a sense of contentment that she hadn’t experienced in weeks.
Last night had been exactly what they needed. The weight of the Olympics had finally lifted, if only temporarily. She had underestimated how exhausting the Games could be – Lucy had been right when she described it as a marathon. The endless competition and pressure to perform had taken their toll, and last night’s reprieve from it all felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air.
She leaned over and gently brushed a strand of hair from Lucy’s face. Lucy stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open. She gave Ona a sleepy, contented smile, her hand reaching out to rest on Ona’s.
“Morning,” Lucy murmured, her voice thick with sleep but warm with affection.
“Bon dia,” Ona replied softly, her heart swelling with the simple joy of being beside Lucy.
Ona let her fingers dance across Lucy's face, across her brow and down her nose before delicately tracing the outline of her lips. The soft morning light filtering through the curtains painted a serene glow across the room. Everything felt calm and intimate, a stark contrast to the intensity of the past weeks.
Just as Ona leaned in to place a tender kiss on Lucy’s forehead, the piercing ring of her phone shattered the quiet. Ona’s eyes fluttered open, and she sighed, glancing at the screen with a frown. The phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table.
“Mmmm, who, who is it?” Lucy grumbled sleepily.
“No n'estic segur,” Ona muttered back.
“Too early for Catalan,” the Brit groaned, twisting away to pick up the phone
“Oh,” her demeanour changed abruptly.
“Who is it?” Ona asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern as she reached over to peek at the phone.
“Just a voicemail,” Lucy said, her voice distant and troubled. She rolled over in bed, clearly unsettled by the message.
“From who?” Ona persisted, her brow furrowing. She was trying to understand the sudden shift in Lucy’s mood.
“My sister,” Lucy replied, her voice flat and weary. The mention of her sister’s name seemed to weigh heavily on her.
Ona’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would Sophie be phoning you now? It’s only 6 am in England.”
“It’s not Sophie,” Lucy clarified, her tone tinged with a mixture of frustration and resignation. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as if trying to wake herself from a troubling dream. “It’s Y/N.”
Ona’s expression softened with empathy. She was aware of the strained relationship between you, though the reasons behind it had always eluded her. She had heard bits and pieces about their complicated dynamic but had never been given a full explanation. She wasn’t even sure Lucy had a definite answer for her.
“Maybe you should listen to it?” Ona suggested gently, her voice filled with concern. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on Lucy’s shoulder.
“No,” Lucy’s answer was abrupt and to the point. She seemed almost angry with herself for letting the voicemail disturb her morning. She threw the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her movements sharp and restless.
The movement managed to throw Lucy’s phone off the bed as well. She must not have locked it properly. Before they could react, your voice filled the room.
The voicemail had begun to play on speakerphone, and Lucy’s heart sank as your words echoed around them. “Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” your voice slurred slightly, you were clearly drunk. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”
Ona’s eyes widened in surprise, and she looked at Lucy, whose face had gone pale. The voicemail continued, your words growing more emotional and raw. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no, that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”
Summary: Reader is a professional tennis player and unfortunately they've just lost the final at Wimbledon and she initially takes it out on Niamh, instantly feeling bad when Niamh then won't talk to her.
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings: none really, apart from some angst, happy ending tho, maybe? You'll have to read to find out.
A/n: Based off this request, hope you liked it anon. Do you guys prefer them when they are written in third person or how I normally? Not proofread cause I hate reading my own writing so sorry for any mistakes.
It was meant to be the proudest day of her life, not only for her, but her family who were all there as well, all sat in the players box watching on as she warmed up. Y/n Y/l/n never usually made a habit of looking up into the crowd when she was about to play such a big game, it was not her first major final but the first one at Wimbledon and it was the first one where she had her girlfriend, Niamh, there to watch in person. Although she and Niamh were together when Y/n made it to the final of Roland Garros earlier the same year, but Niamh unfortunately could not make it to Paris because of her own career for Chelsea. So not only was this the closest she had come to winning the tournament she’d dreamed of playing in as a kid, but she was doing it in front of all the people she loved most. The day started as if it was just any other match day, a piece of advice which Y/n had got from players who she idolised growing up, that if you treated all matches, even the ones as big as grand slam finals, the same then you would always be able to perform at your best.
When she got to the start of the match, Y/n was completely in the zone, the warm up and looking up to see her family pushed to the back of her mind somewhat and now the whole focus was entirely on what was ahead.
She started strong, dominating her opponent with every shot, rally, easily taking the first set 6-0, the second set however was where it fell apart, not in the terms of her game, she was 3-1 up in the second set, however her body had different ideas. As Y/n ran across the length of the court to try and make a particularly tricky return when she felt something go and the next moment she was on the floor clutching her knee. The only thing going through her mind was trying to get up and finish the match, however when she tries to stand up everyone, including herself can tell that something is very badly wrong, however one thing everyone how knows Y/n will 100% know is how stubborn the athlete is, and this is the reason why she continued trying to play, despite barely being able to walk, it only took one look into the crowd however, and one look to Niamh and she knew that she couldn’t carry on playing, her knee was already swollen to nearly twice the size of what it normally is and deep down Y/n already knows what she has done.
After retiring from the match, meaning that her opponent took the title. Y/n had always promised herself that she would never cry after a match whilst the cameras where still around, however the pain of losing added on top of the physical pain of her knee, the tears just came without time for Y/n to even think. After a few minutes they had sorted out the trophies and she was being called up to receive hers for being the runner-up, and then she had to deal with an interview which was the last thing that was needed.
“So I’m sure this isn’t the way you wanted today to go, how are you feeling right now?” The interviewer asks as you use the crutches your physio brought over for you.
“Uhm yeah, I mean gutted doesn’t even cut it to be honest, I think this has been my best grass season of my career so for it to end like this is absolutely devastating” she says, trying not to start crying again.
“I can imagine, on the injury, is it too early to say how long you could be out for or what the injury could be?”
“Yeah I mean definitely too early for certainties and that but I’m just hoping to be back as soon as possible to be trying to get back to the same level if not better”
“And a little on your opponent? I know you have faced each other before but never at this high importance of games, what was it like?”
“Yeah I mean she’s a brilliant tennis player and deserves everything that she’s worked so hard to achieve so well done to her”
“Thank you, we’ll let you get off, thank you and I hope it doesn’t keep you out for too long”
“Thank you”
With that her coach comes to help carry the trophy because of Y/n being on crutches and then she does have the option to go inside straight away in order to get an initial judgement on her injury but another think Y/n had been taught to always have good sportsmanship so she felt it was only right to remain outside until Sabalenka receives her trophy so that they can still take photos and that like normal.
“Congratulations Aryna, how are you feeling after that?” The interviewer asks as Sabalenka stands in the same place Y/n had only a few minutes earlier.
“Yeah, I am beyond proud, the match obviously didn’t go the way anyone would have expected, obviously no one wants to see another player get any injury so I’m wishing her the best and quickest recovery because she’s an amazing player and an even more amazing person.”
After all the formalities have been finished is when Y/n walks back inside, well not walks properly but with her crutches which she had a feeling were going to become a part of her life for quite a while. She walks into the changing room and when she sees Niamh, her first reaction, without even really thinking is just falling into her arms, nearly actually falling.
“Babe you were amazing, I’m still so proud of you” Niamh starts, kissing Y/n on the top of her head.
“No don’t say that” Y/n replies, looking down.
“Why not, it’s the truth, I know how annoyed and upset you must be feeling right now” she starts.
“No you don’t, you have no idea what I’m feeling right now” is all Y/n says before walking out the room, leaving Niamh stood there slightly hurt but more concerned about how her girlfriend is processing the injury.
That was a few days ago and Y/n has now had all the scans she was referred for and she got the results yesterday morning, unfortunately she had torn her ACL and therefore would be out for at least 9 months, it was safe to say that Y/n definitely did not take the news very well. Y/n hadn’t properly spoken to her girlfriend since the moment in the changing room.
“Y/n, babe, please just talk to me, shout at me if you want, just something, I want to help you” Niamh pleads as she comes in from being at the shop to see Y/n struggling to get up.
“I’m fine Niamh, just leave it” she snaps back, leaving the room.
“No I won’t leave it, you need help Y/n you have a serious injury, you are having surgery in two days, I’m your girlfriend, I understand that you are annoyed, of course you are but you can’t shut everyone who loves you out, we just want to help, your sister is worried sick because you keep ignoring her calls and messages.” Niamh snaps, as she follows Y/n around, knowing her partner isn’t going to stop and listen properly.
But what Y/n does next really shocks Niamh, the shorter woman just starts crying and practically crumbles into her girlfriends arms. Due to her not expecting the sudden contact or extra weight, Niamh has to think quick so that she doesn’t hurt Y/n’s knee further than it already is, causing them both to be sat on the floor, Niamh just holding Georgie.
“Oh baby, it’s ok, let it all out” Niamh says, trying to sooth Y/n.
“No it’s not ok, I have been such a bitch to you the past few days since I got injured, I’m sorry”
“You don’t have to apologise, it’s such a difficult thing to go through getting any form of injury, let alone one which keeps you away from your sport for so long, I could never blame you for being angry or annoyed, I would be exactly the same darling” Niamh comments, stroking Y/n’s hair gently.
“I don’t deserve you, you should be angry at me right now”
“Well I’m not angry at you, and don’t say that, now come on I think we deserve a nice relaxed night, strictly no talk of any kind of sport or injury, just me, you and the next few episodes of Line of Duty, sound good?” Niamh suggests.
“Yes, that sounds great, thank you”
“Right come on then, for that to happen you might have to get off me for a minute, and how about we get a cheeky pizza, I won’t tell coaches if you won’t”
“Niamh Charles you are a very bad influence on me” Y/n chuckles.
Niamh just laughs too as they both get up and make their way into the front room, Niamh helping Y/n, even though the latter did not want the help, she was also far too tired to fight it anymore.
The rest of the evening is much less tense, no more fighting or snappy words, just both athletes sat on the sofa, watching tv mostly in a comfortable silence, only with the odd comment on who they thought had done something, Niamh always being wrong but trying anyway.
"I'm really sorry for how I've been, I really shouldn't of taken it out on you" Y/n says later on as they both get into bed, facing each other as they lay down for what feels like the first time in a while.
"It's okay babe, injuries suck and I get that it's hard to deal with sometimes but next time you're struggling like that just tell me okay, I'm here to help you" Niamh responds, calmly and places a kiss on Y/n's head before she reaches over to turn the light off and laying down properly.
Neither were perfect but there was a silent promise between them that if either were to be in the same or a similar situation ever again, they would try and accept the support from the other.
The rain in Frankfurt hadn’t stopped for hours, casting a gray haze across the pitch, but that never deterred Sjoeke.
You watched her from the sidelines on the friendly game, arms folded beneath your jacket, half-shivering and fully enthralled. Her control of the ball was effortless like the rain itself was dancing around her, unwilling to touch her brilliance.
You weren’t an athlete, not really. You preferred rainy bookstores and quiet cafés, but there was something poetic about her world. Something about Sjoeke’s commitment, her precision, her fire, pulled you in like gravity.
And somehow, despite the thunder of her life, she had chosen to love you.
After the friendly game, soaked and smiling, she jogged toward you. Her hair was dripping under her hoodie, and a few strands clung to her flushed cheeks.
You opened your arms without saying anything, and she practically collapsed into them.
“You’re freezing,” you murmured into her shoulder.
“And you’re warm,” she whispered back. “So technically, we’re perfect.”
You laughed softly, rubbing her back through the wet fabric. “Your logic is questionable.”
“But my goals aren’t.”
She pulled away just far enough to show that signature smirk—the one she wore after a killer match or when she beat you at card games, which was often.
“You looked incredible out there,” you said, brushing water from her brow.
Her eyes searched yours. “I’m glad you think so. Means more coming from you than from any coach.”
As you walked together to the car, her fingers curled around yours like it was second nature. The city’s quiet hum surrounded you. Sjoeke hummed something under her breath, one of those indie songs you’d introduced her to. She didn’t always remember the lyrics, but she liked the feeling of them.
Later that night, you curled up on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, watching a documentary about street football in Brazil. You rested your head against her shoulder while she absently played with your fingers.
“Ever think about how far we are from all that?” she asked. “From where we started.”
You thought for a moment. “Sometimes. But I also think maybe we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
She leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “That’s the most annoying thing about you.”
You chuckled, tilting your head to look up at her. “What, the optimism?”
She nodded dramatically. “It’s relentless.”
“And yet you keep me around.”
“Well… you have great snacks. And I’m addicted to your laugh.”
You covered your face, embarrassed and giggling.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The windowpanes still shimmered with leftover droplets, and the whole apartment smelled like mint tea and clean socks. Tomorrow would be another match, another morning of drills and ice baths and reporters. But tonight was just you and her, the quiet in-between.
At some point, she got up to stretch. You watched her move—every motion precise, intentional, like she never left the field.
“I still don’t get how you do it,” you said.
“What?”
“Stay so calm under pressure. On match day… when everyone’s watching…”
She turned to you and shrugged, then walked back, kneeling in front of you. “I guess I’ve got a secret weapon.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked.
“You,” she said, pressing a hand against your chest. “You remind me that I’m more than a player. That I’m loved, outside the game.”
You blinked at her, stunned into silence.
She tilted her head, teasing. “Are you crying? Should I get my medal and wave it dramatically until you feel better?”
“No, I—shut up.” You wiped your eyes and pulled her close, burying your face in her neck.
You smelled the rain still clinging to her hair, the faint notes of her shampoo and muscle balm. Her arms wrapped around you easily, firmly, like she’d anchor you forever.
