Hi, my lovelies. I had this request but I’ve since lost it :( but here it is KCC with a Rugby gal hehe. I hope you enjoy.
Waltzing Wallaroo
Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader
Description: You finally meet Kyra’s teammates
You were everything Kyra was not. Where she stood at a modest 5’5”, you were brushing the six foot barrier with ease. For every well-toned muscle she had, you had a bulging mass of strength that rippled when you moved. Goofy vs serious. Chaos or the calm. You had a perpetual crinkle between your brow as she happily smiled the day away.
Maybe it was because you were so different that it worked so well. Two young Aussies chucked in the deep end. You had met years ago, all the way back in your school years - when neither of you wanted to be there but were forced to sit and learn. Again, it was astounding you looked at each other twice. Kyra would constantly goof around, landing herself (and you by association) into heaps of trouble. You had a different approach - if you had to be there, you might as well do it properly. You knew rugby clubs wouldn’t take you seriously if you didn’t have good grades. Especially if you wanted to make a living out of playing the sport.
It was after one of those lessons - both of you had ended up spending more time outside the classroom than in it - the Principle had just released you from her office, promising phone calls home and finishing with a disappointed sigh and shake of the head.
You were pissed. Pissed at Kyra. Pissed at yourself. Pissed at the strange tightening in your chest whenever her hand accidentally brushed yours. Pissed at the lump in your throat that you couldn’t swallow away every time she smiled at you. Pissed at the butterflies in your tummy when she said your name.
“Oh, c’mon,” she whined, rushing to catch up with you. “I was just joking around.” You ignored her, barging through the door and out into the summer sunshine. “It’s not that deep, lighten up. It’s just a phone call home,” she called after you.
“Whatever,” you huffed, dismissing her entirely.
“Are you mad at me?” She said in that teasing voice that made your heart flutter annoyingly.
“Yes,” you deadpanned, beginning your walk home.
You could tell it had shocked her a little. You weren’t really paying too much attention though - your head brewing with anxiety at the prospect of what awaited you at home.
“Wait!” She was running now, tugging on your arm to slow you down. “Seriously?” She asked in a tone you had never really heard from her before.
“Yes.” You weren’t looking at anywhere but her. “You might not give a flying fuck but I do. I have to. The club won’t take girls who piss about. They made that clear. Rugby is about discipline and order.” You echoed your coaches words. “Your talent will get you far in football, Ky.” You sighed softly. “I can’t rely on that with rugby.”
You were fairly sure you stopped breathing when her fingers intertwined with yours. You both waited a moment.
“I’m sorry.” You both said at the same time, drawing a funny huff from you and an amused smile from her.
“Why are you sorry?” Kyra asked, her dark eyes wide. “I’m the one who keeps landing you in trouble.”
“I was rude.” You shrugged.
“No,” she took a step closer. “You weren’t.” You swallowed, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks as you realised just how close she was. Not for the first time, you wondered if she tasted like the way she smelled. Warm vanilla with a hint of … something you couldn’t quite place.
“I never noticed you have a scar on your cheek.” Carefully, her free hand traced the faint line that rested just under your eye.
“From a scrum.” You were whispering now, eyes locked on Kyra’s lips. “A girl hadn’t trimmed her nails.”
“Sounds painful.” You just shrugged.
“I really am sorry that I keep getting you in trouble,” she whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t hear her. “It’s … I just …” You had never seen Kyra at a loss for words. “It’s just sometimes I think that that’s the only way I can get your attention.”
Your heart froze and then sped up all at once.
“The only way you look at me for longer than a second is if I piss you off. Plus you look cute when you’re angry.” She was smiling shyly now, eye eyes tracing your features, her body still impossibly close.
“You always have my attention, Ky.”
The rest was history. You hadn’t kissed her that day. No matter how much you had wanted to. You hadn’t even asked her to be your girlfriend or ask her to just simply hang out. But you had eventually.
It was after your call up to the Wallaroos. She was making waves in the Young Matildas, finally being recognised by the senior squad for her talent. She was the first person you told. Before your parents, before your coaches, before anyone. It wasn’t anything dramatic or full of fanfare. You had told her you had the call. She had cupped your face. You had leant down. She had reached onto her tiptoes. You weren’t sure who kissed who technically.
It was a no-brainer for Kyra to move to Sweden. You had never been. Rugby wasn’t big there, so you never had a reason to go outside of a holiday that you would never have been able to afford anyway. But then, suddenly, there was Kyra. She insisted you come to her as much as you could. You were being noticed by English clubs more and more now you had cemented yourself in the national team and the offers were looking tempting. You had to admit. The quick flight from London to Stockholm was far more enjoyable than the over-a-day-long trip that usually left you tired and sore.
You had signed for the Quinns on a foggy day in April.
Kyra had called the moment you texted her the news. Her voice was groggy but the excitement in it was unmistakable. You could picture her smile, that same crooked grin that hadn’t changed since high school. She was proud of you. She always had been.
“London, huh?” she’d teased. “Guess I’ll have to get used to you being all fancy now.”
You’d rolled your eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah, right. You still owe me dinner for missing my debut against France.”
Kyra laughed softly, that warm, lazy sound that never failed to calm you. “You mean the debut where you got sin-binned for tackling someone twice your size?”
“She deserved it,” you’d argued, smiling despite yourself. “And you loved it.”
There was a pause. Just a second too long to be casual.
“I did,” she whispered.
That was the thing about the two of you. The distance never really dulled it. No matter the miles or the time zones, it was like muscle memory. The rhythm of being hers, in every way that counted, was carved into you.
When she came to London a few months later, everything slotted back into place. You’d met her at Heathrow, both pretending not to notice the cameras or the fans who recognised her, or you, first. She’d dropped her bags and ran straight into you, laughing when you caught her, breathless and bright, like nothing in the world could go wrong.
You’d kissed her properly then. No nerves, no hesitation. Just months of wanting and missing, finally finding home again.
For a while, life made sense. Early training sessions, weekend matches, FaceTime calls from hotel rooms, and those rare nights when you could fall asleep with her hair tickling your chin. You didn’t need much more than that.
But the world had a way of testing you. Injuries. Media scrutiny. Her endless travel schedule with the national team. Your travel. Your pressures. The little gaps that began to widen until even texts felt delayed, forced, heavy.
You weren’t falling out of love. That wasn’t it. You were just... running on empty. Both of you.
The night before she left for another international camp, she’d found you sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at nothing.
“Hey,” she said softly, crouching in front of you. “Talk to me.”
You’d swallowed hard. “I just miss you even when you’re here.”
Kyra’s eyes had softened. She reached for your hand, tracing small circles on your skin. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
And figure it out you did. Or well Ian Wright did for you. In the form of a shiny new contract for Kyra.
So now you were sat in your joint flat in the middle of London. With your joint TV showing some random show as you lay, tangled up, on your joint couch.
“I have a question.” Kyra announced, her voice muffled in your hoodie as she rested her head on your chest.
You grunted your response, almost half asleep from how warm you were. She was like the perfect weighted blanket, oozing out heat and that soft, warm scent that was so uniquely her.
“Come to the game on Sunday?”
That was the only downside of both of you being professional athletes. You were almost never able to see each other’s games. If you were playing, so was she. It sucked, but you made it work, often refusing to look at the scores until you were able to rewatch the match.
It was a big game for Kyra - a place in the final up for grabs, and Renee had promised her a spot in the starting XI.
“Huh?” You were still lagging behind a little, your brain not quite there yet.
“Sunday. The semis. Emirates. Sold out stadium. Starting XI.”
“Yes, I am aware of what’s happening on Sunday, baby.”
Kyra shifted, moving to straddle your hips. “Will you come watch? You’re free, right?”
You blinked at her, trying to fight the smile creeping onto your face. “You checked my fixture list, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” she said, drawing out the word in that singsong way that told you she definitely had.
You sighed, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But you love me.” She was grinning now, sitting taller, her hands resting against your chest. “And I really want you there. Please.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You nervous?”
Kyra scoffed immediately, but you caught the flicker in her eyes, the tiny spark of uncertainty that only you ever seemed to notice. “No. Just… you know. It’s a big one. First time I’ll start in front of a full Emirates this season. And I don’t get many minutes anymore so.”
Your hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing gently over her skin. “You’ll smash it. You always do.”
She leaned into your touch, her eyelids fluttering closed for a second. “Yeah, but I play better when I know you’re watching.”
You felt that familiar tug in your chest. That same stupid, aching love that had followed you since you were teenagers getting yelled at again in maths. She had this way of making even the simplest words feel heavy, important.
“Alright,” you murmured. “I’ll be there.”
Her eyes lit up instantly, wide and bright. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Kyra grinned like a kid, bouncing slightly where she sat. “You’re gonna love it. Big crowd, big stakes-”
“Big ego,” you teased, laughing when she swatted your chest.
“Shut up,” she said through a laugh. “I’m serious. I want you there. It feels like… I don’t know. It’ll be more … with you there.”
You stared at her for a long moment - the way her hair fell in soft waves around her face, the glint of determination in her dark eyes, the faint freckles that the cameras never seemed to catch.
“Baby,” you said quietly, voice full of love.
Her smile softened. “You’re such a sap.” She rolled her eyes.
It was your turn to scoff now. “Maybe.” You grinned up at her. “But I’m your sap.”
Kyra leaned down and kissed you, slow and lingering, her breath tasting faintly of mint and something sweet. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m scoring one for you on Sunday.”
You chuckled. “Make it two, and I’ll wear your kit to training Monday.”
Her laugh filled the room, warm and alive. “Deal.”
The Emirates was loud. Louder than any of your matches ever were. Tens of thousands of people swarmed around you, the sound rolling like thunder through the stands. It was electric - alive in a way that made your heart race that little bit faster.
You could feel the other friends and family watching you, sneaking curious glances when they thought you wouldn’t notice. You didn’t blame them. To them, you were just some stranger sitting stiffly in a hoodie that was far too warm for the occasion, jaw tight and eyes locked on the pitch.
Despite being with Kyra for years, you’d never really met her teammates or their families. During the regular season, you were just as busy as she was - your own games, your own camps, your own chaos.
“Hello.” A slightly older woman had approached, her tone friendly but cautious, like she wasn’t sure if she was interrupting. You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. You’d been staring down at the pitch, eyes flicking from where Kyra was stretching with her teammates to your phone screen, where your knee was bouncing impatiently against the row of seats in front of you. God, it wasn’t even kick-off yet and you were already nervous enough to be sick.
“Oh, um,” you cleared your throat quickly. “Hi.” You straightened a little, automatically shifting to the side as if you were in her way.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” she said kindly. “Which of the girls are you friends with?”
“Oh, uh, Ky-” you stuttered, your mouth suddenly dry. “Kyra. Kyra Cooney-Cross.” You mumbled the words like a secret, just in case she somehow hadn’t caught the name.
Her face brightened instantly. “Oh, how lovely! She’s such a sweet girl. Mario, Gio, come say hi.” She waved two men over - both of whom eyed you curiously as they approached. You offered a polite, sheepish smile.
“This is…” the woman started, turning to you expectantly.
“Y/N.”
“This is Y/N,” she repeated warmly. “She’s with Kyra.”
“Cool, cool.” The younger man, Gio, you think, grinned, lifting his beer in greeting. “So,” he began, clearing his throat like he was buying time as he came to stand next to you, “how do you know Kyra? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
You hesitated for half a beat. “Oh, um… I’m … she’s my girlfriend.”
His eyebrows rose. “Girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Going on six years now.”
“Wow.” He gave a low whistle, impressed. “Didn’t realise she’d been off the market that long.”
Mario laughed quietly beside him. “Shows how much attention you pay.”
Gio shrugged, grinning. “Fair point. How come you weren’t at the Champions League final or anything, then? Don’t think I saw you.”
“Yeah,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “I wasn’t able to go. We had World Cup prep camp.”
That caught his attention. “World Cup?”
“Yeah,” you said with a small, self-conscious shrug. “I play rugby.”
Both men perked up. “No way,” Mario said. “You play in the PWR?”
“Yeah. For the Quins-Harlequins,” you explained. “And the Wallaroos. The Aussie national team.”
“Boo,” Gio teased immediately, grinning. “We’re Saracens fans.”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Of course you are.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Mario said, nudging his friend. “He boos everyone. It’s a talent, really.”
“Yeah, well,” you shot back lightly, “I’ll remember that next time we thrash you.”
That earned a few laughs from the small group. You felt your shoulders relax, just a little.
“So you’re the mysterious girlfriend,” Carol said with a knowing smile. “I’ve heard your name before. Kyra’s mentioned you once or twice.”
“Only once or twice?” you joked, though your cheeks warmed all the same.
“Oh, maybe more,” she teased. “She talks about you a lot, actually. Always smiling when she does.”
You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just smiled softly and glanced back at the pitch. The players were warming up now, and even from a distance you could pick out Kyra’s figure instantly - goofing around yet had that familiar fierce determination etched into her movements. You felt a lump form in your throat, a mix of nerves and pride.
“She looks good,” Mario said, following your gaze.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “She always does.”
The older woman reached out, giving your arm a gentle pat. “You must be very proud of her.”
You nodded, unable to take your eyes off the pitch. “More than she knows.”
If you thought the atmosphere pre-match was intense, you were proved wrong after the final whistle. It had been a tight match, ball rocketing from end to end, countless of almosts from both teams and what felt like a thousand hours of extra time.
Kyra had stayed true to her word, sending two goals rippling into the back of the net.
“Kyra,” Alessia called, waving her friend over to her. “Who is that?”
Kyra followed one of Alessia’s perfectly manicured nails.
You were standing in between Alessia’s dad and one of her brothers. At some point during the match, you had taken your hoodie off, revealing the Australia shirt on you had underneath. Her Australian shirt. With her number on the back of it. She couldn’t help the blush that rose over her cheeks.
“That’s Y/N.”
“Y/N?”
“Yeah.”
“And who is Y/N?”
Kyra just shurgged, smiling and winking at Alessia before running off.
You weren’t really paying attention when Kyra entered the family and friends room - you were distracted, looking out at the now-empty Emirates. It was strange, that you, a girl from Queensland, had fallen into this life. From being terrorised by Kyra in the maths classroom to watching her perform on the world’s biggest stage. You were in awe of it all really.
“Hey, stranger.” Kyra’s teasing voice sounded from behind you as she slipped her arms around your waist.
“Hey, baby.” You turned, tucking her under your arm and kissing the top of your head. “Good game, lovie.”
“Scored for you.” Kyra squeezed you tighter. “Twice.”
“And they were stunning goals too.”
“So, do you want my match-worn shirt for tomorrow or have you got one already?” She teased, lifting her head to look up at you.
“Fuck off,” you laughed rolling your eyes.
“Kyra.” A familiar Aussie accent cut off whatever Kyra was about to say next
You looked over, two brunettes were standing side-by-side, one more tanned than the other with perfectly highlighted blonde streaks.
“Yes, Steffy?”
So that was Steph. You had heard all about the woman Kyra admired the most in football. Her honorary big sister that kept her sharp eye on the younger player now that she was in London.
“Who is this?” The non-Steph asked.
“Y/N.” Kyra blinked, smiling cheekily.
“Hi,” Steph waved awkwardly.
Non-Steph didn’t acknowledge you. “Yeah, and who is Y/N?”
“Youse are lookin’ awfully chummy there, mate.” A thick Irish accent cut Kyra off before she could speak.
“Shut it, Katie,” Kyra huffed. “If you’d let me finish my sentence…” Kyra paused. She always had a flare for the dramatics. “Y/N is my girlfriend.”
Steph blinked. Katie blinked. You blinked.
Then Katie let out a howl that echoed through the family room. “I knew it!” she yelled, smacking Steph’s arm so hard the older woman winced. “I told you she had a missus! Didn’t I, Steph? Didn’t I say there was no way she just disappears after every trainin’ session because she’s ‘catching up on sleep’?”
Steph was rubbing her arm, deadpanned. “Yeah, well, you also said she was secretly seeing a DJ from Hackney, so forgive me if I didn’t take you seriously.”
Kyra groaned, burying her face in your shoulder. “Oh my God, I hate all of you.”
You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to laugh. “DJ from Hackney?” you whispered to her.
“Don’t,” she muttered into your chest. “They’ll never shut up.”
Steph, to her credit, recovered first. She extended her hand politely, all captain composure. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard about you.”
You took her hand, smiling. “Good things, I hope.”
Steph smirked. “Depends who you ask.”
Katie cackled again, already halfway across the room shouting for someone named Leah to come meet “Kyra’s Amazonian rugby girlfriend.”
Kyra groaned louder, hiding her face again. “This is the worst day of my life.”
You snorted. “Pretty sure you just scored two wonder goals at the Emirates.”
“Second worst day,” she muttered darkly, voice muffled against you.
By the time Leah, Alessia, and half the Arsenal squad had been dragged over by Katie, all grinning, all far too amused, Kyra had accepted her fate.
“So,” Leah said, folding her arms and grinning, “you’re the mysterious Y/N we keep hearing about, huh?”
You blinked. “You’ve heard about me?”
“Oh, constantly,” Alessia said, bouncing on her heels. “Usually followed by Kyra sighing dramatically and saying ‘you wouldn’t understand.’”
Steph nodded sagely. “Or blushing at her phone.”
Kyra pointed at all of them, glaring. “Traitors. Every single one of you.”
Leah snorted. “Please. We’re just relieved you didn’t make her up.”
That got a full belly laugh out of you, the kind that made Kyra’s head snap toward you, eyes soft even as her cheeks turned red. You were laughing so hard you barely noticed Katie sidle up beside you.
“She’s been smitten with you for ages,” the Irishwoman whispered conspiratorially. “It’s disgusting, honestly. We had a bet about whether you were real. I owe Russo twenty quid now.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “Tell her to buy herself something nice.”
Katie grinned, clearly delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Kyra groaned one final time. “I’m never bringing you to a game again.”
“Sure you are,” you said easily, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Someone’s gotta wear your shirt.”
That earned you a chorus of “awwws” and a dramatic gag from Katie, who shouted, “God, get a room!” before running away laughing.
Kyra tilted her head up at you, eyes still warm despite her mock pout. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
You smirked, leaning down just enough for your breath to brush her ear. “A little.”
She tried to fight it, but the grin slipped through anyway – small, bashful, and so perfectly her.
“Fine,” she muttered, poking your chest. “But next time you wear my kit, you’re sitting in the away section.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That a promise or a threat?”
She laughed, shaking her head and stealing a quick kiss. It was brief but certain, the kind that made every teasing voice around you fade into the background.
When she pulled away, she was smiling so wide it almost hurt to look at her. “Both,” she said softly.
You chuckled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “God, you’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” she said, resting her forehead against your cheek, voice low and full of love, “but I’m your impossible.”
