summary: You and Fernando Mendoza were never really just friends. Not when he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once. Not when you became the first person he searched for after every game. Not when every goodbye started feeling a little too painful to be normal. But with football, gymnastics, distance, and years of bad timing standing between you, figuring out what you are to each other becomes a lot harder than falling in love in the first place.
warnings: none, all fluff!
A/N: second part of this fic! tumblr wouldnt let me post it all in one go so heres the second part! lmk if yall have any more ideas for fernando fics!
word count: 12k... gulp
enjoy đ
The season got worse before it got better.
Not statistically.
Statistically, Fernando was incredible.
The problem was everything underneath it.
The offense kept collapsing at the worst possible moments. Media pressure intensified every week. Fans blamed him for losses that werenât entirely his fault because quarterbacks always became the face of disaster first.
And Fernando?
Fernando internalized everything.
You knew he did because he stopped sleeping normally.
You could hear it in his voice.
See it in the shadows beneath his eyes during interviews.
One night you woke up at 2:13 a.m. to three missed calls from him.
Your heart dropped instantly.
You called back immediately.
Fernando answered on the first ring.
âHey,â he said quietly.
Something was wrong.
You sat upright in bed. âWhat happened?â
A pause.
Then:
âWe lost.â
Relief flickered through you first.
Then guilt for feeling relieved.
âOh.â
Not just lost.
Devastated.
You could hear it now.
The exhaustion in his breathing.
The silence packed tightly underneath his voice.
âTalk to me,â you said softly.
Fernando laughed once.
Not happily.
âI threw two interceptions.â
âThat happens.â
âI missed a wide-open read in the fourth.â
âThat also happens.â
âWe shouldâve won.â
You closed your eyes briefly.
God.
Football owned too much of him sometimes.
âFernando.â
Another silence.
Then finally:
âIâm tired.â
The words came out so quietly they almost disappeared entirely.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because this wasnât physical exhaustion.
This was deeper.
You leaned back against your headboard, phone pressed closer to your ear.
âCome here,â you said before thinking.
Fernando blinked on the other end of the line.
âWhat?â
âCome to Indiana this weekend.â
âI have practice.â
âSkip one.â
âI canât skip practice.â
âYou absolutely can.â
A tiny laugh escaped him despite everything.
âThere she is.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know.â
You softened your voice. âYou sound miserable.â
Silence.
Then:
âI miss you.â
The confession slipped out so naturally it took both of you by surprise.
Fernando froze immediately afterward.
Like he couldnât believe heâd said it aloud.
Your heartbeat stumbled violently.
The air changed.
Again.
Always again.
You swallowed hard. âI miss you too.â
Too soft.
Too honest.
Fernando exhaled shakily through the phone.
And suddenly you could picture him perfectly:
head tipped back against the wall,
eyes closed,
completely exhausted from carrying too much for too long.
You wanted to reach through the phone and hold him together.
Instead you said carefully:
âYou donât have to stay somewhere thatâs making you unhappy.â
Fernando didnât answer right away.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded distant.
âYeah.â
The transfer rumors started three weeks later.
Sports media practically foamed at the mouth over it.
CAL QB CONSIDERING TRANSFER?
FERNANDO MENDOZAâS FUTURE UNCERTAIN
TOP PROGRAMS EXPECTED TO PURSUE STAR QUARTERBACK
Your teammates sent you screenshots constantly.
Mostly because everyone in your life had apparently become deeply invested in the romantic tragedy of you and Fernando existing in separate states.
One text from your old Cal teammate simply read:
if he transfers to indiana iâm buying a lottery ticket
You ignored it aggressively.
Mostly because the thought had already crossed your own mind.
And that was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
You tried not to ask him about it directly.
Tried being the important word.
âHow bad is it?â you asked one night while walking back from treatment.
Cold Indiana wind whipped around you while Fernandoâs voice crackled softly through your earbuds.
âThe portal stuff?â
âYeah.â
Fernando sighed quietly.
âPretty loud.â
âYou hate attention.â
âCorrect.â
You smiled faintly.
âAny schools standing out?â
A pause.
Too long.
Then:
âThere are a few.â
Your stomach twisted.
This shouldnât matter this much.
It was football.
Just football.
And yet suddenly every possibility felt terrifyingly personal.
âYou donât have to tell me if you donât want to,â you said carefully.
âNo, itâs okay.â Fernando hesitated. âIndiana called.â
Your entire body stopped moving.
Snow drifted lazily across the sidewalk around you.
âWhat?â
âThey reached out this week.â
Your pulse kicked violently against your ribs.
âOh.â
Excellent response.
Truly groundbreaking conversational skills.
Fernando laughed softly like he could hear your brain short-circuiting through the phone.
âIt makes sense football-wise,â he said quickly. âGood offensive scheme. Strong development staff. Better fit.â
âRight,â you managed.
âCloser to NFL preparation.â
âTotally.â
âAndâŚâ Fernando stopped briefly. âYouâre there.â
Silence.
Your heartbeat became deafening.
On the other end of the line, Fernando sounded like he immediately regretted existing.
âI just mean,â he rushed out, âhaving someone familiar nearby would help the transition.â
Of course.
Obviously.
Completely normal thing to say about the girl you definitely werenât secretly in love with.
You stared out at the snowy campus with your breath trapped somewhere in your lungs.
Then quietly:
âYouâd really come all the way out here?â
Fernando answered so fast it almost startled you.
âYeah.â
No hesitation.
None.
The certainty in it shook something loose inside your chest.
Because football mattered to Fernando more than almost anything.
But somehow, every road he took still kept leading back to you.
The official transfer announcement broke the internet for approximately twelve straight hours.
CAL STAR QB FERNANDO MENDOZA TRANSFERS TO INDIANA
Every sports account on earth immediately posted graphics of Fernando Mendoza in crimson and cream while fans collectively lost their minds.
Indiana students celebrated like theyâd personally secured national championship insurance.
Cal fans went through the five stages of grief in real time.
And everyone else?
Everyone else became violently obsessed with one specific detail.
You.
Because the internet had apparently spent years constructing a conspiracy board about your relationship like two emotionally repressed athletes were a national security issue.
One tweet with over two hundred thousand likes simply read:
that man transferred 2000 miles for LOVE
You threw your phone across your bed immediately.
Your roommate picked it up, read the tweet, and wheezed laughing.
âYou know what?â she said. âI support investigative journalism.â
âDelete that.â
âNo â¤ď¸â
Meanwhile, Fernando was having a terrible time.
Not because of football.
Football-wise, the move made perfect sense.
Better scheme. Better support system. Fresh start.
He repeated those reasons so many times during interviews they stopped sounding like real words.
The issue was that reporters kept bringing you up.
âExcited to reunite with Indiana gymnastics star y/n?â
Fernando nearly drove his forehead directly into the podium microphone.
âWeâre friends.â
The reporter stared at him.
Then very slowly:
âRight.â
Fernando visibly aged another decade.
The night before he arrived in Indiana, you couldnât sleep.
At all.
You tried.
Failed spectacularly.
By two in the morning you were fully horizontal on your bedroom floor staring at the ceiling while your roommate watched you with open amusement.
âYouâre acting like your husbandâs returning from war.â
âHeâs not my husband.â
âYouâve literally been in love with him since California.â
You sat up immediately. âI have not.â
She blinked once.
Then burst out laughing so hard she almost dropped her laptop.
âYou are actually adorable.â
You threw a pillow at her face.
Unfortunately, she was correct.
Because the truth was:
you hadnât seen Fernando in person in almost five months.
Five months of FaceTimes and texts and football interviews and gymnastics streams.
Five months of missing him so constantly it became background noise.
And now he was suddenly going to be here.
Actually here.
Close enough to touch again.
Dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
By the time morning arrived, your stomach was in complete rebellion.
You changed outfits three times before realizing you were behaving clinically insane.
âHe has literally seen you in sweatpants before,â your roommate reminded you.
âThat was California sweatpants. Different psychological environment.â
âThat sentence shouldâve been illegal.â
Maybe it should have been.
Because when you finally reached the athletic center and spotted Fernando standing outside beside a mountain of luggage, your brain stopped functioning anyway.
For a second you just stared.
The last few months had changed him slightly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to notice.
Broader shoulders.
Sharper jawline.
A little more confidence sitting beneath his posture now, even if exhaustion still lingered around the edges.
Then Fernando looked up.
And immediately smiled.
Not polite.
Not careful.
A real one.
Warm enough to hit you like physical force.
Your heartbeat tripped over itself violently.
âHi,â you breathed.
Fernando stared at you for one second too long before answering.
âHi.â
Neither of you moved.
This was absurd.
You talked every single day.
Why did this suddenly feel like seeing each other after deployment?
Fernando recovered first.
Barely.
âYou cut your hair.â
Your eyebrows lifted instantly. âThatâs the first thing you say to me?â
âI panicked.â
You burst out laughing.
God.
There it was.
That feeling.
Like your body recognized him before your brain did.
Fernandoâs expression softened immediately hearing your laugh.
Like some tension inside him loosened on instinct.
You stepped closer without thinking.
âSo,â you said lightly, âIndiana quarterback now.â
âStill feels weird.â
âYou look weird in red.â
âThatâs hurtful.â
âYouâll survive.â
âDebatable.â
The smile lingering on his mouth made your chest ache.
Youâd missed this.
Missed him.
More than you realized.
Before you could think too hard about it, impulse took over completely.
You launched yourself at him.
Fernando caught you automatically.
Exactly like always.
Strong arms wrapping around your waist in one smooth motion while your feet lifted briefly off the ground.
But this time felt different.
Because neither of you let go immediately.
Your arms stayed looped around his shoulders.
Fernandoâs hands remained steady against your waist.
Close.
Too close.
You became hyperaware of everything all at once.
The warmth of him.
The smell of his cologne beneath cold winter air.
The way his breathing hitched slightly when you settled against him.
And then, horrifyingly:
his thumb moved.
Just once.
A small unconscious swipe against your side.
Your stomach flipped so hard it bordered on medically concerning.
Fernando slowly set you back down.
Neither of you stepped away.
His hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary before dropping carefully to his sides.
Dangerous.
Again.
Always.
âYou look happy here,â he said quietly.
You looked up at him.
Really looked at him.
At the boy who crossed the country carrying exhaustion and hope and probably feelings he still refused to name properly.
And suddenly Indiana didnât feel temporary anymore.
âI am,â you admitted softly.
Fernando held your gaze.
Something shifted between you then.
Not dramatically.
Nothing obvious.
Just a subtle unraveling.
Like the distance that had protected both of you for years finally disappeared all at once.
Behind you, someone wolf-whistled loudly from the football entrance.
Both of you jumped apart immediately.
One of Fernandoâs new teammates grinned shamelessly.
âBro,â he called out. âYou didnât tell us she was real.â
Fernando looked moments away from walking directly into traffic.
You, unfortunately, started laughing so hard you had to grab his arm for balance.
Fernando glanced down at your hand wrapped around his sleeve.
Then at you.
And despite his embarrassment, he smiled too.
Soft.
Fond.
Gone the second anyone else looked too closely.
Indiana athletics became unbearable about the two of you almost immediately.
Not maliciously.
Just relentlessly.
Because apparently there was nothing college athletes loved more than watching two emotionally constipated people orbit each other for years without figuring it out.
âYou know he looks at you like a rescued dog seeing sunlight for the first time, right?â one of your teammates asked casually during stretching.
You almost tore a hamstring.
âWhat does that even mean?â
âIt means that man is down catastrophically.â
Across campus, the football team was somehow worse.
Fernando made the mistake of mentioning your name exactly one time during film review.
One.
And suddenly his teammates acted like they were witnessing a live-action romance novel.
âGymnastics girl texting you again?â
âShe has a name.â
âOHHHHH.â
Fernando regretted speaking instantly.
Unfortunately for him, things only escalated from there.
Because once Fernando Mendoza settled into Indiana, he started existing around you the way gravity existed around planets.
Constantly.
Naturally.
Inevitably.
He walked you home after late practices.
Showed up to meets carrying coffee and protein bars because âyou forget to eat when youâre stressed.â
Sat beside you during study hall with his knee pressed lightly against yours under the table like it meant nothing.
And the problem was:
Fernando loved through consistency.
Not grand gestures.
Tiny things.
Accumulating things.
Like the fact he automatically handed you the pickles off his sandwich because he remembered you liked them.
Or how heâd pause football film every twenty minutes to ask if your ankle was bothering you.
Or the way he learned the names of your gymnastics skills so thoroughly he started critiquing landings like someoneâs deeply invested suburban father.
âYou had too much chest forward on the landing there,â he informed you one night.
You stared at him in disbelief. âYou are a quarterback.â
Fernando shrugged calmly from your couch. âI contain multitudes.â
âYou contain psychological warfare.â
He grinned.
Actually grinned.
God.
That smile was becoming a problem.
The first real almost happened during Indianaâs season opener.
The atmosphere inside Memorial Stadium felt electric.
Students screaming.
Music shaking the stands.
Camera flashes exploding across the field every few seconds.
And in the center of all of it stood Fernando in crimson and cream looking terrifyingly good under stadium lights.
Which was rude of him, honestly.
You sat with his family during the game because somewhere over the years his parents had simply started treating you like additional offspring.
His mother grabbed your hand every time Indiana scored.
His younger brother kept yelling:
âTHATâS MY QUARTERBACK.â
Technically true.
Emotionally annoying.
And Fernando?
Fernando played like someone finally breathing properly for the first time in years.
Loose.
Confident.
Happy.
You noticed it immediately.
Every pass looked sharper. Every movement more certain. The tension that followed him through his final months at Cal had loosened visibly from his shoulders.
At halftime, he glanced toward the stands searching automatically.
And the second he spotted you?
His entire face softened.
The cameras caught that too.
Obviously.
Because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating both of you publicly.
Your phone exploded instantly.
ROOMMATE:
girl that man looked at you like you personally invented happiness
You locked your phone immediately.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Indiana won by fourteen.
The stadium erupted afterward.
Students flooded the lower sections while the marching band blasted fight songs loud enough to rattle your bones.
You barely made it halfway toward the tunnel before Fernando spotted you.
And suddenly there he was.
Still sweaty from the game.
Helmet tucked under one arm.
Joy radiating off him so brightly it almost startled you.
âYou were incredible,â you told him honestly.
Fernando laughed breathlessly. âItâs one game.â
âYeah, and you looked like a completely different person out there.â
Something softened in his expression.
Then quieter:
âI think I needed this.â
The honesty in his voice wrapped tightly around your chest.
You stepped closer instinctively.
âSo did I.â
For a second, the noise around you faded strangely.
Fernando looked down at you with that same expression he always got when he forgot other people existed nearby.
Too focused.
Too warm.
Your pulse kicked hard against your ribs.
Then his hand settled against your waist automatically.
Like it belonged there.
Your breath caught immediately.
Fernando froze too.
Neither of you moved.
The air shifted.
Again.
Always again.
You could feel the warmth of his palm even through your jacket.
His eyes flicked toward your mouth.
Your stomach flipped violently.
One second longer and something irreversible probably wouldâve happened.
Instead:
âMENDOZA!â
A reporter appeared out of nowhere like a demon summoned specifically to ruin your lives.
Fernando blinked hard.
His hand dropped immediately.
The moment shattered.
Again.
Always.
âYou mind answering a few questions?â the reporter asked.
Fernando still looked slightly dazed. âUh. Yeah.â
You stepped backward carefully, trying to ignore the fact your heartbeat was now actively attempting escape.
The reporter grinned between the two of you knowingly.
You considered faking your own death.
Fernando rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before glancing toward you again.
âYou waiting for me after?â
The question came out hopeful enough to hurt.
Your chest tightened instantly.
âObviously.â
His smile after that followed you around for three straight days.
Later that night, you sat beside him on the hood of his car outside the stadium long after everyone else had gone home.
Cold autumn air drifted through the parking lot while campus lights glowed softly in the distance.
Fernando leaned back against the windshield beside you, exhausted in the loose-limbed way that only happened after good games.
âYou know,â you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, âIndiana fans are already obsessed with you.â
âTheyâre obsessed with winning.â
âMm. No. They specifically like you.â
Fernando made a skeptical face.
You laughed softly. âYouâre charming when youâre not trying to be.â
âThat sounds fake.â
âItâs unfortunately very real.â
A quiet smile tugged at his mouth.
Then silence settled again.
Comfortable silence.
The kind the two of you had built over years.
Fernando stared up at the night sky for a while before speaking softly.
âI almost didnât transfer.â
Your head turned immediately.
âWhat?â
He shrugged slightly. âIt was scary.â
âLeaving Cal?â
âLeaving everything I knew.â
Your chest tightened.
Because suddenly you understood exactly what he wasnât saying.
Leaving you there wouldâve hurt too much.
The realization sat heavily between your ribs.
Fernando glanced toward you again, voice quieter now.
âBut every time I pictured stayingâŚâ He hesitated briefly. âIt just stopped feeling right.â
Your heartbeat slowed painfully.
Cold air curled around both of you while the stadium lights hummed softly nearby.
âAnd Indiana did?â you asked.
Fernando looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
Like the answer lived directly in front of him.
âYeah,â he said softly.
And for one terrifying second, you thought he might finally say it.
He didnât say it.
Of course he didnât.
Because apparently the universe had decided the two of you would spend the rest of your lives hovering one emotional sentence away from changing everything.
Instead, Fernando Mendoza looked away first.
Then cleared his throat like the moment hadnât just nearly detonated both your nervous systems.
âYou cold?â he asked.
You stared at him in disbelief.
âFernando.â
âWhat?â
âYou cannot say something devastatingly romantic and then immediately ask if Iâm cold.â
His eyebrows lifted innocently. âI asked a normal question.â
âYou absolutely did not.â
A laugh escaped him then.
Soft. Genuine.
The sound wrapped warmly around your chest in the dangerous way only Fernandoâs laughter could.
âYou never answer questions directly,â you accused.
âThatâs not true.â
âYou once avoided telling me your favorite movie for six months.â
âI needed time.â
âTo develop an opinion on a movie?â
âIt was complicated.â
You snorted.
Fernando smiled at you for a second too long before leaning back against the windshield again.
And just like that, the moment passed.
Sort of.
Not really.
Because afterward, things shifted anyway.
Subtly at first.
Then all at once.
The problem with unresolved feelings was that eventually they started leaking into everything.
Especially once you lived in the same place again.
You and Fernando fell back into each otherâs routines with alarming ease.
Like distance had only paused something inevitable instead of stopping it.
And Fernando, unfortunately, had become even worse at hiding how much he loved you.
Not verbally.
Never verbally.
But physically?
Emotionally?
Disastrously obvious.
He looked for you constantly.
You noticed it during games first.
Every single time Fernando ran onto the field, his eyes searched the stands automatically until they found you.
Only then would he settle.
Like your existence physically calmed him.
His teammates noticed too.
âOh my god,â one receiver muttered during warmups after following Fernandoâs line of sight into the crowd. âHeâs actually insane.â
Meanwhile, your own team had fully given up pretending you werenât basically together already.
âYou know whatâs funny?â your teammate Lily said during conditioning one morning.
âNo.â
âIf Fernando proposed tomorrow, none of us would even blink.â
You nearly dropped a medicine ball directly onto your foot.
âHeâs not going to propose!â
Lily stared at you.
âBabes, you two practically share custody of emotional stability.â
âThat sentence means nothing.â
âIt means marry him faster.â
You hated how warm your face became afterward.
Because part of you wanted that.
Terrifyingly badly.
Not marriage specifically.
Okay maybe a little specifically.
But the idea of permanence with Fernando had started feeling less frightening lately.
And more inevitable.
Which was arguably worse.
The first real crack in your self-control happened in November.
Gymnastics season was approaching fast, meaning your stress levels had reached medically concerning heights.
Your coach adjusted three separate routines that week. Midterms were crushing you alive. Your ankle had started bothering you again during landings.
By Thursday night, you were exhausted enough to cry over a broken hair tie.
So naturally, Fernando showed up.
Because somehow he always knew.
You opened your apartment door to find him standing there holding takeout bags and looking vaguely concerned.
âYou forgot dinner again.â
Your eyes narrowed immediately. âAre you tracking me?â
âYou posted a photo from the gym six hours ago.â
âThat proves nothing.â
âIt proves youâre surviving exclusively on caffeine.â
He stepped inside before you could argue further.
Warm food smells instantly filled the apartment while you collapsed dramatically onto the couch.
Fernando glanced around at your scattered notes and textbooks.
âRough week?â
âIâm going to fake my death.â
âThat feels excessive.â
âYouâll understand when I become a mysterious gym cryptid living in the forest.â
Fernando laughed quietly while unpacking food containers onto your coffee table.
Then, without even thinking about it, he handed you a fork already prepared exactly the way you liked.
No onions.
Extra sauce.
Napkins because you always forgot them.
Tiny things.
Always tiny things.
Your chest ached suddenly.
Fernando sat beside you afterward, shoulder brushing yours naturally while football highlights played softly from the TV neither of you were actually watching.
For a while, the silence felt peaceful.
Then your phone buzzed.
You glanced down.
Unknown number.
You frowned slightly before opening the message.
hey, this is ethan from psych class
a bunch of us are going out friday if you wanna come
Fernando didnât react outwardly.
But beside you, his entire posture went subtly still.
You noticed immediately.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
âOh my god,â you groaned dramatically. âNot another one.â
Fernando looked at the TV with suspicious intensity. âAnother what?â
âA guy asking me out.â
Too casual.
You said it too casually on purpose.
Fernando nodded once.
Still staring forward.
âNice.â
You blinked slowly.
Nice?
That was the response?
Your irritation flared instantly for reasons that were absolutely irrational and deeply embarrassing.
âNice?â you repeated.
Fernando finally glanced over. âWhat?â
âThatâs your reaction?â
âWhat reaction am I supposed to have?â
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Excellent question actually.
Because what reaction did you want?
For him to look jealous?
Upset?
Possessive?
Your stomach flipped uncomfortably.
Fernando watched your expression carefully now.
Too carefully.
âYou donât wanna go?â he asked softly.
âThatâs not the point.â
âThen what is?â
The room suddenly felt too warm.
You looked away first.
âI donât know.â
Silence settled heavily between you.
The football game continued faintly in the background while your pulse thudded unevenly beneath your ribs.
Then quieter, Fernando asked:
âDo you like him?â
You almost laughed.
The question felt absurd.
âNo.â
âThen donât go.â
Your eyes snapped toward him instantly.
Fernando looked like he regretted speaking the second the words left his mouth.
Too honest.
Too fast.
Your heartbeat stumbled violently.
âWhat if I wanted to?â you asked carefully.
A long pause.
Then:
ââŚIâd still tell you not to.â
The air changed immediately.
Fernando realized it too.
You could see panic flicker across his face as he sat up slightly straighter.
âI just mean,â he started quickly, âyouâre stressed and busy andââ
âFernando.â
He stopped.
Your voice came out quieter than intended.
âWhy do you care?â
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Heavy enough to feel.
Fernando looked at you for a long moment without answering.
And suddenly your entire chest tightened because for the first time in years, it seemed like maybe he actually might say it.
Finally.
Maybe finally.
Fernando looked terrified.
Not of you.
Never of you.
Of the moment itself.
Like he could physically see the edge both of you had been circling for years and suddenly realized one wrong sentence would send everything over it.
The silence stretched between you, thick and electric.
You could hear the faint commentary from the football game still playing in the background. The hum of your refrigerator. Your own heartbeat pounding hard enough to be medically alarming.
And Fernando justâŚlooked at you.
Dark eyes steady.
Guard completely cracked open for once.
âBecause,â Fernando Mendoza said slowly, âI donât think Iâm very good at pretending anymore.â
Your breath caught.
Every muscle in your body went still.
Fernando laughed softly then, but it sounded nervous. Almost disbelieving.
âHonestly,â he admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, âI think I stopped being good at pretending a long time ago.â
Your chest physically hurt now.
âFernandoâŚâ
âI know,â he interrupted immediately. âI know this is probably a terrible idea.â
âThen why are you saying it?â
His eyes met yours again.
And there it was.
Years of it.
Every airport goodbye.
Every late-night call.
Every almost-kiss.
Every lingering touch and held-back confession and moment that meant too much.
âYou wanna know the truth?â he asked quietly.
You nodded before fear could stop you.
Fernando exhaled once.
Then:
âI transferred here for football.â A pause. âBut not just for football.â
The room tilted slightly.
Your stomach flipped violently.
âFernandoâŚâ
âI tried to talk myself out of it.â His voice remained calm somehow, even while his expression absolutely wasnât. âI told myself it was the offensive system. The coaching staff. NFL development.â A helpless laugh escaped him. âAnd all of those things are true.â
âBut?â you whispered.
His eyes softened instantly.
âBut every future I wanted somehow still had you in it.â
That nearly shattered you.
You looked away immediately because your vision blurred all at once.
God.
God.
For years youâd imagined this conversation differently.
More dramatic maybe.
Cleaner.
Certain.
Instead it felt terrifyingly vulnerable.
Like standing in the middle of something enormous with nowhere left to hide.
Fernando noticed your silence instantly and panic flashed across his face.
âHey,â he said quickly, shifting closer. âYou donât have to say anything right now.â
That somehow made it worse.
Because even now, even while confessing feelings heâd clearly carried forever, his first instinct was still protecting you from pressure.
Your throat tightened painfully.
âYou idiot,â you whispered shakily.
Fernando blinked. âThatâsâŚnot ideal feedback.â
A laugh escaped you unexpectedly.
Wet and breathless and tangled with tears.
Fernandoâs entire expression softened seeing it.
And suddenly you couldnât take it anymore.
Years.
Years of this.
You turned toward him fully on the couch, heart pounding so hard you could barely breathe.
âI have been in love with you,â you confessed quietly, âfor an actually humiliating amount of time.â
Fernando froze.
Completely.
Like his brain stopped functioning mid-thought.
âWhat?â
You laughed once through your tears. âSee? This is why weâre a disaster. Weâve both apparently been losing our minds in silence for years.â
Fernando stared at you.
Still frozen.
âYouâŚâ He blinked rapidly. âSince when?â
You gave him an incredulous look.
âFernando.â
âNo, seriously.â
âTHE PERFECT TEN.â
His eyebrows furrowed. âWhat?â
âWhen I jumped into your arms after my perfect 10 and you looked at me like you were about to ruin both our lives.â
Realization crashed across his face instantly.
âOh my god.â
âYEAH.â
âI thought I imagined that!â
âYou absolutely did not.â
Fernando covered his face with both hands.
âYouâre kidding.â
âI spent three straight days replaying it in my head.â
âI almost kissed you.â
âI KNOW.â
Silence.
Then both of you started laughing at the exact same time.
Not graceful laughter either.
The slightly hysterical kind that comes after holding tension for far too long.
Fernando dropped his hands slowly, still staring at you like he couldnât fully process this was real.
âYou loved me at Cal?â he asked softly.
You looked at him for a second before answering.
âThere was never really anyone else for me.â
The honesty of it settled heavily between you.
Fernandoâs expression changed instantly.
Something tender.
Something wrecked.
Your heart stumbled.
âYou have no idea,â he said quietly, âhow many times I almost told you.â
âYou have no idea how many times I almost begged you to.â
That did it.
Something in Fernandoâs restraint finally snapped.
Not wildly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He moved toward you slowly, carefully, like he was still giving you time to change your mind.
You didnât.
Not even slightly.
His hand lifted gently toward your face before hesitating for half a second.
You leaned into it immediately.
Fernando exhaled shakily at that.
And then finally,
finally,
he kissed you.
Soft at first.
Careful in that devastatingly Fernando way.
Like he was still worried this might somehow disappear if he moved too fast.
But the second your fingers tangled into the front of his sweatshirt, something deeper unraveled completely.
Years of longing crashed together all at once.
Fernando kissed like he loved:
patiently,
earnestly,
with his entire heart exposed.
Your hands slid into his hair while his thumb brushed against your cheek so gently it nearly ruined you.
And when you finally pulled apart, both of you looked equally stunned.
Fernando rested his forehead lightly against yours, still holding your face carefully in both hands.
âWell,â he breathed.
You laughed shakily. âYeah.â
âI think Iâve wanted to do that since freshman year.â
âYou waited an insane amount of time.â
âI was trying to be respectful.â
âYou were trying to psychologically torture me.â
That earned a real laugh from him.
Warm and helpless and happy in a way youâd never heard before.
Then Fernando looked at you again.
Really looked at you.
Wonder mixed with relief mixed with something almost disbelieving.
âYouâre actually here,â he said softly.
Your chest tightened instantly.
âSo are you.â
And for the first time in years,
neither of you had to pretend anymore.
The first thing Fernando Mendoza said the morning after you kissed him was:
âI think my team is gonna be unbearable about this.â
You laughed into his chest from where you were half-asleep against him on your couch.
âThatâs your biggest concern?â
Fernando looked down at you seriously. âYou havenât seen how committed they are to humiliating me.â
âFernando, your linebacker called me âfuture Mrs. Mendozaâ before we were even dating.â
âHeâs been preparing for this moment since August.â
A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.
Dating Fernando didnât feel dramatic the way you always imagined it might.
It feltâŚeasy.
Like finally putting down something heavy you didnât realize youâd been carrying for years.
There was no awkward adjustment period.
No uncertainty.
Just relief.
Relief in reaching for his hand openly.
Relief in kissing him goodbye without pretending it meant less than it did.
Relief in finally hearing him say things heâd been holding back forever.
Like:
âText me when you get home.â
Or:
âYou looked beautiful tonight.â
Or, your personal favorite:
âI love you.â
The first time he said it happened accidentally.
Which somehow made it more Fernando.
You were sitting on the floor of his apartment halfway through helping him study red zone adjustments when he stood up to grab water from the kitchen.
âCan you hand me that notebook?â he called.
You tossed it toward him badly.
Fernando caught it against his chest with a startled laugh. âYou absolutely would not survive as a quarterback.â
âRude.â
âYou throw like someone afraid of the football personally.â
âAgain: rude.â
He grinned while opening the notebook. âStill love you though.â
Silence.
Fernando froze instantly.
You stared at him.
He stared at you.
The poor man looked like he wanted to physically rewind time.
âIâŚâ Fernando blinked rapidly. âOkay, so apparently thatâs how Iâm saying it.â
Your heart melted so violently it shouldâve been studied scientifically.
You stood up immediately.
âCâmere.â
Fernando still looked stunned as you walked toward him.
âYou donât have to say it back right away,â he said quickly. âI mean, obviously weâve established feelings are happening, I just didnât plan for the actual wording to happen while discussing defensive coverage.â
You grabbed his face before he could continue spiraling.
âI love you too.â
Fernando went completely still.
Not nervous-still.
Not shocked-still.
Just overwhelmed.
Like happiness hit him so hard he forgot how to function for a second.
Then he kissed you with enough emotion behind it to leave your knees weak.
Afterward, he buried his face briefly against your shoulder and muttered:
âThank God.â
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped his notebook again.
The internet, unfortunately, also found out eventually.
Not because either of you announced it.
Mostly because Fernando looked at you like a man witnessing divine intervention every time you entered a room.
Hard to hide, really.
The official confirmation happened after Indiana beat Michigan in a game that basically turned campus into a temporary lawless nation-state.
The stadium erupted afterward.
Students stormed the field.
Reporters screamed over each other.
Someone climbed a light pole for reasons nobody fully understood.
And in the center of all of it stood Fernando, grinning so brightly it almost didnât look real.
You barely made it through the crowd before he spotted you.
Then immediately started moving in your direction.
Like always.
Only this time there was no hesitation.
No almost.
Fernando reached you, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you right there in the middle of the chaos while cameras absolutely lost their minds around you.
The stadium somehow got louder.
Somewhere nearby, one of his teammates yelled:
âITâS ABOUT TIME.â
By morning, social media had detonated completely.
THEY FINALLY DID IT
WE SURVIVED THE SLOWEST BURN IN NCAA HISTORY
HE TRANSFERRED ACROSS THE COUNTRY FOR HER YOUR HONOR
Edits flooded the internet within hours.
Old Cal clips.
Sideline moments.
Interviews where Fernando visibly forgot how sentences worked around you.
Videos of you wearing his jersey.
Footage of him at your gymnastics meets looking one proud smile away from ascending into heaven.
Your favorite edit used a clip from freshman year.
The hallway.
The dropped papers.
Fernando smiling shyly while you laughed at him for color-coding playbooks.
You stared at it for a long moment before showing him.
âOh my god,â Fernando groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. âWhy do people have archival footage of us?â
âBecause apparently weâre a public service.â
âYou bullied me the first day we met.â
âYou were carrying enough binders to qualify as a structural hazard.â
Fernando laughed softly against your shoulder.
Then quieter:
âI knew pretty fast.â
Your breath caught slightly. âKnew what?â
He lifted his head enough to look at you properly.
âThat you were gonna matter to me.â
God.
Even now he could still do that to you.
Still unravel you completely with one soft sentence.
You touched his face gently. âYou matter to me too, quarterback.â
Fernando smiled.
Not shy anymore.
Not uncertain.
Just happy.
Steady.
Certain.
The kind of happiness that had taken years to reach you both.
Spring arrived slowly after that.
Gymnastics season ended with you winning a national title.
Fernando cried harder than your parents did.
âI am literally fine,â you informed him while he hugged you after the medal ceremony.
âYou stuck that landing under insane pressure,â he argued emotionally. âDo you understand how difficult that is?â
âYou sound like a sports documentary narrator.â
âYouâre making fun of me during a vulnerable moment.â
âCorrect.â
He kissed your forehead anyway.
Later that night, long after interviews and celebrations ended, the two of you slipped away from the noise and walked across campus together beneath soft Indiana spring air.
No cameras.
No crowds.
No expectations.
Just you and Fernando.
His hand stayed warm around yours while campus lights glowed gold across quiet sidewalks.
âYou know whatâs weird?â he said eventually.
âWhat?â
Fernando glanced down at you with a small smile.
âI spent years thinking telling you how I felt would ruin everything.â
Your chest tightened softly.
âAnd now?â
He squeezed your hand once.
âNow I think you were the best thing that ever happened to me.â
You looked up at him.
At the boy from the hallway floor.
The quarterback with color-coded playbooks and careful eyes.
The person who loved quietly until suddenly it wasnât quiet at all anymore.
Then you smiled.
âYeah,â you said softly. âYou were worth the wait.â
And this time,
finally,
there was no almost left between you.
A/N: thank you so much for reading! reblogs are very appreciated :3
little taste of monaco â fašâ´
fernando x fem!reader
requested by no one
fluff + smau
Image by @pabliNx_s on Pinterest! All images are off pinterest!
synopsis: simple days before the monaco gp and even when he dnfs due to a car failure, he never ceases to keep pushing to the best of his ability
note: all instagrams used besides the drivers/wags are fake
instagram.post â yourinstagram has posted!
caption: still don't know how you found this boat in monaco.. @fernandoalo_official
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fernandoalo_official: đ¤Ť
yourinstagram: nando, seriously.. where did you get this boat?
fernandoalo_official: amor, we don't need to discuss this on the gram
yourinstagram: SORRY WHAT? the gram?
user1: ya'll see alonso use the word 'gram'
vfx_de: chat, are we serious rn đ
lancestroll: how's the weather down there old man?
freeda.likes.jack: nah, alonso i wouldn't take that..
yourinstagram: if he's old, that makes me old too lance..
lancestroll: you're never old, only your husband is
alexandrasaintmleux: omg you guys are in monaco?
yourinstagram: yess!! soaking up the rays before the race this weekend
alexandrasaintmleux: omg you both need to visit charles, leo and i đŤśđź
yourinstagram: omg we def will!!
instagram.post â yourinstagram has posted!
caption: as if he doesn't take me out enough.. thank you for the surprise dinner amor @fernandoalo_official
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yourbsf: hmm, all in monaco huh.. maybe just maybe..
yourinstagram: babes.. we're alreaedy married đ¤Śââď¸
yourbsf: ik ik, i was just shit-stirring
user038498930283: LMAO
charles_leclerc: enjoy dinner guys âşď¸
yourinstagram: aww tysm charles, we're visiting you guys tomorrow before all the chaos on thursday đŤśđź
alexandrasaintmleux: omg i can't wait!!
rollingstones.lover: omg i smell a collab coming..
user348934598347: omg right..??!!
instagram.post â yourinstagram has posted!
caption: he sure likes the toy we got him @fernandoalo_official
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alexandrasaintmleux: omg tysm you guys, he loved it đĽş
yourinstagram: omg our pleasure, he's the sweetest
fernandoalo_official: are we forgetting he attacked me..
yourinstagram: yes
charles_leclerc: yes
lancestroll: deserved
uummwwhhaatt: LEO DID WHAT NOW?
feryer12_: omg man down man down đ
hugholiver_peers: are we forgetting his own wife said yes?? đ
dreyhsre: the way he's sleeping on her.. đŤśđź
pprxs: ikr they're so cute
instagram.story â yourinstagram has added to story!
instagram.post â yourinstagram has posted!
caption: i don't know what those two were doing.. but media day! đ @fernandoalo_official @pedrodelarosa_official
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fernandoalo_official: Amor mĂo, ÂżcĂłmo conseguiste esta foto? (My love, how did you get this photo?)
yourinstagram: nando.. i was the one who took it..
lancestroll: uhm.. where was my invite
yourinstagram: jessica and tina thought it was you at first đ
lancestroll: oh no..
user89348394832: alonso getting a lil too intimate with that glass..
yourinstagram: *sigh* it's never like that..
yourbsf: BABES WHAT?
yoursibling: what the hell.. that's too much info đ
yourinstagram: GUYS IT'S NOT WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE I SWEAR
yoursibling: sure..
yourbsf: YOU LIL FREAKY GIRL
astonmartinf1: in their natural habitats
yourinstagram: no cause they are!!
astonmartinf1: send me that photo
yourinstagram: ofc admin! đ
fernandoalo_official: What, amor?
instagram.post â yourinstagram has posted!
caption: guess who stole their husband's new shirt for qualifyingđ¤
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astonmartinf1: omg gurl, if you needed a shirt you should have told us
yourinstagram: noo it's okay! stealing fernando's makes me feel better
fernandoalo_official: How have I never realised they've gone missing? I always think I lose them.
yourinstagram: shhh.. đ¤Ť
yourbsf: awww so cutee, i do that too!
yourinstagram: see! i'm not the only one @fernandoalo_official
lancestroll: you know i have plenty of new ones right? never worn.
yourinstagram: it's okay, give them to nando.
lancestroll: won't you end up just taking them?
yourinstagram: that's exactly why you should give them to him.
fernandoalo_official: I should just stop bringing shirts home altogether..
yourinstagram: you baarely wear them anyways..
fernandoalo_official: That's because you always steal them as soon as I place them on the bed!
edith.fern: LMFAO
user8497345927020: typical wife behaviour!! đ
instagram.story â yourinstagram has added to story!
instagram.post â yourinstagram has posted!
caption: after that weekend, we're off to our next race/adventure âď¸ @fernandoalo_official
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astonmartinf1: safe travels đ
yourinstagram: omg thank you admin!
yoursibling: i hope the plane crashes
yourinstagram: what the hell đ i hope mum or dad see your comment
yourparent: who says we haven't
fernandoalo_official: Hola mamĂĄ o papĂĄ
yoursibling: i didn't mean it, duhh
yourinstagram: not like me or nando got your favourite teams merch or whatever
yoursibling: WHAT NO FAIR.
yourinstagram: you bought this on yourself đ¤
fernandoalo_official: La prĂłxima vez que hagamos un vuelo de muchas horas, elegirĂŠ la pelĂcula. (Next time we go on a long houred flight, i'm picking the movie.)
yourinstagram: you literally chose the movie..
fernandoalo_official: Did I?
yourinstagram: yes amor.. you did
Summary: When you accidentally witness something you were never meant to, Thiago Di Bianco chooses intimidation over trust. You choose not to be afraid. What starts as silent hostility turns into a dangerous pull neither of you expectedâbecause some wars arenât fought loudly, and some lines are crossed without either side realizing it.
Pairing: Thiago Di Bianco x fem!reader (you)
Warning: None
Tags: A quiet girl who loves books and poetry. A broken assistant coach. Angst. Enemies to lovers. Hurt/comfort vibes. Using the word (name). Authority Figure Conflict.
Word count: 2.1k
Author's note: I couldnât find a Thiago fanfic anywhere, so this happened. I know the movie is a little cringe at times, but Thiago and Taylor absolutely are not skippable. Also, Iâm back after a long while. To everyone who sent requestsâthank you for waiting, and Iâm sorry I havenât been able to reply to each of you yet đ¤
The first time Thiago Di Bianco speaks to you, it isn't a conversation. It's a border drawn in the cold air of the empty school corridor, long after the final bell has rung.
He finds you at your locker, your fingers stained with ink from the poetry anthology youâd been annotating. You sense him before you see himâa shift in the light, a presence that seems to absorb the sound from the hall. When you turn, heâs there, leaning against the row of lockers opposite, his arms crossed over his coachâs jacket. His eyes, the colour of a storm over the sea, hold no warmth.
â(Name).â Your name is a statement, not a greeting. It sounds foreign in his mouth, like heâs testing a word he doesnât like. âWe need to talk.â
You close your locker slowly, the metallic click echoing. âMr. Di Bianco.â You keep your voice neutral, a librarianâs tone. âIs there a problem with my history paper?â
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He ignores your question. âI saw you. Yesterday. Outside the gym.â
You know what he means. Youâd seen themâThiago and Kamila, standing too close in the shadow of the equipment room. The air between them had been so charged it felt like a physical thing, a crackle of unsaid words and old ghosts. You hadnât lingered. You hadnât wanted to. But you had seen.
âI was on my way to the library,â you say, which is true, but feels like a lie under his intense scrutiny.
âWhat you think you saw,â he begins, pushing off the lockers to stand at his full height. Heâs taller up close, and the scent of himâ clean cotton and something darker, like regret, washes over you. âItâs not what it looks like. Kami⌠Kamila is dealing with enough. She doesnât need rumours. This school doesnât need more gossip.â
The protectiveness in his voice is sharp, edged with something desperate. Itâs the tone of a man guarding a fortress thatâs already fallen. It annoys you, this presumption.
âIâm not in the business of creating rumours, Mr. Di Bianco,â you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âI have better things to do with my time.â
He steps forward, just one step, but itâs enough to invade your space. âGood. Then we understand each other. Keep what you saw to yourself. For everyoneâs sake.â
Something snaps quietly inside you. Youâve spent your life observing, navigating the emotional minefields of others with careful silence. But thisâ this blatant intimidation from a man who is supposed to be an authority figure, it feels unclean.
You look up, meeting his stormy gaze without flinching. Your voice drops, but it gains a new steel. âWhat I understand,â you say softly, each word deliberate, âis that you are trying to silence a potential witness to something you feel ashamed of. I understand that you are using your position not to guide, but to threaten. And I understand, most clearly, that a man who resorts to this doesnât deserve the respect his title demands.â
The silence that follows is absolute, deafening. His face goes pale, then a flush of anger rises on his neck. Youâve struck a nerve, exposed a raw truth heâs been running from for a decade. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the sudden, wounded flicker in his eyes before the shutters slam down again.
He doesnât speak. He just stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. Not as a background student, not as a potential gossip, but as a tangible threat to the fragile narrative heâs built his survival upon.
You give him a final, measured look. âIf thereâs nothing else about my academic work, I have to go. Good evening, Mr. Di Bianco.â
You walk away, your heart hammering against your ribs. You donât look back, but you feel his gaze burning into your retreating form, a brand of newfound and unwanted attention.
---
The war is silent after that. Itâs fought in glances across the cafeteria, where he sits with the coaching staff and you sit with a book. Itâs in the way heâs unfairly strict during the one P.E. class you canât avoid, his critiques of your basketball technique sharp and personal. Itâs in the essays he returns to youâyou, the top student in Historyâmarked with unusually harsh, red-inked comments that speak more of his irritation than your comprehension.
You refuse to yield. You meet his harshness with icy, impeccable politeness. You correct his factual errors in class with a calm, devastating precision that makes the other students gasp. You become a quiet, immovable object to his unstoppable force.
The turning point comes on a rain-slicked afternoon. Youâre in the schoolâs neglected greenhouse for your botany project, the humid air thick with the scent of soil and growing things. He finds you there, not by design, you think. He looks lost, his hair damp from the rain, his coachâs jacket clinging to his broad shoulders. Heâs come here to escape, you realise. Just like you.
For a long moment, he just stands at the entrance, watching you gently repot a fledgling orchid.
âYouâre not afraid of me,â he states, his voice rough.
You donât look up. âShould I be?â
âMost people are. Or they tiptoe around me like Iâm a live wire.â
âIâm not most people.â You finally glance at him. He looks exhausted, the shadows under his eyes pronounced. The angry facade has crumbled, leaving behind something hollow and achingly young. âAnd youâre not as frightening as you think you are. Youâre just⌠very sad.â
He flinches as if youâve struck him. No one has ever said it so plainly. Not to his face.
He takes a step inside, the glass door sighing shut behind him. âYou donât know anything about me.â
âI know you carry a guilt so heavy itâs bending your spine,â you say, turning back to your plant, your fingers steady though your pulse races. âI know you punish everyone around you for a crime you think you committed. Starting, it seems, with me.â
The rain drums a frantic rhythm on the glass roof. He sinks onto a rusty bench, his head in his hands. âYou have no idea what Iâve done. What I failed to do.â
You set down your trowel and walk over, sitting on the bench opposite him, leaving a careful space between. You donât touch him. You just offer your presence, a silent witness in this glass-walled confessional.
âI saw the accident report,â you say quietly. Youâd looked it up in the old digital archives of the local paper after your confrontation. A tragic crash on a stormy night. A young girl lost. A family ripped apart. âI read between the lines. It wasnât your fault.â
He lets out a sound thatâs half laugh, half sob. âEverything is my fault. If I hadnât⌠if we hadnât seen⌠if I had just kept my mouth shut, or held the wheel, orâŚâ
The story pours out of him then, in fractured, pained sentences. The perfect neighbour, the hidden affair, the birthday party from hell, the shattered trust, the panicked flight in the rain. The loss. The all-consuming, decade-old loss.
You listen. You donât offer platitudes. You donât tell him itâs okay. Because itâs not. When heâs finished, spent and raw, the greenhouse is filled with a different kind of silenceâsofter, shared.
âYou were a child,â you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. âYou all were. Children in a storm made by adults. You didnât drive the car, Thiago.â
Itâs the first time youâve used his first name. It hangs in the humid air between you, a bridge.
He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. He searches your face, looking for pity, for judgment. He finds only a quiet, unwavering understanding.
âWhy?â he rasps. âWhy do you even care? After how I treated you?â
You consider the question, tracing the pattern of condensation on the bench beside you. âBecause someone has to see you,â you say simply. âNot the assistant coach. Not the tragic older brother. Not Kamilaâs lost love. Just you. The man whoâs been in the dark for so long, heâs forgotten what the light looks like.â
Something shifts in the space between you. The enemy lines blur, then dissolve entirely. The tension that was once hostile transforms, heating into something else entirelyâa magnetic pull, dangerous and undeniable.
He reaches out, slowly, as if moving through deep water. His fingers, calloused from basketballs and years of clenched fists, brush a strand of hair that has escaped your braid, tucking it gently behind your ear. The touch is electric, a shock that travels straight to your core.
â(Name).â he whispers, and this time your name is a prayer, a question.
You donât have an answer. Not yet. But when his gaze drops to your lips, you donât pull away. The world narrows to the sound of the rain, the scent of earth and him, and the terrifying, beautiful precipice you are both about to fall from.
The war is over. Something far more perilous has just begun.