word count - 1k trigger warnings - minimal sadness, angry Spanish woman you have just lost the final to England (and Lucy), and when she comes over to talk to you, both of your feelings get a little crazy i changed some bits to fit the style i wanted to take it so i hope everyone enjoys it
The final whistle had blown, and the deafening noise of the crowd had faded into a low, distant murmur. You sat alone on the pitch, hunched over with your hands hiding your face, the tears hot and angry as they streamed freely. You had given everything. Fought until your body had nothing left. And still, it hadn’t been enough.
Spain had fallen short in the Euro final to England.
This was supposed to be the last piece. The final trophy missing from your collection with Spain. You’d already climbed to the pinnacle with the World Cup. But this... this was meant to complete the legacy. To silence the doubt. To finally reclaim the joy that had been tainted.
As the weight of that reality settled, grief took its place. You might not get another shot. And that truth wrapped around your chest like a vice, unrelenting and sharp.
You heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching, deliberate but hesitant. You didn’t need to look up to know it was her.
Lucy stood in front of you, silent. You could feel her patient gaze resting on you. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes. The anger burned in your throat (not really at her, but she was the one there) and that made it impossible to hold it back.
"You," you spat, voice bitter as you finally looked up. "Why did it have to be you?"
She didn’t flinch. She just looked at you with calm, sad eyes.
"I didn’t ask for it to be," she said softly.
"You could’ve…" you stopped yourself. The words didn’t make sense. What were you even accusing her of? That she should’ve gone easy? Let you win? You both knew it was nonsense. You were just hurting.
"You should go celebrate," you muttered, voice cracking. "Go be with your team. Go…" You almost said something cruel, something you’d regret. But it caught in your throat, burning with shame, and you swallowed it down. "Just go."
Lucy didn’t move. She knelt down slowly, still watching you.
"Just say what you need to say," she whispered. "Get it out. But you can’t push me away. Not this time."
You stood abruptly, fists clenched at your sides, and let yourself simmer in the silence. The rage swirled and twisted inside you, but it was fleeting. Words tumbled out before you could stop them.
"I hate you, but I don't. I love you and I don't know."
Your voice cracked on the last word, trembling under the weight of everything you were trying to make sense of. You felt yourself spiraling, the confusion, grief, and exhaustion colliding all at once.
Lucy moved quickly, without hesitation. She sat beside you and pulled you into her arms. You didn’t resist. You leaned into her, letting the sobs tear through you, your face buried against her shoulder.
"Hey," she murmured after a while, brushing your hair gently from your face. "You were incredible."
You shook your head, clinging to her tighter. "It wasn’t enough."
After a while, Lucy shifted slightly with a hiss, trying to reposition her leg.
You instantly noticed. You pulled back, brow furrowing. "What was that? Are you okay?"
Lucy winced and quickly tried to wave it off. "It’s nothing. You don’t need to worry about me right now. Let’s just, let’s go back to you."
"No" you said sharply. "Don’t you dare deflect. What did you just do?"
Lucy looked at you, caught. "It’s... I just hurt it a bit, that’s all."
You didn’t say a word. You just gave her that look, the one that always made her cave.
Her shoulders dropped with a sigh. "Okay, fine. It’s my leg. Fractured. Since June."
You gasped, hitting her arm without thinking. “que carajo!” “what the fuck!”
Lucy pouted dramatically and rubbed her arm where you hit her, eyes wide with faux innocence. "Ow," she grumbled, “that hurts”
You stared, mouth dropping open. "You played the entire tournament on a fractured leg? Are you serious?!"
She gave a sheepish shrug, guilt tugging at her smile. "Didn’t want to miss it."
"That is so stupid! What if you’d made it worse? What if you’d done permanent damage?!"
"But I didn’t," she said gently. "I’m okay."
But you weren’t finished. You launched into a rant in rapid Spanish (half scolding, half disbelief). Your words spilled out like fire, furious and full of concern. "Cómo te atreves a jugar un torneo entero con una pierna rota?! Podrías haber arruinado tu carrera por completo, sin mencionar tu capacidad para caminar! En qué estabas pensando, eh? Esto no es valentía, es terquedad!
"How dare you play an entire tournament with a broken leg? You could have completely destroyed your career, not to even mention your ability to walk! What were you thinking, huh?! This isn't bravery, it's stubbornness!"
Lucy didn’t interrupt, she had the sense not to. She simply sat there, nodding slowly, lips pressed into a pout, eyes cast down like a kid getting told off by their parent. She accepted every word, not daring to argue.
When you finally ran out of breath, you stared at her. Still furious, but softening.
Lucy peeked up at you with that sheepish grin she has. “Lo siento mucho, bebé.” “I’m very sorry baby.”
The words were soft, almost teasing, but there was something honest in her voice too. You tried to stay stern, to hold onto the anger but it cracked the moment you saw that ridiculous, guilty little smile. Your resolve crumbled and you let out a shaky breath.
You reached down and gently helped Lucy to her feet, mindful of her leg. She gritted her teeth slightly but leaned on you as she rose. Once she was standing, you pulled her into a tight embrace.
She hugged you back just as fiercely, and for a long moment, the two of you stood there (anchored to each other and unmoving) as chaos bloomed around you. Your teammates were grieving. Hers were celebrating. But in that small, silent space between you two, it was just stillness.
Just understanding. Just love.