the story is simple, she ghosted you after being on again and off again. only this time you find that maybe you are better off on your own.
You feel the absence before you name it.
It starts as a faint pressure behind your ribs, the kind that makes breathing feel slightly off‑tempo. A wrong note in an otherwise ordinary week. You tell yourself it’s nothing, work stress, bad sleep, the usual.
But then the days stack.
One unread message. Then two. Then the slow, humiliating realisation that she isn’t busy. She’s just gone.
Emily has always been a tide, in, out, in, out, but this time the water doesn’t return. It leaves you standing on the shoreline with wet ankles and the taste of salt on your tongue, waiting for a wave that never comes.
You hate how familiar the waiting feels, as if you're stuck in limbo.
Your flat is too quiet, you notice far too quickly for comfort as your days blend into monotony.
You notice the hum of the fridge, the tick of the heating pipes, the soft buzz of your phone on the counter. You notice that you don’t check it. You notice that you already know it isn’t her.
You move through the rooms like you’re underwater, slow and heavy. The evening light slants through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, dust drifting lazily through the beams. You watch it for too long, as if staring at something still might steady you.
It doesn’t, why would it?
You sit on the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, phone in your hands. The screen lights your face in a cold, bluish glow. You scroll up through your messages with her, the voice notes, the half‑jokes, the late‑night confessions that weren’t really confessions but felt like they could’ve been.
You stop on the last one she sent.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
You close your eyes. You shouldn’t have believed her. But you did. You always do.
Work becomes your refuge, you notice.
The media office at Arsenal is cramped, cluttered, and always slightly too warm, but it’s alive, thrumming with people moving, talking, editing, planning. It gives you something to anchor yourself to.
You bury yourself in tasks: clipping footage, organising files, prepping equipment for training. You keep your head down, your headphones in, your expression neutral.
It's painful in the fact that it almost works. That it almost works day in and day out until training, at least.
You’re setting up cameras by the pitch when the squad walks out. Boots thud against the concrete tunnel, voices echoing, laughter bouncing off the walls. You keep your eyes on your equipment, pretending you’re absorbed in adjusting the tripod.
But you feel her before you see her.
Emily.
Her presence hits you like a shift in air pressure, subtle but unmistakable. You look up despite yourself.
She jogs out with the defenders, hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from the cold. She looks bright, alive, entirely unburdened. She laughs at something Katie says, head tipping back, and the sound slices through you with surgical precision.
She doesn’t look your way. Not even once.
You swallow hard and tighten a screw on the camera that doesn’t need tightening.
You tell yourself you don’t care. You’re lying.
You avoid her for the rest of the morning. It’s easier than you expect which tugs and the dried tears in your eyes, you notice that she doesn’t drift anywhere near you. She doesn’t hover at the edges of your space like she used to. She doesn’t send a glance, a nod, a half‑smile.
She’s a stranger wearing a familiar face.
By the time training ends, your chest feels hollowed out.
You’re coiling cables when Leah approaches, her footsteps soft on the turf. “You alright?” she asks, voice low, steady.
You nod without looking up. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She doesn’t believe you, you can feel it, but she doesn’t push. She just rests a hand on your shoulder for a moment, warm and grounding, before heading inside.
You breathe out slowly and you wish the exhale took the ache with it.
Matchday arrives like a storm.
The Emirates glows under the floodlights, the air buzzing with anticipation. You’re filming tunnel content, the kind that captures the heartbeat of the moment, boots tapping, shirts rustling, players adjusting tape and gloves.
You hold the camera steady as the squad lines up. Then she appears.
Emily steps into frame, focused, composed, jaw set with pre‑match intensity. She looks powerful in the way athletes do with all their coiled energy and quiet purpose.
She walks past you without hesitation. Without recognition. Without even the flicker of awareness she used to give you, the tiny nod, the soft “hey,” the brief brush of her hand against your arm.
Nothing.
You lower the camera for a second, letting the noise of the stadium wash over you, the roar of the crowd, the thrum of drums, the electric hum of thousands of voices, and yet you feel small, and stupid, and tired. So tired that its crashes over you whole, like a wave engulfing the shore.
After the match, the stadium empties slowly, people trickling out like ants out of an ant hill on a sweltering summers day. You stay behind to pack equipment, the concrete corridors echoing with the last remnants of celebration.
You’re crouched beside a case, winding a cable, when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops as you turn.
Emily stands there, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, hair damp from the match, eyes flicking everywhere except your face.
“You’ve been… hard to catch lately,” she says.
You almost laugh at the irony. “I’ve been working.”
She nods, jaw tightening. “Right.”
Silence stretches like pulled taffy, long, taut, uncomfortable.
She shifts her weight. “I know I disappeared. I’m sorry.”
You wait. You don’t rescue her from the discomfort this time.
“I just-” She exhales sharply. “I get overwhelmed. And I pull back. And I know it hurts people. I know it hurt you.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
You look at her, really look at her, and something inside you clicks into place. A quiet, steady truth.
“I cared about you,” you say softly. “But I can’t keep being the person you drop and pick up whenever you feel like it.”
Her eyes widen, like she didn’t expect you to say it out loud.
“I’m not angry,” you continue. “I’m just over it. Over you.”
The words settle between you like dust in sunlight, soft, inevitable, and final.
Emily swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” you say. “But you did.”
She looks like she wants to reach for you. She doesn’t.
You pick up your bag, the weight of it grounding you. “Take care of yourself, Emily.” You walk past her, footsteps steady, heart strangely calm. You don’t look back, you don't ever want to look back and remember Emily Fox again.
Outside, the night air is cold and sharp, the kind that wakes you up from the inside out. The stadium lights fade behind you as you cross the car park, each step lighter than the last.
And as you were leaving, it felt as if you fell through the ice and had ended up breathing.
Emily Fox x Reader based on "I Love You, I'm Sorry" by Gracie Abrams
i love you, i’m sorry | emily fox
this is probably a bit longer than all the other blurbs i’ve done… but i got a little carried away writing it,, anyways enjoy xox
masterlist
you and emily fox had a complicated relationship as well as history. it wasn't the usual hatred towards each other it was that you were just civil and that was part of the problem.
you'd both met way back in college, you both playing for UNC alongside some of your current teammates at the moment, alessia and lotte. you joining arsenal just a year after lotte wanting to make the big move back across the pond in hope it would help build your footballing career.
and much to your surprise it did, while you spent most of the first season on the bench you still managed to come on and most of the time make a difference in the game weather that being to score or assisting the goal.
before cementing yourself in the first team just the next season and finding yourself starting majority of the games and then going on to help arsenal lift the league title in the 18/19 season.
but enough of that and back to the complicated history of you and emily fox. you and her were the best of friends from the moment you met, you were glued to hip. you loving to make fun of her funny american accent while she would make fun of how bad your american accent was no matter how hard you tried, it sounded nothing like hers.
over the four years that you were at UNC you grew closer and closer together, to the point you weren't really sure if you were just friends anymore. on some nights when the team would be out celebrating and you both may not be thinking straight due to the alcohol that would be flowing through your veins.
and more times than you would like to admit out loud you would find yourself pinned to the a stall in the toilets while you were out, small whines strung from you as begged for her to carry on kissing you. her lips, her touch, her everything were your drug.
and while the casual hookup happened every other month, it never went anything further than that. you were simply just friends with benefits and while you wished you were more you just couldn’t bring yourself to commit in fear of ruining a friendship.
so when the offer to move across the pond, you grasped it with two hands. it breaking your heart that you were leaving but also emily’s but you made a promise to the girl that you would stay in contact and you would try and make the journey to see her whenever you had time.
however, the long distance between the two of you proving difficult for the two of you to stay close, text messages going from every hour to every other day as well as calls going from every morning to every week until the contact stopped and it was radio silence from each other.
so when the news hit arsenal that a new girl was coming from america the last person you expected was for it to be her.
watching as she walked through the club the same bubbly girl that you knew and left in america.
she quickly fitted in, reconnecting with the UNC duo alessia and lotte and over the weeks the american was back in your life all those feelings you had spent years trying to forgot came rushing back quicker than you could have said 1,2,3.
so on a night after a big win in the league you were sat in the booth of a bar by yourself as you watched on with a slight twang of envy as emily effortlessly danced and laughed with the arsenal girls.
you hadn’t had a chance to talk properly with emily, only the odd little small talk, ‘how your day’ ‘how you finding london’ or ‘you okay’ was all that had been spoken to by the two of you. but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself by bringing up the past in case she was over you, and she didn’t want to bring up old memories cause what if it was just a college hookup to her.
you told yourself you would rather be hurt not knowing then hurt yourself by knowing the truth.
“why don’t you just talk to her?” beth said as you jumped a little not knowing how long she had been there or how long she had been watching you watch emily’s each movement.
“who?” you tried to play the dumb act but you knew by the look on beth’s face that she knew, you knew exactly who she was talking about.
“y/n don’t play stupid with me, just talk to emily. i can see the way you close yourself off from her every time she gets too close. you never know she may want to talk to you too about the past.” beth smiled softly nudging you slightly towards the end, you knew that she’d spoke the emily about you, more than likely meddling. beth had been one of the only people you had told about your past with the american.
“i can’t beth, it is what it is. it’s in the past now. m’trying to move on” you sighed, swirling your empty glass in your hand, hearing a tut from the blonde beside you.
“you can, y/n. and what’s the saying it’s better to try and fail then to never try at all!” beth tried as you gave her a pointed look, your eyebrow raised slightly at the sudden inspirational words.
“who would have thought drinking made you all inspirational quotes!” you laughed lightly as the blonde rolled her eyes pushing you out of the booth. “yeah, yeah, go and get your girl!” beth mocked your tone as she took another sip of her drink.
walking over to the american your nerves were all over, as you tried to navigate the hot and sweaty bar people being everywhere you turned it was like you were in a can of sardines.
finally reaching the girl, you tapped her on the shoulder probably not the best move to pull in a bar full of strangers but before you had time to think your body had already moved and done it for you.
startling the american as she turned around her features softening as she realised who it was, watching as alessia, kyra and laia were now stood behind emily eyes glued to the interaction between the two of you.
“hi”
“hey, you okay?” emily looked worried, this was one of the first times you’d been the one to start a conversation since she’d joined arsenal just a little over a month ago.
“yeah, um can we talk-“ you stuttered out looking down at your hands as you fidgeted with the rings on your hands. “of course, what’s up?” emily said quickly, her worried look still not moved but not clicking on at the fact you didn’t want to talk in front of prying eyes.
“um follow me” you said grabbing the girls hand and dragging her through the crowd and out the door of the bar, sitting on one of the six steps out the front, emily sitting down next to you as the cold london air hit you both.
“so.. what did-“ emily began after minutes of silence between you both.
“yeah right um just wanted to make amends see where we stand” you pointed between the two of you with a slight laugh, a habit you tended to do when you were sad, something emily picked up immediately.
“oh” was all emily could find the words to say. you were glad it was dark outside in the streets of london as it was able to hide your red cheeks of embarrassment you knew you shouldn’t have had this chat.
you began to back peddle but emily cut you off, “no we need to have this chat but it hurt when you left, i know you had to but you promised to stay in contact and you didn’t. there were so many moments in the past years that i’ve needed you and you haven’t been there.” emily smiled sadly as you bit your lip, you’d been nothing but a dick to her.
“i’m sorry” was all you could say and something you probably should have said to the american a long time ago.
“but i miss you y/n i really do, i miss how we used to be. i know we were never official a thing but i loved you, i really did” emily confessed as you nodded along, the word loved, past tense did that mean she didn’t still love you.
“as sick as it sounds i loved you first” you smiled slightly remember the moment you realised you loved the american. from the moment you met her you knew she was the prettiest girl you’d ever seen.
the two of you sat in silence just taking in each other, as emily carefully moved closer to you as she placed her hand on your cheek, her thumb moving slightly as you sighed. you hands resting on her torso, as you gripped her t-shirt she was wearing.
“y/n” emily breathed out as her hand rested on you cheek, your lips only a mere inch away from touching. you could feel her breath on yours.
“i love you, i’m sorry.” you whispered against her as you moved closer attaching your lips.
Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?"
After years of hard work, you finally made it to the big stage, the World Cup. The US had been dominating and you had scored a few goals that lead to the team being here- in the finals. Not only that, you had been chosen to play the full 90. This was unheard of for someone of your age, but you were so grateful for the opportunity.
The first half came and went in a frustrating blur that ended with no goals for either team. You jogged to the bench, grabbing your water bottle and sipping as you scanned the crowd. Your eyes were glued to one specific section, scanning where other players’ families and friends sat, and where old teammates were to cheer you all on. Your eyes frantically scanned the seats until they landed on the two empty seats.
You knew your parents weren’t going to show up, they rarely did. You didn’t even want them to show up, they always had critiques for you. Still, though, you wanted them there.
An arm wrapping around your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts, Mal siding up to you.
“I’m sorry,” she says simply.
You sigh, “I knew they weren’t going to show up. I’m just disappointed, I guess.”
She nods her head silently, allowing you your moment to wallow in pity.
Eventually, still keep her arm around you, she guides you to the locker room. There’s the usual game review, planning for the next half, and hype session, but you can’t pay attention to any of it. It’s silly really, you think, that the people who thought about you the least spent the most time occupying your head.
There’s still a few minutes left before the game resumes, and Mal drags you out with her to say hi to your old teammates. A smile grows on your face as you think of the girls waiting for you, and you and Mal climb the barricade to see them.
Alex, Kelley, Christian, and Tobin all manage to get seats together, and you and Mal hurry to them before throwing yourselves at them. You have just a minute before you need to be back down on the pitch so you allow the girls to praise the two of you before climbing the barrier and jumping back down to the pitch.
You turn around to wave one last time when something catches your eye. The two seats that had been so obviously empty were now occupied. The occupants looked unwilling with pinched faces, but they were there. Your parents had finally shown.
It’s like a match had been lit under you during the second half, determined to make your parents proud. Your passes were strong and accurate, and you raced down the pitch effortlessly. The whole time, your eyes would migrate to the stands, trying to make eye contact with either of them. You never did.
Still, though, you pushed through the fatigue that threatened you, pulling air into your lungs when you felt like you couldn’t. Pumping your legs just a little bit harder. And it all came to a head when the ball landed at your feet in the final moments.
You act on autopilot at this point, rearing your foot back to slam the ball into the back of the net. It’s silent before the crowd roars. You scored. Not only that, you scored the only goal in the final seconds of the World Cup.
You were tackled instantly, teammates piling on you. You laughed with them, a grin on your face. Pushing your way slightly out of the center of the group, you looked to the stands.
The seats were empty.
The rest of the game finishes quickly, and you don’t pay attention as you do a quick lap of the pitch. You’re led through the medal ceremony, and, once again, Mal has to wrap an arm around you and lead you away.
She takes you to where the four women had gathered on the pitch, pushing you into the nearest arms. Despite how dirty and sweaty you are, you feel multiple arms wrapping around you.
All of the girls are talking about the highlights of the game, the love of the sport in all of them shining through. Their voices grow and overlap until you chime in in a quiet voice.
“I did good, right?”
The conversation stops. No one knows what to say. They had heard about your complicated relationship with your parents and they had seen them today, but they assumed that the thrill of all of the events had outweighed everything.
Clearly, it hadn’t.
Christen takes your shoulders, pulling you so you were standing in front of her. She squats slightly to be at your height and locks eyes with you before speaking.
“You did so, so good, sweetheart. We’re all very proud of you.”
That’s exactly what you needed to hear, throwing yourself into her embrace for just a second before pulling away.
“We just won the World Cup,” you almost whisper in awe.
It should not have taken the entire women’s football community voicing the disgust and wrong doing of the RFEF and the public actions of that bald fool for his resignation.
The Jamaican girls should not have had to create a GoFundMe page to get to Australia to compete.
The Canadian team should not have had to go public about their lack of pay.
It should not have taken the early departure of the USWNT to get Vlatko out.
The Zambian team should not have had to voice their issues of sexual abuse and misconduct of their coach.
So many other issues out there from so many other countries that should not even be in existence.
It should not take the players announcing to the world that there are issues for them to be taken seriously. Players should be able to feel comfortable enough to speak with their federations about problems and know that changes will be made and that they will not be singled out or become a victim of backlash. Treat female footballers with the same professionalism and respect you treat the males.
just watched COPA 71, a documentary about the "lost" women's world cup- teams from england, italy, argentina, denmark, mexico, and france competed in front of 110k people in azteca stadium, 20 years before the first fifa-approved women's tournament. it's still the highest-attendance women's sporting event ever, and it got buried and forgotten because fifa threw a tantrum about girls playing soccer. absolutely wild.
