no one sees when you lose when you're playing solitaire
pairing: lucy bronze x reader
☆ angst with a hint of romance
★ if you liked this please let me know! maybe i'll do a part two if you'd like?
you and lucy went way back, a solid friendship that meant you never saw one without the other. only, what happens when an injury brings it all boiling to the surface.
You and Lucy had been friends since you were ten.
You were neighbours and you had kicked your football high enough trying to score one past your younger sister that it had sailed right over the fence and into her back garden, and seeing as though you were the older sister it was your job to sheepishly knock on the neighbours door. She had hardly spoken a word to you, a stilted nod and a quiet shuffle before she had dumped your football back in your outstretched hands. She hadn’t even glanced up at you, like most people would do as you were unnaturally tall for your age, she had only spared a quick glance at your muddy trainers before awkwardly shutting the door and disappearing back inside and leaving you on the front porch.
She had first spoken to you when you were both in a PE class six months later when neither of you had a partner, back when you were still the new girl and she was the weird quiet girl in every other class but PE. It was strange, in English or Science she barely made a sound, shrinking into her seat like she hoped the floor would open up swallow her whole. But in PE she moved differently, not confident but less like she was bracing for impact. She ran fast. She caught things cleanly. She didn’t look afraid of her own limbs.
You’d been standing there, clutching a bib that smelled faintly of old sweat and stale air, it clearly hadn’t been washed for months. You scanned the field for someone, anyone, who wasn’t already paired up. Everyone else had already gravitated toward their friends, their cliques, their familiar faces. You had long since grown used to being left until last now that you had moved to your mother’s hometown.
Lucy hovered a few metres away, staring at the grass like it had personally offended her. Her hair was tied back messily, a few dark strands stuck to her forehead. She looked like she’d rather die than ask someone to work with her. You took a step toward her at the same time she took a step toward you, then she said, very quietly, “We can be partners. If you want.” Her face grew bright red as her eyes darted everywhere but your face, it sounded almost like she’d rehearsed it in her head and still wasn’t sure she’d done it right.
“Yeah, yeah I’d like that.”
The two of you spent the lesson passing a ball back and forth, discussing nearly anything and everything under the sun; where you’d moved from, how weird the school uniforms were, how you both shared ambitions of working in sports, your shared love of football. You admitted you didn’t understand half the slang people used here yet. She admitted she didn’t understand people in general.
Every time the ball hit your hands, you found something else to say. Every time it hit hers, she added something back, quietly, but with this growing steadiness, like she was testing the idea of being heard and finding she didn’t hate it. By the time the whistle blew, you’d forgotten you were supposed to be the new girl. She’d forgotten she was supposed to be the weird quiet one, you had each others names and had quickly become someone you both could depend on.
As you walked off together, she nudged the toe of her trainer against yours, barely a tap, almost shy and said, “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
You laughed. “Is that good or bad?”
She shrugged, but there was the tiniest smile tugging at her mouth. “I think it’s good.”
And then something different bloomed in your chest a soft, unexpected warmth, like someone had lit a candle behind your ribs, the warmth spreading from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
You suppose that’s how you ended up here, squished together on a sofa in the hotel in Switzerland at the 2025 Euros. She shifts beside you, her shoulder brushing yours as she tucks one leg beneath herself. The sofa springs complained every time one of you shifted, but neither of you bothered too much to care. You’ve spent half your life pressed shoulder‑to‑shoulder with her in one way or another, cramped car rides to training sessions, narrow benches on the sidelines, the too‑small bed in your uni flat in Loughborough when she’d stayed over after coming down from Leeds and refused to sleep on the floor.
“God, get off me, you’d think seven major tournaments together you would learn how to become less attached,” You muttered, jokingly, trying to shove her off with a weak shove that had all the force of a damp paper towel.
Lucy didn’t budge, she never did. She just slumped further into you, head tipping onto your shoulder with the dramatic weight of someone who knew exactly how much she could get away with. “Attached?” she echoed, voice muffled against the collar your hoodie. “I’m not attached, i’m just cold.” She pulled her hoodie around her middle tightly, exaggerating the movement like she was performing for an invisible audience.
“It’s nineteen degrees!”
“Exactly! I don’t know why they keep it so cold in here!”
You snorted, but you didn’t push her off again. You never really meant it when you did.
Both of you had come through the England setup together, the under‑17s, the under‑19s, the under-20s and now you were both the longest serving Lionesses. You’d gone through everything together, the long bus rides, the dodgy hotels, the endless drills on muddy pitches where you’d both been convinced your toes would fall off. You’d grown up in parallel, two lines that kept running alongside each other no matter how many times life tried to pull you apart.
You remembered those early camps vividly: Lucy with her too‑big backpack and her too‑small voice, you with your awkward confidence and the accent everyone kept asking about. You’d been paired for room checks, for rondos, for recovery sessions. Somewhere along the way, “partner” had turned into “friend,” and “friend” had turned into whatever this was. Something steady. Something that had survived injuries, call‑ups, heartbreaks, and whatever else was thrown at you. Lucy shifted again, the sofa creaking as her thigh pressed warm against yours. “You love it really,” she said, smug in that quiet way she’d perfected over the years.
“Love what?”
“Me. Being here. Being annoying. Being-” she waved a hand vaguely “your emotional support blanket.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest did that stupid warm thing again, the same warmth you’d felt when you were ten and she’d smiled at you for the first time.
“Oh sure. And I’m your emotional support teddy.” You scoffed, your eyes warm with the usual mischief that she so often egged on with an attractive ease and confidence.
Lucy scoffed right back at you, but her eyes softened in that way they always did when you were bickering, like the arguing was just a familiar language the two of you had invented together. “Teddy?” she repeated, pretending to be offended. “Please. You’re barely emotionally supporting yourself half the time.”
You nudged her knee with yours. “Rude.”
“True,” she said, smug again.
And then she slumped back into you, head finding your shoulder like it had muscle memory of its own like her body had already decided where it belonged long before either of you ever admitted anything out loud. Her hair tickled your jaw. Her thigh stayed pressed against yours and that stupid warm flicker in your chest flared again, bright and impossible to ignore, her feet intertwined with yours, leaving just enough pressure over the scars from the numerous ankle surgeries that you had for your injury that followed you from club to club, from Sunderland to Linköping, to Bayern Munich and most recently, Chelsea.
Your injury was old, the kind of old that still lit up on scans like a constellation with the faint shadows where the bone had fractured, the neat line of surgical hardware that had become as much a part of you as the joint itself. Radiologists always used the same words “evidence of previous trauma” and “post‑surgical changes”. You’d learned to read between the lines years ago.
You had been fine at Sunderland but it had started in Linköping with the first bad twist with studs catching, ankle rolling, the pitch tilting sideways as grueling pain tore up your leg, leaving you to lay in the pitch nearly wailing in red hot pain, clutching desperately at your ankle with both hands like you could hold the joint together by sheer will. The physios had sprinted over. their voices blurring into a distant hum as you tried not to panic and tried not to imagine the months ahead. Bayern hadn’t helped, you were too eager to change your playing style on the left wing so your ego caused the re‑injury, the swelling that refused to settle, the stubborn belief that if you just pushed a little harder, you could outrun the limits of your own body. You couldn’t, of course. You’d learned that the slow, frustrating way with another surgery, another stretch of rehab rooms and ice buckets, the quiet ache of watching teammates train while you sat on the sideline with resistance bands. Chelsea had been the final fix, the operation that stabilised everything but left behind a joint that would never quite be the same. Even now, after all the rehab, all the strengthening, all the years, your ankle still spoke its own language with a stiffness on cold mornings and a dull ache after heavy minutes. A tiny, involuntary flinch when someone mistimed a tackle in training and the sports tape wrapped around your ankle, buried under your socks and boots.
Lucy’s foot pressed lightly over those scars now, the pressure gentle, deliberate. She had always been there, through every high and every low, every comeback, every moment you’d wondered if you’d ever feel whole again.
Her head rested on your shoulder, her soft exhales causing your hoodie strings to sway slightly. Her thigh was warm against yours, her foot hooking over your ankle like she was shielding it without making a fuss. The room felt quieter for a moment, like the world had softened around the edges just for the two of you, until the door opened with a disarming creak.
“Oh! hi?” Grace Clinton stood in the doorway, clutching a water bottle like it was a shield. She blinked at the two of you, her expression somewhere between startled and politely horrified. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“Grace, its fine, we’re just sitting.” You say gently, trying not to laugh at how stiffly she was standing like she’d walked into a meeting she wasn’t senior enough to attend.
Grace nodded, but her eyes kept darting between you and Lucy, taking in the way she leant on your shoulder, the way her legs tangled with your own, the way Lucy looked like she’d melted into your side on purpose. She clearly had no idea what to do with any of it.
“I was just… um…” She lifted the water bottle a little higher, as if that explained everything. “Filling this up.”
Lucy didn’t move. “Go ahead.”
Grace edged toward the sink like she was approaching a wild animal enclosure. She filled her bottle in silence, shoulders tense, eyes flicking back to you both every few seconds as if checking whether she was imagining the whole scene.
When she finally turned back around, she hesitated in the doorway.
“So… are you two… okay?” she asked, voice small, genuinely concerned rather than nosy.
You smiled. “Yeah. We’re good.”
Grace nodded again, still looking like she was trying to decode a tactical formation she’d never seen before. “Right. Cool. Just… checking.”
She was halfway through the doorway when another voice drifted in.
“Gracie, did you…”
Beth Mead appeared behind her, stopping just long enough to take in the scene: Lucy tucked into your side like she’d been poured there, your legs tangled comfortably, the easy way your hand rested on her knee.
Beth didn’t blink. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t even look surprised.
“Oh, this where you two got to? I thought you would have gone in the lake or something, I swear its like a giant ice bath even with the weather, aren’t you both weirdly into recovery?”
Grace, meanwhile, looked like someone had unplugged her and plugged her back in wrong, her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“I- what- you-” She pointed at the two of you like she’d just discovered a new species. “Is this normal?”
Beth snorted. “For them? Yeah.”
Grace blinked so slowly it was almost concerning. “But she’s on you. Like on you.”
Lucy didn’t even lift her head. “Grace, I’m literally just sitting on the sofa.”
Grace stared harder, like she was trying to zoom in with her eyes. “That’s not sitting. That’s- that’s attachment.”
You grinned wolfishly, cupping Lucy’s face in your hands delicately. Lucy always joked about how she loved your hands, they were strong in that quietly reassuring way, the kind that could wrap around a water bottle and make it look small, muscular without being showy, veins faintly visible from hours of drills and gym work and they were always warm and steady. “See! I told you that you were attached, earlier!”
Lucy’s eyes widened, scandalised in the most unconvincing way possible. “I am not attached,” she insisted, even as she leaned further into your palm like a cat seeking sun. “I’m- I’m just-” she faltered, her face settling into a pout.
“Cold?” you offered, smirking.
She glared at you, but it was the soft kind, the kind she only ever used on you. “Shut up.”
Beth barked a laugh. “See, Grace, they’re harmless! Basically just Velcro.”
Grace looked like she was watching a documentary about a species previously unknown to science. “But she’s just letting Lucy do that,” she whispered, eyes fixed on your hand cupping Lucy’s cheek.
Lucy mindlessly threw one of the Lionesses branded cushions in Grace’s direction with one hand, causing the midfielder to let out a yelp and and nearly drop her water bottle, the other still curled around your hoodie. “She doesn’t mind! It’s not letting me if she encourages it!”
Grace stared at her, clutching the cushion like it might protect her from further emotional or physical projectiles. “Lucy, that’s not how that works!”
Lucy didn’t even bother looking at her. She just burrowed back into your neck, fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie like she was anchoring herself. “It is,” she said flatly. “I’m just sitting.”
Beth let out a snort so sharp it echoed off the hotel walls. “Yeah, sitting on her.”
Lucy lifted one hand just high enough to flip Beth off without lifting her head from your neck. It was lazy, half‑hearted but you could feel her grin on your neck, allowing a soft smile to pull at your lips as you ran you fingers through her hair, taking advantage of the one time that she didn’t have her hair up in its usual bun. Her hair was softer than it looked, warm from where it had been pressed against you, strands slipping easily between your fingers.
Lucy had melted on the spot, right there and then, not dramatically because she would never give anyone the satisfaction, her shoulders loosening as her breath eased, and she leaned into your touch like it was instinct.
Grace’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “You can’t just– you can’t just do that while you’re–” she gestured wildly at the two of you, “while you’re like that!”
Lucy didn’t even blink. “Like what?”
Grace made a strangled noise. “Like- like- that!” She pointed at the way Lucy was curled into you, your hand still cupping her cheek, her fingers still hooked into your hoodie like she’d fused there.
You raised your eyebrows. “Grace, you’re going to have to use actual words.”
“I AM USING WORDS!” she cried, voice cracking. “You’re just- you’re… you’re a human backpack!”
Beth wheezed. “Human backpack is generous. She’s more like a barnacle.”
Lucy’s head snapped up just enough to glare at Beth again. “I’m not a barnacle.”
Beth shrugged. “You attach yourself to her and don’t let go.”
“That’s not what barnacles do!”
“Actually,” Grace said faintly, “that’s exactly what barnacles do.” She said it so quietly it almost didn’t register, like her brain had finally given up and was just reporting facts on autopilot.
Lucy whipped her head around to stare at her, or tried to. She only made it halfway before realising she’d have to actually move away from your neck to glare properly, and apparently that was a sacrifice she was not willing to make. So she settled for a half‑hearted scowl pressed into your hoodie.
“Hey…” you said softly, still holding her because if Lucy was a barnacle then you were an extremely strong magnet. Your thumb brushed the edge of her cheekbone, slow and steady, the way you always did when she got flustered. “You know Grace is just joking. She’s not trying to embarrass you.”
Lucy didn’t lift her head. She just made a tiny, grumbly noise into your neck, the kind she only made when she was embarrassed but pretending she wasn’t.
“I know,” she muttered. “She’s still dramatic.”
Grace sputtered. “I’m dramatic? You’re literally,” she gestured helplessly at the two of you, “trying to fuse together!”
Beth barked a laugh. “Gracie, this is nothing. You should see them on the bus.”
Lucy groaned into your hoodie. “Please stop talking about me.”
Beth just grinned wider as her eyes sparkled with mischief as she clapped Grace on the shoulder.
“Congratulations, Gracie girl, you’re officially a Lioness.”
Grace blinked. “Huh?”
But Beth was already turning on her heel, strolling out of the chill‑out area like she’d just delivered a royal decree, Grace scurried after her in quick succession, confusion written all over her face. “Beth, wait! What do you mean?”
Beth didn’t even slow down. “If you can survive that,” she jerked a thumb back toward the sofa, “you can survive anything this team throws at you.”
Grace made a strangled noise. “That’s not in the handbook!”
Beth laughed. “Oh sweetheart, none of the good stuff is.”
The door swung shut behind them, leaving you and Lucy in the quiet again as she curled into you, your hand still in her hair, the room settling back into its familiar warmth. Lucy shifted slightly against you, her fingers brushing your hoodie again, grounding herself in the same way the room grounded the two of you. Her hair tickled your jaw as she settled, and the soft lamplight caught the strands, turning them gold at the edges however the soft pout remained on her face.
You sighed, “alright. I’ll bite, why the pout? Huh?” You leant your head on hers gently.
Lucy froze for half a second like she hadn’t expected you to notice, even though you always did. Her fingers curled a little tighter into your hoodie, and she angled her face away from you in the most unconvincing attempt at subtlety you’d ever seen.
“I’m not pouting,” she mumbled into your shoulder, which only made the pout more obvious.
“Mhm I think you are.” You prodded her pout with a dexterous finger, “otherwise what’s this? A grin? I don’t think so.”
Lucy made a noise, a tiny, indignant squeak that she would absolutely deny making for the rest of her life and swatted half‑heartedly at your hand without actually pushing it away “Stop,” she muttered, which would’ve been more convincing if she didn’t immediately lean back into your touch like she was magnetised.
You raised an eyebrow, even though she couldn’t see it. “If you don’t want me poking it, maybe stop presenting it so dramatically.”
“I’m not presenting anything,” she grumbled, the pout somehow deepening. “My face just does that.”
“Oh, your face just does that,” you echoed, amused. “All by itself.”
“Yes.”
“God, you’re relentless.”
Lucy huffed, a tiny, offended exhale and finally tilted her head just enough to glare up at you. It wasn’t a real glare. It was the soft one, the one she only ever used on you, the one that never actually meant stop.
“You’re the one poking me,” she said, as if that settled the matter entirely.
“And you’re the one pouting at me,” you countered.
“I’m not!”
“You are.”
She groaned, dramatic and muffled, and buried her face back into your shoulder like she could hide the expression entirely if she just committed hard enough. Her fingers curled into your hoodie again, tugging lightly at the fabric as you let out a soft huff of laughter. “You’re impossible.”
Lucy didn’t lift her head, but you felt the tiny, sulky nudge of her forehead against your collarbone and for a moment, neither of you moved. The room settled again, warm and familiar, the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling.
Then she sighed, “We should go,” she mumbled into your hoodie. “Before everyone thinks we’ve died in here.”
You smiled, brushing your thumb once more along her cheek. “I would mind that, being with you is my favourite thing.” Neither of you thought anything of it, the sentiment was so often shared that you both hardly thought anything of it.
“Me too.” She agreed, finally peeling herself away from you with all the enthusiasm of a cat being relocated from a warm lap. Her hair was mussed, her pout softened, her eyes still warm in that way she never acknowledged.
She stood, tugging lightly at your hand. “Come on. Dinner.”
The cafeteria at the hotel was bustling, a cacophony of noice between teammates and staff with chairs scraping, cutlery clinking, someone laughing too loudly at a joke you hadn’t heard, the low hum of conversations overlapping like waves crashing onto the beach. The noise felt like it was its own organism, living and breathing, it was chaotic, familiar, comforting in its own messy way. The overhead lights were a little too bright, reflecting off the stainless‑steel counters and the glass sneeze guards, and the smell of pasta, roasted vegetables, and whatever the nutritionist had deemed acceptable tonight hung warm in the air.
Your teammates were scattered from table to table, Jess and Lotte were leaning across their table, already halfway through a heated debate about something that definitely wasn’t football, judging by Lotte’s animated hand gestures and Jess’s unimpressed eyebrow raise. Georgia was hunched over a plate of mashed potato and whatever weird concoction she’d decided was “fuel” tonight, shovelling it in like she hadn’t eaten in days. Across from her, Leah mindlessly picked at a piece of plain gnocchi and chicken, staring into the middle distance like she was contemplating the meaning of life or her favoured picky tastes when it came to food.
Staff weaved between them with trays and clipboards, trying, and mostly failing, to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos. Someone from the physio team was arguing with a player about portion sizes, another was reminding half the squad to hydrate, and a coach was attempting to confiscate a bottle of chocolate milk from Hannah, who was insisting it was “medically necessary.”
As you and Lucy stepped inside, the noise didn’t quiet, but it shifted, just slightly as it engulfed you, head first into the chatter. Lucy’s shoulder brushed yours, her steps slowing as she took it all in, her expression softening into that familiar mix of fondness and exasperation that only this team could pull out of her.
“I could eat a horse i’m so hungry,” She muttered softly, just so you could hear her.
“Yeah, but you could eat anything.” You snorted, shaking your head.
Lucy shot you a look, the kind that was supposed to be offended but was far too tired and hungry to fully commit. “That’s rude.”
“Rude? You used to make me give you whatever I didn’t like when we’d go out to eat.” You teased, smiling at her softly.
Lucy scoffed, indignant in the most unserious way possible. “That was resourceful.”
“That was theft.”
“It was preventing waste,” she corrected, lifting her chin like she’d just delivered a moral argument worthy of a Nobel Prize. “You didn’t like it. I did. That’s teamwork.”
You laughed under your breath. “You stole half my chips.”
“Teamwork,” she repeated, unwavering.
“And my garlic bread.”
“That was survival.”
“And my dessert.”
Lucy paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Okay, that one was your fault. You left it unattended.”
“For ten seconds!”
“Exactly,” she said, grabbing a plate from the stack with the determination of someone preparing for battle. “Rookie mistake.”
You shook your head, amused, watching her scan the buffet like a predator assessing its options.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Lucy bumped her shoulder into yours, a small, warm nudge. “And you still sit next to me at dinner.”
“Unfortunately.”
She grinned, a real one this time, bright and unguarded. “You love it.”
As she turned away you muttered to yourself, “yeah, I really do.”
You watched her walk across the buffet line as you followed, her gait easy at first until it wasn’t. She shifted her weight off her left leg, subtle but not subtle enough for you to miss. A tiny hitch, a careful step, the kind of adjustment only someone who knew her inside out would catch. Your eyebrows furrowed instinctively as she leant forwards to reach for a serving spoon, placing all her weight on her right leg, the one with her bad knee, she avoided using her left leg as much as possible as if she was pretending nothing was wrong. You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice so it didn’t get swallowed by the cafeteria noise. “Luc,” you murmured, gentle but firm, “what’s going on with your leg?”
“What do you mean? My knee is fine, I told you last week.” She said it with that breezy, dismissive confidence she always used when she was trying to redirect you, her voice was light, almost bored, like she was repeating a fact you should’ve remembered, but there was a tightness under it, a faint strain at the edges. She didn’t look at you when she said it either. She kept her eyes fixed on the tray in front of her, scooping pasta like the conversation was already over.
You huffed, watching her shift again, it was barely there, but it was enough to make your stomach twist. “I meant your leg. Not your knee.”
Lucy stilled, the serving spoon hovering over her plate for half a second too long. Her shoulders tightened beneath her hoodie, a subtle brace, like she was preparing for impact. She didn’t look at you, of course she didn’t. Instead, she scooped another spoonful of pasta she definitely didn’t need, her jaw working as she forced her expression into something neutral.
“Oh, that. It’s fine, don’t worry about me, yeah?” She said lightly, too lightly, as she turned and stalked off to grab a table for the pair of you.
You followed her, weaving through chairs and half‑finished conversations, your plate barely half‑filled because your attention was fixed on the way she moved. Or rather, the way she didn’t move the way she normally did. Lucy Bronze never limped. She never hesitated. She never favoued one side unless something was wrong and something was definitely wrong. She dropped into a seat at an empty two‑top near the corner, the one she always gravitated toward when she wanted to pretend she wasn’t hiding. She set her plate down with a little too much force, like the noise might distract you from the way she eased herself into the chair. It didn’t.
You sat across from her, slowly, deliberately, giving her the chance to say something first. She didn’t. She stabbed a piece of chicken like it had personally offended her.
“Lucy.”
Nothing. Just the sound of her chewing.
You leaned forward, lowering your voice. “You can’t brush this off.”
Her jaw tightened and she swallowed. “I’m not brushing anything off.”
“You’re literally not putting weight on your leg.”
Lucy’s fork paused in mid air, her eyes flicking up just long enough to register your stare before dropping again. “I’m putting weight on it,” she muttered, stabbing at her pasta like it had personally wronged her. “You’re being dramatic.”
You let out a breath through your nose, steady, controlled. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m being observant.”
“That’s new,” she said under her breath.
It was a joke, or at least it was supposed to be, but it landed wrong. Too sharp. Too defensive. You watched the way her shoulders curled inward, the way she kept her left leg tucked slightly under the chair, hidden, protected.
“Lucy,” you said again, softer this time, because you knew if you pushed too hard she’d bolt. “Talk to me.”
She chewed slowly, deliberately, like she could buy time with every bite. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You’re lying.”
Her jaw clenched. A tiny muscle in her cheek twitched. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
She set her fork down a little too loudly, the clatter swallowed by the cafeteria noise but not by you. Her eyes finally met yours and for the first time in a long time, they were guarded, tired, stubborn. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, voice low, like she was trying not to let it tremble. “We’re supposed to be eating.”
“We are eating,” you said, though neither of you had touched your food. “But you’re also pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
Lucy scoffed, leaning back in her chair like she needed distance. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you,” you countered, and that made her flinch. “I know how you move. I know when something’s off. And something is off.”
She looked away, eyes darting toward the far wall, anywhere but you. “It’s just a bit sore.”
Your stomach dropped. “Sore how?”
“Just sore,” she repeated, shrugging like that settled it. “Training was heavy. It’ll be fine tomorrow.”
You stared at her, and she knew you didn’t believe her. She knew you wouldn’t. That was the problem, you had always saw through her, and she hated it when she wasn’t ready to be seen.
“Lucy,” you said quietly, “you’re not walking right.”
She let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through her hair. “Can you not? Please. Not here.”
“Why not here?”
“Because you're embarrassing me.” She snapped, her eyes flicked around the room, checking if anyone was listening. No one was, they were all too busy with their own chaos. But that didn’t matter. She felt exposed anyway.
You softened your voice. “I’m not trying to embarrass you.”
“You’re not,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I just… I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then when will you?”
She didn’t answer. She just pushed a piece of chicken around her plate, her appetite gone, her walls up, her leg tucked even tighter under the chair.
You watched her for a long moment, the noise of the cafeteria fading into a dull roar behind the two of you. She was shutting down, you could see it happening in real time with the way she folded into herself. The way she hid behind silence.
You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of her plate, not touching her but close enough that she felt the intention. “Lucy,” you murmured, “I’m worried.”
Her eyes flicked up, and for a split second you saw it. The fear, the vulnerability, and the thing she was trying so hard to pretend wasn’t there.
Then she blinked, and it was gone.
“I said I’m fine,” she whispered, and this time it wasn’t defensive. It was pleading and itwas worse than anything you had ever experienced.
Dinner didn’t last long after that. Lucy kept her eyes on her plate, eating mechanically, every movement a little too careful. You tried to focus on your own food, but your gaze kept drifting back to her leg, the way she kept it tucked in, the way she shifted in her seat like she was trying to find a position that didn’t hurt. She didn’t look at you again, not properly, not for more than a second at a time. Around you, the cafeteria buzzed on, oblivious, someone shouted across the room about extra bread rolls. A coach laughed too loudly at something. Chairs scraped and cutlery clattered. It all felt strangely distant, like you were underwater and the rest of the world was above the surface.
Lucy finished first like she always did, but tonight she moved even faster, pushing her plate away and wiping her hands on a napkin like she couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. She muttered something about needing to “get sorted for tomorrow,” but it wasn’t really an explanation more like an escape route.
You followed her out a moment later, weaving through tables, offering half‑hearted nods to teammates who called your name. Your attention stayed locked on the familiar figure ahead of you, the slight unevenness in her stride that she clearly thought she was hiding. The hallway outside the cafeteria was quieter, the kind of quiet that made every footstep sound too loud. Lucy walked a few paces ahead, shoulders tight, hoodie pulled low, her hair falling forward like she could disappear behind it. You didn’t say anything and neither did she.
The two of you moved through the hotel corridors in a silence that wasn’t comfortable, iit was thick, heavy, stretched thin between you like a wire waiting to snap. Every so often she’d glance over her shoulder, just enough to check you were still there, never enough to meet your eyes. The closer you got to your rooms, the more obvious it became: she was bracing. For what, she probably didn’t even know. When you reached the hallway where your doors faced each other, she slowed like her body betrayed her before her mind could catch up. Her hand hovered near her keycard, but she didn’t swipe it.
You stood a few feet away, watching her shoulders rise and fall with a breath that was too deep to be casual. “I’ll see you tommorow morning, yeah?” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. It hung in the narrow space between you, gentle but weighted, an invitation and a reassurance all at once.
Lucy nodded without looking back. A small movement, barely there. Her hand tightened around her keycard before she finally swiped it, the soft beep sounding too loud in the quiet corridor. She hesitated in the doorway like she wanted to say something, or maybe wanted you to stop her but she didn’t speak. She slipped inside her room, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that settled heavy in your chest.
As you slipped your keycard into the door you paused, glancing back down the hallway. Lucy’s door was shut, still and silent, the thin strip of light at the bottom already fading as she moved deeper into the room. It shouldn’t have felt like a wall slamming down, but it did.
Your own door unlocked with a soft click. You stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind you, the muted thud echoing a little too loudly in the empty space. The room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a warm pool of light over the neatly made bed, your kit laid out for the morning, the matchday routine already waiting for you.
You set your keycard on the desk, but your mind stayed in the hallway as rivulets became to silently stream down your face in tracks of shimmering crystal, you didn’t even wipe them away at first. They fell silently, catching the lamplight like tiny fractures, each one a release of something you hadn’t realised you’d been holding so tightly.
You sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, letting the tears fall freely. The room felt too still, too neat, too prepared for a morning that suddenly felt impossibly far away. Your kit was folded with military precision, your boots lined up by the door, your water bottle waiting on the nightstand, all the familiar rituals of matchday eve.
But none of it grounded you like she did, like her presence did with an ease that could only come from her, your chest tightened as another tear slipped free, warm against your skin before cooling in the air‑conditioned room. You dragged a shaky breath in, but it didn’t settle anything. If anything, it made the ache sharper because Lucy was everything to you. To you she was the person you looked for in a crowded room, the one whose voice could cut through noise and nerves alike, the one who made the world feel a little less overwhelming just by standing next to you And tonight she’d walked away hurting, pretending she wasn’t.
You leaned forward, elbows braced on your knees, fingers threading into your hair as you tried to breathe past the tightness in your ribs. The worry sat heavy, a weight you couldn’t shake, pressing into every thought. It wasn’t just fear for tomorrow’s match, it was fear for her, for the way she pushed herself past breaking, for the way she hid pain like it was something shameful.
You wiped at your cheeks finally, the skin beneath your eyes tender from the tears. The room felt too big around you, too quiet, too aware of the empty space where she should’ve been. You changed slowly into your pyjama’s before sinking into the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as the last of the tears dried in faint, salty streaks as you turned onto your side, pulling the duvet close, trying to will your mind to quiet but the image of her limp lingered behind your eyelids, stubborn and sharp, refusing to fade.
The next evening you didn’t think you could feel any rougher than you already did. Your eyes felt heavy as you lined up in the tunnel ahead of the quarter final match against Sweden, you could feel the oar of the crowd vibrating faintly through the concrete beneath the familiar taping of your foot, but it did nothing for your fatigue. The stadium lights bled through the opening at the far end of the tunnel, bright and unforgiving, and for a moment you had to blink against the sting behind your eyes.
You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d drifted in and out, never fully sinking, your mind looping the same images over and over, Lucy’s limp, her hesitation, the way she’d shut the door between you like she was shutting you out of something she couldn’t bear to say aloud. Now, standing in line with your teammates, the weight of it pressed down harder than the occasion itself. The tunnel was a blur of movement and noise with studs tapping against concrete, the low murmur of last‑minute instructions, the sharp scent of liniment and adrenaline. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your breathing, on the familiar thrum of matchday nerves, but your thoughts kept drifting sideways.
To her.
Lucy stood a few players behind, she always stood at the back, her back straight, her shoulders squared in that way she always did before a big game. From a distance she looked like herself, composed, unshakeable, ready. But you saw the tiny things no one else would. The way she shifted her weight just slightly off centre. The way her left foot angled inward, protective. The way her jaw clenched when she thought no one was watching. You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making it difficult, this was Sweden. A knockout match. Everything on the line. And she was pretending she was fine.
You flexed your fingers at your sides, trying to shake off the heaviness in your limbs. The noise of the crowd swelled as the officials stepped forward, signalling for the teams to follow. Your teammates straightened, shoulders brushing yours, the collective inhale of a squad about to step into battle. You should’ve felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the sharpened focus, the fire. But instead, all you felt was the hollow ache of worry settling deeper in your chest.
You glanced back at Lucy just once, your eyes flicking over the line until they found her. It was quick, barely a second, but it was enough. There was something in her expression you couldn’t read, something tight and guarded and tired. Then you turned away, stepping forward as the tunnel opened into the blinding light of the pitch. She followed you, boots hitting the grass, the roar of the stadium crashing over the two of you like a wave. But even with the noise, the lights, the stakes, all you could think about was her leg, her silence, and the storm you could feel building just beneath the surface. And the terrifying certainty that tonight, something was going to break.
The match couldn’t have been worse. Barely two minutes in, Sweden pressed high, forcing a turnover in midfield. A quick switch, a sharp cut inside, and Aslani curled one into the far corner before anyone had settled. The stadium groaned. You hadn’t even touched the ball yet, you felt the sting of it in your chest, a hot, sinking punch of disbelief that knocked the breath out of you. You jogged back into position, the cold air biting at your lungs, the noise of the crowd swelling into a restless murmur. Your boots felt heavier than they should’ve, your legs tight, your mind already racing ahead to the left flank.
You couldn’t remember much of the game, the physicality took its toll. Sweden were relentless down both flanks, forcing you into sprint after sprint, tackle after tackle, your lungs burning, your legs screaming, your head pounding with the effort of staying switched on. Every collision rattled through you. Every recovery run felt like dragging yourself through mud. The cold bit at your skin, the noise of the crowd rose and fell in waves, and the minutes blurred together into one long stretch of grit and survival.
By the time that the final whistle blew England were through to the semi-finals, 3-2 on penalties you should have been ecstatic but you weren’t. Instead, you stood there on the churned‑up grass, chest heaving, sweat cooling too fast on your skin, the roar of the stadium crashing around you like a wave you couldn’t feel. Your body was shaking from exhaustion, from adrenaline, from everything you’d forced yourself to hold together for two brutal hours but inside, you were hollow. Completely, utterly hollow. Your teammates were hugging, crying, laughing, falling to their knees in relief. Someone grabbed you in a tight embrace, shouting something triumphant in your ear, but it barely registered. You nodded, you smiled, you did all the things you were supposed to do, but none of it reached you because your eyes were already searching for her.
Lucy.
You found her instantly, like your eyes had been waiting for permission to look. She stood a little apart from the chaos, surrounded by staff and teammates but somehow still alone, her smile bright enough for the cameras yet brittle at the edges. The floodlights washed over her, catching the sheen of sweat on her temples, the rise and fall of her chest, the stiffness in her posture she thought she was hiding.
Your stomach twisted, a slow, sickening coil of worry and anger. The noise of the stadium blurred into a dull roar, your teammates’ celebrations fading into background static as you stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her disappear down the tunnel to the changing room until you worked up the strength to follow her.
It was eearily quiet when you entered, the door slamming behind you with a resounding thud before echoing into silence, a thick, heavy silence that settled over the room like fog, swallowing every sound before it could form.
Your pulse kicked up, a sharp thud against your ribs when you saw her sitting on the bench in front of her locker, elbows braced on her knees, head bowed, fingers digging into the tape around her ankle like she was trying to peel away the pain by force. Her shoulders rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The rest of the room was empty as everyone was still outside celebrating or doing media
She didn’t look up, not at the door, not at you, not at anything.
For a second you just stood there, frozen, the cold air of the corridor still clinging to your skin. The adrenaline in your veins hadn’t settled, your muscles still trembled from the match, but none of that compared to the sight of her like this - alone, folded in on herself, the armour she wore for everyone else stripped away the moment she thought no one was watching.
Your voice came out before you could soften it, blunt and edged with everything you’d been holding back. “Why did you not tell me about your leg?” You bluntly asked, the words cracking through the quiet like a whip.
Lucy’s head snapped up, her eyes widening just slightly, the way someone reacts when a door slams unexpectedly. She looked caught between instinct and guilt, between the version of herself she showed the world and the one sitting here now, shoulders slumped, breath uneven. You took a step closer, boots echoing in the hollow room. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow that made the swelling around her ankle look even worse. Sweat still clung to her temples, drying in uneven streaks, and her hands were trembling as they hovered uselessly over her shin pad.
Her jaw tightened, the muscle feathering beneath her skin. She didn’t answer. Not right away.
You could see the moment she tried to gather herself, tried to pull the armour back on, tried to become Lucy Bronze, unshakeable defender again. But it didn’t fit. Not tonight. Not with you standing there, seeing every crack she’d tried to hide.
“Lucy,” you said, quieter now but no less firm, “look at me.”
She did, slowly and reluctantly. The moment her eyes met yours, the anger you thought you felt dissolved into something heavier, something that sat low in your chest and made it hard to breathe. She looked exhausted. Not just physically but in a way that went deeper, like she’d been carrying something far too heavy for far too long and still, she said nothing.
You exhaled, the sound shaky in the stillness. “Why didn’t you tell me,” you repeated, softer but somehow sharper, “when you knew I’d see it anyway.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her gaze flicked away, down to her ankle, then to her hands, then to the floor as if every surface in the room was easier to face than you.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than a breath. “I didn’t want you to stop me.”
“Stop you?!” You nearly scream, incredulously, the words ricochets off the tiled walls, too loud in the empty room, too full of everything you’d been swallowing since the tunnel.. “You think I would have tried to stop you? I would have tried to help you but not stop you!” Your voice cracks on the last word, the frustration bleeding through before you can rein it in.
Lucy flinches a tiny tightening around her eyes, a subtle pull of her shoulders but you see it. You always see it. And somehow that only fuels the fire burning under your ribs.
You take a step toward her, boots scraping against the floor, the sound harsh in the stillness. Your hands are shaking, whether its from exhaustion, adrenaline, or the sheer disbelief of what she’s just implied, you can’t tell. “You think so little of me?” you push on, breath coming fast. “You think I’d run to the staff and get you benched like you’re some reckless child who needs policing?”
Lucy’s gaze snaps up at that, red molten anger flashing across her face before she can hide it as her fingers curl into fists against her thighs, knuckles whitening.“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, the frustration is evident but her voice is thin, frayed at the edges.
“Then what did you mean?” you demand, stepping closer still. You’re close enough now to see the sheen of sweat drying on her collarbone, the tremor in her jaw, the way she’s holding herself like one wrong word might make her either snap or crumble. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
Her breath stutters, just once. You drag a hand through your hair, pacing a tight line in front of her because standing still feels impossible. The room feels too small, too bright, too full of everything she didn’t say.
“I would’ve helped you,” you say again, quieter now but no less fierce. “I would’ve taped you up myself if that’s what you needed. I would’ve covered for you. I would’ve done whatever it took to get you through the match. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”
Lucy’s eyes close, her shoulders sinking as if the weight of your words lands physically on her. “I know,” she whispers. “I know you would’ve.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Lucy didn’t answer right away, she just stared at you, her expression tightening in a way you couldn’t read, not anger, not guilt, not fear. Something murkier. Something that made your stomach twist. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat. “I didn’t tell you,” she said slowly, “because it wasn’t your place to know.”
The words landed like ice water down your spine. Your breath caught. “My place?”
Lucy nodded once, barely. “You’re my teammate. That’s all. And this… this was something I had to handle as a player. Not as-” She stopped herself, jaw clenching. “Not as whatever you think we are.”
You felt the floor tilt under you. “Whatever I think? We’re friends, Lucy! We’ve been friends for nearly twenty years!” Your disbelief sharp enough to cut through the hardest of concrete.
Lucy didn’t look away and that somehow made it worse.
“Are we?” she asked quietly.
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it did, instantly, deeply, like she’d reached into your chest and twisted the knife so deep it fataly wounded you so horribly all you could do was stare at her unable to speak.
Lucy exhaled, long and tired, rubbing a hand over her face. “You care about me. I know that. And I care about you. But that doesn’t mean you get to be involved in every decision I make about my body or my career.” Her voice was maddeningly steady as she added, “you think because we’re close, you’re entitled to the truth. But sometimes… sometimes you’re not.”
The room felt suddenly too bright, too sharp, like every fluorescent bulb was aimed directly at you.
“So you shut me out,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because you don’t see me as someone who belongs in that part of your life.”
Lucy’s silence was answer enough.
You felt something inside you crack like a small, precise fracture that you knew wouldn’t heal clean.
“I thought we were more than that,” you said, the words tasting like defeat.
Lucy’s eyes flickered, something like regret passing through them but she didn’t take it back. She didn’t reach for you, she didn’t soften.
“I can’t afford to blur lines right now,” she murmured. “Not with the tournament. Not with everything at stake.”
“And what about us?” you asked, though your voice already knew the answer.
Lucy looked down at her leg, as if she could see through to her broken tibia. “There is no ‘us’,” she said quietly. “Not the way you think.”
The silence that followed wasn’t thick or heavy anymore it was empty and hollow, as you turned and walked out of the changing room, each step echoing too loudly in the corridor, and suddenly everything you thought you understood blurred at the edges, tilting out of alignment like the world had quietly shifted into a shape you no longer recognised.
fin.
