synopsis ━ two months into your new relationship, klara is worried when you start pulling away randomly... unaware that you are silently battling a pain that you've spent years hiding from everyone.
notes ━ warnings include angst, pain (endometriosis), and sexuality talk
a familiar twist in your gut wakes up your mind before your eyes had the chance to process your surroundings in your bedroom. it is the gut twist that starts slowly and blooms outward like spilled ink.
it’s the third day, the worst day, when the pain decides it wants to be the only thing in your world that exists.
your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet and you’re already curled on your side, knees drawn up, one arm pressed hard against the ache that radiates from your pelvis to your lower back.
breathing feels like work and moving feels impossible since your body seems to be on survival mode... from its own self.
your phone lights up on the nightstand and it is klara, around twenty minutes after you woke up to your individual battle.
good morning, liebling ❤️ we have training at nine, but then i thought we could grab breakfast after with obi and nat? I miss your face already
while laying in your bed, you reach your hand out and flip your phone screen up... seeing the message appear as a priority on your lockscreen.
you stare at the message until the screen dims, since two months ago you would’ve grinned like an idiot and typed back something flirty and quick. two months ago you were still in the honeymoon haze of finally dating the girl you’d been talking to for almost a year, the one whose laugh made your chest feel too small and your lungs hurt from laughter pain.
now you just feel… guilty.
you type with one thumb, slow.
morning. think i’m gonna head straight to the facility today after training. I didn’t sleep great... see you there?
the three dots appear from klara, then vanish, appear again.
everything okay?
yeah, just tired. I think I slept on my side wrong... I promise.
you hate lying to klara, the one who always tells you the truth (even if it is brutally honest) but you hate the way your stomach knots tighter because of it.
"thankfully" (it is not a good thing) you’ve gotten good at this over the years where you can smile and lie through the nausea on match days while taking the maximum dose of ibuprofen before warm-ups while laughing in the locker room like nothing’s wrong while the cramps claw at you from the inside.
you’ve played ninety minutes with blood running down your legs before, back when you were nineteen and terrified of being labeled dramatic.
you’ve hidden heating pads under oversized hoodies, and excused yourself to the bathroom to cry silently over the toilet. the coaches and physios thought it was “just a stomach thing” when you could barely stand upright.
endometriosis isn’t rare, shit, half of the bayern team has it. tuva, for example, has been vocal in the locker room about it. same with lea, and same with syd before she left for manchester. half the team, all women, probably has difficult periods at some point in their lives. however, you can only feel yours, and yours feel like punishment... it is like your body is trying to kill you once a month for daring to exist.
you’ve never known how to talk about your pain out loud without feeling like you’re asking for too much.
after staring off into space in bed for twenty minutes, you force yourself out of bed and swallow many iron and pain-killer pills with water inside of your insulated bottle that tastes metallic. you've pulled on loose joggers and the biggest hoodie you own before dragging your black nike bag from underneath your bed.
you don’t look in the mirror since you already know your eyes can tell the truth about the state of your internal body.
training is hell since you jog laps around the pitch like you’re moving through quicksand and water at the same time. every impact of your pink boots on grass sends a spike of pain through your uterus. you keep your expression neutral, and crack a joke when alara asks why you’re so quiet (you blamed it on late-night netflix).
klara watches you from across the pitch (since she was paired in another group with the forwards, while you were with the midfielders) with her brow creased, but you avoid her eyes. when she tries to pull you aside after the session you pretend you didn’t see and head straight to the ice bath, letting the shock of cold numb everything inside of your body for ten blessed minutes.
by the time you get home that afternoon you’re shaking.
the pain has climbed into your lower back and wrapped around your ribs, somehow. you barely make it through the door before you’re on the couch, heating pad cranked to high, fetal position, with tears leaking sideways into the cushion because crying hurts too but holding it in hurts more.
when you grab your phone, with much strength from the coffee table, you see a message from klara that was sent five minutes prior.
you left before i could say goodbye. r still coming over tonight? i made that pasta you like
your thumbs hover since you want to be with her more than anything, and you want her arms around you and her voice in your ear telling you dumb stories about her dog back home.
however, the thought of getting up, showering, pretending you’re fine for hours… it feels impossible today.
i’m really wiped, klar. rain check? i’ll probably just crash early at mine
the reply is almost instant.
y/n.
your sigh, nervous before responding,
klar?
there was nothing for five agonizing minutes after that message. you think maybe she’s mad and maybe she’s finally tired of whatever this is.
when your phone rings uou let it go to voicemail, but it rings again.
on the third time you pick up,
“hey.”
“open the door,” klara says.
“what?”
“i’m outside your building. open the door.”
your heart stops as suddenly, your body forgot that it was in pain when you sat up on the couch, “klara, no, i—”
“i’m not leaving, y/n. i’m worried about you.... please let me in.”
you drag yourself up, every step a fresh circle of hell, and buzz her into the building. by the time you open the apartment door she’s already halfway down the hall, cheeks pink from running up the stairs, eyes wide and scared.
she opens your apartment door, without knocking since you hear the door handle twist once, before she speed-walks into the living room and stops a foot away, taking you in with your black nike hoodie swallowing you whole, the heating pad cord snaking out from under it, and the way you hold your stomach looks it might fall out if you let go.
“liebling,” she whispers, and the softness in her voice breaks something open in your chest.
you try to step back., “no, please... i’m gross right now, i haven’t showered, and i—”
she steps forward instead, careful, like you’re made of glass and she cups your face. klara thumbs brush the tears you didn’t realize were still falling.
“talk to me,” she says, “please. you’ve been weird for a few days and i’m going out of my mind. obi says I am being dramatic but I know something is wrong... you are not being yourself..”
the words stick in your throat since you’ve never told the truth about your fears, your pain, and your feels to anyone on the team, not like this when you feel like the world will turn on your for experiencing a norm.
you've never talked about this to a girlfriend, your girlfriend, since your ex-boyfriend had called you dramatic when you cried from this pain and told you to “just take midol and push through.” you’d broken up with him six days later, but the shame lingered.
“it’s my period,” you mumble finally, staring at her collarbone because you can’t look at her face, "it’s… bad. like really bad. i have endometriosis and sometimes it’s just—” your voice cracks, “it’s humiliating how much it hurts and i didn’t want you to think i’m weak or not enough for bayern or annoying or—”
“oh stop that.” she says it gently, but firm enough that you do stop talking. she moves up onto your couch and pulls you into her, arms careful around your middle, mindful of where the heating pad is pressed.
you bury your face in her neck and the tears come harder because she smells like her citrus shampoo and cold air and her vanilla home fragrance.
“why didn’t you tell me?” she asks against your hair.
“because you dated a guy before me,” you choke out, the thing you’ve been terrified of since the first time she kissed you, “and I dated a guy too. guys don’t get this shit and i didn’t want to be the girlfriend who complains all the time, especially this early into our relationship... plus some months are fine with my periods but this one is—” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at the mess of you, “this. and i play through it, i always do, but today i just… couldn’t fake it anymore.”
klara pulls back just enough to look at you, with her eyes shiny even though it doesn't look like she'll break out and cry, “you think i’d be annoyed because we once dated a man?” her voice cracks too, “y/n, i’m in love with you. i don’t care who i dated before. i care that you’re in pain and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
“i did trust you,” you whisper, “i just… didn’t want you to see me like this... since you told me that I am strong and-”
“but this is you,” she says simply, “the good days, the bad days, the days where you score two goals and the days where you can’t get out of bed. all of it. i want all of it.”
you start crying harder and she guides you more back onto the couch, on the sectional part, and she lays out her legs as she settles you against her chest, heating pad readjusted between you.
klara rubs slow circles on your lower back, exactly where it hurts the worst, like she already knows.
“tell me what you need,” she murmurs.
“just stay,” you manage, “please.”
“i’m not going anywhere, baby.”
she stays for hours and orders from the Italian place that delivers to this bavarian neighborhood. she feeds you bites of your favorite pasta when the nausea eases enough that you can eat.
klara finds the good painkillers in your bathroom cabinet that you forgot about, and brings you water without being asked.
when the heating pad cools she microwaves it again, and tucks it back against you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. she puts on the stupid reality show you both pretend to hate and narrates it in a dramatic whisper until you laugh so hard your abs protest.
eventually the pain dulls to a manageable ache, exhaustion pulling at your limbs.
you’re half asleep against her shoulder when she speaks again, voice soft.
“listen to me, okay?” her fingers card through your hair as her serious german accent peaks with her english, “you are not annoying, and do not apologize about this to me later because I know you will try to. you are not dramatic, since you are not weak. you are the strongest person i know. you play football at the highest level while your body tries to tear itself apart every month and you still smile and you still show up and you still kiss me like i’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you. that’s not weakness, y/n. that’s a good thing.”
you swallow hard as you look into her expressive eyes, “i’m scared you’ll get tired of it.”
“nope... never.” she presses her lips to your temple, “i’m tired of you hiding from me.. there will be no more of that, okay. when it hurts, you tell me. when you need to stay home curled up with a heating pad instead of coming to mine, you tell me and ill tell coach on your behalf that you're in pain. when you’re bleeding through your kit in the sixteenth minute and still sprinting back to defend, you tell me after so i can hold you and help you change at halftime in the locker room while I tell you how proud I am of you. okay?”
you nod against her chest as you whisper, “i love you,”.
it’s the first time you’ve said it. \
you feel her freeze, then melt.
“i love you too,” she says, her german accent mixing into her english, “so much it’s almost stupid.”
she stays the night and changes the sheets when you’re too weak to help. plus, she finds you the comfiest modal pajamas you own and slides into bed behind you and wraps herself around you like a koala. the woman's hand rests low on your belly, warm and chasing the last of the cramps away.
just before you fall asleep you hear her murmur, “next time you even think about lying to spare my feelings, i’m going to be very offended, verstehst du??”
after leaving barcelona, aitana wondered if you were leaving her
warnings: angst, google translated spanish, 4.2k word count
requested? yes
the first leg in barcelona was a war that felt as if you were encircled on all sides.
you had walked into the tunnel with your head high, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of playing against aitana, your aitana, the aitana you’ve been dating for three years.
you knew this was coming, but still, it felt foreign, unnatural.
you had been teammates before, had worn the same red for spain, had shared hotel rooms during international duty.
however, you felt different now.
aitana was on the other side.
you transferred from barcelona to chelsea last season, something that caused tension between aitana and you.
the arguments from that eventually subsided, but this match might unscrew that lid again.
she did not look at you during warmups. did not acknowledge you when you passed her in the tunnel. she spoke to lucy, to keira, to patri, but not to you.
you thought it was fine, of course she would talk to her own club teammates.
suddenly, you see her talking to lauren, erin, and millie.
your teammates.
maybe you shouldn’t have let it her ignoring you get to you, but it did.
so when the match began, you played with a feeling you hadn’t felt in months. every duel with aitana felt personal, sometimes you side tackled making sure that you did not injure her– but you wanted her to feel that you weren’t going to take her easy because she is your girlfriend.
when you shoved her off the ball in the 38th minute and sent a long pass to erin, the crowd erupted.
erin scored.
chelsea was up 1-0.
when the whistle blew for full-time, you exhaled, exhausted but victorious. one foot in the final.
then you saw her.
aitana was standing there, her hands on her hips, her jaw tight. when you walked past her, she finally spoke.
"te sentiste bien con eso?" she asked, her voice sharper than usual.
("did you feel okay about that?")
you turned to her, frowning.
"¿qué?"
(what?)
"celebraste como si hubieras ganado el torneo," she said, shaking her head.
"ni siquiera has llegado a la final."
("you celebrated as if you had won the tournament,"
"you didn't even make it to the finals.")
"¿en serio?" you scoffed.
"pensé que sabías lo que es perder, aitana."
("really?")
("i thought you knew what it was like to lose, aitana.")
the words hit harder than you meant them to.
the catalan’s eyes darkened, her lips parting like she couldn’t believe you had said that.
you felt something crack between you.
she walked away without another word.
again… since you left barcelona for chelsea, things between you and aitana had been slowly unraveling.
at first, it was subtle, things you would not have noticed at first.
fewer texts during the day, delayed responses at night. the good morning messages became inconsistent, and the calls that once stretched for hours dwindled into brief, necessary check-ins.
she stopped sending you videos of her morning coffee, and you stopped sending her updates about your day.
maybe neither of you had meant for it to happen, but the distance was already creeping in before you had even realized.
long distance was not easy for people who did not seem to try.
then came the international breaks.
you saw aitana, of course, but it wasn’t the same.
at barcelona, she had been your constant, the person you warmed up with, the one you sat beside at team meals, the one who instinctively reached for your hand under the table.
now, during spain camps, there was an invisible line drawn between you. you stayed with alexia, jenni, and misa, falling into your old friendships with ease. aitana stuck close to laia, sharing private conversations you were no longer a part of.
you noticed how she laughed easily with laia, how their heads tilted close when they whispered to each other. she looked comfortable. at ease.
not with you.
with you, there was hesitation, careful distance, like she wasn’t sure how to act around you anymore. maybe you didn’t know how to act around her either. maybe the space between you had stretched too wide, and neither of you had the courage to bridge it.
the worst part was, no one really questioned it.
it wasn’t uncommon for teammates to gravitate toward different groups, to spend time with the people they were closest with. for you and aitana? that wasn’t how it used to be. people noticed.
alexia did. jenni, too. misa had even asked once, "are you and aitana okay?"
you had shrugged.
"yeah, why wouldn’t we be?"
that was a lie.
every time you sat across from her at dinner and she didn’t meet your eyes, every time you cracked a joke that she didn’t laugh at, every time you passed by each other in the hotel hallways and all you got was a nod—
you knew you weren’t okay.
and the worst part?
you didn’t know if you ever would be again.
the catalan observed you on the pitch during the game, and it was much different than seeing you on screen.
aitana hated seeing you in that blue.
not the deep, royal blue of barcelona..the blue of london, of chelsea, of a club that was never hers and never would be. she hated how it clashed against her memories of you, how unnatural it looked after years of watching you wear the same colors as her, after years of sharing the same badge.
she never said it aloud, never admitted how much it burned, but every time she saw you fidget with that chelsea jersey in your soft hands, something inside her twisted.
you had chosen this. voluntarily. no one forced you out of barcelona. no one pushed you to leave. you just said that you were unhappy and dipped. you had made that decision yourself, and maybe that was what hurt the most.
the breakdown of your relationship was affecting everyone…whether you wanted to admit it or not.
especially the spanish girls.
for years, you and aitana had been the bright, untouchable IT couple. the golden pair of spanish football, of barcelona, of la roja. everyone had seen the way you looked at each other, the way you moved in sync on the pitch, the way aitana’s fingers had always found yours in quiet moments, like it was second nature.
now?
now, it was different.
now, you played in different leagues, wore different colors, fought for different goals. now, instead of love, there was rivalry…an obsession with being better, with proving something, even if neither of you could fully name what that something was.
the worst part was, you still loved each other.
you knew it. she knew it.
however, football had consumed you both.
aitana had become the best footballer in the world, crowned the ballon d’or winner in 2023 and 2024. you weren’t far behind, breaking into the top five both of those times, proving yourself among the best.
you should have been celebrating each other, should have been proud, should have been side by side through it all.
instead, you were enemies.
or at least, that was what it felt like.
and neither of you knew how to stop it.
in the second leg of the semifinals.. london was supposed to feel like home.
as you stood on the pitch, staring ahead at your old team, nostalgia wrapped around you like a phantom touch.
barcelona was celebrating. aitana was celebrating.
the catalan team won, 2-1 overall.
you could still hear the echoes of their cheers as you walked toward lauren, wrapping your arms around your exhausted teammate. she let out a breath against your shoulder, hands gripping your back tightly, and for a second, you allowed yourself to sink into the embrace, closing your eyes.
something clicked inside you.
what went wrong?
why were tana and i like this?
you had left barcelona willingly. you had no regrets about coming to chelsea, about finding something new instead of repetitive.
that didn’t mean you didn’t miss her.
suddenly, you wondered…were you two just dragging along an inevitable end to your relationship? or had you just let too much time slip away, avoiding the hard conversations that long distance demanded?
football was not supposed to be your whole life.
somehow, it had become exactly that.
you yearned for aitana. the ache was dull but ever present, sitting in your chest, right next to the love you still had for her.
she didn’t yearn for you.
at least, that was what you told yourself when you looked up and saw her laughing, arms wrapped around fridolina, her head thrown back in joy.
she wasn’t thinking about you.
she was happy.
without you.
you swallowed hard, turning away, willing yourself to push down the lump rising in your throat. you didn’t want to break, not here, not now.
what you didn’t see was the way aitana’s expression shifted the moment you turned your back.. her smile faltered, then disappeared altogether. aitana’s eyes followed you, watching as you lowered your head, as you tried to disappear into the shadows of your own thoughts.
she wanted to go to you.
wanted to comfort you.
but she didn’t.
because she thought you would push her away.
and maybe she would never know that you wouldn’t have.
bilbao, your home, felt warm. not because of the sun, not because of the excitement buzzing in the air for the champions league final. of course it had to be in your hometown, where chelsea could not play.
anyways,
despite everything, you were still here, sitting in the stands, supporting aitana, supporting your old club.
you weren’t alone.
"you look like you’re about to throw up," jill teased beside you, nudging your arm.
you rolled your eyes, arms crossed as you kept your gaze fixed on the pitch.
"i’m fine."
you were not, something inside of you wondered if you should even be here.
"mhm," she hummed, unconvinced.
"because ‘fine’ definitely means sitting stiff as a statue in the stands, staring at your girlfriend like you’re in a tragic romance film."
you turned to glare at her, but jill just grinned.
jill is supporting her girlfriend, jana, who plays for barcelona. you love jana like she was your little sister, so of course your bond with the dutch woman grew over the last year playing in the WSL together.
"you can be honest, you know," she continued, leaning back in her seat.
"long distance is hell. every woman who is dating another in this sport has been through it. doesn’t matter how strong you think you are…it tests you."
your jaw clenched.
"it’s not just that."
"no?" jill’s voice was softer now.
"it’s like... football became everything," you admitted, keeping your voice low.
"for both of us. and now, i don’t even know if she sees me the same way anymore. or if she’s just... moved on from us."
jill didn’t answer right away. instead, she turned her attention back to the pitch.
"she hasn’t moved on," she finally said.
"if she had, i do not think that you would be here."
you exhaled through your nose, unsure how to respond to that.
then—
aitana broke the deadlock.
your heart jumped as the ball hit the back of the net, as the stadium erupted around you.
she did it.
for a split second, you forgot about everything else.
you stood up, clapping, cheering, your eyes locked on her. you could feel the love radiating from you, unfiltered and real, your chest swelling with pride.
she celebrated with all of her teammates on the pitch.
after…she looked for you.
you noticed immediately. the way she scanned the crowd after the celebrations, searching, searching…until her eyes found yours.
love.
it was there. in her gaze.
and then you did it, instinctively, without thinking.
your hands formed a heart.
aitana’s expression softened, her lips parting slightly before she quickly did the same, her fingers curling into a small heart for you.
your chest ached.
"see?" jill’s voice cut in beside you.
"she still sees you, and loves you."
you sat down slowly, heart hammering, a light ease washing over you for the first time in months.
this wasn’t a resolution.
this was a moment.
a reminder of what was still there.
whether or not you and aitana could find your way back to each other…that was still unknown.
after the final whistle, its 2-0. barcelona had done it again. champions of europe. while part of you was proud, happy for your old club, for your friends, for her, another part of you felt misplaced, like you were intruding.
the celebrations had already begun to die down when you finally made your way onto the pitch.
you followed jill like a lost puppy, your steps hesitant as your boots pressed into the familiar grass. you shouldn’t feel like a stranger here, but you did.
jill had no such hesitations. she spotted jana immediately and sprinted toward her, engulfing her in a hug, leaving you to stand awkwardly near the edge of the celebrations.
you shouldn’t be here.
the thought wormed its way into your mind, and for a second, you considered slipping away before anyone could notice you.
then—
“¡ahí estás!”
(“there you are!”)
before you could react, a pair of arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight hug.
patri.
you exhaled, hugging her back as a soft laugh escaped your lips.
"you knew i’d come," you muttered into her shoulder.
"of course," she grinned, pulling back slightly, hands still gripping your arms.
"and i’m glad you did. pero, qué pena," she sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "i still wish you were on the team."
you giggled, nudging her playfully.
"i’m still very happy for you guys, regardless."
"i know," patri said, squeezing your arm once more before glancing over your shoulder.
"and i think there’s someone else who’s happy you’re here too."
you followed her gaze, your breath hitching slightly when you saw aitana standing a few feet away.
she looked frozen in place.
she had clearly noticed you, had been watching, but she didn’t seem to know what to do.
luckily, you did.
without hesitating, you walked toward her, your arms spreading out slightly, offering her the space to meet you halfway.
and she did.
aitana;s arms wrapped around you, your own arms tightening around her waist. the moment you sank into her, you felt yourself relax in a way you hadn’t in months. the hug lasted far longer than it probably should have…neither of you willing to let go.
you swayed side to side slightly, pressing your face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her scent and shampoo.
you needed this.
you needed her.
she needed you.
she needed this.
rivalry aside, distance aside, confusion aside…this was still the love of your life.
you smiled, pulling back just enough to look at her.
"i’m happy that you won."
aitana’s lips parted slightly.
"really?"
you laughed, shaking your head.
"of course. i don’t hate you guys, you know."
aitana let out a small breath, nodding.
"lo sé, lo sé, no te preocupes."
(“i know, i know, don't worry.")
something inside you wondered…did she know?
you stood there for another few moments, wrapped in each other’s warmth, before ingrid called her name, snapping her back to reality.
"i’ll see you later?" aitana asked, eyes searching yours.
you hesitated, but nodded.
"yeah."
later never came.
the moment had felt good…right, even…but after the final, things between you and aitana slipped right back into the same cycle.
the texts remained sporadic, the calls non-existent. when you did text, conversations were short, often left unfinished.
you told yourself it was just the aftermath of the season, the exhaustion, the obligations, but deep down, you knew better.
it was affecting you.
mentally, emotionally…you felt off. distracted during any outings in london, restless at night, constantly unlocking your phone only to lock it again, hoping for a message that never came.
and aitana?
she wasn’t doing much better.
she threw herself into her training, into everything but you. she told herself that it was just easier this way, that if you wanted to talk, you would reach out first.
but she missed you.
she missed you in the quiet moments, in the in-betweens, when she grabbed her phone only to realize she had no reason to text you anymore. she missed you when she made her morning coffee and didn’t have anyone to send a picture to. she missed you when she caught herself scrolling through old photos, reading old texts, looking for something that felt like you.
the you before you left barcelona.
and the spanish girls noticed.
they weren’t blind. they weren’t stupid.
they had watched you and aitana go from inseparable to distant. from untouchable to strained.
and now, with the olympics just a few weeks away, they knew they had to do something.
"okay, this is ridiculous," alexia sighed, crossing her arms as she sat in the living room of her home with jenni, misa, and salma.
"we can’t go into the olympics like this."
"they’re exhausting," misa groaned, tossing her head back against the couch.
"they’re both miserable, and they’re making the rest of us miserable too."
salma, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke up.
"so what do we do?"
alexia exchanged a glance with jenni.
"we fix it," jenni smirked.
misa frowned.
"and how exactly do we do that?"
alexia leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
"simple. we trap them."
salma raised an eyebrow.
"trap them?"
"yes," alexia nodded.
"they clearly aren’t going to talk on their own. so we make them."
"we force them into a situation where they have to talk," jenni added, her smirk widening.
"where they can’t just avoid each other like they’ve been doing for months. they’re acting like children."
misa’s lips curled into a slow grin.
"i love this."
"what’s the plan?" salma asked.
alexia exhaled.
"we need them to be alone. somewhere they can’t just walk away."
"like a room?" misa suggested.
alexia shook her head.
"too easy to leave."
"an empty locker room?"
"no, that’s too obvious."
jenni’s eyes suddenly lit up.
"what if we send them on an ‘errand’? make them think they have to pick something up for the team..except, surprise, they’re actually just stuck together."
misa laughed.
"oh, that’s evil. i love it."
"perfect," alexia smirked.
"we’ll figure out the details later. but for now, all we have to do is make sure neither of them suspect a thing."
"so we act normal?" salma asked.
"exactly," alexia nodded.
"and then, when the time comes…"
"we force them to talk," misa finished, her grin mischievous.
the plan was set.
and whether you and aitana liked it or not, the reckoning was coming.
four days later… it was misa who got to you first on the first day of national camp.
“we need a favor,” she said, linking her arm with yours as you walked out of the locker room.
“lexi and i were supposed to go pick up some stuff for the team, but we’re too tired. can you and aitana do it?”
you blinked at her.
“me and aitana?”
misa smiled innocently, which meant she was up to something.
“yes, you and aitana. come on, you owe me for all the times i’ve covered for you when you sneak snacks into camp on your period.. even after that son of a bitch said we could not have any.”
son of a bitch = the old coach.
“first of all, i did not sneak snacks,” you said, narrowing your eyes.
misa ignored you.
“it’ll only take, like, thirty minutes. max.”
you hesitated, glancing toward the other side of the room where aitana stood, tying the laces of her trainers.
“does she even want to go with me?” you muttered.
misa grinned, pushing you forward.
“she just doesn’t know it yet.”
ten minutes later..
“okay,” you said, stopping in the middle of the empty hallway.
“this is a trap.”
aitana turned to look at you, arms crossed.
“what?”
“this,” you gestured around, at the hallway, at the fact that the ‘errand’ misa had sent you on led to a completely locked storage room.
“this is a setup.”
aitana frowned, glancing at the door and then back at you.
“they wouldn’t…”
you both stared at each other.
they absolutely would.
aitana exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair.
“unbelievable.”
“you think they’ll let us out if we start screaming?” you joked, leaning back against the wall.
aitana sighed, shaking her head.
“they won’t let us out until we talk.”
you swallowed.
“do you want to?”
silence.
aitana’s gaze fell to the floor, her arms still crossed over her chest like she was trying to hold something in.
“do you?” you asked again, softer this time.
aitana clenched her jaw.
“i don’t know where to start.”
you took a deep breath.
“start with why you’ve been acting like i abandoned you.”
aitana’s head snapped up.
“because it felt like you did!” she blurted, her voice raw, full of something broken.
you inhaled sharply.
“i didn’t leave you,” you whispered.
aitana let out a bitter laugh.
“no? then why does it feel like you did? you left barcelona, you left me, you left everything we had, and you just…acted like it was normal. like it didn’t mean anything.”
your chest ached.
“it wasn’t about you, aitana.”
“then why?” she pressed, stepping closer, her voice trembling.
“why did you leave?”
you swallowed hard, your hands clenching at your sides.
“because i was depressed.”
aitana’s eyes widened slightly.
“i wasn’t okay,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion.
“i needed a change, a new club, something different. there was no abuse at barcelon, no mistreatment, no one pushed me out so do not worry about that…but i wasn’t happy anymore. i needed to go somewhere else, to breathe, to feel again.”
aitana stayed silent, her lips parted slightly as if she wasn’t sure what to say.
“you know i was not getting a lot of starting time. you knew how much the national team things were getting to me. i just needed to get out of spain, okay?”
you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping.
“and it hurts me that you took it so personally. like i chose to leave you like i wanted to hurt you.”
aitana’s face softened, her brows furrowing.
you shook your head, blinking rapidly to push back the tears threatening to fall.
“i miss you, aitana. i miss us. i miss what we were before all of this.”
aitana exhaled, stepping closer.
“so do i,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
“i just…I hated seeing you at chelsea. it felt wrong. it felt like you weren’t mine anymore.”
you let out a watery laugh.
“i was never not yours.”
aitana’s lips parted again, her expression pained.
you wiped your face, your breath uneven.
“i’m sorry for leaving… but i’m not sorry for choosing chelsea.”
aitana nodded slowly, processing your words.
“and if you can’t do long distance anymore, then our three-year relationship can end here,” you said, voice shaking despite the steadiness of your tone.
aitana’s entire body tensed.
you swallowed hard, meeting her eyes.
“but i don’t want it to end, i do not think it needs to end if we can get through this and find resolutions.”
aitana shook her head, stepping forward abruptly.
“i don’t either.”
the words crashed over you like a wave.
you let out a soft sob, and aitana’s arms were around you before you could think.
you collapsed into her hold, pressing your face into her shoulder as she held you tighter than she ever had before.
“i love you,” she whispered into your hair, her voice breaking.
your fingers curled into the fabric of her hoodie, clutching onto her like she was the only thing keeping you grounded.
“i love you too,” you breathed.
you stayed like that for a long time, clinging to each other in the silence, breathing in sync. aitana’s hand ran soothingly up and down your back, her touch grounding, familiar, home.
after a while, aitana sighed, her chin resting on top of your head.
“what do we do now?”
you pulled back just enough to look at her.
“after the olympics, we take some time. just us. no football, no rivalry. just time to forgive each other, to move past this.”
aitana nodded, eyes filled with something softer.
“and we figure out how to make this work. properly.”
you managed a small smile.
“yeah.”
aitana cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing away the stray tear that had fallen.
“i don’t want to lose you.”
you leaned into her touch, your eyes fluttering shut.
“then don’t.”
aitana pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling you into her arms again, her body warm and solid against yours.
this was not a perfect resolution.
there was still work to do. still things to figure out.
synopsis: klara wants to come play where you are in barcelona. unfortunately, that does not settle correctly with bayern fans.
warnings: online hate, comforting angst
waking up to the loud vibration of your phone on the nightstand, you groan in confusion. it is still dark time outside, you can tell from the lack of light hitting your curtains.
the phone's vibration pulled you out from a dream where you and your girlfriend klara were running along the beach in barcelona, her laughter echoing over the waves.
you rub your eyes, the screen glowing with a string of messages from klara.
she is halfway across europe in munich, and you're confused as you unlock the phone, before seeing these messages.
klara sonnenschein (3:12 am) i can’t sleep
klara sonnenschein (3:14 am) the comments are getting to me again
klara sonnenschein (3:17 am) i miss you so much it hurts
your heart clenches since you know exactly what she’s talking about.
just a few days ago there was a fallout with her and her fans because of an interview after the champions league group stage match between bayern, her team, and barcelona, your team.
it was a brutal game, 7-1, with barcelona steamrolling bayern at home here in catalonia.
you did not let your relationship stop you from being intense during that match, assisting twice and scoring once.
klara, though, she’d fought hard for bayern, her lone goal a moment of brilliance in an otherwise crushing defeat.
however, it wasn’t her performance that had the fans in anger.
it was what happened after.
you’d met her on the pitch, the both of you sweaty tired and out of breath. immediately, the two of you swapped jerseys like you always did when your two teams faced off rarely.
it was like a ritual, a way to ask for forgiveness for any particular rough moments on the field itself. it is a way to hold onto a piece of her until you could see her again.
the cameras caught it all between you. they caught the way she smiled at you, soft, and the way you pulled her into a hug that lingered just a moment too long.
to you, it was just you and klara. that is the thing, everyone knew that you two were a couple. after the olympics last year, the both of you went public when you won gold and she won bronze.
however, to the bayern fans, klara's happiness towards you directly after a humiliating loss was betrayal.
klara, their amazing left-winger laughing with the enemy (even if it was her own girlfriend) looked ‘too happy’ after a humiliating loss according to them.
unfortunately, the nail in the coffin was the interview after the game time talk.
“i’m proud of my goal, but honestly, it’s always special playing here,” klara had said. when the interviewer mentioned the summer transfer window, klara replied, "i’m proud that barça was interested in a player like me... but yeah it’s a new season, and we’ll see what the future holds.”
klara laughed, a little nervous, but her words were honest.
too honest, apparently.
the clip went somewhat viral in the community and nobody held back. comments flooded her social media, calling her disloyal, accusing her of already having one foot out the door.
they weren’t entirely wrong, though.
she did want to come to barcelona, to be with you, to close the distance that’s kept you apart for two years. however, they didn’t understand how much she loved bayern, how much she poured into every match, every training session, even when her heart ached to be with you.
as you sit up in bed, scrolling through her messages again, your thumb hovers over the green facetime button. it’s been like this since you met, since that one december champions league match nearly three years ago when klara slid into your dms.
you’d laughed when you found out later that sydney, her ex-teammate and wingwoman, had practically written the message for her, egging her on after klara admitted to crushing on you after the match. you’d been flattered since this intense german girl actually had something for you.
one message turned into late-night calls, turned into sneaking away during international breaks to meet in neutral cities (like paris), turned into a love that felt bigger than the distance between barcelona and munich.
unfortunately the distance is still there.
you talk about it all the time with your teammates like esmee and aitana who agree with you. klara would be perfect on barcelona’s left wing while you are on the middle, and how klara would love the catalan city. what you did not say is how you’d be happy to finally wake up to her every morning instead of a phone screen.
barcelona tried to sign her a few months ago in the summer, a deal that would’ve changed everything. however, bayern held firm on her renewing with them instead since the FFP prevented barcelona from signing her.
now, with every rumor of her wanting out, and the fans are turning on her, it’s breaking klara.
you glance at the clock which said 3:47 am.
there’s no training today, no practice, no obligations. you don’t think twice with booking a flight to munich before you’ve even brushed your teeth, your heart pounding with the need to be there, to hold her, to remind her that she’s not alone.
the flight’s in three hours, and you’re out the door in twenty minutes with a backpack slung over your shoulder.
on the way to the airport, you get more messages that you respond to.
klara sonnenschein (4:07 am) idk y/n... i feel like i’m letting everyone down
klara sonnenschein (4:08 am) i just want to be with you
you type a quick reply, keeping it vague so she doesn’t suspect you’re already on your way.
you (4:09 am) you’re not letting anyone down. you’re amazing, klara. hang in there, okay? i love you.
the flight felts like it took for days.
you keep picturing her face, the way your girlfriend's lip trembles when she’s trying not to cry, the way she buries herself in your arms when the world feels like it hates her.
you land in munich just after ten am, the city gray and cold compared to barcelona’s golden warmth.
you take a taxi straight to her apartment, a small, cozy place in schwabing she’s made her own with plants and books and large a framed photo of the two of you from last summer, laughing in a café in algarve.
you knock, and there’s a pause, long enough that you wonder if she’s even home.
after a minute the door swings open.
at first, she suspected it was lena and lea coming to check on her after she left their messages on delivered. no.
you see klara, in an oversized black nike hoodie, with her blonde hair messy, and her eyes red-rimmed but wide with shock as she looks at you.
“y/n?” her voice cracks, like she can’t believe you’re real and in-front of her, “wh- what are you doing here?”
you step forward, dropping your bag, and pull her into your arms before she can say anything else.
klara melts into you right away with her face buried in your neck, and you feel the tension in her body start to relax.
“you know i couldn’t stay away,” you murmur, your hand stroking her back, “not when you’re hurting like this.”
your german girlfriend pulls back just enough to look at you, her light eyes glassy with unshed tears, “you flew here? just… just for me?”
“of course I did, liebe,” you say, brushing a strand of fly-away hair from her face, “i’d fly across the world for you, klara. you know that.”
klara lets out a shaky laugh, but it’s half a sob.
shortly after she pulls you inside, closing the door behind you. the woman's apartment smells like coffee and coconut, and you notice her phone on the couch, the screen still open to a thread of hateful comments on x.
you guide her to sit down, keeping her hand in yours.
she leans into you, her head resting on your shoulder.
“i don’t know what to do,” she whispers, “they hate me, y/n. they think i don’t care about bayern, that i’m just biding my time until i can leave.... but i do care. i love this team and i love my teammates and the fans along with this city… but i—” she stops, her voice breaking.
“i love you more, and i hate being so far from you.”
you squeeze her hand, your thumb tracing circles over her knuckles.
“i know, baby. i know. and i hate it too. every time i see you, it’s like i’m counting down the seconds until i have to leave again... but you’re not doing anything wrong.... you’re allowed to want to be with me. you’re allowed to love barcelona.”
she shakes her head, her fingers tightening around yours.
“they don’t see it that way. they're comparing me to jill even.... they think i’m betraying them. that interview… i didn’t mean to sound like i don’t care about the loss. i was just… i was so happy to see you and to be with you, even for a minute. now they’re saying i’m not committed, that i’m selfish.”
“klara, listen to me,” you say, turning to face her fully, your hands cupping her face, “you scored their only goal in a 7-1 loss. you fought for them against us as if you weren't even with me. that is what you always do. anyone who watches you play knows how much you give. those comments? they’re just banter and people who don’t understand what it’s like to love someone in this sport the way we do.”
the german's lip trembles, and a tear slips down her cheek.
you wipe it away with your thumb, your heart aching at how small she looks right now.
“i just want to be with you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “i want to wake up with you, go to training with you, come home with you. i want to live in barcelona, with you, and play for the best team... but i don’t want to hurt bayern. i don’t want to let them down.”
you pull her into another hug, letting her cry into your shoulder, her body shaking with the weight of everything. you hold her tight, your hand running through her hair, and you think about how unfair it is... how she’s caught between her love for her club and her love for you, how the fans can’t see the way her heart is split in two.
“do you love bayern?” you ask softly, when her sobs start to quiet.
she nods against your shoulder, her voice muffled.
“i do. they gave me everything like my start, my home, my friends. i owe them so much.”
“and you’re giving them everything,” you say, pulling back to look at her, “you’re out there every game, every practice, pouring your heart into it but klara.... you’re allowed to want more. you’re allowed to want this relationship.... and you don’t have to choose right now.”
klara's eyes search yours, like she’s looking for permission to believe you.
“but what if i can’t have both? what if i stay here, and it’s another year, or two, and we’re still apart? i don’t know if i can do that, y/n.”
you take a deep breath, your mind racing for the right words.
you’ve thought about this a million times.... how to make this work, how to close the distance without asking her to give up what she loves.
“listen,” you say, “you’re not stuck. you’re living your life, playing for a team you love, with friends who care about you... yeah, it’s hard being apart, but we’re making it work, aren’t we? we’ve done it for two years.... and when the time is right like maybe in january, maybe next summer... barcelona will come for you again. or maybe somewhere else will come for the both of us.... but wherever you go, i’m with you. we’ll figure it out.”
she blinks at you, her expression softening, and you see a flicker of hope in her eyes.
“you really think we can make it work? even with all this… mess?”
“i know we can,” you say as you smile at her, “because it’s you and me. two stubborn forwards who are stronger than a few angry fans or a couple hundred miles. you just have to keep being you and when the perfect moment comes, we’ll be together. in barcelona, or wherever. good things come to those who wait, right?”
klara laughs, a small and watery sound as she leans her forehead against yours.
“you’re too good at this shit,” she murmurs, “how do you always know what to say?”
“because i love you,” you say simply and kiss her forehead, “and i’d do anything to see you smile like that.”
she holds you tighter, her arms wrapping around you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“i don’t deserve you,” she whispers.
“you deserve everything,” you reply, “and i’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”
you’re still trying to catch your breath as the final whistle blows, the sound of it almost drowned out by the eruption of cheers around the away catalan stadium. bodies are collapsing onto the pitch, teammates rushing toward you with arms wide open.
your chest heaves, the pounding of your heart matching the excitment of the away crowd that surprisingly had a good turnout. the scoreboard blares its unforgiving truth. real madrid 3, barcelona 1.
the player of the match does to caroline but it’s your name that echoes through the stadium. it was your goal in the 90+6 minute that basically told barcelona that they were not coming back from this match. this time, they fell and you were the one to do it.
your teammates engulf you, the weight of their bodies crashing into yours. laughter, cheers, even a few tears. you can barely stand. someone ruffles your hair, another smacks your back but through it all your eyes instinctively search the pitch.
those eyes of yours past the celebrating white shirts, past the madridistas jumping in the stands. your gaze finally lands on her. alexia.
she’s still near the barcelona bench, hands on her hips, her head tilted down. that dark blonde of hers is damp with sweat, strands clinging to her face. the captain’s armband is loose around her bicep. for a moment, she doesn’t move. then, without meeting your gaze, she turns away.
by the time the post-match formalities are over, the adrenaline has worn off. your body aches. the press interviews are a blur….you manage the usual lines, nothing too biting, nothing too cocky.
the club media officer is relieved. they didn’t want anything inflammatory from you, not after a victory like this but your mind’s not there. it’s with alexia who does take losses like this very seriously.
later you’re barely through the front door of your apartment when you hear the distinct sound of keys jangling. you shut the door quietly, kicking off your shoes. the lights are dim, the city skyline glowing faintly through the wide windows. the hum of barcelona traffic filters in.
"alexia?"
the sound of her footsteps emerges from the kitchen. she doesn’t answer at first. instead, she stands with her back to you, the fridge door open as she retrieves a bottle of water. the tension is palpable, hanging heavy in the air. you swallow hard.
"baby?" you try again, softer this time.
she finally turns, her jaw tight. those usually warm brown eyes are distant now and you know. you know before she even says a word.
"you didn't have to celebrate like that."
the words are clipped, low. they hang between you, and you can't hide the flicker of surprise that flashes across your face.
"what?"
alexia steps closer, the water bottle gripped tightly in her hand, "the way you showed off to our crowd, y/n… you wanted to rub it into our fans faces."
"are you serious?" you ask, your voice cracking slightly, "that was our first win over you ever and i scored in stoppage time. what did you expect me to do? stand there?"
she doesn’t respond immediately. her jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing.
"i get it," she finally says, "it was a big moment for madrid but you know what it was for us? our first loss to you. do you know how that feels?"
"of course i do," you snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. "every clasico we’ve played, we’ve been humiliated. every time, you walk off the pitch victorious, and i’m left wondering if we’ll ever catch up and today, we did. i’m sorry that hurts you, but it meant everything to my teammates.”
alexia shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line, "this isn’t just about the game. it’s about how you celebrated. you could’ve… i don’t know, shown some respect."
"respect?" your voice rises, incredulous, "you think i disrespected you? alexia, i never played for barcelona therefore i don’t have any loyalty to give to that club… only just to you. i would never disrespect you but i’m allowed to be happy. i’m allowed to celebrate."
she’s silent again, and it’s unbearable. the walls of the apartment seem smaller, suffocating. your breaths are shallow, your pulse quickening.
"maybe you don’t understand because you’re always winning," you murmur, the bitterness slipping through despite your best efforts.
alexia’s eyes flash, and it stings. you’ve never fought like this before. not like this.
"so now i’m the villain for being successful? is that it?" she retorts, her voice sharp.
"that’s not what i said."
"but it’s what you meant."
the weight of the argument crashes over both of you. you see the flicker of hurt in her eyes, the way her shoulders tense. she’s always been passionate, fiery. you love that about her but right now, it’s a wall you can’t get through.
"alexia," you whisper, your voice cracking, "this doesn’t have to be like this. we’re on different teams, yeah, but we’re not against each other…. not really."
she exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to the floor. the tension lingers, but so does something else. something fragile.
"i know," she murmurs, "i just… it’s hard."
at first, it seemed like the tension from that argument had started to dissolve. she had mumbled something about how you played well, and you thanked her, adding that she had too. the words were stiff, like neither of you wanted to bring up what had happened but of course, it didn’t take long before it resurfaced.
"i'm just saying," alexia spoke, her voice laced with frustration, "if jana’s goal wasn’t called offside, the entire game would have been different."
you blinked, confused… "what? but it was offside, alexia."
she scoffed, shaking her head, "barely. it was so tight and those kinds of calls... sometimes they go the other way. we should’ve had that goal."
"but you didn’t." your voice came out sharper than you intended, "because it was offside. that’s how the game works… offside goals do not count."
"so you think that call was perfect? flawless?" her brows furrowed, her jaw tight.
you exhaled, trying to steady yourself, "i think the refs checked it and confirmed it. what else do you want, ale? they didn’t just pull that decision out of thin air.”
"right, because officiating has never been questionable," she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word.
your patience thinned. she wasn't just upset, alexia was convincing herself of something that wasn’t true. you understood how painful a loss like this was. barcelona’s dominance over madrid had been undeniable, and now that streak was broken. the denial? that was something else.
"are you seriously going to keep this up?" you snapped, your voice rising, "are you really going to sit here and act like jana's goal wasn’t offside just to cope with losing? is that how you’re all dealing with it?"
alexia’s mouth parted slightly, as if the words stung. she held your gaze, the warmth in her brown eyes quickly replaced by something colder.
"whatever," she muttered, pushing herself off the couch, "congratulations on your win, y/n."
the way she said it, bitter and dismissive, made your stomach twist. you shook your head as she walked away, disappearing down the hall.
"unbelievable," you mumbled under your breath, the weight of the night pressing down on you.
all of those hours passed, the air in the apartment thick with unresolved tension. you spent most of the evening scrolling mindlessly through your phone, trying to push down the guilt simmering inside you.
the truth was, you didn’t like how you handled it. you had every right to stand by the victory, but snapping at alexia like that? that wasn’t fair. she had poured her heart into that match just as much as you had.
when you heard the soft creak of the bedroom door, your eyes flicked up. alexia stood there, her shoulders slightly hunched, her expression unreadable.
"hey," you said quietly, setting your phone aside.
"hey," she echoed, her voice soft. there was a hesitance in her step as she approached you.
"look," you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck, "i shouldn’t have said that. i was frustrated at your reaction, but that doesn’t mean i should’ve approached it in that manner."
she nodded slowly, "and i shouldn't have... i shouldn’t have made excuses. it wasn’t fair to you. i’m sorry."
the weight of it all lifted slightly. you reached out, gently taking her hand in yours. her fingers curled around yours, that familiar warmth grounding you.
"i get why you were upset," you murmured, "i would be too. it wasn’t just any game."
alexia’s lips twitched upward in the faintest smile, though her eyes still held a tinge of sadness.
"it was a big one."
"yeah," you whispered, pulling her closer. your arms wrapped around her waist, and she melted into your embrace, "but i’m glad we’re okay… right?"
she nodded against your shoulder, her breath steady, "we are."
you pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to her lips. alexia’s hands rested against your back, holding you firmly. the kiss was slow, unhurried.
when you pulled away, you smirked playfully, deciding to lighten the mood, "good luck against wolfsburg this weekend," you whispered, the words brushing against her ear.
alexia scoffed, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.
"thanks," she replied, "you too, but against arsenal."
masterlist
authors note: I hate madrid so it was very hard to write this one without being snarky LMAO
barcelona femeni x f!reader with features of romantic!esmee brugts x f!reader, platonic!alexia putellas x f!reader, and platonic!kika nazareth x f!reader.
warnings: abandonment, r being used, alcohol/getting drunk, r being put in a dangerous situation, angst but comforting
there was loud music, crowded spaces, or overpriced drinks in the city center of barcelona.
one thing about you, you were never one to turn down a night out, not because you particularly enjoyed it but because you loved spending time with people.
at least, that’s what you thought.
your college friends had invited you out, something they didn’t do often, at least not unless they needed something from you. you didn’t think like that though. you just figured they were busy, and when they did ask you to come out, you were happy to say yes.
so, here you were, sitting at a bar in the center of barcelona, your friends all huddled around a small table. your presence alone had drawn attention; a few people had recognized you when you walked in, whispering amongst themselves about how one of barcelona’s midfielders were in the building.
“y/n, let’s take a picture,” lee, the one who had invited you out, grinned, sliding into the seat next to you.
“huh? oh, sure,” you said, barely processing before she was already adjusting her phone’s camera.
you weren’t even sure what the picture was for, but you didn’t question it, simply smiling as she leaned in. after a few clicks, she was already typing away on her phone, most likely uploading it to her instagram story.
you had barely touched your drink, still nursing your first one while everyone else was already onto their second or third. you didn’t mind, though. you were used to staying in control.
“sooo,” lee dragged out, setting her phone down, “any chance you can get us into that club you went to with your teammates last week?”
you blinked, recalling the team outing at a private lounge that had required special reservations.
“oh… i don’t know. alexia was the one who set it up.”
“you could ask, though, right?”
“i mean, i could, but i think it was a one-time thing…”
“come on, y/n,” another one of your friends, sophie, pouted, “you have connections. just ask.”
you hesitated. you didn’t like using your status for favors, and you definitely didn’t like asking alexia for something that would obviously annoy her. you didn’t want to say no, either. you had a hard time with that.
“i’ll see,” you finally said, earning a satisfied grin from sophie.
before you could dwell on it, your phone buzzed on the table. you glanced down, seeing a text from kika.
kika: you still out?
you furrowed your brows, replying quickly.
you: yeah, why?
she read the message immediately. then, the typing bubble appeared before disappearing. a few seconds later, another message popped up.
kika: just wondering. don’t get too drunk, bebé.
you smiled at the nickname, a warmth settling in your chest. kika was always looking out for you, she was your best friend on the team.
“who’s that?” sophie leaned over, glancing at your phone screen before you could lock it.
“kika,” you answered easily.
“ugh,” another friend, laura, groaned and rolled her eyes, “she doesn’t like us.”
“what?” you asked, confused.
sofía laughed, shaking her head, “y/n, you’re so oblivious. your teammates hate us.”
your stomach twisted slightly at that.
“they don’t hate you.”
“they do,” laura insisted, “especially the famous one alexia. she glares at us every time she sees us with you.”
“yeah, and your girlfriend esmee? she never even speaks to us.”
you frowned. you had never noticed that. sure, alexia could be intimidating, but she wasn’t rude. and esmee was just… esmee. she wasn’t overly social to begin with. not since you started dating her over a year ago.
“maybe you’re imagining it,” you tried to reason.
sophie smirked.
“sure, y/n. keep telling yourself that.”
the conversation moved on, but the thought lingered in your mind. was that really true? did your teammates really dislike your friends? why hadn’t they told you?
you had no way of knowing that they had told you, just not directly. they had made snide comments, given you looks, even subtly tried to pull you away from your college friends and find better one. you, ever the optimist, had brushed it off every time. it wasn’t until you left the bar a couple of hours later to go to another one with all of your friends.
the next club had flashing neon lights everywhere, the bass-heavy music that made your heart vibrate, and the taste of alcohol on your tongue. your friends had pulled you onto the dance floor, your laughter mixing with theirs as you all jumped to the beat of whatever song was blasting through the speakers.
arms were thrown over shoulders, drinks raised in cheers, and cameras constantly flashing as you posed for pictures that you would probably only remember through instagram stories the next morning.
it felt good to be carefree for once and to be normal. no football, no training schedules, no expectations…just you and your college friends, blending into the crowd. they hyped you up as you downed another shot, playfully teasing you when you scrunch your face at the burn.
sophie had draped an arm around your shoulders at one point, grinning as she said, "this is so much better than all that football stuff, right? just us, no stress."
you had laughed, nodding, "well i don’t knowwww this is just fun."
now, standing in front of the mirror in the bar’s bathroom, you weren’t so sure.
your reflection stared back at you…swollen cheeks, slightly unfocused eyes, hair a little messier than you remembered. you swallowed hard, gripping the sink as the dizziness hit you all at once.
"shit," you mumbled, splashing cold water on your face.
you had training tomorrow. well, later today, technically. afternoon practice, but still. your coaches always told you that recovery was just as important as training itself but here you were, drunk off your ass, wobbling slightly as you turned off the sink.
oh well. it was one night. you barely go out anyways. so pushing the thought aside, you dried your hands and pulled out your phone, the screen nearly blinding you in the dim lighting.
1:34 a.m
you sighed, tucking your phone into your pocket before pushing the door open and stepping back into the main part of the bar. the air was thick with the scent of sweat, spilled drinks, and cheap cologne. the music pounded in your ears, and the crowd had only grown since you left.
you expected to see your friends still dancing, still drinking, still having the time of their lives. as you looked around, scanning the room, something felt… off. they weren’t at the table where you last saw them. they weren’t by the bar either.
your stomach twisted slightly as you wove through the crowd, bumping into people as you checked each corner of the bar. maybe they had gone outside for fresh air? maybe they had moved to a different section?
after ten minutes of searching, the pit in your stomach deepened.
they were gone.
pulling out your phone, you quickly tapped into the group chat.
you: where did you guys go?
no response.
you bit your lip, stepping up to the bar counter, trying to steady yourself as you leaned in toward the bartender.
"um, excuse me?"
the bartender, a middle-aged woman who looked like she had seen it all with her blue hair and tired eyes, barely glanced at you as she wiped down the counter, "yeah?"
"did you see a group of girls? they were all wearing black, and one of them had, uh, purple hair?"
she nodded, "yeah, they left about fifteen, twenty minutes ago."
you blinked, "oh. are you sure?"
she finally looked at you then, raising a brow, "yeah, kid. saw them walk out together. didn’t see them come back."
your lips parted slightly, almost offended since you were called a kid but no words came out. you stood there, frozen, gripping your phone a little tighter as the reality of the situation slowly sank in.
they left without you and without telling you.
quickly, you opened your messages again, typing another text.
you: did you guys leave??
the three dots appeared, then disappeared. your stomach dropped. another few seconds passed. then, one by one, you watched as your messages were marked as read.
no response.
you stared at the screen, heart pounding.
they left you. they actually left you.
you looked around the bar again, as if expecting them to magically reappear, to jump out and tell you it was just a joke. unfortunately, they weren’t there. the people around you were strangers, caught up in their own worlds, unaware of the sinking feeling in your chest.
your breath hitched as you tried to reason with yourself. maybe they thought you had already left. maybe they were too drunk and forgot to text you. deep down, you knew the truth.
they didn’t care.
they had used you for pictures, for attention, for the free drinks you had bought earlier in the night. they had laughed with you, danced with you, but when the time came to actually care about you, they had walked out without a second thought.
your hands trembled slightly as you locked your phone, shoving it into your pocket. you suddenly felt so stupid for believing they were your real friends and for thinking they actually liked you. you hated yourself for letting yourself get this drunk and careless when you had training tomorrow.
the realization hit you like a truck.
you were alone.
your fingers trembled as you gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady yourself. deep breaths. in through your nose, out through your mouth. it wasn’t working. your chest was tight, your vision was swimming, and the realization that you were completely alone in a barcelona bar at nearly 2 a.m only made it worse.
you swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to spill. you were not going to cry here. not in front of all these strangers and not where anyone could see you breaking down.
so you did the only thing you could think of, you got up on shaky legs and pushed through the crowd, stumbling your way back to the bathroom. once inside, you locked yourself in the farthest stall and collapsed onto the closed toilet seat, pulling your knees to your chest as the first sob broke free.
this wasn’t fair.
you just wanted to feel normal, to have a life outside of football. was that too much to ask? unfortunately, this is what you got for trusting people, for believing that they actually cared about you. you frowned realizing that your teammates were right.
you hiccupped, wiping your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears wouldn’t stop. you had never felt so stupid in your life. your phone buzzed in your lap, and for a moment, you debated ignoring it. when you sniffled and glanced down, your blurry vision barely made out the contact name ‘esmee <3’ and a tiktok link she had sent.
your breath hitched. she was awake and without thinking, you clicked on her contact and hit call.
it rang once.
twice.
“hey,” esmee’s voice came through, casual, like she hadn’t just been sent into a call unexpectedly from her girlfriend at 2 o’clock in the morning.
“are you good?”
the second you heard her voice, everything inside you cracked open.
“esmee,” you choked out, your words tumbling over each other in a drunken panic, “i— i’m scared, i don’t–i-i i don’t know where i am, i was just having fun and then they.. fuck! they left me and i can’t find them and i-i- i don’t know how to get home..”
“hey, hey, slow down” esmee’s voice sharpened, her usual laid-back tone replaced with concern and fear after hearing your cries, “where are you?”
you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against your knee.
“some bar. near the beach. a..um.. an old fashioned speakeasy like bar, i think? i don’t know which one.”
“okay,” esmee said, her voice calm but urgent, “send me your location, yeah? you know how to do that?”
you nodded quickly before realizing she couldn’t see you.
“y-yeah,” you stammered, but when you tried to exit the call and open the app, your fingers felt clumsy, your mind sluggish from the alcohol.
“shit, hold on,” you muttered, fumbling with your phone.
“you got it, love?” esmee asked, softer now, but still worried.
“i.. um? i think? wait!”
you cursed under your breath as you clicked the wrong thing twice, your breathing getting quicker the longer it took. finally, finally, you managed to send her your live location.
“got it,” she confirmed almost immediately, “okay, i’m coming. just stay on the phone with me, alright?”
you sniffled, “i.. i’m so sorry, es. i didn’t mean to wake you up!”
“you didn’t wake me,” she interrupted, “i was already up waiting for you to get home safely before i went to sleep...”
you couldn’t stop apologizing. the shame, the embarrassment, the fear…it was all too much. it was then when another thought slammed into you like a freight train.
alexia.
your breath hitched, and fresh tears welled in your eyes.
“esmee,” you whimpered, “am i gonna get in trouble?”
she hesitated for a second.
“what do you mean?”
“alexia,” you choked out, “she’s gonna be so mad. i— we have training tomorrow and now i— i’m drunk and stupid and i…”
your voice cracked as sobs overtook you again.
“hey, hey, stop that,” esmee said quickly, “we’ll deal with that later, okay? i’ll talk to her.. right now, i just need you to breathe. i’m on my way. just hold on for me, alright?”
you tried, you really did. however, you couldn’t stop crying.
“it’s gonna be okay,” esmee reassured you, voice unwavering, “just stay with me. i’m coming to get you.”
esmee arrived faster than you thought possible. by the time you stepped out of the bar, still clutching your phone with shaky fingers, she was already getting out of her car, eyes scanning the drunk and hyped up crowd until they locked onto you.
“y/n,” she breathed out in relief, rushing toward you.
you sniffled, rubbing your arms, the cold night air making your already trembling body shake even more. esmee’s face softened as she took in your red-rimmed eyes, the way you were shivering not just from the weather but from the way the alcohol was leaving your system too fast.
without a second thought, she shrugged off her jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
“oh my, you’re freezing,” she muttered, rubbing your arms through the fabric. you swallowed hard, feeling your throat close up.
“i-i didn’t know what to do,” you admitted in a small, broken voice.
esmee sighed, her expression a mix of frustration and concern.
“it’s okay, you’re safe now,” she reassured, looping an arm around your waist.
“come on, let’s get you to the car.”
she guided you toward the passenger side, opening the door and helping you in before buckling your seatbelt for you when she noticed your fingers weren’t cooperating. once she was sure you were settled, she jogged around to the driver’s side, getting in and turning up the heat the second she started the engine.
you curled into yourself, esmee’s jacket engulfing you as you tried to stop the shivers wracking your body.
“i’m taking you to mine,” esmee announced as she pulled out of the parking lot, “i don’t feel good about leaving you alone like this.”
you didn’t argue. you couldn’t. you just nodded, eyes unfocused as you stared at the dashboard.
the drive was quiet, except for the occasional sniffle from you and the sound of esmee tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, deep in thought. when you arrived, esmee wasted no time guiding you inside, kicking off her shoes as she led you to the bathroom.
“you should shower,” she told you gently, already reaching for a fresh towel from the shelf, “it’ll help you feel better.”
you nodded numbly, taking the towel from her hands. before you could turn away, she added, “i put a t-shirt of mine and some sweatshorts on the counter for you. they’ll be warmer than what you have on.”
you swallowed back another wave of emotion, touched by her care.
“thank you, es. i love you.”
she gave you a small, reassuring smile.
“i love you too. take your time, okay?”
you took a longer shower than you intended, letting the hot water soak into your skin and wash away the night. when you finally emerged, dressed in esmee’s warm, oversized clothes, she was waiting for you in the kitchen with a glass of water and a packet of vitamin c on the counter.
“drink,” she instructed, sliding the glass toward you.
you did as told, drinking slowly, your hands still trembling slightly around the cup.
when you finished, esmee nodded approvingly and motioned toward the her bedroom.
“come on, let’s get you to bed.”
you followed her, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. the moment you curled up under the blankets, your body felt heavier, your eyelids drooping almost immediately. esmee crouched beside you, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear.
“get some sleep, yeah? we have training tomorrow.”
your stomach clenched at the mention of training. will alexia get super mad for your irresponsibility?
esmee seemed to read your mind.
“don’t worry about anything right now,” she said softly, “just sleep.”
you nodded sluggishly, already halfway to unconsciousness. once your breathing evened out, esmee sat back on her heels, exhaling slowly. the dutch woman’s gaze flickered toward her phone.
should she call alexia?
es’ fingers hovered over the screen, debating. if she didn’t tell her, alexia would find out eventually. and if you didn’t say anything, esmee would.
she locked her phone with a sigh.
tomorrow. she’d deal with it tomorrow.
fourteen hours later and training felt like a nightmare. your body moved, your legs carried you through drills, your passes were sharp and physically you were fine. however you felt destroyed mentally. you were barely holding it together.
the people you thought were your friends had left you and abandoned you in the middle of the night, drunk, alone, in a city that wasn’t really your home. yes, you’ve played at barcelona for two seasons so far but you did not grow up here. the more you thought about it, the worse it hurt and it was obvious to your team.
you weren’t laughing at vicky’s jokes like usual. when salma hugged you, you barely hugged back.when patri nudged you playfully at one point, expecting you to counter her with one of your usual surprise tackles, but you just stared at her blankly before looking away.
the energy you normally carried was gone and alexia noticed, of course she did.
she watched you closely throughout training, her brows furrowed every time she caught the vacant look in your eyes or the way your jaw clenched like you were holding something in. she had asked you once,
"you okay?"
and you had lied to her,
"yeah, i’m fine."
esmee, stretching beside you, visibly cringed at the words. she knew the truth. she had seen you break down in her living room hours ago, your voice cracking as you admitted how scared you had been, how stupid you felt for trusting them. she didn’t say anything, not yet, not until after training.
when the session finally ended, you trudged off the field, heading toward the locker room before anyone could pull you aside but alexia was faster.
“y/n,” she called, her voice leaving no room for argument.
you turned around, your heartbeat picking up when you saw the sharp look in her eyes, “yeah?” she stared at you for a moment, like she was waiting for you to break on your own. when you didn’t, she took a slow breath and asked again, “are you okay?”
the same question but this time, her voice was firmer.
you swallowed, forcing yourself to nod.
“yeah. just tired.”
the blonde woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, but before she could press further, esmee stepped in.
“alexia,” esmee said, voice calm but firm.
alexia turned to her, raising an eyebrow.
esmee sighed, rubbing the back of her neck knowing that you would not tell alexia the truth out of embarrassment.
“can i talk to you? privately.”
alexia’s gaze flickered back to you briefly before she nodded.
“of course.”
you watched as esmee led her a few steps away, out of earshot. your stomach twisted, knowing exactly what was coming next.
esmee exhaled deeply before starting.
“she’s not okay,” she said flatly.
alexia crossed her arms, “i know that. i’m just waiting for her to tell me the truth.”
esmee shook her head.
“she won’t.” she paused before continuing, “she went out with her college friends last night and got really drunk.”
alexia’s jaw tightened.
“and they left her,” esmee added, voice dropping slightly, “like…literally left her alone in a bar, drunk, with no way home.” alexia’s expression darkened immediately, “what?”
esmee nodded grimly, “she called me in a panic at almost two in the morning. crying, scared out of her mind. she didn’t even know where she was at first. she could barely get her location to send.”
alexia’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“she is staying at my home for a while,” esmee continued, “i am making sure that she is okay, as her girlfriend and all. this morning wasn’t good at all, she is messed up about it. i mean, imagine thinking these people are your friends and then they just leave you when you’re at your most vulnerable. gosh it makes me want to tackle them and make sure that my cleat hits their shin or something..”
alexia exhaled slowly, trying to keep her composure, “why didn’t you guys tell me this happened?”
esmee hesitated, “because she’s embarrassed and because she didn’t want you to be disappointed in her.”
alexia ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply, “i’m not disappointed. i’m fucking furious…not at her, at those fucking smartasses.”
esmee nodded, “yeah. me too.”
alexia’s gaze flickered back to where you were sitting on the bench, staring down at your hands, looking so small and tired.
“she needs to hear it from you,” esmee said gently, “that you’re not mad at her since she won’t believe me when i tell her.”
alexia nodded, setting her jaw, “i’ll talk to her.”
esmee clapped a hand on her shoulder, “good. and, uh… maybe be soft about it, yeah?”
alexia rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance there, “i can be soft, you know.”
esmee smirked, “mm-hmm. you better be.”
alexia took a deep breath and started walking toward you.
however, you were gone.
you didn’t bother waiting for cooldown stretches, didn’t linger in the locker room like usual, didn’t stay to laugh with the team or chat about plans for the rest of the day. the second the coach dismissed you, you grabbed your bag and sprinted out, ignoring the confused voices calling after you.
"now what was that about?" aitana muttered, glancing at kika.
kika frowned, her confusion mirroring the rest of the team’s. when she turned to esmee and alexia, her brows furrowed even further at the way they shared a look…one that screamed ‘we know exactly what’s wrong.’
“what the fuck happened?” kika asked, her gaze darting between them.
neither alexia nor esmee answered.
instead, alexia let out a slow breath, eyes still fixed on the exit you had just bolted through.
by the time you reached your apartment, your entire body ached…not from training, but from exhaustion, from the emotional weight sitting heavy in your chest. you barely registered the way your hands trembled as you unlocked the door, throwing your bag onto the couch before heading straight to the bathroom.
the second the hot water hit your skin, you broke.
sobs wracked through you, the sound bouncing off the shower tiles as you clutched your chest, feeling like you were falling apart. you had already blocked them, every single one of them on every social media platform, and on your phone, making sure that you cut them out of your life. however, it didn’t make you feel any better because no matter how much you tried to erase them, the damage was done.
they had left you drunk, alone, and vulnerable. you could’ve been hurt. you could’ve been taken advantage of. the more you thought about it, the more sick you felt. were they laughing about it now? did they think it was funny? did they plan to do that to you?
you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against the shower wall, trying to drown the thoughts out with the sound of the water. however, nothing helped. by the time you ran out of tears, your chest physically ached. you dried yourself off, threw on a pair of pajamas, and crawled into bed.
it was barely 5 p.m., but you didn’t care. last night had given you almost no sleep, and all you wanted was to escape into unconsciousness but just as your body started to relax, the doorbell rang rapidly… over and over.
your stomach dropped.
no. you squeezed your eyes shut, willing whoever it was to just go away but the ringing didn’t stop. with a heavy, exhausted sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, pulling your hoodie tighter around you as you made your way to the door.
the second you opened it, your heart nearly stopped.
your girlfriend. alexia. kika.
fuck.
you swallowed, gripping the door handle tightly, too drained to even process the why behind their presence but without a word, you stepped aside, letting them in.
you barely had time to turn before alexia was on you, wrapping you in a tight embrace, her arms locking around your shoulders.
“why would they do this to you?” her voice cracked slightly, thick with emotion.
your chest clenched. your breath hitched. and just like that…you broke all over again. a choked sob escaped your throat as you clung to alexia, your fingers digging into the back of her shirt as you cried into her shoulder.
“i- i don’t know,” you hiccupped, shaking your head against her, “i don’t know what i did to them… why they hate me?”
“they don’t hate you,” kika interrupted firmly, gently pulling you toward the couch, “they’re just terrible and evil people. and you did nothing to deserve that.”
you let yourself sink into the cushions, your body feeling heavy from exhaustion and heartbreak. kika sat beside you, rubbing soothing circles into your back, while esmee… who had been quiet up until now since she moved beside you, wrapped an arm around your shoulders while giving light kisses on your shoulder blade.
“that was maybe the scariest moment of my life,” you admitted quietly, voice hoarse from crying, “i was so drunk… i didn’t know where i was… and they just left me. i should’ve just stayed my ass home.”
esmee squeezed you tighter, her warmth comforting against your shaking body. “you’re safe now,” she murmured, “they don’t get to hurt you anymore.”
alexia, who had taken a seat on the coffee table in front of you, reached forward, gently tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear. “listen to me,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions in her eyes. “you are not trash. you are not disposable. they used you because you’re kind, because you give without expecting anything in return and that’s not a flaw, y/n. that’s what makes you, you. you just have to learn how to set boundaries..”
you sniffled, looking down at your lap, “it doesn’t feel like a good thing right now.”
alexia’s fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze.
you swallowed hard, more tears welling in your eyes, “but how do i stop feeling like this?”
“time,” kika said softly, still rubbing your back, “and us. we’re not letting you go through this alone.”
esmee kissed the top of your head, “no more shitty friends. you have the team, and you have me.”
you exhaled shakily, nodding, even though your chest still ached.
kika stood suddenly, stretching before heading toward the kitchen, “i’m making you tea. you need something warm in you.”
“cabinet above the sink,” you mumbled, sniffling again.
“got it,” kika called back.
alexia stayed in front of you, her fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair as she continued to study you, as if trying to will away all of your pain just by being there.
“i should’ve noticed sooner,” alexia murmured, voice laced with guilt.
you shook your head quickly.
“it’s not your fault, alexia.”
she clenched her jaw, clearly not convinced. but instead of arguing, she simply sighed and leaned back slightly.
“you’re staying with esmee for while,” she decided firmly.
“yes! you might as well move in with me at this point since we’ve been talking about it. i don’t want you to be alone right now either...” esmee interrupted before you could object.
you nodded weakly, whispering while looking at your girlfriend, “okay.”
catarina macario x chelsea!reader with features of platonic!sam kerr x reader
warnings: cancer, recovery, angst
you haven’t been to any major doctor’s appointments since the ankle injury a few months ago. nothing urgent, nothing scary. it was just routine physio after a tackle during that game against west ham. there was light rehab, and a return to full training before the season picked up again.
everything healed the way it was supposed to.
or at least, that’s what you told everyone.
now it’s something else.
it started slow. a tingle at the base of your neck, creeping up your throat, like a subtle warning that didn’t feel worth mentioning at first. your voice would crack during post-training banter, or disappear altogether when you tried to call for the ball. you blamed it on overuse, maybe dehydration. you figured it would go away but it didn’t.
you live with it now.
you train, you play, and you act like nothing’s wrong, but every day it gets harder to pretend.
you do not want to cause worry, especially not for cat. she has enough on her plate… coming back after recovering from her own serious acl injury, easing back into match fitness, proving herself all over again. but she notices. she always notices.
"you didn’t say anything all session," she murmurs as you collapse beside her on the pitch after training one day. the black and pink training shirt clings to your back with sweat. your lungs burn. your throat aches.
you give her a tight smile and a shrug, but it feels forced.
"just tired," you say, even though the words come out hoarse and strained.
cat’s brows pull together, concern flickering in her expression. she reaches over, fingers brushing gently under your jaw.
"it’s your throat again?"
you nod.
"you need to tell sonia," she says quietly.
"i’m fine," you lie, and she hears it. she always does.
catarina doesn’t push. she just sighs and leans into you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder like it’ll ground you, knowing her love will hold the pieces of you together. the next day, you feel it again…worse this time. the pressure sits like a stone lodged in your throat. you can barely speak. your hands shake. your vision swims mid-sprint. when lauren passes you the ball, you miss the trap completely.
"y/n, you good?" millie calls from across the pitch, jogging toward you.
you wave her off and bend over, hands on your knees, willing your body to behave. you hear hannah whistle, then sonia’s voice from the sideline, sharp and direct.
you straighten and pretend you’re okay because that’s what you do. you’ve always kept things to yourself until they become impossible to ignore.
after training, you sit in the locker room with your boots still on, half-zoned out as the chatter around you continues.
"she didn’t say a word again," erin whispers to lucy, trying to be subtle but failing miserably.
"it’s not just her throat," ashley adds, brushing a towel over her head.
"she’s slower and her passes are off. that is not normal for a player like y/n."
you feel their eyes on you, but you keep your head down.
when you finally glance up, it’s catarina who’s kneeling in front of you. your girlfriend’s hands rest lightly on your knees, her eyes searching yours. she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to.
later that night, when you’re curled into her on the couch, her arms around your waist and your face tucked into her neck, you let yourself exhale.
"i don’t know what’s happening to me," you whisper, voice thin and trembling.
"i feel like my body’s shutting down."
"then let’s find out what it is," she says.
you feel her hand over your heart. steady. warm. you nod.
however, the fear lingers because it’s not just the throat thing anymore. it’s everything and the rest of the team knows. you see it in how guro always walks beside you now, keeping pace even when you fall behind.
how mayra offers to cover your runs without being asked.
how millie wraps an arm around your shoulders before matches and leans in close, like she’s trying to carry some of your weight.
no one says anything directly but it’s there, all of it, aka the silent dread none of you know how to voice.
a week later, you are more than aware that the champions league match against real madrid was days away. everything was intense for this group stage match. training, tactics, focus. every player was locked in, especially with how competitive this season had been.
the club enforced mandatory monthly clinicals, making sure everyone was in top condition before important matches. it was routine. you had done it plenty of times before.
you stepped into the medical room like it was just another checkbox to tick off. same nurse, same hallway, same small talk about the weather. you were calm. casual, even.
things were fine until you stepped on the weight scale.
you stood still, the machine humming quietly beneath your feet. the doctor glanced at the screen, then back down to the scale, brows pulling together in a confused frown. the doctor’s mouth opened slightly like she was going to say something, but didn’t. instead, she stepped forward and checked the scale again, typing something into her computer with more urgency than before.
“what’s wrong?” you asked, your voice scratchy and hoarse…same as it had been lately.
the doctor looked up at you, professional, but concerned.
“have you noticed the weight loss?”
you blinked, “huh?”
she took a careful breath, “you’ve lost eighteen pounds in the last three months.”
your chest tightened, “i haven’t changed anything,” you said quickly.
“my diet’s the same and i sleep all nine to ten hours.”
she nodded once but didn’t look reassured.
“that’s what concerns me. unexplained weight loss like this, paired with other symptoms, it’s not something we can overlook.”
you were in there longer than expected. one by one, you started listing what had been happening. you did not want to draw attention to yourself, but because it suddenly felt like all of it was connected.
your throat…the discomfort, the inability to speak sometimes.
your periods…completely off schedule, skipping whole months.
your hair…thinner in the shower, on your pillow, in your brush.
your sleep…ten hours felt like three.
the doctor listened closely, then gently reached out, fingers pressing along the sides of your neck. you winced slightly. she nodded again, like something in your body confirmed what she had already started suspecting.
“i want to send you in for a full body scan,” she said, still using that calm, practiced voice that somehow made everything feel more real.
“your symptoms and physical indicators suggest we may be dealing with something involving your thyroid. it’s best we know for sure.”
you waited for hours after that and the scans felt surreal. the cold machines, dim lights, the hum of technology that had nothing to do with football.
when it was over, you were told to wait in a small private room. you waited for about an hour before the door finally opened with a soft knock.
the club’s main doctor returned, this time with sonia, your coach, by her side.
sonia offered a gentle smile and stepped forward, “are you alright?”
you swallowed. your throat ached again, “i don’t know.”
the doctor explained it carefully, like she had done it a thousand times before. her tone was level. informative. precise.
“the scans revealed abnormalities in your thyroid. after consulting the images and your recent symptoms… i’m sorry… but we’ve confirmed you’re in the early stages of thyroid cancer.”
your heart didn’t drop. it froze since everything inside you went cold and quiet. you didn’t react right away. all you did was just stared ahead, blank. your vision blurred at the edges, the words thyroid cancer echoing in your mind like a far-off siren.
the doctor kept talking…mentioning how it was the easiest form of cancer to recover from, how it was caught early, how treatment options were promising…but the words barely registered.
you weren’t thinking about recovery.
you were thinking about football or about training or about your place in the squad or about the champions league or about the call up to the national team.
all you thought about was how everything was about to stop, and you had no idea how long the recovery process will take.
sonia rested her arm around your shoulders, a comforting gesture. you didn’t lean into it. you looked at her instead, tears building in your eyes.
“where’s catarina?” your voice cracked.
“please… can you get her?”
“of course,” she said softly, “anyone else?”
“sam,” you whispered, “please get sam too if she is in the recovery area today.”
sam, your closest friend on the team. it was not just because of football, but because of kristie. kristie and you had grown up through the national team system together. she had been your person, your steady support. sam is too thanks to her.
minutes later, the door opened again. cat walked in first, her face immediately searching for yours. sam followed close behind, her smile gone the second she saw the drained look on your face.
sonia closed the door quietly behind them, giving you space.
the doctor repeated the explanation, this time for them. you didn’t look at either of them. you couldn’t. you just stared at the floor, shoulders slumped, hands trembling in your lap.
your chest hurt…not from the diagnosis, but from the heartbreak. you weren’t stupid. your career would stall. you wouldn’t be able to train or to play. you were scared, no…terrified, actually.
sam knelt in front of you and took your hands, already teary.
“you’re gonna be okay. we’ve got you, yeah?” she said softly.
“you’re gonna fight through this, and we’ll all be right here.”
it was cat who saw the fear in your eyes. it was not the surface-level sadness, but the deep, soul-crushing fear in your eyes. the ’what if?’ fear.
she moved beside you quickly, arms wrapping around your body, anchoring you against her. your cheek pressed into her chest, your hands fisting the front of her hoodie.
“i’m here,” she whispered into your hair, “i’ve got you, baby. i’m not going anywhere.”
you started to cry…finally. heavy, silent tears. your throat felt too tight to sob, but she felt your body shake against hers.
“you were there for me every single day of my acl recovery,” she said, her voice thick.
“you never left me. you pushed me through it. and now i’m going to do the same for you. every step. every appointment. i’m not letting you face this alone.”
you nodded against her, barely, because it was all you could do. your girlfriend’s arms were holding you, and your best friend was sitting beside you but you didn’t feel like a footballer. you didn’t feel like someone strong or unstoppable. you felt like a woman who was scared out of her mind.
“how could i be so stupid?” you whisper, voice breaking as you cling to the sleeves of catarina’s hoodie, the sterile walls of the room closing in around you.
cat pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumbs wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks, her brows pulling together with quiet urgency.
“no. don’t do that,” she says firmly, “don’t start blaming yourself for this. you didn’t know. there’s no way you could’ve known.”
you try to look away, but she gently guides your face back to hers.
“you’re not stupid. you’re sick. and now we’re going to deal with it. together.”
sam nods beside her, sitting on the edge of the chair near your hospital bed, eyes glassy, “cat’s right,” she adds, “you’re not a doctor and none of us on the team are either. don’t be so hard on yourself, y/n. you did what you always do…you kept pushing. that doesn’t make you stupid.”
you don’t say anything for a while, just sit there with both of them, the weight of it all slowly sinking in. it doesn’t matter how early it is or how “treatable” the doctor says it is. the word cancer sticks to your ribs like cement. you feel your career pause. you feel time pause. everything shifts in your world with no warning, and now all you can do is hold on.
a few days after the announcement is made, chelsea posts an official update on the matter. you don’t check social media at first. you think it’ll make you feel worse. when you finally do, you see hundreds…no, thousands of comments. people from everywhere. your national teammates. old teammates from your time in france. fans who remember your debut. strangers who just want to wish you well.
your chelsea teammates post pictures with you. sam writes a long message calling you “one of the strongest people i’ve ever met.” erin tags you in a throwback clip of one of your goals that she assisted, writing, “we’ll be here waiting, don’t rush. we need you whole.”
even with all the love, you feel… weak like nothing inside you matches the strength people are seeing.
you need cat more than you’re willing to admit.
she's there every chance she gets. when she’s not training, or playing, or traveling, she’s with you—helping you with picking up your prescriptions, driving you to hospital visits, cooking when you’re too exhausted to lift your head.
she’s become your steady presence, even when you feel like dead weight.
you hate relying on her so much, afraid of pushing her away somehow.
one night, you break down while brushing your hair…a lot of it falling out in your hands. you throw the brush down, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. you don’t even hear her come in until her arms are around you again.
“stop it! i don’t want to be a burden to you,” you say softly, “you have your own career. your own recovery. you don’t need to babysit me if you do not want to.”
she looks at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.
“you’re not a burden, y/n,” she says seriously, “you’re dealing with cancer. of course you’re not in top condition. of course you’re going to need help. and i want to help. just like you helped me. remember those two years when i didn’t feel like myself? when you sat with me through every painful stretch and every lonely rehab session? you never left and i’m not going to either.”
you try to protest, but she just presses a kiss to your forehead.
“i’m not doing this out of obligation,” she whispers, “i’m doing this because i love you.”
after your thyroidectomy, the healing begins slowly, but noticeably.
your strength doesn’t return all at once. your voice feels hoarse some mornings, and the hormone fluctuations leave you with bouts of exhaustion, but you can tell things are improving. the doctors at the hospital chelsea partnered with are kind, attentive, and thorough. your hormone levels are being monitored carefully. you’re told you’ll need daily thyroid hormone replacement therapy, but the prognosis is good.
you mainly stay home resting, taking meds, watching cat’s games when she’s away. the couch becomes your new recovery base. the one place where cat can return after training and just hold you without a single word needing to be said.
when naomi, yes naomi girma your national teammate, signs for chelsea a couple weeks later. she surprises you at your flat with coffee and snacks, giving you the biggest hug. you cry in her arms for ten minutes without saying anything. she doesn’t let go once.
your world is smaller now, but the love in it feels infinite.
a month later…just one month, though it feels like a lifetime…you’re back in light recovery training with the other injured players. you jog lightly. you stretch. you do basic ball work. everything feels harder than it used to, but you’re doing it. you’re moving again.
catarina watches from a distance during her cooldowns, waving at you every time you look her way. sam throws an arm around your shoulders at the end of each session, joking that she missed your chaos on the pitch.
“you’re getting there with me,” sam says, “we need to go slow and steady like a little comeback queens.”
you grin at her, then glance at cat, who’s already walking toward you with a water bottle and a towel in hand.
“you’re not my physio, you know,” you tease as she reaches you.
she smirks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.
“no,” she says, “but i am your girlfriend.”
you laugh quietly, “your love might actually be part of the recovery process.”
“then i’ll keep it coming,” she says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “as much as you need. for as long as you need.”
honestly, right now, you need it more than anything. for the first time in weeks you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re gonna be okay again.
masterlist
authors note: I took some inspiration off of this post. you should check it out as well, its amazing writing!
a 2-0 win against chelsea in the first leg of the champions league quarterfinals? after the heartbreak of the cup final just a few days ago? after hearing catarina’s cocky little promise that she would comfort you more once chelsea won this match?
yeah, this should feel incredible.
it does. mostly.
however, there’s still the second leg to play. if there’s one thing you know, it’s that chelsea is not a team that folds easily. they’re ruthless, and they’re first in the league right now.
they know how to adjust with their elite players and they fight to the very end.
you would know…your girlfriend is that way on that team.
tonight, man city outplayed them. it was not an easy feat, not by any means, but you came into this game with fire in your chest. the dream of you winning the champions league has never went away.
you had learned from your mistakes in the cup final, the one that led to yui's own goal, the one that had haunted you since the ball crossed the line. tonight, you made sure your team was on the winning side with this very important match.
the first goal came in the 60th minute. you had been hounded in the midfield, pressure coming from erin and keira. however with a quick feint, a shift in weight, and suddenly, you were slipping past them.
you spotted vivi making a run, and without hesitation, you played the perfect pass, slicing through chelsea’s backline like a knife through butter. vivi did the rest, her finish clinical as ever.
you were running to her immediately, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her, yelling at her in viv’s native language (dutch) even though your pronunciation you’ve learned from jill was probably awful. vivi just laughed, hugging you and the rest of the team back before jogging back to position.
the second goal was even better.
88th minute. chelsea pushed and was desperate for an equalizer, leaving space behind. you won the ball, turned, saw vivi peeling away from millie bright. your pass was weighted just right…soft enough to control but quick enough to beat the defense.
vivi took it in stride, one touch, then another, then a powerful strike past hannah.
2-0.
the crowd erupted. you barely heard it. you were already running, sprinting, colliding into vivi in celebration, both of you jumping, yelling, grinning like kids on a playground. a few minutes later as the final whistle blew and your teammates hugged and clapped each other on the back, your eyes flickered to the other side of the pitch.
catarina stood with her hands on her hips, expression unreadable.
well it was unreadable to everyone else.
you knew exactly what that little furrow of her brows meant. frustration, annoyance, and because you know her, amusement.
she finds this funny because of course she does.
you don’t talk much after the game. a quick hug at the tunnel and a quiet, "good game, baby," exchanged before you both go your separate ways.
at home, it's different.
you're lying on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, lazily scrolling through your phone when she walks in. she's already in her hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from her shower, and she immediately beelines for you.
"move," she mutters, nudging your side.
"nah," you say, smirking up at her.
she raises a brow.
"move."
"no."
catarina doesn't hesitate. she climbs on top of you, settling her full weight against your body until you're groaning.
"you're so annoying," you grumble, but you still wrap your arms around her, still let her tuck herself into your chest.
she exhales.
"you played well," she admits, voice muffled against your shirt.
"i know," you tease.
she pinches your side, and you yelp, laughing as you try to shove her off. she doesn’t budge.
"you gonna cry?" you ask, lips twitching as you stroke her back lazily, "need me to comfort you now?"
she lifts her head, eyes narrowing, "excuse me?"
you grin. "
you said that i was the one who was going to need the comforting but after tonight..." you sigh dramatically, letting your fingers trace slow, taunting circles on her spine.
"should i be rubbing your back, cat? telling you it's gonna be okay?"
cat’s mouth parts in exaggerated disbelief.
"oh, you think you're funny."
"because i am."
she stares at you for a moment, then suddenly shifts, pressing her hands into the couch to push herself up—only to shove her face directly into your neck, biting down just enough to make you jolt.
"ow! fuck! okay, okay!" you laugh, hands coming up to cup her face.
"i take it back!"
she pulls away, smug.
"that's what i thought."
then, because she can't help herself, she kisses you.
it's soft. lingering. cat’s lips warm and familiar against yours.
"seriously," she murmurs against your mouth, "you were amazing tonight."
you press your forehead against hers.
"we still have a second leg to play," you remind her.
