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[heartshapedmisery]

𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐩 | art donaldson

summary ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ art is your tennis coach, but after he tells you to "loosen up" a bit, you're not sure if your boundaries are strictly professional anymore.

warnings ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖  MINORS DNI ! ( 18+ ) | language, graphic smut, unprotected sex ( wrap it before u tap it y'all ), soft!dom!art, sub!reader, sexual tension, art gives reader a massage, praise kink, p in v sex, fingering, if i missed anything, please let me know!

word count ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ 3.2k +

pairing ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ standford!art donaldson x fem!stanford!reader

author’s note ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖  saw challengers the other day .... its all i can think about rn so i made a fic! hope u enjoy! also i know nothing about physical therapy so if this makes no sense I'm sorry

publishing date ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖  may 5th, 2024 | © HEARTSHAPEDMISERY

tags ― .ﾟ‪‪ ˖ @madnessandobsession @hashtagtobefuckinghonest @mitskilover23

A bead of sweat rolled down your temple as your feet carried you quickly across the tennis court, your eyes refusing to leave the bright yellow ball that was coming towards you from the opposite side of the net.

"Keep your eye on the ball, sweetheart!" Art barked, a few blonde strands of his hair falling in his eyes as he watched you simply miss the ball once again.

The nickname caught you off guard, dismantling your focus and causing you to falter your movements. Your arm swung out far enough, but your racket was just below the ball, allowing it to fly right over it and hit the concrete behind you. A tinge of pain seared through your right shoulder, making you wince.

"Shit!" You grumbled in annoyance, your eyes refusing to meet Art's since you knew he would scold you for your miss.

You threw the racket in your hand down at your feet, irritated that you hadn't kept the ball going back and forth between you and Art for more than 2 times in your last 5 tries.

Your mind was somewhere else; normally you were a beast on the court, dominating your competition (all thanks to Art). Today, not so much.

"What was that, the 6th time?" Art scoffed, waving his racket about in the air. "What's wrong with your shoulder?" he pointed his racket in your direction, a look of concern written on his face.

You didn't answer him, walking off the court over to the bench and grabbing your water bottle. He followed you, taking the bottle from your hand when you were done and squirting the liquid into his mouth. Your eyes watched him carefully, following the water droplets as a few fell from the corner of his mouth.

"You're tense, I can see it all over you when you're moving around out there," he said, motioning to your shoulders and neck. Your eyes caught the way his polo clung to his toned chest, sweat starting to seep through from his constant movement.

"I'm fine," you told him, shrugging his words off. "Just a little distracted, is all."

A lopsided grin cracked across his face, not buying your excuses.

"Come here," he motioned for you to move towards him, which you hesitantly responded to before walking to him. Carefully, his hands grabbed your shoulders and spun you around, your back meeting his front harsher than you had expected.

Your heartbeat quickly picked up, the feeling of his hands on your bare shoulders felt hot and heavy on your skin.

This wasn't the first time Art has caught you off guard like this. You had noticed over the past few months how touchy he could be, whether he was correcting your form or bidding you good job after a match with a rub on the back.

And no matter how much you denied it, you couldn't help but love every second of it. Despite being your coach, he had an effect on you that no one else did. He drove you wild, but of course, he never realized that.

At least, you thought he didn't.

"Your shoulders are very tight, especially your right one. That's why you're not getting a lot of movement," he spoke softly in your ear, his fingers running up the sides of your arms before finally gripping your shoulders. His fingers squeezed your flesh gently, burning against your skin enough to make you let out a sigh he undoubtedly heard.

"You need to loosen up a little bit, sweetheart. All this stress is messing you up, and we can't have that." his voice was smooth and sultry, a total contrast to what it had been only moments before on the court.

His fingers kneaded at the muscles at the top of your back, working out all of the kinks and knots that inhabited your shoulders. Your eyes quickly fell shut as you leaned into his touch, getting lost in the feeling of his hands on you.

"Ah," you breathed out, the feeling of his thumb reaching a spot that unraveled the tension in your right shoulder. "Right there."

You couldn't see it, but a wide smile bloomed across his face at your words, his thumb moving to massage the muscle deeper than before. You let out a breath groan, which (as much as he hated to admit it) indubitably went straight to his lower half.

He didn't expect you to be so responsive to his touch. It surprised him, but that didn't mean he was opposed to it.

"Yeah?" He breathed. "Does that feel better?"

He knew exactly what he was doing, even though you were so oblivious to his shenanigans.

"Yes," you groaned, allowing your head to fall back slightly. You breathed in deeply as he continued his work at your muscles, watching you revel in the relief at the top of your back.

To anyone else, his actions only looked like a coach helping his player work out an injury. But to you and Art, this was months of tension finally boiling over. The way his hands worked across your skin, the pleasurable sighs you let out. It was the two of you crossing a boundary you had never expected to abandon.

"Art!" a voice sounded from the opposite side of the court, making your eyes snap open. His hands stopped their movements, but he didn't remove them from your shoulders as he looked over his shoulder at whoever was trying to get his attention.

It was Mike, the Athletic Director at Stanford.

"Mike," he stated, greeting him with a nod. His voice almost sounded disappointed, not appreciating that he had interrupted the two of you. "What can I do you for?"

His hands finally left your shoulders, your skin feeling dull and light from their wake. You quickly snapped yourself back to reality, brushing away the hot feeling in your chest as you watched the exchange between Art and Mike.

"I just have some paperwork for you to fill out for the semester," he said, "Won't take long."

You watched Art's expression lighten, giving him a slight nod before agreeing to meet him in his office and Mike dismissing himself from the court.

Your gaze met Art's as he turned back to grab his gym bag off the bench and slung it over his shoulder. You watched him carefully, before taking your own bag off the bench.

"Put some ice on that shoulder," he pointed to your right side as he slipped his Ray Bans onto his face to shield his eyes from the sun. "I'll come check on it later, okay?"

You nodded, your mind already racing at the thought. You watched him as he walked away from your view, a feeling of excitement and confusion bubbling in your chest.

You didn't see him again until after lunch. You had been wandering around your small apartment in nothing but a tank top and pajama shorts (due to the blistering California heat outside) with a bag of ice taped around your shoulder, trying to keep your mind occupied until Art arrived.

Your afternoon classes had been canceled so you decided to take it easy at home, trying to keep your arm relaxed as much as possible.

When you heard a simple knock at your door, the feeling from earlier that morning had returned, rising in your chest and making your neck hot at the thought of him. He stood nonchalantly at your door when you swung it open, greeting him with a warm smile.

"Hey," you said, moving out of the way to let him in. He sent you a small smile back, following you into your tiny living room.

"How's the shoulder?" he rasped, taking a look at the ice pack on your arm that was starting to leak.

"Pretty good, hasn't really changed much. Still a little sore, though." you told him honestly, still confused as to why you had tweaked it so bad.

"Mind if I take a look at it?" he asked, gently running his hand up the side of your arm. The sensation sent chills down your spine as you nodded simply. He had to stop doing that or else you were going to go crazy.

"Here, sit down between my legs with your back towards me," he motioned to the couch, sitting behind you before moving to remove the athletic tape from the ice pack. You could feel his warmth behind you, his breath hot against your shoulder as he peered at your injury.

Your breath hitched as you felt his finger hook under the right strap of your tank top, your head turning slightly to catch his eye.

"Do you mind if I move this down?" he asked gently, eager to make sure you were okay with him touching you like this. You nodded, a little quicker than you had anticipated.

"Yeah, that's fine," you breathed, before turning back around. Carefully, he pulled the strap down, exposing your bare shoulder to him. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his calloused hands against your smooth skin, his fingers slowly beginning to knead at your muscles.

"I feel a lot of tension here still," he told you, his hand gently moving to raise your arm up slightly over your head. You felt a pop in your joints, an instant feeling of relief washing through your shoulder. A breathy moan escaped your lips at the movement, grateful that it felt better already.

"Shit," you breathed, thankful for his skillful hands. "That feels good."

Art let out a breathy laugh, making your heart swell. "Lean back against me, I want to try something."

You followed his instructions, your back meeting his toned chest, sinking into his embrace. The smell of his cologne invaded your senses, making you sigh.

Carefully, he wrapped his arm around your collarbone, his left hand laying flat against the front of your shoulder while his right hand gripped the back of your bicep where your arm met your shoulder.

His hands were slow and gentle but still had you unwinding more with each movement. His left hand gently pushed your shoulder back as his right pushed your arm forward, earning another pop in your joints.

"Oh my god," you groaned under your breath, your hand subconsciously moving to grip his muscular forearm without realizing it.

"That's it, sweetheart," he cooed in your ear as you let out a sigh of relief. "Does that feel better?"

'So much better," you told him honestly, still holding onto his arm. Your eyes quickly fell down to it, an idea circling in your mind before your hand slowly began to move. He watched you carefully, his eyes following your freshly manicured hand moved to settle over his, before carefully moving his hand down your chest.

"But I think I'm still a little tense, Art," you breathed, biting your lip as his fingers ghosted over your hardened nipple before you moved it down further to your abdomen. His mind finally caught on to what you were trying to get at, a sly smirk cracking across his face.

"Could you help me?" you whispered, settling his hand on your lower stomach, dangerously close to where you wanted him most.

He didn't respond, his hand simply moving from underneath yours and allowing his fingers to slip underneath the waistband of your skimpy shorts, your breath hitching. He moved his free hand from your arm and down to your thigh, gently spreading them apart.

You felt him exhale a deep breath, before finally answering your request. "Of course. Anything to help my star player."

His fingers broke the barrier of your panties just as the words left his mouth, dipping into your soaked core without warning. You let out a moan as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your bare shoulder before moving up your neck and settling just below your ear.

His middle and ring fingers played at your clit, rubbing it gently before dipping back into you, curling his fingers inside of you sweetly.

A moan sounded from your plump lips, your head falling back on his shoulder. Your hand gripped his bicep as he continued to give you what you wanted, writhing in pleasure at his movements.

You could feel his hard-on press into your back as you sunk into his embrace, turning you on even more.

"How does that feel, baby?" he rasped, kissing your temple as he could feel you beginning to unravel on his fingers. "Is this what you wanted?"

You whimpered, biting your lip as you nodded your head. "Yes!"

As his fingers moved quickly inside of you, you felt his free hand wrap around your torso before moving up to your chest, his fingers ghosting over your hardened nipple.

"Please, Art," you whimpered, so close to your high. He took your words as a sign to keep going and allowed his fingers to fondle your breast, which sent you over the edge.

"Fuck, I'm-" you whined, your words caught dead in your throat as your orgasm washed over you, a defeated moan sounding from your chest.

He was mesmerized as he watched you, the way your head kicked back against his chest and you gripped his thigh as you came down from your climax. The pure ecstasy was seeping from you, and it drove him wild that he brought you to this state.

Carefully, he removed his fingers from your soaked core, bringing them to his mouth before sucking them clean. Your head snapped around to watch him, going feral at the way he reveled at the taste of you. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him.

Your hands cupped the sides of his head, your fingers running through his blonde locks of hair. His eyes fell on your wet, plump lips before he smashed his own against them without warning.

A whine of approval sounded from the back of your throat, your body quickly crawling into his lap, straddling him as you sunk deeper into the kiss. His hands ran up the sides of your thighs before settling on the flesh of your ass, squeezing it as he held your core down against his hard-on.

His lips finally pulled away from yours, both of you out of breath as you met each other's gaze once again. He was quick to attack your neck, leaving sloppy and wet kisses all over your skin as he rocked your hips over his erection for any sort of release he could get.

Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, earning a low groan to sound from his chest, which went straight to your core. You were growing impatient, pulling away from him in order to tug your tank top over your head. His eyes fell to your bare chest, a look of pure lust haunting them.

You quickly stood up from his lap to remove your shorts along with your underwear, giving him the opportunity to rid himself of his clothes as well. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head as his hard-on slapped against his lower stomach once he pulled his boxers off, his tip reddened and already leaking with precum.

"Come here, baby," he said soothingly, his hands pulling you back into his lap once more, your bare chest flush with his. Your faces were inches apart, your lips parted as you watched him reach between your bodies and grasp his cock, slowly giving it a few pumps before he aligned himself with your core.

You raised your hips a little, hovering over him to allow him to guide himself into you, a deep moan ripping from your chest when you finally sank down on him.

"Fuck," he groaned, the feeling of your wet core overriding his senses. You stretched around him so sweetly, taking him so well he couldn't help but moan.

Your hands settled comfortably on his shoulders, using them to help stabilize yourself as you began to rock your hips into a steady motion. You couldn't help but bite your lip, unable to keep your moans from falling out of your mouth.

He filled you to the brim, reaching a part of you deep inside that had never fully been satisfied. It made you ecstatic; you couldn't get enough of him.

"Fuck me, Art," you moaned, pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck. "Fuck me hard."

He let out a shaky breath at your bluntness but obeyed you nonetheless. His hands gripped your hips roughly before he began a steady pace of fucking up into you, making you reel your head back in pleasure.

"Look at you, taking me so well," he moaned in between whimpers of pleasure, gripping your hips harder as he quickened his thrusts. You were a blubbering mess at this point, your head falling to the crook of his shoulder to muffle your cries.

His arm wrapped around your torso to keep you steady, his free hand moving to rake through your hair and pull your head back up to meet his gaze. He watched you intently as tears formed in your eyes, your orgasm not too far away.

"So pretty," he cooed, cupping your face. "All for me, right?"

"I'm yours, Art," you whimpered, clawing at his bicep as you felt yourself tipping over the edge. "All yours. Fuck, I'm close!"

Your moans were like music to his ears, sounding so melodic as your eyes fluttered shut in lust. With a few quick final thrusts, your second orgasm washed over you, making you writhe with pleasure as a nearly pornographic moan ripped from your chest.

He gripped your hips as he stilled his movements, his eyes intently watching you as your face contorted with your climax. He nearly came at the sight, letting out a shaky moan as you slumped back against him, completely fucked out.

"Fuck," you breathed, looking up at him as he panted heavily, a lazy smile on his face.

Suddenly, you remembered he hadn't come yet, and your body was already sliding off of him and sinking to your knees between his legs before you could even think otherwise.

"Wait, no you don't have to-" he assured you as he sat up, but you were already shushing him and taking him into your hand, gently pumping him as you gripped his thigh for leverage.

His eyes were blown out with lust as he watched you jerk him off, relaxing into your touch as a whimper escaped his throat. You looked so sexy sitting in between his legs, so eager to help him reach his climax. It didn't take long before he was letting out a guttural groan and painting your chest with his release.

His chest heaved up and down as he pulled himself back together, taking in your appearance before him. He never wanted to forget you like this; your face flushed and dewey with sweat from the orgasm he had just given you.

"Sorry, baby," he breathed, sitting up to grab your tank top and wipe you clean with it. You sent him a small smile, thankful for the gesture before you got back on the couch next to him and curled into his side. He grabbed the blanket that was hanging over the back of the couch and laid it over the two of you, trying to make you as comfortable as possible.

The sudden realization that you had just fucked your tennis coach began to seep into your brain as you felt the warmth of his skin on yours, goosebumps running down your spine at the thought.

Fuck, this was going to make for an interesting practice tomorrow. . .

[artstennisracket]

request: thinking really hard about coach!dilf!patrick and how he'd spank bratty!tennisplayer!reader with his racket whenever she mouths off (and then fuck her with the handle. obviously)

tennis coach!Patrick x fem!reader, part 2

cw: nsfw (18+), spanking, object insertion, d/s undertones

You’ve gone through 15 tennis coaches in the past 5 years because you were “uncoachable”. But your parents knew the real reason why, your attitude.

You would question, fight back, and argue about every single little thing anyone tried to teach you. It’s exhausting for them but also for you. You never thought any of those coaches were good enough. They were too nice or too soft or too inexperienced or just too wrong.

No one really meshed with you or your playing style. You had non negotiables. One of those things being your serve. It was unique. You would bend down at an almost uncomfortable angle, bounce the ball twice, before you shoot up tossing the ball the air and hitting it.

It was weird and you didn’t know why you did it that way but you did and it worked. But every coach you ever had wanted you to fix it. Except for Patrick.

He coached you sure but never once mentioned your serve. Maybe it’s because his serve was weird too.

Your parents were surprised you kept this coach for so long, but Patrick just treated you like a real player. The part that really surprised your parents was that you never argued with him or mouthed off.

He was also just really hot. He would come over 5 days a week to your family home, and you guys would practice at your home tennis court.

He was older than you, by almost 12 years. He started coaching you when you were 18 and now you’re 20. You tried to make your passes and did your occasional flirting. Wore extra short skirts and made sure to bend over slowly when you had to pick up a tennis ball.

You were nothing if not persistent so this practice was no different.

You pulled out all the stops. You wore a short white tennis skirt that stopped just below curve of your ass and a tight pink polo top with the top buttons unbuttoned. You didn’t wear a bra so the outside breeze made your nipples perk up under your shirt. And whether or not you were wearing panties was questionable.

Patrick never acknowledged what you were wearing. He just kept his sunglasses on and a neutral face when he said, “Ready to get to work?”

Practice went on as usual until you decided to be difficult on purpose. Patrick had you doing drills serving to hit certain cones spread out on the court. So you just kept missing on purpose.

“Are you good? Feeling okay?” He asks from where he’s stood on the other side of net.

Okay time to turn up the brattiness. You scoff putting your hand on your hip, “What? I can’t miss a couple shots?”

He raises his eyebrows clearly taken aback, “Who pissed in your cereal?”

“I just don’t understand why you keep asking me questions, you don’t get paid to question me you get paid to coach me.”

“Well I don’t like your fucking attitude right now so i’m not coaching shit.” He says dropping his racket into the bin that holds all the tennis balls. He starts to walk off the court, taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

Fuck. You need to get him to come back here and take out his anger on you, not cool off with a cigarette.

You yell in his direction, “Yeah? Well you’re so old you can’t even coach for shit anyway!”

He stops in his tracks. He puts his unlit cigarette back in the pack, putting the pack back in his pocket. He turns back in your direction and walks straight to you.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you into the sports shed where your family kept all their sports gear.

He stops dropping your wrist. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. He turns around to face you, standing so close to you, your noses are almost touching. He says just above a whisper, “You think you can fucking talk to me like that? What the fuck do you think this is?”

This is the closest, physically, you guys have ever been. So naturally, you’re a little nervous but happy that your plan is maybe working? You stutter, “I-I um I didn’t think anything.”

He does a once over, looking you up and down. Then he continues, “You think I don’t know what this is? Acting like a brat to get my attention? To get me to fuck you?”

Oh. He saw right through you and somehow that just adds to the butterflies in your stomach.

“That’s not— I never, I didn’t—“

He cuts you off, “Don’t lie to me.”

You shake your head continuing your lie, “no I never— I swear I didn’t—“

Before you can register what’s happening, he sits down in the bench and puts you over his lap. Oh.

He lifts up your skirt and curses under his breath. You weren’t wearing panties. You could feel the rush cool air against your now exposed skin. He rubs his hand over your ass for a second before he picks up a nearby racket.

“You expect me to believe you weren’t acting up to get my attention when your wearing the shortest skirt you own, no bra so everyone can see your hard nipples through your shirt, and your not even wearing panties?” He asks, slowly dragging the tennis racket over your ass.

You nod biting your lip.

Smack.

“Ah—“ You let out a half gasp half yelp when the first smack of the tennis racket lands on your ass.

“Well if you’re gonna keep behaving like a lying brat, then I’m going to have to punish you like one,” He says before landing another spank on your ass.

Smack.

You moan this time as the racket collides with your ass.

“Parading around the court like a desperate slut. surprised you didn’t just bend over for me right on the court. That’s what you really wanted right?”

Smack.

You nod your head letting out another moan.

Smack.

“I asked you a question that means your supposed to answer me.” He says sternly before raising the racket again.

Smack.

“Yes fuck, that’s what I wanted. Wanted you to fuck me on the court, please.”

You anticipate that another smack is going to land on your ass but instead you feel two fingers sliding up your folds and pressing into your entrance.

“Shit, Patrick,” You whine as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of your tight hole.

“You’re already so wet. you really are desperate for me, aren’t you? How long have you wanted me to fuck you?” He asks while he curls his fingers inside of you, pressing against the spongy area.

You groan. It feels really fucking good, it’s hard to focus, “Ah- two years, when you became my coach.”

Now Patrick groans. He adds one more finger inside you, alongside the two that were already in there. “Fuck. Dressing like a slut for two years trying to get me to fuck you. I fucking knew it. Jesus. Made me feel like such a creep watching you. Had to start wearing sunglasses to practice so you couldn’t tell I was staring at you.”

You smirk at that, you knew your plan had to have been working all these years. From your place laid across his lap, you can feel him start to grow hard.

“Well I’m still not gonna fuck you, brats don’t get rewarded.”

You whine at that, “That’s not fair you just said you wanted to fuck me so fuck me please, please just fuck me.”

He bites his lip before he gets an idea. He pulls his fingers out of your hole and you whine at the loss. He grabs the same racket from before.

“Wait what’re you doing—“

He uses one hand to spread your folds, exposing your hole, while using the other hand to line up the handle of the racket. He starts pushing in it slowly, watching closely how your hole grips around the racket.

He groans, “Fuck baby, taking it so well.” He pumps the racket slowly, pulling it so the handle is almost all the way out before pushing it back in as deep as it can go.

You never felt this full before but every time he presses the racket in deep it feels so good. Eventually he starts pumping the racket a little faster. You start moaning uncontrollably, rocking your hips back against the racket.

“Your tight hole is so fucking greedy baby, jesus. Fucking yourself back on it like you can’t get enough.” He moves one hand to squeeze your chest, circling your nipple with his finger.

You can feel your orgasm creeping up on you. The volume of your moans increasing until you reach your release, “‘m gonna cum, oh fuck Patrick.”

He lets you ride out your orgasm before he pulls the wet racket handle out of you. It’s covered in your juices.

You think it’s all over until you hear him say, “Get on your knees.”

So you do. Still a little wobbly from laying down for so long but you get on your knees between his legs. You can see the tent in his shorts now. You’re hoping you’ll finally get to see his see his cock, feel the weight of it on your tongue. You just know it’s huge.

So you open your mouth, sticking our tongue to show that you’re ready to suck him off.

He smirks before he presses the tennis racket handle down your throat, “Good girls clean up their mess.”

You choke a little but try to relax your throat, sucking the handle to clean it off. Once he’s satisfied he pulls the racket out of your mouth, placing it beside him on the bench.

He stands up and you watch as he tucks his boner into the waistband of his shorts. He bends down to whisper into your ear, “Maybe next time if you’re a good girl for the whole week, then I’ll fuck you.”

He stands up heading to the exit the sports shed. He moves his sunglasses back down to rest on his nose bridge. Before he leaves he calls out, “See you tomorrow for 8am practice.”

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xvi

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader; past carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers, tbd

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

series: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii. part viii, part ix, part x, part xi, part xii, part xiii, part xiv, part xv, tbd.

bonus: one, two, three, four, five

a/n: sorry everyone, i got sick again!

July 11-12, 2025

[Excerpt: BBC Sport Commentary]

“And now, it’s Y/N L/N serving for the championship. Only three women have ever managed to win a Season Slam, and Y/N is well on her way to do so if she can hang on to her serve here. It's - oh, in the net. Her second serve hasn't been great on grass, but it's gotten her this far [...]

Oh and there it is! What a historic moment! Her first ever Wimbledon title, and what a beautiful way to win it. A great passing forehand that Sabalenka could've never reached in time. And what a terrible end for the Belarusian who's been so strong all year, who had an opportunity to win this match at the start. But it's L/N who fought her way back, and turned the momentum around.

Just look at the disbelief and joy on L/N's face, as she makes her way to her coaching team and family. Her parents, who are always incredibly nice, by the way. Who sometimes don't come because the nerves get too much, but who find the prospect of no family support 'way worse'. Her coach Kim Clijsters, whose best result here was a semi-final. Oh, and there's a long hug for her friends, including Lando Norris, Formula One Driver and currently leader of the World Championship as well himself. Now, she makes her way back down to the court -- oh and there's a cheeky wave at none other than Sebastian Stan -- where she will receive her trophy momentarily."

July 13 - 15, 2025

[Excerpt: Post-Win Interview with Y/N L/N]

"What an amazing turn-around! How did you manage to stay so focused?"

I didn't, ha! I think it's very clear that I lost my cool for a little at the start. But it was also a way for me to get those frustrations out and clear my head. You know, Roger Federer said that you are lucky to win 54% of the points you play. So I tried to tell myself - okay, it's just a point. It's just one point. That's always been my philosophy, but it's hard sometimes to stick to it. I'm lucky I found a way to do so when it mattered most.

"Grass has been historically a difficult surface for you, but this time you challenged yourself to also play doubles. How will you make sure that you're well rested to go for the hard-court season?"

Grass is definitely more challenging for me. It's more physical, more demanding. But I also kind of love that about it? It's why this was extra meaningful. And add to that the home crowd, it's magical. I gave it my all, but that also means I'm going to need to take some time to relax and switch off for a bit. Not super long, I'll be playing Cincinnati and I'm excited for that! But definitely will book a holiday before then.

"You haven't booked anything yet?"

Well, my sister's getting married first, and that's a location wedding already. But then I wasn't sure of course how I'd do at Wimbledon either - so I wanted to wait and see. It's going to be a last-minute decision, I fear."

"Maybe Romania? It'd be a great excuse to ask Sebastian Stan for some tips."

I think I'm happy to keep my celebrity crush just that - a celebrity crush.

[Excerpt: Transcription of YouTube Video "Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri Create a Summer Playlist"]

"Okay, so we're just about to head into our summer break, and we thought it'd be nice to leave you with some of our favourite tunes."

"Well, mostly mine, since Oscar has questionable taste."

"Just - it's niche," Oscar argues. Lando rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

"Sure. Start us off then, why don't you?"

"How about Life is a Highway by the Rascal Flatts? A little bit of country. A little bit of Cars, perfect for a summer roadtrip."

"Solid choice, let's add Running Around by Ely Oaks."

Oscar nods, then frowns as he tries to think of what should come next. "Alright, maybe - you like Lizzy McAlpine right? Do we need some slow songs?"

"I do like it, but maybe it's not very summery? Let me have a look at my own Spotify," Lando says as he whips out his phone, frowning in concentration.

"See, I might have niche tastes, but he's the real snob here," Oscar mutters. "He makes these elaborate playlists for his friends, then refuses to take their input."

"Oi, I heard that. See if I gift you another carefuly curated selection of hits," Lando chides, before turning back to the camera. "Okay, I recently listened to Talk by benny blanco and Selena Gomez."

"Never heard it, but I trust you. Maybe some Bad Bunny? That's good for summer right," Oscar asks with a shrug. Lando nods, smiling.

"Yeah, Osc. Straight from my playlist to yours. I'll also say All I Know by Rudimental and Khalid."

"Let's finish it off with Tate McRae's Just Keep Watching, a little Formula One film special," Oscar closes with a cheeky wink.

A/N: Roland Garros was a fucking fever dream this weekend. What a match between Coco and Aryna, and then again on Sunday between Jannik and Carlos!! Chef's kiss tennis. I know Carlos Alcaraz is a questionable character in this fic but please know that I actually adore him.

next chapter available here

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

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[woso-dreamzzz]

If You Were My Little Girl

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Jenni Hermoso x Teen!Reader

Summary: Alexia doesn't know you

Jenni.

That's the first thing Alexia thinks of when she sees you.

You're fourteen, playing a five a side game at La Masia. Alexia's dropped in to watch the training session, a few hours early to a meeting she's meant to be having.

Jenni's the one that Alexia thinks of.

You look like her. In your face. In your height. In the way you shoot and find the net.

In the way your face crinkles as you turn to celebrate.

A young Jenni.

Jenni is the first thing Alexia think of when she sees you next.

You're fifteen now and growing into your lanky limbs.

Not much has changed in you since that last time, apart from looking much more self assured. You take shots from distance now. You're accurate as well, the ball going in nine times out of ten.

You've grown into Jenni's features now and Alexia's awestruck by them.

She passively mentions you at the next camp.

Jenni's face goes cloudy, something between annoyance and rage.

"I have no family in Barcelona, Alexia," Is what she says, conversation closed.

But Alexia's not so sure.

She doesn't broach the topic again until a year later.

It's been a while since Alexia has watched a Barcelona B match. She's familiar with a lot of the girls who move up and down into the first team when injuries allow.

Vicky has been the star so far.

Martina too.

You've never been moved up though but Alexia isn't surprised by that. Their front line is packed and with the introduction of Ewa, it's hard to give minutes over to a young striker like you.

Alexia wonders briefly if you'll leave like Julia did or if Barcelona will want to keep you close and send you out on loan.

She'd prefer to keep you.

A La Masia Jenni would be a boost to anyone's team.

You pop goals in like they're easy, grinning and Alexia knows now that Jenni has been lying to her.

Hermoso is what is on your shirt.

You're family and Jenni is a liar.

You turn sixteen at a restaurant in central Barcelona.

Alexia is there but only by accident.

It's after one of her matches and she goes out with her mother and her sister.

They've already sat down when the host comes down to move you and a woman into the table next to them.

You haven't even noticed Alexia, talking to the woman opposite you in rapid Catalan that would never fall from Jenni's lips.

It's your birthday, if the big birthday badge on the front of your shirt is anything to go by.

You dig into your meal happily.

"A gift from your father," The woman says, placing an envelope onto the table.

You were smiling before but your face goes cloudy now, the same kind of cloud that Alexia saw on Jenni's face a few years ago. Annoyance and anger.

You shove it away.

"I don't want it," You say and Alexia doesn't even pretend she's not eavesdropping.

"You need to save up," The woman reminds you," You age out of the system soon."

You look away from her. "I don't need his money."

"You do."

"I don't want it."

"I don't really think it's up to you," The woman says," Think of your future."

You don't answer for a moment before you push your half finished plate away from you.

"I'm done."

"Y/n-"

"I'm finished."

"Not even dessert? You've been wanting the cake from this place for a while now."

Tears spill from your eyes but you keep your voice steady. "I'm not hungry anymore."

You leave your birthday badge at the table along with the envelope.

Alexia doesn't see you for a long few months after that but you never leave her mind.

She keeps up to date with your training, with the way that your coaches have nothing but glowing remarks for you. She thinks you're doing well, in football at least because the next time she physically sees you, you're a mess.

Your hair is unkempt and messy. Your shoulders are slumped and even though you bang in goals, you don't celebrate even when everyone else does.

It's almost like you don't care.

It's almost like you have no passion for football anymore.

"I don't have family in Barcelona, Alexia," Jenni says again when she tries to broach the subject again.

"I know but there's this kid...this girl-"

"I don't have a sister!" Jenni snaps and Alexia takes a step back.

"I didn't say anything about a sister."

Jenni seethes, glancing away as she runs her hand through her own messy hair. "Good. Because I don't have one."

"Just come to a game." Alexia can't stop herself from pushing. She doesn't know what it is, what strange aura you have around you that pushes her to campaign for you. "Just one."

She doesn't know what it is about you that she just needs Jenni to see. What spark in you that she needs Jenni to acknowledge.

"I don't want to. I'm busy."

"I know you're going to a party with Mariona," Alexia says," I know you'll be in the city during one of her games. Please, Jenni. Just one game. You don't even have to talk to her. Just watch."

Jenni agrees only after days of badgering.

Somehow, you look worse than before.

You still bang in goals. a hattrick in the first half and Jenni's thoroughly disinterested, even if you wear her surname on your jersey.

Your hair is a mess and your kit is askew. There are bags under your eyes and your shoulders are hunched over.

You curl into yourself even more when you walk through the tunnel at halftime. Your eyes catch Alexia's.

She's been coming to these matches a lot recently but it's not her that causes you to stop.

Jenni looks down at you from the stands, her face neutral and one singular brow raised when you deign to meet her gaze.

Alexia frowns as your eyes drop and your posture tightens up again, head bowed as you walk away.

"You're still playing? I thought you were told to stop."

"He can't tell me what to do."

"Can't he?"

"Well, he's not exactly my father, is he?"

"You wear his name."

"It's my name!"

"Is it?"

"Don't-Don't tell him. Please."

"He'll find out sooner or later. A club like Barcelona, what were you thinking?"

"Please...Please."

"Quit while you're ahead, kid. Finish up your season and find something else to do."

"I-"

"It's for your own good, okay?"

Alexia rounds the corner at the end of the match.

You're sobbing, tears rolling down your cheeks as you slam your head against the stone wall.

"Hey...Hey!"

Alexia shoves her hand between your skull and the wall, trying to pillow the impact as much as possible.

You're still sobbing and Alexia pulls you into her arms, pressing your head into her neck as you shake.

"I-I have to quit."

"No you don't," She says," It's okay. You don't have to quit."

"I do."

These are the first words she's even spoken to you.

You know she watches you. You know that she lurks and analyses and sees something in you that keeps her coming back again and again.

You don't even know her. Not personally anyway.

Everyone knows Alexia Putellas. Everyone knows who she is, a legend.

You know her the same amount that you know your own sister.

Which isn't much.

She doesn't really know you either. Knows the same amount about you as your own sister.

But here she is, holding you as you sob after one of the best games of your life, holding you after you've been told to leave this all behind.

"It's okay. No one's going to make you quit if you don't want to."

"I have to."

"You don't," Alexia promises," I'll make sure of it."

[axxxx13]

Theo is Liam's anchor, okay? It's basically canon, right? But can we talk about how absurd the reason is?

I mean what happens is literally this: Theo, after basing his entire life plan on triggering Liam's rage, comes back from hell, looks at Liam, looks at his IED, looks at the pack having trouble controlling him and is like "well maybe continuing to push violence on a kid who's been abused his whole life isn't the way to control his violence" and surprise, surprise, HE'S RIGHT.

Like, that's pretty much Liam's story.

1. We don't know much about his childhood but it's likely that he was abused by his biological father (seriously how often do we see Liam interact peacefully with a grown man? Maybe Coach and partly David but nothing more).

2. There are several things that suggest that Liam has always had social/relationship issues: it is clear that he had behavioral issues well before the diagnosis (the fight with Hayden) and that he was often excluded (his only friend is Mason) and maybe even bullied (his comfort zone is literally a team sport made to vent aggression in a healthy way and at the same time bond with other people).

3. Brett. Briam or not, whatever happened between them is as toxic as Chernobyl: can we talk about how tragic the zoo scene is? It is literally physical, psychological and emotional violence all together in the only space that Liam considered safe, which was lacrosse.

4. The management of his IED. This is probably a detail but I have always found the risperidone thing absurd because usually this kind of disorder is treated with a lot of psychotherapy (especially in young subjects) and drugs are a kind of safety/stabilization net. From the way it is told in the series instead it seems that Liam went to a psychiatrist who gave him a sheet with a diagnosis and a blister of pills and Liam spent weeks (the time of transfer from one school to another) like a zombie. They really literally inactivated him as if he were a bomb.

5. Liam's transformation was perhaps one of the most traumatic (of those we see). When he tells David that it was his fault that Scott broke his ankle? The scene on the roof? When they trick him into going to the "party" at the lake house? When he says that his parents will see him as a monster? When Mason tells him that he is ignoring him and Liam can't tell him why? It is so heartbreaking that I could cry.

6. After the transformation Liam doesn't have a second to rest or understand what he has become and how to deal with it: first he literally develops a form of PTSD because of the Berserkers with nightmares and hallucinations (AT 14 YEARS OLD) then he is put on a list where his death is worth 8 million dollars (the printer scene is horrifying) and finally he is thrown into a well by one of his teammates (another crack in his "safe place") with the knowledge that he has a wound that will kill him. ALL THIS WITHOUT HE BEING ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT TO ANYONE BECAUSE MASON DIDN'T KNOW ANYTHING.

7. Theo (and yes, unfortunately we can't rule it out). Theo turns Liam into the monster he's afraid of being, literally, and if Liam doesn't kill Scott it's just for a series of completely random circumstances. And obviously the consequences of this are devastating both for the treatment he receives from others (justifiable of course) and for his own mind which obviously doesn't help him process what happened.

8. In all of this what everyone does to block his fits of rage is using further violence (which could be linked to having actually suffered physical abuse). Scott and Stiles push him into the shower multiple times (and we clearly see him hit his head), Derek picks him up by the neck in the locker room, Brett tackles him on the field, Theo knocks him out at the zoo (5 times), etc...

Liam has lived in a spiral of endless violence practically his entire life and Theo after TWO times of seeing him have one of his outbursts (the Brett shirt scene and the scene with Nolan at the zoo) understands that violence does not calm him down or help him but is only a temporary defuse that actually adds to the spiral. Theo watches Liam TWICE have a tantrum and then manages to calm him down only by talking to him about how to cover up a murder.

Theo literally knows nothing about the world except death and fear and violence and yet he goes to Liam and manages to give him an ALTERNATIVE. Theo goes to Liam and is like "just because violence is what you're used to doesn't mean it's your only option". Theo is the only one who somehow manages to find a flaw in Liam's system that pulls him out of that spiral of violence instead of pushing him into it. Theo who is literally the apotheosis of violence in all its forms is the only one who manages to treat Liam with kindness.

Theo is the only one who can always treat Liam as if he were someone fragile instead of something unstable.

[lostbookmark]

MDNI 🔞

Main Masterlist here

Game Masterlist here

Summary: After the death of your brother and his wife. You find yourself adjusting to a new role in your life. A single parent to your teenage nephew. How do you help him heal? How do you help yourself heal? You're not sure. You don't think you can, until an annoying basketball coach enters your life and turns everything around.

Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x Single Aunt F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Strangers to Lovers,

Warnings: Death Of Parents / Brother/ Family, Car Accident (Cause), Swearing, Explicit Sex, Arguments, Physical Fighting, Past Abusive Relationship, Talks Of Domestic Violence, Gore (Horror Movie)

You lean back on your elbows, tilting your face up to the sky. The final heat wave of the year had finally passed, and the evenings were starting to become much cooler with a welcoming breeze. With your eyes closed, you take in the sun rays before the gray clouds take over the clear sky, making the little warmth they offer sparse.

“OOOHHHHHH, nothing but net once again,” Nicky yells as you hear the basketball go through the hoop. “I'm on fire tonight.”

Smiling to yourself, you push your sunglasses up your head and look at him and Yoongi running around the park's concret court chasing after one another, trying to take the round orange ball from the other person. Yoongi had approached you carefully throughout the week, texting you during the day to make plans with you after practice. If you said you were busy, he dropped it. If you gave him the go-ahead, he showed up for dinner and a simple walk to the park that was just down the road from your house. This is the second time this week you have sat here watching them play on a set of metal bleachers. They weren't practicing, going over plays. They were just….having fun. No pressure, no expectation, just having fun. Just two people running around playing one on one because they enjoyed it.

“Come on, sunshine,” Nicky calls out, waving you over. “Come out and play with us.”

“I'll pass, thanks,” you call back, waving your hand, dismissing them.

“You're boring,” he complains and sits down on the court, pulling out his phone.

Yoongi walks over to you, casually dribbling the ball between his two hands. Sitting down next to you, he throws the ball in the air, making you catch it as it comes down in front of your face.

“Why does he call you sunshine?” He asks, leaning back, mimicking your previous position. “I don't think I have ever heard him use your name.”

“You know that song?” You ask, squinting your eyes under the glare of the sun as you look over at him. “You are my sunshine….,” you start to sing as he nods. “Yeah, that’s it. I sang it to him all the time when he was little. My dad and my brother even call me sunshine most of the time. The name just kind of stuck after all these years.”

“He was telling me about his dad,” he informs you.

“Really?” You ask, surprised that he was opening up to him. “What did he say? He doesn't ever really talk about him.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi confirms, nodding his head. “He didn't say much. Just that his dad was a really good basketball player, too. He led his high school team to the state championship.”

“He did, and they won,” you tell him. “He played in college for a little bit before he had to quit. I mean… he didn't have to quit, but he chose to quit.”

“Why did he quit?” Yoongi asks, and you sigh, looking at the boy on the court.

“He got his girlfriend pregnant,” you answer.

“Ah,” he said in understanding.

“He focused on getting a job to start saving money while trying to finish school. My parents really stepped up to support both him and Nicky's mom. It was a pretty chaotic time,” you explain.

“Yeah, I bet,” he agrees.

“Did you really think I was his mom?” You ask, laughing a little bit. “I don't think that I really give off mom vibes. Besides, it shows you clearly never read my paperwork. With all the damn information I had to put down, you would have seen I was twelve when he was born.”

“I didn't know, and Jungkook deals with all the paperwork. All I knew was that there was a hot woman in a tight skirt I had never seen before giving me a bunch of shit,” he said, smiling.

“Hot?” You ask, raising an eyebrow in question.

“I still think about you in those skirts, doll,” he whispers, leaning close to your face.

“You're disgusting,” you whisper back.

“You didn't think that I was disgusting when I had you pinned to your bed,” he smirks.

“I don't remember,” you feign confusion.

“Well, I'll be happy to jog your memory whenever you want me to,” Yoongi leans closer and presses his lips to yours.

“Gross are two always going to be kissing?” Nicky asks, making the two of you break apart.

“Wait until you get a girlfriend,” you tell him, shoving the orange ball at him.

“No way,” he says. “I’m not going to let some girl get between me and basketball. I have a plan, and a girl is not a part of them.”

“Sure,” you say. “I'll make sure to hold you to that when the time comes and some little girl is fawning all over you.”

Nicky pulls a face and walks off down the sidewalk. You and Yoongi get up, following him back down the street to your house. Yoongi fingers brush up against yours as you slowly stroll side by side. It wasn't long until his long, bony digits entwined with your own. It wasn't a firm hold making sure that you stayed put where he wanted you. It was lax, allowing you to pull free if you wanted. The innocent act had your heart pounding, and you hoped that you played it off like it was nothing, but it was. It was him slowly testing the waters. Letting you tiptoe in the shallow end instead of throwing you in the deep end and seeing if you can swim and you appreciate it more than he'll ever know.

“What are you doing?” You ask Nicky as he stood at the kitchen counter scrubbing his already clean white basketball shoes with a toothbrush.

“They looked dirty,” he said, focused on his task.

“They're brand new,” you tell him, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen. “They are perfectly clean.”

“Nope, they had fingerprints on them, and I need them to be perfect for tomorrow,” he informs you. “If I can see them, then so can other people.”

“It's okay to be nervous,” you gently say. “It's your first game with a whole new team. It's perfectly normal to feel nervous.”

“I'm not nervous,” he denies, scrubbing a bit harder. You walk over to him and take the footwear away from him, placing it on the counter. “Hey!”

“Go sit on the couch. I think I have something for you,” you say, walking down the hallway to your bedroom.

Opening your closet, you step up on a small wooden step stool to reach the box that was shoved to the very back on the upper shelf. Once you grab it, you smile and grab two items inside and place the box back where you retrieved it. Stepping down, you head back into the living room to your waiting nephew. Sitting in front of him on the coffee table, you hand him the two items in your hand.

“What are these?” He asks, taking them from you.

“These belonged to your dad. It's his captain badge from high school and his lucky headband,” you explain, taking the head band back and placing it over his head to rest on his forehead. You untuck his hair so it falls around the thick black material. “I found them in a box that was in the attic of your old house when we were packing. He wouldn't let grandma wash it in case it caused his team to lose. She didn't listen and washed it anyway, and they still won.”

“How do I look,” he asks quietly, adjusting the headband around his head.

“Like the spitting image of your father,” you answer, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat and take the patch back from him. “You're going to kill it out on the court tomorrow. I'll sew this in your undershirt where it's hidden. It will give you some extra good luck even though you won't need it .”

“I'm going to win it for him,” he says with determination in his voice. “I'm going to make him and mom proud.’

“I know you will,” you wrap your arms around him tightly.

You're not religious or spiritual in any sense. You lost any faith that you did have years ago. However, there was a part of you that hoped your brother would be with him tomorrow. Hopefully, the small items you have given him will help him feel close to his dads spirit when he can't physically have him. You hoped it eased his worries, even if it was for just a little bit.

“Can I ask you a question?” You ask, pulling back from him, and he nods. “Are you okay with me and Coach Min?”

“I mean, it's a little weird, but I'm okay with it,” he assures you. “I barely remember the last time you had a boyfriend. I kind of remember a guy with a beard, and I think I remember mom and dad fighting about dad hitting him.”

“You what?” You asked, shocked.

“Yeah, I remember dad having a cast on his hand and mom yelling at him about dad hitting him,” he says. “Does coach make you happy?”

“I think so,” you say quietly, trying to come to terms with what he just told you. You thought you had protected him from your trauma, but he was always way smarter than you gave him credit for. “I hope he will anyway. I want you to promise me something. Promise me that if at any time, you are uncomfortable with us…. being together. You tell me. I don't want you to ever be afraid to tell me if you get uncomfortable with us. You will always be my number one, and I don't want you to forget that.”

“I promise,” he agrees, holding his pinky finger out.

You smile and wrap your pinky around his as you both kiss your respective fist. Nicky adjusts the headband once more as he leaves you sitting there on the coffee table with your brother's patch in your hand. You close your hand tightly around the material and take a shuddering breath. Sniffling, you shake your head, trying to clear all the emotions you are feeling right now.

You're fine.

Everything is fine.

Nothing is fine.

Nothing was ever fine, and everyone knew it.

Hopefully….it will be.

You organize the shiny, colorful bags of chips off to the side of the window for easy access. Elly works behind you, mixing large containers of nacho cheese together. Bringing it to a nice smooth consistency over the heat on an induction plate in a large silver pot. She was your saving grace today after she volunteered her time to help you run the concession stand. You're pretty sure she was using it as an excuse so she wouldn't have to spend the whole time with your mom defending her choices for her and Chris's upcoming wedding. You don't question her motives for volunteering. You were happy that you didn't have to go at this alone.

“So,” Yoongi says, leaning over the counter separating the kitchen and the cafeteria to look at you. “Do I get a good luck kiss?”

“Why?” You ask, breaking down the large chip box, not sparing him a look. “You're not playing.”

Elly's giggle in the background makes you break character and smile. Sucking your cheeks in, you try to school your features. Yoongi audibly sighs dramatically, playing along with your foolishness. You finally look over at him, and he smirks at you.

“How about if we win?” He asks, licking his bottom lip as his eyes dart to your mouth. “Do I get… something then?”

“Possibly,” you answer with a shrug, looking at him with an arched eyebrow. “I guess you better win to find out.”

“You two are gross,” Elly giggles behind you, making Yoongi smirk widen and shrug his shoulders.

Winking at you, he turns, walking away to the gymnasium as his players start showing up. Throwing the box in your hands off to the side, you turn to look at Elly. She looks back at you with a million questions ready to be asked. Shaking your head at her, she just laughs. You grab your next box and repeat your earlier process, smiling to yourself. Yes, you think. You just might give him something.

You had over estimated how busy working the concession stand would be. Snot nosed kids demanded everything and anything that they could get their grubby little hands on while their parents were trying to order over their yelling. You almost couldn't keep up. The food was going pretty fast, and unfortunately, Yoongi was right. The tips sucked. You figure you must only be charming to old biker men who had one too many drinks and not the moms who drive minivans. You bet if you had worn a low-cut top, some of the dads would have tipped a bit more.

“Maybe I should have tied my shirt up,” you say to Elly, who was starting to clean up. “Show a little skin, you know?”

“Yes, I'm sure your boyfriend would love that,” she says, laughing, making you scoff at the word boyfriend, but you know it's true. “Could you imagine your mom seeing you like that here. Y/N, cover up right now.” She says imitating your mom.

“Y/N, you’re embarrassing the family,” you say, joining in on the mocking of your mother.

“I can't believe her sometimes,” she grumbles, scrubbing away at the nacho cheese pot maybe a little too aggressively. “She always has to have an opinion.”

“And yet, you are still going to marry into this family,” you tease her as you wipe some crumbs away off the counter. “I don't know who is crazier. Us or you.”

“If I didn't love you and your brother, I would have ran a long time ago,” she admits.

“Can I have a water, please?” A manly voice asks, interrupting your conversation.

“Two dollars,” you answer, placing a water bottle on the metal counter. You look at the handsome man in front of you wearing a shirt with the team's logo on it. “Anything else for you?”

“Are you Min's girlfriend?” He asks, looking at you quizzically as he ignores your question.

“No,” you answer quickly, getting back to the topic of payment. “Two dollars, please.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, pulling his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans. He fingers through the bills before finally pulling out the two dollar bills. “I saw you earlier here with him. You two looked awfully chummy.”

“I'm sure,” you ask, holding your hand out, making him laugh quietly.

“I don't believe you,” he tells you, handing you the money. “Trust me when I say this….stay away from him. He likes to sleep with the moms, and he doesn't care if they are married.”

Your heart stops.

A sharp pain.

Betrayal.

Moms?

Your stomach drops as your joking words from before come back to haunt you.

“I don't know you,” you say defensively as you try not to believe the words that just came out of his mouth. “Why should I believe you?”

“Well, when I walked in on him and my wife in my bed….I think I know what I'm talking about,” he tells you, giving you a tight smile. “I just thought that you should know who you're getting involved in. He's not some great basketball coach who cares about the kids. He prays on moms during weak moments. You're not his first victim, and you probably won't be his last.”

He drops a twenty dollar bill in your tip jar before he turns to walk away. You watch him, blood rushing to your ears, heart beating out of your chest. Taking a deep breath, you call out to him.

“Who's your wife?” You ask, not wanting to know the answer, but you were always a glutton for punishment.

“Ara,” he says, simply before finally walking away and disappearing through the gym doors.

Ara.

The bitch.

The one who thinks she calls the shots.

The one who yelled at Yoongi because of you.

Yoongi and Ara.

Ara and Yoongi.

You feel like an idiot. You feel like he's playing you for a fool. He knew you had to sit there in the bleachers with her almost every night and didn't say one word about his past with her. He probably wasn't ever going to mention it to you. He think's he's so fucking slick.

“Are you okay?” Elly asks, coming up to stand next to you. “What's going on?”

“Nothing. I'm fine,” you answer, lowering your eyes to the twenty dollar bill.

You were a liar. You were not fine, but there was no way in hell that you were going to show it. You were never good at much, but you have perfected lying about your emotions. You have perfected being cold and stonewalling. It's kept you safe. That is…until now. You got soft, and that just wouldn't do.

“You better not be late,” your mother tells you as you stand by the kitchen, money bag in hand.

“I just have to hand over the money and have one of the coaches verify the amount. I can't help it if they take forever,” you snap at her. “What do you want me to do?”

“You already missed his first game. You can't miss his first celebratory dinner,” she chides. “You need to celebrate his win.”

“Coach made her work the concession stand,” Nicky says, defending you. “She's being a team player. Mom used to do it all the time.”

“She will meet us at the restaurant,” your dad says, stepping between the two of you. “Look, here comes one of the coaches.”

“Finally,” you say, eyes searching the crowd, hoping that you see Coach Jeon walking your way, but of course, you weren't that lucky.

“Congratulations on the win,” your dad said in greeting when Yoongi made it to your little group and shook his hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Yoongi says politely before looking at you almost expectantly. It was as if he wanted you to introduce your family to him.

You'll pass on that.

You give nothing away as you look back at him and then down to the money bag in your hands. You could feel the burning gaze of your mother on you. As you look at her, you see her eyes flint between you and Nicky's coach. There was something almost accusatory in the look behind her eyes. You knew she could probably read you like an open book. It was one of her most useful evil powers. She could always smell it on you….the guilt….the lies. You could never hide from her when she was actually paying attention.

“You better not be too late,” she tells you. “We will order without you, and I will not order for you.”

“I told you I will be there. He just needs to count the money,” you say through gritted teeth.

Your mother doesn't respond before she turns and walks away. Your dad visibly sighs, patting you on the shoulder before following his wife with Nicky in tow. Looking at Yoongi, you practically throw the money bag at him.

“Your mom kind of scares me,” he said, chuckling, but you don't. You look at him with very little emotion, making him tic his head to the side, studying you. “What's going on?”

“Can you just count the money so I can go,” you tell him. “Obviously you can see I'm in a hurry.”

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching out to grab you but you back away, shaking your head at him. “Clearly you're pissed at me. What could I have possibly done? I haven't seen you in an hour.”

“I met someone interesting today,” you tell him, crossing your arms and closing yourself off. Yoongi looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to finish. “Ara's husband.” His expression goes blank, and it tells you everything that you need to know. “So, it's true?”

“How come I get the feeling that no matter what I say, it's going to be the wrong thing,” he tells you, not denying anything.

“Ew,” you say, shaking your head, grimacing. “Ew, ew, ew. I think I need a scalding hot shower, possibly a shot of something and penicillin. Oh my god, ew.”

“Hey,” he said, looking offended. You look over his shoulder to see the couple in question, walking out of the gym and through the cafeteria to leave the building. They were holding hands, looking like the picture-perfect couple, but you know it couldn't be further from the truth. “Listen….”

“Count the money,” you tell him, interrupting whatever it was that he was going to say. You didn't want to hear it. You didn't care. “Forge my signature. I don't care. Have a good weekend…coach.”

You don't spare him one glance as you walk away. As you make your way to your car, you can feel those chains that he was breaking through, locking tightly once more. Locking so tight that you swear you can feel your chest hurt. It hurt so badly. It felt like you couldn't breathe. Shaking your head, you were so mad at yourself that you let yourself like someone like that once again. It was time to bury your heart again. It was time to bury it even deeper, and this time….you weren't digging it out.

A/N: Do I need to run and hide?

《Chapter 8》

Tagged Readers:

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[meazalykov]

don't bleed where you cannot heal

lena oberdorf x reader requested

summary: there is a thin line between love and hate

warnings: angst, acl injuries, swearing

the stadium is getting you excited. it’s a friendly match, but for you, it’s anything but. 

this is all preparation for the upcoming world cup, your second. this is what you’ve dreamed of since you were a kid. the world stage, the chance to prove yourself once again as one of the best players in the world with the best country in the world.

the first whistle cuts through the air, and the game begins. germany presses hard from the start, their relentless high line suffocating, but your team is known for your aggression and tactical brilliance. 

you know how to play under pressure. as the minutes tick by, you quickly realize that your primary challenge tonight isn’t the team as a whole. it’s their number six, lena oberdorf.

she’s everywhere. the woman’s presence is like a shadow, constantly dogging your steps. the way she reads the game is impressive, and she’s physical—too physical. the first time she shoves you off the ball, it’s unnecessary. 

you had already passed it away, the play was moving forward, and yet her shoulder slams into you with enough force to make you stumble.

“get the fuck off me!” you snap, spinning to glare at her.

she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even blink. lena just shakes her head and walks away, her expression calm, almost cold. it infuriates you, but you swallow the anger, forcing yourself to focus. she wants a reaction, and you won’t give her the satisfaction, even though you almost did.

the next twenty minutes are a battle of wills. she pushes, you evade. she lunges, you anticipate. it’s a dance, one where you refuse to let her lead. then, just before halftime, you seize your moment. the ball finds you outside the box, and you see her diving in for another tackle. 

you leap over her outstretched leg, the studs of her boot missing you by inches. planting your foot, you unleash a strike that sails cleanly into the top corner of the net.

the roar of the crowd is deafening, your teammates rushing to you in celebration. your captain grabs you in a tight hug, laughing as she says, 

“lets fucking go!!!!!”

as you jog back to midfield, you glance at lena, her frustration barely concealed, but she doesn’t say a word. you smirk, letting the satisfaction of the moment fuel you as the halftime whistle blows.

the locker room is buzzing during the break, your team riding the high of the lead. your coach gathers everyone, clipboard in hand, her expression serious despite the score.

“good half,” she begins, her voice cutting through the chatter. “don’t get comfortable though. their number six—” she doesn’t need to say lena’s name for everyone to know who she’s talking about—“is the anchor of the german team. she going to come out swinging. they don’t want to lose this, and she’s not the type to back down looking at what y/n is enduring.”

you nod, already expecting it. “i can handle it,” you say, your voice steady. you mean it. you’ve faced players like her before, and you’re not about to let her throw you off your game.

your captain gives you a reassuring pat on the back. 

“don’t let her get in your head.”

the second half begins, and lena’s intensity ramps up as expected. she’s glued to you, her physicality increasing with every passing minute. you can feel her presence even when she’s not touching you, the way she presses close, cutting off your options, forcing you to think faster, move smarter. 

in the 72nd minute, you’re sprinting down the left wing, the ball at your feet. your eyes scan the field, spotting your left winger making a run. just as you’re about to release the pass, a sudden force slams into you from behind.

the orange colored boot clips your ankle, and you go flying toward your team’s bench. the world tilts, and you hit the grass hard, skidding along the ground.

the whistle blows sharply, the referee immediately reaching for her pocket. you hear the crowd react—boos and gasps, some shouting for a red card. lena stands by one one of her teammates, their captain alex, her expression unreadable as the yellow is shown. 

she doesn’t argue, doesn’t apologize. she just turns and walks away, leaving you fuming.

“are you serious right now?” you mumble under your breath, pushing yourself up. pain radiates from your ankle, but you grit your teeth and wave off the medical staff. you’re not letting her see you weak.

your coach yells from the sideline, “need a sub?”

you nod, forcing yourself to stand. “i’m fine,” you call back, though the sting in your ankle says otherwise.

the game restarts, and you barely have time to settle before lena comes at you again. this time, it’s worse. you’ve just turned with the ball when she crashes into you, her body slamming against yours. your right leg gets caught awkwardly between hers, and you feel it—a sickening pop that shoots through your knee like lightning.

the scream tears from your throat before you can stop it. you collapse to the ground, clutching your knee, the pain blinding. it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, a sharp, unbearable agony that leaves you gasping for air. 

your teammates are there in seconds. one of them kneels beside you, her hand on your shoulder. unfortunately, it's a teammate who is coming back from their own acl injury. 

“stay down, stay down,” she says, her voice panicked. 

“don’t move.”

your captain storms toward lena, fury etched into her face. “are you trying to kill her? what the hell is wrong with you, you psychopath?!” she yells, jabbing a finger in lena’s direction.

lena stands her ground, her arms crossed, her face stoic as alex comes to her aid. she doesn’t respond, but the tension is palpable.

you can barely focus on the exchange, the pain consuming every ounce of your attention. your hands shake as you clutch your knee, your breathing ragged. tears stream down your face, though you try to hide them, burying your face in the grass.

“fuck,” you whisper, the word barely audible. deep down, you know what this is. you don’t want to admit it, but the telltale pop, the way your knee feels unstable—it’s your acl. 

“don’t say that,” one of your teammates says quickly, her voice trembling. 

“it could be something else. just… just breathe, okay?”

the medics arrive, carefully stabilizing your leg. every movement sends a fresh wave of pain through you, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from screaming again. the world cup is only a month away. the thought makes your stomach churn. this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

your coach is by your side now, her face pale with concern. 

“we’re here, okay? just hold on. you’re going to be fine.”

fine. the word feels like a cruel joke. as they lift you onto the stretcher, your eyes meet lena’s one last time. there’s something in her expression now—a flicker of guilt, maybe regret—but you can’t bring yourself to care.

 all you can think about is the unbearable pain in your knee and the dream that’s slipping away.

the year since your acl injury was rough. you’ve been with bayern munich since transferring from chelsea in june 2023, but the timing of your injury had kept you sidelined, robbing you of the chance to have a true debut with bayern that year. 

now, with the olympics looming and a string of friendlies leading up to the tournament, you’ve finally made it back. the game against poland is your first international appearance since the injury, and while you’re excited, you’re cautious. 

you’ve come too far to risk it all now. 

the friendly goes smoothly. you keep your movements measured, easing into the rhythm of the game without overexerting yourself. your teammates rally around you, celebrating when you register an assist in the second half.

the final whistle brings relief, not just for the victory, but for the reassurance that your knee feels strong. you’ve made it this far.

back at bayern, the news of lena joining the team had been a bitter pill to swallow. the same lena who caused your acl tear. the same lena who showed no remorse, at least not that you saw. 

every time her name is mentioned, your stomach churns, and your teammates know it.

“she’s not as bad as you think,” lea had said one day in the training room, her voice cautious. 

“obi is my best friend. she didn’t hurt you on purpose.”

you scoffed, stretching your hamstring. 

“lea, i know she’s your best friend, but you don’t know what it’s like to be taken out like that. to lose everything for a year because someone couldn’t control themselves on the pitch.”

lea had frowned, her usual brightness dimmed. 

“she does feel bad, you know. she’s just not great at showing it. she wanted to talk to you when she visited here.”

“then she should’ve done it,” you’d snapped, your frustration bubbling over. 

“instead of waiting for me to approach her. that’s not how this works.”

lena’s acl injury in a friendly against austria happened before the olympics. after hering about it, you believed that it was karma. yes, a part of you felt vindicated, another part of you—buried deep—felt something else. pity, maybe. understanding, even. you’d been there, after all. the recovery, the mental toll, the feeling of being left behind while the world moved on without you. 

you quickly pushed those thoughts aside. she was the reason for your pain, and any sympathy you had was fleeting.

the olympic semifinal against germany is intense. both teams leave everything on the pitch, the game eventually decided by a single goal in extra time. your country wins, securing a spot in the final. 

as the celebrations begin, you take a moment to greet your bayern teammates—sydney, lea, giulia, and klara—who’ve come over to congratulate you.

“great game,” sydney says, pulling you into a quick hug before stepping back. 

“your knee is looking sharp.”

“thanks,” you reply, smiling. 

“you guys were solid too. it could’ve gone either way.”

you swap jerseys with sydney, holding hers in your hand as you turn to lea. 

“you okay? that tackle toward the end looked rough.”

you’re referring to a tackle one of your teammates did on lea, where it seemed like lea’s ankle was kicked in. 

lea waves you off. 

“i’m fine. it’s nothing.”

the conversation flows easily, lighthearted. you’re laughing at something giulia says when you catch sight of lena approaching out of the corner of your eye.

she’s on crutches, her pace slow but determined. your stomach tightens.

she’s heading straight for the group.

“uh, i’m sorry i think i hear my teammate calling for me–i– i’ve gotta get back to my team,” you say abruptly, cutting sydney off mid-sentence. you offer a tight smile before jogging away, your pulse quickening. 

you don’t look back, but you know she’s watching you.

behind you, the group falls silent for a moment before sydney breaks it. “she’s avoiding you again,” she says bluntly, her eyes on lena.

“yeah,” lena replies, her voice low. there’s a faint crease between her brows, the closest thing to a frown she’s shown all evening.

“are you ever going to apologize to her?” sydney asks, crossing her arms.

“i tried,” lena says, shifting her weight slightly on her crutches. 

“the first day at bayern, i walked up to her during warmups, but as soon as she saw me coming, she bolted. it’s been like that ever since. she won’t even stay in the same room as me if she can help it.”

klara sighs, glancing at lena. 

“have you tried writing to her? or asking someone else to talk to her for you?”

“what would i even say?” lena asks, her frustration evident. 

“sorry i ruined your career for a year? sorry i made you miss the world cup where you had to be left out of your team making it to the final?”

“yes,” klara replies firmly. “that’s exactly what you should say.”

lea shakes her head, her expression sympathetic. 

“i’ve tried talking to her,” the blonde says. 

“but it’s tough. she’s… she’s still dealing with it. at least the mental part.”

“she hates me,” lena mutters, her voice barely audible.

“she doesn’t hate you,” lea insists, though her tone suggests even she’s not entirely convinced. 

“she’s just angry. and hurt. give her time.”

“time,” lena echoes bitterly. 

“it’s been a year. how much more time does she need?”

sydney shrugs. 

“look, you’ve got a lot of ground to make up. you can’t just expect her to forgive you overnight.”

lena exhales sharply, her grip tightening on her crutches. “i never meant to hurt her,” she says quietly. 

“it wasn’t intentional.”

“we know,” lea says gently. 

“but you have to make her believe that.”

as you jog back to your team, you feel the weight of their eyes on your back. you know you’re avoiding her. it’s not subtle, and everyone has noticed. you can’t bring yourself to face her. not yet. the wound is still too raw, the memories too vivid.

you’re back from your acl injury, but you’re scared of it happening again. the first few weeks of recovery, while seeing your country making it to the world cup final without you, was one of the darkest points in your life. you believe that your country could’ve won the final if you were present. instead, lena had to be overly aggressive in a friendly game. 

you try to focus on the celebration, on your teammates and the victory for going to the final of the olympics. however, lena’s presence lingers. 

you don’t want to think about her, about the injury, about the months of recovery that followed. no matter how hard you try, she’s there, a reminder of everything you’ve endured. she is going to be your teammate during the club season, which you have no idea how you will avoid her then.

as you stand on the sideline, watching your team huddle around your coach, you catch a glimpse of lena out of the corner of your eye. she’s still with sydney and the others, her expression distant.

for a moment, you wonder what she’s thinking. but you quickly push the thought away. it doesn’t matter.

you’ve got a final to prepare for, and she’s the last thing you need on your mind.

three weeks later, the golden medal resting in your room is a reminder of everything you’ve overcome. winning the olympic gold with your country felt like redemption, a tangible reward after the hell of the past year. 

everyone at bayern has been nothing but supportive since your return, congratulating you with hugs and pats on the back when you walked into training the first day back. even the german girls, who’d taken bronze, had been gracious. most of them, anyway.

now, with training over, you’re sitting in the lounge, nursing a sports drink and watching tuva and alana messing around on the pitch outside. their laughter carries faintly through the glass, light and carefree, as they attempt some flashy dribbling moves. 

you smile to yourself, their joy contagious even from afar.

the door behind you opens and closes softly, and you think it’s georgia. she’d left a few minutes ago, maybe forgetting her jacket or something. turning around with a small smile, you open your mouth to greet her—but your smile instantly fades.

it’s not georgia. it’s lena.

you freeze, your body stiffening like prey caught in a predator’s gaze. lena’s crutches are gone now, and though she still has a slight limp, she moves with ease. 

the expression on her face is serious, but her eyes hold something softer, something almost vulnerable. 

“can we talk?” she asks, her voice steady but quieter than you’ve ever heard it. 

you shake your head immediately, panic rising in your chest. “no,” you say firmly, already standing. 

you grab your drink and try to walk past her, but she moves to block the door.

“please,” she says, her tone bordering on desperate now. 

“just… five minutes. that’s all I’m asking.”

you hesitate, your jaw clenching. 

“why? so you can say sorry in five minutes and think everything will magically be fine like the last year did not happen? no thanks.”

she exhales sharply, frustration flashing across her face. 

“it’s not like that.”

“then what is it, lena?” you snap, your voice rising. 

“what do you want from me? because I really can’t do this right now.”

“i want to fix this,” she says, her voice firm. 

“i can’t stand how things are between us. i hate it.”

“oh, you hate it?” you laugh bitterly, setting your drink down on a nearby table. 

“well, welcome to the fucking club. do you know how much i hated not being able to play for a year? watching everyone else live my dream while i was stuck rehabbing? you did that to me, lena. you.”

her face pales, but she doesn’t back down. “i know,” she says quietly. 

“and i’ve tried to tell you—”

“when?” you cut her off, your anger bubbling over. 

“when did you try, huh? because i don’t remember you saying a single word to me after it happened. not on the field, not in the locker room, not at bayern. nothing. you just… moved on like it didn’t matter.”

“that’s not true,” she says, her voice shaking slightly. 

“i’ve felt awful about it every day since it happened. but every time i tried to talk to you, you wouldn’t let me.”

“can you blame me?” you shoot back. 

“every time i see you, i just… i can’t stop thinking about it. the pain, the surgery, the months of recovery. and then you come to bayern like nothing ever happened, and i’m supposed to just… what? smile and be your teammate?”

she flinches at your words but keeps her gaze locked on yours. “it wasn’t like that for me,” she says.

 “i’ve been trying to figure out how to fix this since the day it happened, but you shut me out before i even had the chance.”

you cross your arms, glaring at her.

“maybe because you didn’t show any remorse until you tore your own acl. maybe you needed to feel that pain to understand what you did to me.”

lena’s eyes widen, and for a moment, you think she might cry. but she takes a deep breath, steadying herself. 

“that’s not fair, and you know it,” she says quietly. 

“i didn’t need to tear my acl to feel remorse. i felt it the second you hit the ground screaming. i felt it every time i saw you in rehab, every time i saw your name on the injury list. yes, i was too much of a coward to say anything then, but it doesn’t mean i didn’t care.”

your anger falters slightly, the raw honesty in her voice catching you off guard. you look away, your chest tightening. “then why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, your voice softer now. 

“why didn’t you just… apologize?”

“because i was scared,” she admits, and the vulnerability in her tone surprises you. 

“i was scared you’d hate me even more, that it wouldn’t make a difference. and then you came back, and i saw how much you hated me, and it just… it felt like there was no point.”

you sit down heavily on the couch, running a hand through your hair. the tension in your chest doesn’t ease, but the anger begins to ebb, replaced by a dull ache. “you don’t get it,” you say quietly. 

“it wasn’t just the injury. it was everything after. the doubt, the fear, the feeling that i’d never be the same player again. i blamed you for all of it because it was easier than blaming myself.”

“you shouldn’t have to blame yourself for any of it,” lena says, sitting down across from you. her voice is gentle now, almost pleading. 

“it was my fault. i was reckless, and i’m sorry. i know that doesn’t fix anything, but it’s the truth.”

you look at her, searching her face for any sign of insincerity, but all you see is regret. for the first time, you notice how tired she looks, how the weight of the past year has clearly worn on her too.

“i don’t know if i can just forgive you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

“i’m not asking you to,” she says quickly. 

“i just… i don’t want you to hate me anymore. i can’t stand it.”

you exhale shakily, the vulnerability in her words breaking down the last of your defenses. 

“i don’t hate you,” you say finally. 

“i thought i did, but… i think i was just angry. at you, at myself, at everything.”

she nods slowly, relief softening her features. “that’s a start,” she says, a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips.

you shake your head, a faint laugh escaping despite the heaviness in the room. 

“you’re really persistent, you know that?”

“i’ve been told,” she says, her smile growing. 

“but for what it’s worth… you’re worth it.”

the months following your tense conversation with lena go smoother than you ever thought possible. she’s still lena but she’s also softer now, more willing to meet you halfway. you’re not best friends, but the animosity is gone, replaced with something… lighter. 

every time she hits a milestone in her recovery, you find yourself smiling. not the forced, polite smile you’d given her before, a genuine one. when she starts jumping on her injured leg, you can’t help but feel proud. 

when she takes her first jog, the grin on her face is contagious, and you find yourself clapping along with the team. it reminds you of yourself.

when lena announces to the locker room one day that she might be back to training by march 1st, the excitement is palpable. even you can’t help but cheer, giving her a small nod when her eyes meet yours. 

lena’s face lights up. for a moment, you wonder how you ever managed to hate her.

the team notices the shift between you two. 

“you and lena might actually be friends now,” lea teases one afternoon, nudging you with her elbow. you roll your eyes but don’t deny it. truthfully, the idea doesn’t bother you as much as it would have a few months ago.

fate, as always, has other plans.

it starts small, almost imperceptible. you catch yourself watching lena more often, your eyes drawn to her when she’s on the sidelines. during a match against frankfurt, you score a goal, the kind of strike that makes the crowd erupt. 

as you jog back to your position, your eyes instinctively find her in the stands. she’s watching you, her face glowing with pride, and you smirk up at her. no hand symbol, no exaggerated gesture—just a simple smirk and head nod. 

the way her smile widens in response sends a strange flutter through your chest.

then there’s the time in the lounge when lena tries to lift something too heavy for her recovering leg. you’re across the room when you see her struggling, and without thinking, you rush over.

“let me help,” you say, taking the weight from her hands.

your fingers brush hers as you adjust your grip, and for a moment, neither of you moves. her hand is warm beneath yours, and the realization that you don’t want to let go hits you like a freight train. 

before you can process it, lea walks in, and you rip your hand away like you’ve been burned. lena doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of disappointment in her eyes stays with you for the rest of the day.

it’s lena who makes the first move. subtle at first—lingering glances, the occasional brush of her arm against yours—but then bolder. during a team dinner, she catches your eye from across the table and winks. your cheeks flush, and she smirks knowingly but that was not enough for the german woman.

she sits beside you at the team dinner, and doesn’t mind the fact that she links her hand with yours, pulling both of your hands to hold together on top of your left thigh. it’s maddening, really, how easily she gets under your skin now in a different and better way, but you can’t deny the way your heart races every time she’s near.

one evening after training, you’re alone in the lounge again, sipping on a protein shake and scrolling through your phone. outside the window, you can see tuva and alana messing around on the pitch, their laughter faint but audible. 

the door opens, and you glance up, expecting georgia or lea. instead, it’s lena.

your heart skips a beat, but you quickly school your expression, trying to seem nonchalant. 

“hey,” you say, your voice more neutral than warm.

“hey,” she replies, closing the door behind her. she hesitates for a moment, then crosses the room, sitting on the couch opposite you. 

“can i ask you something?”

you nod, setting your drink down. 

“sure.”

she looks nervous, a rare sight that catches you off guard. “do you… consider me a friend?” she asks, her voice quieter than usual.

you blink, caught off guard by the question. “uh… kinda?” you say, the word slipping out before you can think it through.

obi’s face falls slightly, and you immediately feel a pang of guilt. “kinda?” she repeats, her tone laced with disappointment. 

“so you still hate me?”

“no, no,” you say quickly, sitting up straighter. 

“it’s not that. it’s just… complicated.”

“then explain it to me,” she says, her voice firmer now. 

“please.”

you exhale, running a hand through your hair. 

“it’s hard, okay? for so long, all i could feel when i looked at you was anger. and then you got hurt, and it was like… i didn’t know what to feel anymore. i wanted to hate you, but i couldn’t. and now… now i don’t even know what this is.”

“what this is?” she echoes, her eyes searching yours.

you nod, swallowing hard. 

“yeah. us. whatever we are.”

she’s silent for a moment, then leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. 

“what if i told you i don’t want to be just friends?”

your breath catches, your eyes snapping to hers. 

“what?”

“i like you,” she says simply, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes. 

“i’ve liked you for a while now. and i know i screwed up, and i know i don’t deserve anything from you, but i can’t keep pretending i don’t feel this way.”

your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure she can hear it. “lena…” you start, but your voice falters.

“you don’t have to say anything,” she says quickly. 

“i just needed you to know.”

you take a shaky breath, the weight of her words settling over you. “i didn’t want to call you a friend,” you say slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, “because i don’t want to be just friends either.”

her eyes widen slightly, hope flickering across her face. 

“i don’t know when it happened, but… it’s there. i feel it too.”

she doesn’t hesitate. in one smooth motion, she moves closer, her hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “can i?” she asks softly, her eyes locked on yours.

you nod again, unable to find the words. her lips meet yours, gentle at first, testing the waters. your heart races, your hands instinctively finding their way to her waist. the kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, as if you’re both trying to make up for all the time you spent apart. 

her lips are soft, warm, and they taste faintly of spearmint gum.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathing heavily, her forehead resting against yours. “how does it feel to kiss the girl you hated a year ago?” she teases, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

you laugh softly, swatting her arm. 

“don’t ruin the moment.”

“what moment?” she asks, grinning now.

“this moment.”

this time, it’s you who leans in, capturing her lips in another kiss. as if you didn’t hate her one year ago.

masterlist

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHOCKEY DRAMA * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N is a hockey player of the Boston High-school hockey team, and during one of her games, her temper is tested by her opponent while her boyfriend, Matt, is watching.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　Physical fighting, blood, bruises.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Y/N adjusted the straps of her helmet and took one last look around the locker room. The muffled noise of the crowd, which already filled the gym, pulsed through the walls. The tension in the air was palpable. This game wasn't just another game of the season; it was the decisive game that would define the regional champion. And for Y/N, there was an extra motivation: Matt. Her boyfriend was in the audience, and she wanted more than ever to impress him with her performance.

While sliding across the ice during warm-ups, Y/N observed the opposing team, known for its physical and aggressive play, looked more determined than ever. Among them, one player in particular stood out: Lilian. Tall, robust, and with a look that exuded competitiveness, Lilian had a reputation for being ruthless. Y/N knew she would have to pay attention to her throughout the game.

The opening whistle sounded, and the game began with frenetic intensity. Y/N moved with agility, looking for gaps in the opponent's defense. Every pass, every deflection, was meticulously calculated.

And it didn't take long for her to find an opportunity.

With a quick sprint, Y/N escaped to the right, receiving a precise pass from her teammate and, with an elegant movement of her stick, sent the puck directly into the corner of the net.

The electric sound of the puck hitting the net was followed by a roar from the crowd. Matt, who was sitting in the center bleachers, jumped to his feet, cheering and shouting her name, a huge smile taking over his face as his hands grabbed the front of his brothers' hoodies, shaking their upper bodies with euphoria.

Y/N's confidence was high, but the game was far from won. The opposing team increased the pressure, and Lilian, especially, seemed to have fixed Y/N as her main target.

In one of the most critical moves, Lilian came forward with force, bumping into Y/N with an intensity that bordered on brutality. Y/N managed to stay upright but felt the impact reverberate through her bones.

She returned Lilian's gaze with firm determination. She would not allow herself to be intimidated.

The minutes passed, and the game became increasingly fierce. Y/N was determined to score another goal. Her ears seemed to constantly search for the loud and firm comments of encouragement that escaped her boyfriend's lips, drawing strength from there. With a combination of speed and precision, she advanced towards the opponent's goal again.

But Lilian was there, and this time, she wasn't willing to allow Y/N to pass. In a split second, Lilian collided violently against Y/N, knocking her onto the ice. The impact was so strong that Y/N felt the air leave her lungs, her hands quickly letting go of the stick and gluing to her chest covered by heavy clothes, trying desperately to take a long breath.

The referee blew the whistle, signaling a penalty, but the damage was already done.

With anger boiling inside her, Y/N stood up with difficulty, breathing harshly. She felt humiliated and enraged. Without thinking twice, the girl skated towards the locker room, ignoring the screams of her teammates and her coach, who called for her, cutting through the silence that had settled in the gym after the incident.

The door closed behind her back, muffling the sound of the crowd and the frenzy of the game, echoing like a dull thud throughout the space. In the silence of the locker room, Y/N took a deep breath, trying to control the storm of emotions that was stirring inside her.

She sat down on the main bench, removing her helmet and running her hands through her sweat-damp hair. Anger burned through her veins, not just because of Lilian's aggression, but because of the frustration of feeling like she was letting down her team and, especially, Matt. He had come to watch her play, and all she wanted was to put on a spectacular show for him.

Tears began to form, but Y/N took another deep breath, refusing to let them fall. She wouldn't give in.

The girl closed her eyes tightly, trying to center herself, but as she did so, a stab of pain appeared above her eye. A wince scaped her lips as she touched the painful area, noticing something warm and wet on her fingers. Raising them to her eye level, she saw blood.

The anger, which was already intense, intensified even more. The girl felt her blood boiling as her hands shook with hatred. The sight of blood dripping from her eyebrow was the trigger that was needed for her uncontrolled fury.

Without thinking twice, Y/N put the helmet back on harshly, ignoring the pain. She wouldn't let Lilian get away with that. Y/N got out of the locker room with firm slides, determined to show that no one would take her down without consequences.

Back on the ice, Y/N felt a new surge of energy, this time fueled by anger and the need for revenge. Her eyes were fixed on Lilian, who didn't seem to expect her to return so soon. With impressive speed, Y/N skated directly towards her opponent, leaving her coach's questions behind.

When the distance between them closed, Y/N kept going, hitting her shoulder against the other girl with all the strength she had. The impact threw Lilian to the ground, who fell onto her back, surprised and in pain, a loud cry scream echoing afterward.

The referee blew his whistle frantically, but Y/N ignored his and Lilian's screams. Her focus was absolute.

She took the puck from one of the opposing players with surprising dexterity and began advancing towards the goal. Every movement was fierce, precise. She was in a state of flux, where nothing else mattered other than the next goal.

With impressive skill, Y/N scored one after another. The crowd was in a frenzy, and the energy in the gym was electric. Matt, in the bleachers, watched everything with wide eyes, his screams standing out among the crowd. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Y/N was playing like never before, in a way he himself had never witnessed.

With each goal, Y/N felt increasing satisfaction. She was showing everyone – her team, her opponents, the watchers, and especially Lilian – that she was really good. Blood was still running from her eyebrow, dripping onto her lips held by the mouth guard, the metallic taste flooding her tongue.

When the final whistle sounded, declaring her team's victory, Y/N felt a wave of relief flood her body. She dropped the stick on the ice floor and ripped off her helmet, taking her mouth guard off of her lips, finally breathing properly, her eyes darting around the gym as euphoria took over her body, adrenaline rushing through her veins like lightning.

It was at that moment that she saw Matt jump over the railing that separated the bleachers from the ice. The brunette ran towards her, slipping slightly on the ice, a consequence of his inappropriate sneakers, leaving behind the screams of his brothers who tried to dissuade him.

She felt her heart speed up even more, wetting her lips in anticipation.

When Matt finally reached Y/N, he quickly threw himself in front of her, raising his arms and cupping his girl's face with both hands firmly, his gaze filled with concern and love. His blue eyes scanned the cut on her eyebrow, trying to wipe away the blood on her skin with trembling fingers.

"Y/N, baby, are you okay? You're bleeding so much. Let me see this..."

Y/N, still breathing heavily, felt a wave of emotions wash over her. Before Matt could continue, she cut him off with a passionate kiss, wrapping her hands around his thick hoodie-covered waist and pulling him closer, the significant height that her skateboards provided her aiding her in her action.

It was a kiss full of intensity, relief, and love.

Matt sighed deeply, the hot air hitting the girl's cold face, causing the blush in the area to intensify, feeling enveloped by the passion and strength that emanated from her.

When they finally separated, Matt hugged her tightly, his body shaking slightly with the adrenaline that took his body along with his heart racing at a thousand miles per hour. His large hands hugged her head against his own right shoulder, his fingers stroking her tied hair gently.

"I'm so proud of you, Y/N. You were amazing. I've never seen anyone play like you played today. You were so strong, so brave..." Y/N smiled against his covered skin, feeling his hushed words warm her heart.

"It was all for you, babe. Every goal-"

"Y/N!" The coach shouted, approaching with quick, steady steps, his ice-appropriate sneakers keeping him upright. "What in God's name was that? This is a hockey game. What, are you trying out for the gymnastics team? If you do that again, you'll be out!"

Matt watched him with wide eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line in an attempt to hold back his laughter.

"Sorry, coach. I just did what I had to do." Y/N rolled her eyes, letting out a breathless laugh.

The coach shook his head, opening an almost imperceptible smile.

"You played with your heart today, kid. Just try to keep a little more control next time, okay? We don't want you to miss big opportunities."

"You got it, coach." Y/N nodded quickly, Matt's arms still holding her tightly, one arm grasping firmly around her waist, keeping her close.

"Now take her to the infirmary, boy." The coach approached, casting a glance toward Matt while patting her right shoulder.

"Yes, sir, I'll take care of her."

"You better."

© vanteguccir

[strawberryblondebutch]

hi! Random question maybe, but you seem very knowledgeable about hockey: there's a post on the PWHL subreddit right now asking about the differences between PWHL and NHL hockey. A lot of people in the comments are saying the skill level in the PWHL is much lower, which to me a weird statement for multiple reasons, but I don't know enough to disagree or agree with certainty. Do you have any thoughts? In general, what do you think are the differences between the style of play in the two leagues right now (other than ofc level of physicality l)?

That is a weird statement, which I'll get into in a second. To me, the biggest differences are such.

Fundamentals. This is not a PWHL-specific statement. It also applies to the WNBA vs. the NBA, and baseball players drafted out of college vs. high school. With truly all the respect and love to my prep school coaches, college is where you learn how to play your sport. You get by on raw talent until you hit the college level (or, for Canadian men's hockey players, the junior level) and then you learn how to actually play. Men are spending 1-2 years in college before leaving for the show. Women do a full 4-5. It's hard to imagine someone like Jason Robertson (who I love) succeeding in the women's game, because he's not a very good pure skater. He got by on his raw offensive ability. If he were coming up through the NCAA, someone like Mark Johnson or Matt Desrosiers would have grabbed him and said, "You're doing extra shifts in the barn until you stop looking like you're drowning out there."

"Then the skill in nhl level is just insane. Passes are perfect, players can handle bouncing pucks easily, and most importantly positioning is excellent - players are almost always where they are supposed to be (because they are big and fast) so zone entry/exit is super smooth.

60 minutes of Flyers hockey would kill this Redditor. I can assure you passes are not perfect and positioning is abysmal in the NHL, because again... these are the fundamentals that players would learn if they weren't plucked out of college/juniors on the basis of their raw, unhoned talent.

Roster construction. This is largely a function of limited roster space. The PWHL has less than 1/4 the positions than the NHL does. In the men's game, each line has a defined role. The first two forward lines are your top scorers, the third line does most of the checking and defensive play, and your fourth O-line is meant to tucker out the opponents' best scorers. The PWHL doesn't really have checking lines, because there aren't really checking specialists. Instead, lines are determined by the whims of the coaches by a combination of seniority and "riding the hot hand" - players who score more get more ice time.

Goaltending. PWHL goalies are smaller than NHL goalies and working with the same size net. Someone like Ivan Fedotov (6'8") can take up more space just by standing there than someone like Emerance Maschmeyer (5'6"). As a result, PWHL goalies tend to be far more mobile, and they start their post-to-post movement early, trying to anticipate where the shot will come from so that they can physically get there and block it.

Speed vs. acceleration. I think the comments about size that people in that thread were mentioning are largely overblown because they forget that everything is relative. It only really counts in two dimensions. The first is in goaltending. The second is in movement. Taller players can cover more ground with each push, which helps with their speed. Smaller players, because they aren't dragging as much weight around the ice with them, can push off from a stop faster, which helps their acceleration. It's why KCS is such a pain in the ass to play against: if she and I are both standing at the starting line, she (5'2", 125 lbs) can take off much faster than I (5'10", 170 lbs) can. I can hope to close the distance by using my strength and stride, but she's got the edge on that first 200 ft. Hey, you know what else is 200 feet? A hockey rink. She beat me to the other end.

[acharyaeducare6]

https://www.acharyaeducare.com/enroll-in-cuet-ug-csir-net

[b-does-yellowjackets]

Yellowjackets at practice

based on pretty much nothing, just fun hcs!

my varsity and jv teams in high school practiced together so just pretend that's how whs did it too lol

Shauna: Focused, but a little spacey. Easily distracted by Jackie talking to her or by her annoyance at herself over a mistake. She has specific drills that she gets super into, but it depends on the day. During scrimmages, though, she's laser-focused. Not afraid to get physical, even though it's only practice. Big proponent of the "practice like you play" motto.

Tai: Locked in the entire time. No, she does not want to hear about Randy Walsh slipping in the hallway. The first person on the line for warmups and the first to react to instructions. She won't hush anyone for chatting during drills, but she will glare if she's in a mood. Excellent at shooting drills. PK champion and it makes Jackie the tiniest bit annoyed.

Van: Goofing off the entire time and somehow still making amazing plays. Tai will scold her for it gently and the coaches used to call her out on it, but after a while, they only say something if she's really distracting someone else because she manages to outperform herself every time. She'll go from choking on her water because Nat made a dumb joke to making a brutal dive to save a ball that Jackie booted from just outside the eighteen. Takes a lot of unnecessary hits and had to be told to tone it down a little so she wouldn't hurt herself before games.

Natalie: She's there, but she's not making any particular kind of effort. Sort of phones it in on warmups and individual drills, but the second she's paired with someone she respects, she's ready to play. Her and Jackie make a surprisingly great team for offensive drills and she'll always put in a little extra effort if she's playing up from Lottie.

Jackie: Kind of a selfish player, but not intentionally. She's better about it at games, but can get very focused on outdoing herself at practice and sometimes forgets the point of the team drills. Usually the first to strip down to her sports bra when it gets too warm and will dump water over her head whenever it's even remotely appropriate.

Mari: Gets hyped over others' good plays. She's not always the star, but she's the first to let out a cheer when Jackie strikes the top corner of the net perfectly or Tai makes a clean tackle and repossess the ball easily. Can get frustrated with herself if she messes up and a few mistakes will often lead to a rough practice for her.

Lottie: Hair-braider. Often late to the line for warmups because she was pinning Van's hair back for her or fiddling with Natalie's bangs. The coaches stopped trying to berate her for it when she didn't help anyone with their hair before a practice and they had no less than six on-field collisions because people couldn't see. Always has a few extra water bottles and is always down to break for a snack.

Gen: The absolute best person to be paired with for partner drills. She's so reliable with the amount of effort she puts in, which is a healthy 85%. Almost never criticized by the coaches, but also can be overlooked for her strengths because of her quiet consistency.

Melissa: Excellent player, but can be timid about it. When she's not nervous, she makes incredible plays and has great field vision, but is usually intimidated by Tai and Shauna's aggression. When they're more chilled out or when she's feeling particularly into it, she often gets an excited whoop from the coaches.

Misty: 110% every single day. Cheering and watching attentively for injuries, even though she usually gets shrugged off. Keeps a water cooler full, despite most of the team opting to use their own personal bottles and sometimes shows up with snacks. They're always odd, though, like sliced limes instead of oranges and everyone's like "??" but try to be appreciative enough when they get a pointed look from Jackie.

[coco-loco-nut]

In My Mind

pairing: Carlos Sainz x Reader

summary: david beckham’s daughter meets her soulmate

a/n: this is so long, i should’ve split it into two, lmk if you want a part two not edited

requests open masterlist second part

———————

You knew of Carlos Sainz just as he knew of you. You were the triple threat daughter of the Beckhams, basically British royalty, you can sing, play football, and model. You weren’t quite sure how you ended up on a pitch in Monoco playing against F1 drivers, but when your father called, you showed up to fill a vacancy.

“I’m rusty Dad, heels aren’t the same as boots,” you wear a pair from one of your dad’s old Adidas lines. Modeling isn’t quite the same as playing football, but it is for charity.

“You’ll be fine, it’s the same as playing with me and your uncles growing up,” he reassures you. You are just happy that there are enough celebrities here that the focus isn’t on you two. You look like a female version of him when he was 23, you just lack the amount of talent he has. You are good, but not superstar good.

“Sir, it is an honor to play against you, I remember watching you play for Real Madrid growing up,” a Spanish man approaches the two of you. His voice is familiar to the one in your mind, but you brush it off.

“Thank you, Carlos Sainz, right?” your dad asks. “This is my daughter, Y/n Beckham,” he introduces you and walks away to talk with the teams honorary coach, winking at you.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” you shake his hand. You keep up with the sport and you know there is a six year age gap between the two of you, but you can’t help but to admire the handsome Spaniard. A small part of you hopes it’s your soulmate, so you open up the usually closed channel in your mind.

Hey, any chance that you are 29?

I am, cariño, why do you ask? I’m surprised you are talking right now.

I’m just curious

As the two of you unknowingly chat in your mind, you don’t realize that you both aren’t talking to each other aloud.

“I should go, it was nice meeting you,” you smile and wave goodbye. Carlos is utterly smitten, a small part of him hopes that it’s you who occasionally talks in his mind, your voice sounds similar. The game starts at you show that you are a mini-me of your dad, getting physical on the pitch.

Ah! Fucker, fucking hell, that peice of shit, what a wanker.

Language, Amor! Are you ok?

I just got stabbed in the foot

High heels again?

Football boot. This is why I don’t play anymore

You huff as your soulmates laughter fills your brain. You get a break off of a pass from your dad, you line up and take the shot, watching it soar into the net. You jump up and celebrate, your Dad picking you up in the air.

It’s a coincidence, I am playing Football

Anything interesting happening?

I just watched David Beckham’s daughter score a beautiful goal

What?

You whip around and lock eyes with Carlos, both of you realizing at the same moment.

Nice goal, cariño. You should teach my teammate how to play

It’s all in the Beckham genes, Mr Sainz. Let’s talk more after the game, I’m going to enjoy wiping the pitch with your team.

Carlos’ heart can’t help but soar at the playful grin you shoot him as he stands in front of you, waiting for the ball to be kicked in order for play to be resumed after your goal. He does whatever he can to be close to you, brush against you, even if it means contesting you for the ball.

“If you get me with your boot, I will cut you off,” you hiss at him, shoving him away from you, ignoring the comforting warmth and sparks.

“Don’t say that, mi amor. I love your competitive spirit,” he smiles as he tries to get a foot on the ball. He words work to distract you for a quick second as Charles Leclerc steals the ball from you. Your dad and you are hot on his tail.

“It has been the Beckham show out here, and I don’t expect anything less. A beautiful goal already from Y/n, the second oldest of David and Victoria’s children. That was quite unexpected, seeing as how she chose to pursue modeling over football,” one commentator says.

“Yes, well David brought her in to fill the last minute opening, I believe he said that she was always playing with him growing up and it does show. It seems like the Formula One team has noticed that skill and put Carlos Sainz on her. Poor guy is too afraid to be aggressive,” the other commentator replies.

“Careful with the shoving, you’ll earn a yellow,” David warns his daughter, knowing she is hard to bring back down once she is in the game, something she got from him. At half, you happily talk strategy and game with your dad, a part of you wondering why you ever quit.

“I found my soulmate,” you disclose to him while no one else is paying attention. No one is a bigger fan of soulmates than David Beckham, so to say he was excited would be an understatement.

“Who is it?” he asks excitedly but also ready to beat someone up.

“Carlos,” you subtly glance at the driver, his eyes trained on you.

“I’m happy for you, but he better watch out on the pitch,” David says, and he does play a little rougher around Carlos, seeing how he reacts. By the end of the match, your dad and you shut out the drivers 5-0, the two of you accounting for 4 of those goals.

Your dinner with Carlos is lovely, spending a quiet evening getting better acquainted. Afterwards, you met his friends in the hotel bar for a few drinks. George Russel became a quick friend, you knowing him from his fashion, and many of the guys knowing you because of your dad.

“Come visit me in England after this, before the next race,” you kiss him in the car. You already had your flight booked to return home the day after the match, not expecting to want to stay longer.

“I will miss you, Mi Amor, keep your mind open,” he hugs you tight. You step out of the car and onto your families private jet. As you fly, you get text messages from a group chat you were added to, Lando and Charles sending you different photos of Carlos, some silly and some thirst traps.

By the time you land and get to your family home you are exhausted. You are tired enough to collapse on the couch.

“You smoked dad out there,” Romeo high fives you.

“I’m also 50,” your dad huffs, sitting down.

“We could beat you five on one,” Brooklyn says, back home for the month.

“Oh yeah? Let’s go to the pitch, right now,” your dad stands up, “I get Harper and your mom to help even it out a little,” he claimed the youngest of you all.

“Come on, Y/n!” Cruz pulls you up as you groan.

“No, I’m too sore,”

“From the match or from Carlos?” your dad teases as your face flushes. Your brothers stop and turn to you.

“Carlos?” Romeo looks ready to fight.

“My soulmate,” you say sheepishly.

“That’s great! When can we meet him?” Your mom asks and you give her a one moment look. They talk amongst themselves as you converse in your mind.

Carlos? Have you given any thought to coming here after the race

I have, I’ll leave for you right after my post-race media duties. Is it weird that I miss you already?

No, I miss you too. Your friends sending all these pictures of you doesn’t help.

What are you doing right now?

My brothers challenged my dad to a match in the backyard pitch, my brothers know your first name by the way. What are you doing?

Stretching after free practice one and two before going back to the hotel, Charles is yelling at me to put a shirt on

“Y/n! Let’s go,” Brooklyn snaps you out of your mind as you giggle with a blush.

“Okay! Coming!”

Have fun with that, Carlitos. I gotta go.

I’ll talk to you later.

You and your brothers destroy your parents and younger sister, although you think your dad went easy on you. You head to bed after a small dinner.

Smooth Operatoooorrr Smooooooooth Operatoooooor

Carlos? What the hell? You’ve been signing that for the past half hour. I can’t block it out anymore.

Ay! Mi amor! You scared me!

Carlos, love, I would like to go to sleep.

Sorry, amor. I take it you won’t be asking me to sing you to sleep anytime soon?

Not what I said, Carlitos. Goodnight.

Goodnight, amor. Sleep well.

You watch the race with your family, and pick Carlos up from the airport.

“Is there anything I should know?” he asks, excited yet nervous to spend the week with you.

“I hope you can bend it like Beckham, there is no way you won’t be getting out of going on the pitch with Romeo or Dad.

“I can bend you like Beckham,” Carlos flirts with you, you can’t help but to laugh.

“That was awful. Oh, one more thing, Mom and I have a shoot on Tuesday so you will be left alone for a bit,” you tell him, enjoying the feeling of his hand in yours as your drive.

“You should let me drive, I am a professional driver after all,” Carlos rubs his thumb over your knuckles.

“No, you just drove all weekend, plus you are my guest,” you look at him, his dark hair gently pushed back. It’s unreal how fast you are falling in love with your soulmate.

“Alright, but when you come to Spain, no complaining about me spoiling you,” Carlos locks eyes with you, a blush spreading across your face. It doesn’t take too long until you are pulling into the country estate, your brothers waiting outside for you. Carlos is quick to hop out and get the door for you.

“Brookie, Romeo, Cruz, meet my other half, Carlos. Carlitos, these are my brothers, Brooklyn, Romeo, and Cruz,” you introduce them, letting go of Carlos’ hand so he can shake your brothers’ hands.

“Come on, Mom has a small late night meal ready,” Brooklyn says, leading you to the informal dining area.

“Welcome to our home, Carlos. I hope that the boys haven’t given you too much trouble,” your mom greets him with a hug.

“He’s pretty,” Harper tells you and you can’t hold back your laugh. Despite your ten year age difference, you were still close to her due to spending a lot of time at home.

“He is, and I know your soulmate will be just as pretty,” you hug her. Carlos survives the meal and you show him to the guest room after comfortable conversation with the family after dinner.

“Goodnight, mi amor,” Carlos says softly, standing in the doorway, neither of you wanting to leave each other, but neither of you wanting to cross a boundary that may exist. The soulmate bond was dangerous like that, once you meet your soulmate, it’s hard to let them go, but the bond does strengthen as well, to the point where you can send mental images to each other and feel one another’s feelings.

“Goodnight, Carlitos,” you tilt your head up to softly kiss him. You walk a few rooms down the hall to your own room. Lying awake in bed, oddly restless, you decide to see if Carlos is awake.

Y/n, are you awake?

I am, I was just about to see if you were awake. Put on a hoodie or something and meet me in the hall

You throw on a hoodie and slippers, not bothering to change your pajama pants. Carlos is waiting outside his bedroom door for you. The two of you sneak out to the outdoor entertainment hut your dad made. You quickly make hot chocolate and snuggle on a couch, a blanket over your legs as you look at the stars.

“I don’t think I will be able to let you travel without me,” you sigh, your head resting on Carlos’ shoulder, his free arm wrapped tightly around you.

“Then come with me, I’ve seen how hard it is for soulmates to be apart, especially in F1. Think about it, you don’t have to decide now,” Carlos’ thumb rubs soothing circles on your side.

“Hmm, let’s see how the time between here and Spain goes,” you yawn, snuggling closer to him. His scent envelopes you, helping you drift into sleep. Carlos carefully takes the empty mug out of your hand and sets it down before pulling you closer. Your steady breathing lulls him to sleep, something you both could get used to.

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER TWO

no time for distractions

I parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

I synopsis: tatum’s trying to keep her head down, but between late-night glances, old ghosts from louisville, and the way paige keeps showing up with soft eyes and careful questions, it’s getting harder to pretend she doesn’t feel anything. practice tension spills off the court, and the past she’s been running from starts to catch up—quietly, but fast.

I warnings: emotional tension, anxiety vibes, past relationship trauma hinted at, sports pressure and competitiveness, guarded feelings, slow burn unfolding, and more basketball

I word count: 5.3k?

I tags list (comment): none yet

I last chapter • next chapter

──────────────────────

The summer grind is no joke.

Early lifts at 6 A.M. Weight circuits, cone sprints, shooting volume before breakfast. Film by noon. Defensive breakdowns. Offensive sets. Team scrimmages in the afternoon. Recovery sessions. Cold tubs. Normatecs. Repeat.

And Tatum? She’s locked the hell in.

This is her element. The structure, the demand, the way Geno calls out every missed box-out and lazy closeout with no hesitation. It’s what she came here for. UConn isn’t just about another national championship banner—it’s about accountability. It’s about holding yourself to a standard every second you’re on that hardwood. And Tatum’s here to meet it, beat it, raise it.

By week two, her muscle memory is catching up to the pace.

The reads are quicker. Her footwork’s sharper. She’s finding seams, calling switches, rotating like she’s been here a year instead of two weeks. Her confidence has never been in question—but there’s still that quiet fire in her gut. Like she’s got something to prove. Not to them. To herself.

And yet… one variable still throws her rhythm.

Paige Bueckers.

“Tatum, you’re on-ball. Paige, initiate,” Geno calls out from the sideline, arms crossed, watching like a hawk. “Three-on-three live. Let’s go.”

Tatum claps her hands and slides into her stance.

She’s gone up against All-Americans before. Big guards. Shifty guards. But Paige plays like a puzzle you never fully solve—fluid, unpredictable, sees the whole floor two beats before it unfolds. She’s not flashy for the sake of it. Everything’s purposeful. Lethal.

On the first possession—Paige sizes her up, tries to turn the corner off a left-hand hesitation. Tatum beats her to the spot, chest-to-chest, forces the kick-out. Shot clock reset.

With the second possession—Paige uses a drag screen to create space, fakes the crossover mid-range pull, then snakes the lane and scoops it off the glass before the help can rotate. Clean.

For the third possession—Tatum jumps the pass, picks her clean at the top of the key, and takes it coast-to-coast. One dribble gather, finish through contact.

The gym is louder now.

Sneakers squeak. Voices rise.

Everyone’s watching.

Coach blows the whistle, letting it hang in the air. “Save it for November,” he mutters, eyes still on the two of them. “We’re not handing out trophies in July.”

Paige turns slightly, sweat curling along her jaw, and flashes a grin. “You’re quick,” she says, catching Tatum’s eye like it’s second nature.

Tatum shrugs, her breath steady. “You’ve got good change of pace.”

There’s a pause. No movement. Just eye contact that hums a little too long.

Then Paige grins wider. “Guess you’ll need it if you wanna stay in front of me.”

It’s a dig. Light, teasing. But there’s a glint behind it.

Tatum doesn’t bite. Not visibly. But the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Instead, she pivots hard into the next rep—faster off the switch, louder calling screens, more physical in the lane. She tips two passes, grabs an offensive board over Ice, and hits a step-in three off the rotation.

Paige feels the shift.

She watches Tatum from the top of the key during a dead ball, tilting her head slightly. There’s tension in Tatum’s shoulders now. Not frustration—focus. But it’s different than before. Quieter.

Paige jogs up beside her before the next inbound, voice a little lower. “Hey. I was just messing around. Didn’t mean it like that.”

Tatum doesn’t flinch. “It’s cool.”

But it’s clipped. Not cold, exactly. Just guarded. Like the door’s still open, but barely cracked.

Across the baseline, Azzi nudges KK with her elbow. “She’s fired up now,” KK says under her breath. Ice lets out a low whistle. “Paige poked the wrong bear.”

Coach watches with a neutral expression, but he doesn’t stop it. He’s seen this before—rising stars sharpening each other. And deep down, he knows this is how greatness builds.

Practice keeps rolling.

Transition drills. Ball reversal into drive-and-kick reads. Matchups shuffle. Tempo stays high.

Tatum’s locked into every rep like it counts. Defensive stance low. Hands active. Calling out back screens before they happen. She’s not here to be cute. She’s here to make a statement.

Still, in the periphery—between drills and glances—Paige keeps looking.

And Tatum pretends not to see it.

Pretends her stomach doesn’t twist when Paige gives her that smirk again.

Pretends she doesn’t notice how Paige always seems to be where she is—just close enough to be felt, never far enough to be ignored.

It’s just another day in the grind.

But underneath the drills, under the scoreboard light and the echo of sneakers on hardwood—something’s simmering.

And Tatum feels it.

Even if she won’t let herself name it yet.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The locker room is loud after practice—music thumping low from someone’s speaker, and the chatter of tired bodies winding down. There’s laughter from KK and Ice across the way, Azzi tugging a hoodie over her curls, towels draped across shoulders, the scent of deodorant and sweat thick in the air.

Tatum keeps her head down as she unlaces her sneakers, jaw tight, expression unreadable. She hasn’t said much since the final whistle.

Paige notices.

She watches her from a few lockers over, toweling sweat from the back of her neck. The smirk she wore earlier is long gone. She waits a beat—then steps closer.

“Hey,” she says, low enough not to draw attention. She taps the edge of the locker near Tatum’s shoulder, not quite touching. “You good?”

Tatum doesn’t look up. Just finishes pulling off her sock, then tosses it into her duffel. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m good.”

Paige lingers. “It’s about what I said earlier, isn’t it?”

Tatum finally glances over, guarded. “Drop it. It’s fine.”

“I was just messing around,” Paige says, a little softer now. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I can handle trash talk, Paige.” The words come out cool, clipped. She stands up, crosses her arms, meets Paige’s eyes. “You don’t have to check in.”

Paige nods once, slowly. There’s a beat of eye contact between them—intense and unreadable—until Tatum breaks it, turning back toward her locker.

“You sure?” Paige says anyway. Her voice doesn’t waver, but there’s something quieter in it now. “Because I didn’t mean to—”

Tatum doesn’t answer. Just grabs her hoodie, slings it over one shoulder, and walks out without another word.

Azzi’s the only one who catches the whole thing.

She crosses the room a second later, tugging her headphones down around her neck as she joins Paige by the lockers.

“What was that?” she asks, keeping her voice casual.

Paige exhales through her nose. “I think I might’ve fucked it up.”

Azzi raises an eyebrow. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing bad,” Paige says. “Just a joke. I thought it was funny.” She shakes her head. “Guess she didn’t.”

“She’s probably just tired,” Azzi offers, nudging Paige’s arm. “Long practice. Could’ve hit her different.”

Paige doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“I can talk to her,” Azzi says. “I mean… we live together. I’ll check in.”

Paige hesitates, then shakes her head. “Nah. It’s cool. She doesn’t need a middleman. I’ll figure it out.”

Azzi doesn’t push. Just nods, gives her a look that’s half thoughtful, half amused. “You’re kind of obvious, by the way.”

Paige furrows her brows. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says, already walking off toward the showers. “Just… work on your delivery.”

Paige watches her go, biting back a smile despite herself.

The locker room hums around her, full of noise and movement. But that one door stays closed.

And Paige knows she’s got some work to do.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

It’s quiet when the door finally shuts behind Tatum.

The locker room noise, the sound of basketball’s bouncing, the weight of Paige’s eyes on her back—it all fades into the low hum of the dorm hallway. Tatum lets her bag fall to the floor with a thud and leans against her closed door, head tipping back against the wood.

She exhales slow, pressing her palms to her face.

It wasn’t that deep. She knows that.

Paige was just talking trash—light, playful, the way everyone does in practice. Hell, Tatum usually fires right back. She’s never been the type to take things personally. Not on the court. Not when it’s just noise.

But something about today stuck in her ribs.

Maybe it’s because she’s still adjusting. Because everything here moves so fast, and every rep feels like a test she has to pass. Or maybe it’s because Paige’s eyes linger too long. Because when she says something—even when she’s joking—Tatum hears it different. Feels it different.

And she hates that.

She doesn’t want distractions. She doesn’t want to be the girl who flinches over some throwaway comment. Not here. Not now.

So yeah, maybe she snapped a little. Maybe she was cold.

Her arms fold tight across her chest as she paces once, then again. The edges of her nerves still buzz beneath the skin, but the fire’s gone. Just low, simmering guilt now. Not toward herself. Toward Paige.

A knock pulls her out of it—soft, hesitant, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure if they should even be there.

“Yeah?” Tatum calls, already halfway to the door.

It’s Azzi.

She’s in a oversized Georgetown shirt, her hair up, a book tucked in the crook of her arm like she was just about to settle in before deciding to check in.

“Hey,” she says gently. “You good?”

Tatum pauses, hand still on the door.

“Yeah,” she says automatically. “I’m fine.”

Azzi doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just waits.

Tatum sighs and steps back, letting the door stay open. “You can come in if you want.”

“Only if you’re okay with it.”

“I wouldn’t’ve opened it if I wasn’t.”

That gets the smallest smile from Azzi as she slips in. She sits on the edge of Tatum’s bed, quiet for a second, like she’s letting Tatum set the pace.

“Just… wanted to check,” she says. “You kinda dipped after practice.”

Tatum leans against her desk, arms crossed again, but not as tightly now. She shrugs one shoulder. “Just needed some air.”

Azzi nods like she understands, even if it’s vague.

“Paige didn’t mean it,” she says after a beat. “What she said.”

Tatum lets out a soft breath, looking down at the floor.

“I know,” she admits. “I just… I don’t know. Long day. Caught me off guard.”

Azzi gives her a look that’s both gentle and perceptive. “You don’t have to explain anything. But for what it’s worth… you don’t have to prove anything either.”

Tatum looks up at that. Meets Azzi’s eyes. And for a second, she lets something real flicker there—past the armor.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Sometimes it feels like I do.”

Azzi doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods again. “I get that.”

They sit in the quiet for a few seconds. It’s not heavy. Not awkward. Just… easy.

“It’s tiring sometimes to feel like you gotta show up perfect every day.” Tatum says suddenly, her voice soft but serious.

“I understand what that’s like,” Azzi says. “But I think… people here see more than just how you play.”

Tatum doesn’t answer right away. But the tension in her shoulders loosens just a little.

“Thanks,” she says finally. “For checking in.”

“Always,” Azzi says, standing. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

Tatum walks her to the door.

“Hey, Azzi?” she says before she goes.

“Yeah?”

Tatum hesitates, then: “You’re a good roommate.”

Azzi grins. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

When the door shuts again, Tatum’s still tired. Still wound up. But it feels different now. Lighter.

And somewhere deep in her chest, something starts to loosen.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The weight room is louder than Tatum would expect for it being 8 in the morning.

Drake is blasting through the overhead speakers, bass vibrating under the soles of her sneakers. Tatum walks in with her hoodie half-zipped and her water bottle, trying to shake off the nerves that settled somewhere in her chest the second she saw Paige’s name on the lift schedule.

She shouldn’t care.

It’s not like yesterday was anything serious. It was practice. A little trash talk. A misunderstanding. It happens.

Still, her jaw tightens when she spots Paige across the room, loading plates onto a barbell, already deep into her lift.

Blue UConn shirt under her practice jersey. Blue shorts. Socks rolled mid-shin, shoes tied tight. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sweating, focused, grinning at something Ice said.

And still managing to look good. Which pisses Tatum off more than it should.

“You’re late, Tatum,” Hudy—their strength trainer calls across the room before Tatum can even drop her bag. “Let’s go. Trap bar deadlifts, five sets of three. Heavy.”

Tatum nods, quick. “Yes, ma’am.”

She doesn’t look at Paige. Not directly. But she feels the glance land. Like a pause in the air. Paige doesn’t say anything, just goes back to her own reps. Tatum tugs her hoodie off and heads toward the rack.

“You’re gonna warm up or just pray your hamstrings survive?” Hudy raises an eyebrow.

Tatum cracks a half-smile. “I like to live dangerously.”

“Uh-huh. That better be a joke,” Hudy says, not missing a beat. “You’ve got good form, but I’m not pulling your ACL off the turf because you were trying to prove a point.”

Tatum exhales a quiet laugh and gets to work. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands on the handles. Brace, lift, reset. Each rep is clean. Sharp. Controlled.

Next to her, Sarah is working through a set of power cleans. Ice and Ashlyn are alternating sets of split squats. Azzi’s mouthing along to whatever Rod Wave song is playing, a pink scrunchie holding her hair up high. The room is alive, but all Tatum hears is her own breath and the clink of plates hitting the floor.

And Paige. Her presence. Her laugh from a few feet away. The fact that she hasn’t said anything yet.

After their third block, Hudy claps her hands. “Two-minute break. Hydrate. Stretch. Don’t go ghost on me.”

Tatum wipes sweat off her neck with a towel, reaches for her water bottle. She feels Paige before she sees her.

“Deadlifts looking smooth,” Paige says, voice light.

Tatum glances over. Paige’s arms are crossed, leaning against the edge of a squat rack, a small smirk tugging at her mouth.

“They should,” Tatum replies. “Been lifting longer than I’ve known how to drive.”

Paige chuckles. “So, since the 1800s?”

Tatum rolls her eyes, but it’s soft. Her dimple flashes—just for a second. Paige catches it. And her stomach does something stupid.

They stand there, the air between them warm with sweat and something unsaid. Paige shifts her weight.

“Hey,” she says more seriously now, quieting her voice. “Are we good? About yesterday?”

Tatum blinks, surprised. Then she nods. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“I was just messing around,” Paige adds. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I felt bad. You seemed… off.”

Tatum takes a sip of water, eyes on the floor. “It wasn’t you. I just—overreacted. Had nothing to do with what you said.”

Paige studies her face. “Okay.”

A beat.

“You sure?” she asks.

Tatum looks at her this time, steady. “Yeah. You’re not that special, Bueckers.”

Paige grins. “Not even a little?”

“You’re always annoying,” Tatum says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Yeah, but at least a part of you enjoys it.”

Tatum narrows her eyes. “What makes you say that?”

Paige shrugs, playful. “I see you crack smiles.”

Before Tatum can answer, Hudy claps again from the other end of the room.

“Break’s over, lovebirds! Back to work.”

Tatum’s face goes blank. Paige’s ears go a little pink. Sarah stifles a laugh across the room.

Tatum turns away, muttering, “I hate you,” under her breath.

Paige just smiles to herself. That dimple was real.

This time, when they lift, Paige doesn’t bother hiding the glances. And Tatum doesn’t look back.

But she knows.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The music was still playing from her speaker as Tatum stood in front of the mirror, applying the final touches to her makeup. Nothing heavy—just a little concealer, mascara, gloss. Enough to feel put together without trying too hard. She wore baggy black jeans, fresh white Air Forces, a black tube top, and a loose white sweater draped over her shoulders. Her curls were still damp from the shower, bouncing softly as she moved. A gold cross necklace rested against her collarbone, alongside a few rings and a bracelet. She sprayed a light mist of Valentino perfume before grabbing her purse.

The team thought it would be a nice idea to all go out tonight to a restaurant.

Azzi sat cross-legged on the bed, watching her with a smile. “Damnnnn, you look good,” she said, her curls pulled back in a messy bun, bracelets jingling softly on her wrist.

Tatum rolled her eyes playfully. “Thank you.”

Before she could say more, a knock sounded at the door. Sarah peeked in, wearing a gray Essentials hoodie, black sweatpants, and Ugg slides. “You guys ready?”

“Yeah,” Tatum replied, grabbing her phone.

They headed over to Paige’s dorm where the whole team was already gathered—laughing, talking, the noise spilling out into the hallway. KK and Aubrey were mid-TikTok in the living room, while the rest clustered around, chatting. Tatum’s eyes locked with Paige’s almost immediately. Paige didn’t hesitate to look her up and down, a small smile playing on her lips.

It made Tatum nervous, but instead of looking away, she met Paige’s gaze. Paige was wearing black cargo jeans, Jordan 4s, and a white hoodie with a cross necklace. Her hair was pulled up in a neat bun, glasses perched on her nose, looking effortlessly cool—something Tatum hated to admit but couldn’t deny.

“Hey, Tatum, you on TikTok?” KK’s voice cut through Tatum’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” Tatum said, her voice wary. “I scroll mostly, don’t post much.”

KK grinned. “Perfect. Let’s do a TikTok.”

Before Tatum could decline, KK was already dragging her into the middle of the room. The rhythm wasn’t easy, but Tatum tried to follow along, laughing when she messed up a step. KK was delighted. “Period, we ate. I’m posting this.”

Tatum rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. She caught Paige watching her, the faintest smirk on Paige’s face making her stomach flutter.

Then Paige spoke, her voice calm but commanding. “Okay, what’s the car situation? Who’s riding with who?”

The team started sorting themselves out—After a few rounds of negotiation and light teasing, Tatum found herself sliding into the passenger seat of Paige’s car. Paige smirked just a little as Tatum buckled up.

Paige pulled out her phone and passed it over. “You on Aux.”

Tatum blinked, confused. “What?”

Paige smiled. “You look like you got good taste in music.”

Tatum smiled back, glad for the break from tension. She cued up SZA’s Normal Girl and the car filled with soft singing and laughter. Everyone joined in, even Tatum, who felt herself loosen up more than she expected.

She stole glances at Paige, who was focused on the road but mouthing along to the lyrics. The sight made something stir inside Tatum—something she wasn’t ready to name. She forced herself to look away, fixing her gaze on the window instead.

When they arrived at the Italian restaurant in New Haven, the group quickly settled into a long table. Somehow, Tatum ended up sandwiched between Paige and Aubrey.

She ordered vodka pasta and a soda, trying to stay calm amid the loud, chaotic buzz of the team. The conversation was loud, funny, close-knit—celebrating the new roster, welcoming the freshmen and Tatum herself.

Jana cracked jokes that made Sarah’s dry sarcasm cut through like a knife. Ice and Yana teased KK relentlessly about how hard she was smiling at her phone. Azzi sat across the table from Tatum, their eyes meeting from time to time, sharing silent understanding.

Paige leaned toward Tatum at one point, teasing, “People on TikTok say you gotta work on your dance skills.”

Tatum laughed, shaking her head. “Not my fault KK threw me into a video I didn’t know the moves to.”

Paige smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you right. Teach you some moves.”

Tatum raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about rhythm?”

Paige chuckled, “Not too much on me. I got some rhythm for a white girl, trust.”

Tatum laughed, the sound easier than it had been all day. “Yeah, I gotta see that for myself.”

Paige’s eyes locked on hers for a moment longer, and Tatum felt a flutter in her chest. “What?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“It’s nothing.” Paige shrugged, then lowered her voice just a bit. “You look nice tonight.”

Tatum blinked, caught off guard by the way Paige said it—low, intense, eyes locked on hers, lips slightly parted. She wanted to look away but found herself holding Paige’s gaze, then looking down at her lips for a quick second before forcing her eyes back up. “Thank you. You look good, too.”

Paige smiled, but before anything else could happen, Caroline tapped her shoulder, showing something on her phone. Tatum looked down at her plate, scanning the table. Azzi was watching Paige and Tatum with a knowing look—like she saw everything and was planning to ask questions later.

Tatum looked away quickly, upset by how much she kept looking back.

The conversation shifted to relationships, with KK, Aubrey, Yana, Allie, Ashlyn, and Kaitlyn all sharing that they were currently in relationships. The rest were single—some hooking up, some just chilling.

Ice joked about Paige, “You don’t do relationships, huh?”

Paige laughed it off. “Relax, I’m just focused on basketball.”

“Or maybe you like kissing random girls at Ted’s,” Jana teased, and the table burst into laughter.

Tatum didn’t laugh. She tried not to care, telling herself she didn’t.

But when Paige turned to her and asked softly, “What about you?”

Tatum’s heart sped up. “What?”

“Are you seeing anyone? Maybe someone special back at Louisville?”

The mention of Louisville hit her like a punch, and hearing “relationship” made her tense. She hated thinking about it—about her past, about her.

“No,” Tatum said, guarded. “I don’t.”

Aubrey wasn’t ready to let it go. “Come on, there’s gotta be more than that.”

Tatum bristled but held her ground. “I don’t have time for dating. Not right now. Too much going on.”

The group moved on, but Tatum could feel Paige’s eyes lingering on her. She didn’t dare meet them and instead turned to Aubrey, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

But deep down, something was shifting—something that might just pull her guard down, whether she wanted it or not.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The apartment was quiet when Tatum stepped out of the bathroom, steam still clinging to the air behind her. Her curls were now up in a bun, as she padded barefoot across the wood floors, tugging her hoodie down. The oversized sleeves swallowed her wrists.

Azzi was curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, a book open in one hand and a mug with a big A on it in the other. A candle burned low on the coffee table, something warm and sweet that made the apartment feel like home in a way Tatum hadn’t realized she needed. The only sound was the soft hum of the TV—some random rom-com flickering across the screen.

Tatum moved to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap and drinking half of it before flopping down beside Azzi on the couch.

Azzi looked up and smiled. “So… the dinner.”

Tatum raised an eyebrow, confused. “What about it?”

Azzi closed her book slowly, her expression already teasing. “Don’t do that. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Tatum tensed, her shoulders lifting slightly. “I really don’t.”

Azzi just stared, and Tatum finally groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

“There’s nothing going on,” she said flatly.

Azzi grinned. “Didn’t say there was. Just seems like you and Paige are… on better terms.”

Tatum scoffed. “We were never on bad terms.”

Azzi tilted her head like really?

“I mean—whatever. It’s good for teammates to have chemistry off the court too. Makes things easier when we play. That’s all it is.”

“Mmhmm,” Azzi said, clearly not buying it. “Sure. Totally. Just building chemistry.”

Tatum shot her a look. “What do you mean by that?”

Azzi shrugged, letting the silence hang a little too long. “Nothing. You tell me.”

Tatum leaned her head back against the couch cushion and exhaled. “There’s nothing to tell. Paige is a good player. She’s funny, she’s cool. But that’s it. There’s nothing more to it.”

Azzi smiled gently, not pushing further, just sitting with her.

Tatum’s gaze dropped to her lap. “I’ve made the mistake of letting people in before. Thinking it was one thing, when it wasn’t. Thought I could handle it. And then I couldn’t.”

Azzi didn’t say anything for a beat. Then she reached forward, touching Tatum’s knee.

“Well, I’m always here if you ever wanna talk. Or not talk. Or just sit here and pretend like we don’t feel anything at all.”

Tatum smiled a little. “That last one sounds like a plan.”

Azzi laughed gently and picked her book back up. “No distractions, right?”

Tatum nodded, like it was a rule she needed to live by. “No time for distractions.”

But when she walked back into her room, pulling the door softly shut behind her, something tugged at her chest.

She sat on the edge of her bed and glanced at the framed photo sitting on her dresser—the one of her old team at Louisville. They were all smiling. She remembered that night. Remembered thinking everything was still okay.

Her fingers toyed with the bracelet around her wrist.

This isn’t Louisville. This is different.

She laid down and pulled the covers over her body, the cool fabric brushing against her skin as she closed her eyes.

Paige is just a teammate. A good one. That’s all.

Whatever looks they may have shared tonight… whatever smile that lingered too long, whatever moment that made her heart catch—it didn’t mean anything.

She didn’t come here for this. She didn’t come here to feel things again.

She came to win. To prove she belonged. To keep her head down and her heart out of it.

So she whispered it to herself like a promise.

“I’m leaving it alone.”

But even as she said it, a quiet part of her knew—

she already hadn’t.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The gym was heavy with the smell of sweat and effort, basketballs echoing off the floor, sneakers squeaking against each other in hard cuts. Geno’s voice snapped across the court like a whip.

“Again!” he barked, pacing the sideline. “Run it cleaner this time—spacing’s off, communication’s nonexistent. You’re not a bunch of strangers out here, so stop playing like it!”

Tatum didn’t hear much else. Or maybe she heard too much.

She was locked in—shoulders tense, jaw set, driving harder than necessary on every cut. Her closeouts were a step too fast, her help defense late because she was overthinking the rotations. It didn’t feel sharp. It felt…desperate.

Paige called for a screen—“Tatum!”—but Tatum didn’t respond.

Not because she didn’t hear her. But because responding meant acknowledging Paige, and that felt like acknowledging the spiral in her own chest.

The whistle blew sharp. Geno’s entire body tensed as he marched toward them.

“Jesus Christ, Tatum! You’re a point guard. Start acting like one.” His voice echoed in the sudden silence. “You wanna prove something, do it by leading, not by trying to bulldoze through your own damn team.”

Tatum’s chest rose and fell. She nodded once. Quiet. Controlled. But inside, it splintered.

Azzi and Paige shared a glance across the court—barely a second long, but enough.

“Everyone, reset,” Geno growled, walking away. “And figure it out before I start running all of you until Christmas.”

As practice dragged on, the rest of the team started to notice the crack in the atmosphere. Jana leaned over to Caroline during water break.

“Tatum’s on one today,” she whispered. “You think she’s good?”

Caroline shrugged, frowning. “She was fine yesterday. Might be a bad day.”

Ice tried to lighten the mood during a drill, cracking a joke about KK getting blocked on a layup. KK grinned, tossed her head, and tried to start a dance break mid-drill. Tatum cracked half a smile—barely there, but it broke through the fog for a second.

It was the only second.

When the final whistle blew and they were dismissed, the tension didn’t leave the gym—it followed them to the locker room like a shadow.

Tatum was the last one to her locker, towel around her neck, head down. She opened it quietly, reaching for her slides. Inside the door, half-hidden, was a small photo. Taped crooked. Worn at the edges.

It was her and one of her old teammates at Louisville—Leah, arms around each other, laughing with their eyes closed. They looked…happy. Back when things felt safe, simple.

She didn’t notice Paige standing nearby until she heard her voice.

“Coach only gets like that when he knows you’re not playing like yourself.”

Tatum didn’t look up. “Yeah. I figured that out.”

It wasn’t rude, but it was cold. Distant.

Paige didn’t back off. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I appreciate the concern, Paige,” Tatum said, finally glancing over, “But I’m good.”

Normally, that would be the end of it. But not today.

Paige’s voice lost its lightness. It dropped into something steadier. “I want to believe that. But something’s wrong. You don’t have to tell me what it is. I just—I’ve been there before. Nobody plays like that unless something’s going on in their head.”

Tatum stiffened. She didn’t expect Paige to stay in it that long.

“I’m allowed to have an off day,” she said, guarded, eyes back on her locker.

“I know,” Paige replied. “It’s okay to have off days. It’s also okay to talk to someone if something’s wrong. I mean—we’re teammates. We all care about each other. It’s like a family here.”

Tatum didn’t answer.

The word family stuck in her ears like glue.

That’s what it used to feel like at Louisville. That those girls were her family. And then she left. Even though she was still in touch with some of them, deep down, she knew they were disappointed in her. She could feel it in the pause between texts. In the posts she was no longer tagged in. In the silence.

She looked at Paige and nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Thanks for being a good teammate.”

The way she said it was clipped. Like it didn’t mean what it should.

Teammate. That word again.

Paige caught the shift. The way Tatum’s voice didn’t match the softness of the sentiment. She didn’t push, not this time. But her eyes lingered a second longer than usual before she nodded and stepped back.

“No problem,” she said, heading back to her locker.

Tatum sat down slowly, eyes flickering once more to the photo inside her locker. She touched the edge of it with her fingers. She remembered the day she walked into her coach’s office at Louisville, the way her voice trembled even though she tried to sound firm. The way she walked out with her heart in her throat.

She had promised herself then—no more distractions. No more closeness. No more letting someone in just to lose them later.

But this place… it was starting to feel something.

And that terrified her.

She looked around the locker room—at Paige, at Azzi, at KK cracking another joke that made everyone laugh.

Then back at the photo.

Maybe she hadn’t walked away from just a school.

Maybe she’d walked away from the last time she let her heart believe in something that could break.

And there was a chance she was starting to do it again.

Even if she told herself she wasn’t.

[starrynights-sunnyskies]

mine to save ⋆*·ﾟmisa x femreader

tension rises when you are tackled, right in front of misa’s nose. instead of yelling at her backline for getting them a penalty, misa is mad that her teammate has hurt her girlfriend.

Matches like these were both a blessing and a curse— for you’d finally have some time to see each other again after weeks of working for your designated clubs, but it also meant that one of you would be left disappointed with the results of the match. Still, to Misa, it was worth every defeat to see her favourite girl again in the flesh, preferably with the biggest grin on your face. That did not mean Misa would not give it her all while underneath the post for the entirety of the match, which was exactly why she needed no distractions. Misa never really had any problem to switch her focus on while stepping onto the field, and even if the sight of you running around near her was tempting to distract her, she still only had focus on the ball and the player making it move. She knew she had most of the next day to give you all the attention you deserved, but right now, that attention had to be focused elsewhere. That hadn’t stopped her from sneaking her usual mischievous grin your way when the two of you shook hands, though. The fact that it never failed to spur on some kind of blush on your face filled her with even more confidence. So as she ran up to her goal, she knew this was going to be a good day. Her girlfriend was in her line of sight, breathing the same air, and no longer only on her screen, the sun was out and she had a match to play, what could go wrong?

Well, she could lose said match, and she’d be pretty damn mad about it if she did, because she’d blame it on herself mostly, but she’d take the hit if that meant you would be sporting that big and beautiful grin of yours. Only, you weren't. Your bottom lip was curled inside and trapped beneath your teeth as your eyebrows were set in furious frustration. Misa would have found it adorable in any other situation, especially if she’d been the one to block your goal and then sent a wink your way, but the backline of Real Madrid just wouldn’t budge and let you through. Granted, that was their job. Misa was fine with that, if anything, it made her own job more easier and their win within reach, but she knew how frustrating a game could be when it did not go in your favour. That no matter the tactic that had been practised over and over, was not coming to fruition. It didn’t help that your team was mostly playing you long balls to surpass the midfield, leaving you standing isolated from the others and having to outwit Real’s defending wall by yourself. After the 39nth minute, Athenea’s shot hit the back of the net, heightening the stakes and the frustrations even more. It had become a physical match, consisting of shoves, tackles, pulls and harsh collisions. Just no cards yet, though that was waiting to happen next. It probably hadn’t happened yet because both teams could be equally blamed, and that would leave either team with little to no players left on the field.

Next, some through balls were intervened before they even reached you, and after glancing to the sidelines every so often and realising the coach had no plans of changing tactics yet, you balled your fists and disappeared off the pitch at halftime in lightning speed. 

This behaviour was not foreign to Misa, so she followed after her team to the locker room. Football was a passionate sport, one she could lose herself in in the same way you did, and you were a passionate player. It was one of the things she loved so deeply about you. Not that a lot of people knew, of course. She never really saw use in mixing work with pleasure and although, yes, dating a fellow futbolista was blurring those lines a bit, she would never give her girlfriend special treatment when on the pitch.

“Looks like she’s been missing you like crazy, the way she’s been bullying us to get to you.” Olga glanced at her, playfully raising an eyebrow, knowing of the couple.

“More like you're bullying her,” Misa raised her eyebrow in return, challenging her, but the grin on her face mirrored her lightheartedness.

“I’m not going to take it easy on her, if that’s what you mean.”

“She’s just another player on the pitch for me. Can’t have my career jeopardised because I froze on purpose to let my girlfriend score against me.”

“Ice cold, you are,” Olga laughed, “But that’s only if they get through us. We’re holding up well so far.”

Misa hummed while taking a sip from her bottle. She wiped her chin dry, “Hm, thank you for that. I’d rather you deny her a goal. I do not want to sleep on the couch tonight if I end up stopping their first attempt.”

Olga rolled her eyes, “That’s not going to happen and you know it.”

“Best to be safe.” 

“I mean, she does seem scary. The way she growled when she got smacked down or shoved against us! Girl has attitude.” Raso piped up from beside them, having heard bits from their conversation, “Just a bit, though…” She quickly added when she noticed Misa’s stare. 

But to Misa, passion was passion. And as much passion and love you had for the game, you also had in multitude for her. The goalie suddenly turned chipper, her expression brightening as she stood up to get back on the field.

“I know. Isn’t she the best?”

As the whistle blew again, Misa noticed the fury had only barely left your body— your shoulders still held tension and your gaze still spat fire. The sight shouldn’t have worked her up the way it had, but she couldn’t help it. There was something extremely alluring and, dare she say it- incredibly hot -  knowing that you had this side to you as well, in stark contrast to your usual soft and giddy demeanour off the pitch. It was normally the other way around, with her being the fiery one. She loved whenever you got like this. When you would fight, not flee. Whenever your looks could kill, albeit unknowingly. Misa had only seen it a handful of times before and each time it had left her feeling primal. But this was not the time to let that feeling take over. She was at work, there were eyes on her, and she’d already been tagged in the occasional post that suggested the two of you were a couple. It wasn’t like she was ashamed of herself or her relationship, no, quite the opposite. But Misa was protective over the small pink cloud she’d been on ever since being with you and, to be completely honest, she was too greedy and wanted no one to be let in on their love. It was all yours and yours only. Misa had never really been like that before. Granted, this was her first serious relationship, and if it were up to her, also her last.  Still, she could tell that this was special, nothing ordinary. The real deal. She was protective and dominate in the sense that her hand would always hover on your lower back, she'd hand you her jacket or have a bag with snacks and other necessities at the ready for you. She’d always drive the car and open a door or sent a nasty glare towards anyone making you uncomfortable. Since day one, she had promised herself to make life the best it could be for her girlfriend. She’d picked up on your tells, knew what you liked and hated simply by reading your face. She could tell when you needed her, or when you needed some space. Communication was hardly ever needed when Misa always already seemed to know what you thought or felt. It surprised you, at first, how considerate and caring she was. It also embarrassed you for ever thinking the girl didn't have it in her. In your defence, that side had only come out when the two of you had gotten closer. You'd quickly understood that Misa was a guarded person when it came to letting someone in further than surface level, and that made the roar of pride and love you held for her burn at the realisation that she'd let you in. Waters run deep, and Misa had been the deepest damn part of the ocean at first, but here you were now. You were hers, and she was yours.

Misa never really thought too much about it like that. She just loved you more than she ever knew she could love someone. It was a simple fact, not something she pulled apart to examine. She treated you like a princess, simply because that was exactly what you deserved. Treating you to the best of her capabilities wasn't even a chore. She loved it all. It had even been an ongoing joke within your shared group of friends that Misa mirrored the behaviour of that of a lion and her cubs, but that was just the way Misa was when in love. Fiercely protective, incredibly loyal and with an abundance of love and adoration to give to those she cared for. And just to your luck, there was only one name her heart was chanting over and over again. It was admirable, endearing even, that someone could love so hard. It had only ever gotten her in trouble once, when you had tagged along to a club with Misa’s national team friends and a guy had cornered you on your to the restroom. It had ended the night abruptly with a calm but firm warning to leave the club, but it had also kept you out of harms way. A fair deal, if you asked her. 

It was evident right from the start that your team had changed things up. The formation had changed, for starters. The gap between midfield and you had closed up and the defence seemed to stay behind more, guarding the wings. No more long balls, but quick-fire attacking play. With Real’s change to press more on the attack during this half, it left spaces between defending players large enough for the opposing team to work around. Misa’s voice bellowed across the field as she warned her backline to fall back, having seen through the next attack. They quickly did, and so your team retaliated a bit, passing and playing to find open spaces or to lure the defence out. A bad pass and Real was at play again, pushing forward and closing spaces to prevent a counter. But you hovered around, eyes squinted and focused on the ball and the placement of your teammates. You were closing in on Real Madrid, just as you’d practised. It was a surprise intercepted tackle that left Raso without the ball, looking backwards to see how it had gone back into play.

On her side of the pitch, with a little more overview, Misa saw before the rest how you ran in line with the ball flying through the air— eyes focused on it like a hawk to try and not fuck this up by being too eager and thus running off-side.

“Oye!” Misa yelled at her backline, who caught on just as quickly. She watched as your form neared and Misa tried to anticipate how to block out the goal. She was used to running out and taking the ball out of play the ballsy way, but also knew that you were unpredictable thanks to your broad skillset. If she ran out, she wouldn’t put it past you to not cheekily chip it over her head before she had a chance. If she stayed on the line, she knew that you’d just sent the ball flying into the far outer corner, just out of her reach. If she waited a little longer to try and use her gift to read you so effortlessly during football as well, then maybe the momentum would already be gone.

Then she saw it. Even if it was only the slightest inclination to your next movement, Misa knew— you were going to shoot it in the far corner, having felt the defenders of Real Madrid closely behind you and knowing they would not let you get any step closer to the goal if you didn’t act soon. Misa shuffled to the right side, anticipating your shot when she saw Olga appear behind you. She heard the thump of your body dropping against the ground like a bag of sand, the grunt that left your throat and the crowd that went haywire as you came to a nasty fall in the penalty box. The ref immediately ran over, the red card dooming high above Olga’s face. But that wasn’t the only red thing on the pitch.

Misa saw red. Seethed. Glared. Grind her teeth together and locked her jaw. Olga listened to the ref, while you were still on your stomach, turning your hands to see the burn marks of your fall and slowly pushing yourself up on your knees. A blur of bright green approached you in a flash and a large glove was protectively placed on your shoulder.

“I’m okay, only some burns.” You immediately reassured, having seen the painfully worried look on Misa’s face. She hated whenever you were hurt or sad, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say she'd usually feel just as sad or hurt whenever you did. If only such a thing was possible, you knew Misa would always swap places with you so you didn't have to feel it. She looked into your eyes to find the confirmation, her gaze soft and caring, until it hardened again when she looked back up at hearing the squabble happening behind you. She gave you a curt nod as she carefully helped you back to your feet. You shook out your limbs a bit and dusted the grass of your kit when that same flash of neon green whizzed by you in your peripheral. She put herself right within the circle of arguing players and the referee. But where other Real players where trying to get the ref on their side, Misa immediately turned to Olga, joining your teammates. 

“What was that?! Was that necessary?”

Olga, surprised at the sudden turn of conversation, took in Misa’s intimidating form looming over her. 

“That was mine to save, not yours.” Misa continued.

It was painfully clear that Misa's outburst was about the tackle with the amount of passion she spat her words and how she’d checked up on you earlier, not the penalty it had bestowed against her team. 

Olga put up her hands, knowing there was no calming Misa down right now. Not when she was in game-mode and, hells, not when she'd just hurt her girlfriend.

“Easy, alright, I’m sorry. I miscalculated.”

“Yeah, you did,” Misa felt the ref’s hand push her back, heard the warnings of getting a card, then another set of hands, Raso, who gently pulled her back, before a more familiar touch gently held onto her underarm. 

“It’s okay, shake it off, I’m okay.” She heard from behind her, your thumb grazing over her tattoos. Posing as a barrier, she stood in front of you, one of her gloved hands behind, careful to keep you there, watching with squinted eyes as the group of players dispersed when the ref blew the whistle and pointed to the penalty spot. 

“I’m not taking it,” She heard you say and she immediately whipped around. 

She knew you were only saying so as to not put Misa in even more of a mental predicament, but she didn’t want you tapping out of what could be an opportunity to put another goal behind your name.

“Que?! No, you were done wrong, so you’re taking it.” Immediately back into focus, she walked to the line, looking everywhere except at you, not wanting to heighten your nerves. Perhaps she’d been a little too harsh, but there were still eyes on her and she didn’t want to give anyone watching even more to gossip about— she’d simply make it up to you later. After all, on the pitch, you were just any other football player to her… even if she’d just yelled at her own teammate for taking you down, and not even for the right reasons. 

Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She reached her arms up, bounced on her toes and then clenched and unclenched her hands into fists. She was ready. But were you? Finally, she had to avert her eyes to you. Your chest expanded with the big breath you took, digging the points of your cleats into the grass to get more grip in your shoe. Four steps back. Hands beside your hips. Pulling your jersey down. Adjusting your right sock. Misa knew this by heart, even if she’d only ever had you in front of her goal for penalties during training on your time off together.

The shrill sound of the whistle rang across the pitch. 

She could practically see the strength amping up in your legs on your run to the ball. Your left hip was slightly off, the weight in your body more to the right and as you leaned back, even ever so slightly, she knew you were going for the far right corner, perhaps the same thing you'd had in mind before you had been taken down. You knew she'd know this, maybe you were trying to not give yourself the advantage over her by doing this, but Misa was not going to sit back and let it soar in.

Misa jumped, reached out, her fingertips grazing the ball before it hit the lower side of the bar and hit the net after an echoing clink. The crowd went haywire again, this time for a more positive outcome. 

Misa took the loss in stride and watched as you took your win in quite a similar way. Then, as everyone went back to their positions, she couldn’t help but have to bite back a cheeky grin— she’d almost gotten in trouble for you again, but once more, it had been a fair exchange for your happiness. 

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

© 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘆.🖤

[outsideratheart]

By Your Side, Always (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: We’re supercampeones!!! I’m not sure what this is but I hope you like it.

The first 45 minutes of the game you were having fun, the whole team was. Levante knew that Barcelona would make them work but tonight you and the team were putting on a world class performance. They were never a team to give up but with 7 goals scored and them not being able to find the net, they struggled to find hope and accepted their defeat. They were now fighting to keep the score at 7 and it started to get messy. 

It was clear that you had been made a target by Levante’s entire back line. You didn’t care though, you could take it. If anything you welcomed the physically because it meant you were allowed to give them a taste of their own medicine every so often. 

Alexia wished she could be on the pitch with you but she must admit it was fun being in the stand watching you play the way you were. 

“She’s showing off” Mapi said to no one in particular as she watched you dance around their left back even looking back and smirking to her once you sent the ball into the box. 

“She’s unstoppable when she’s like this” your girlfriend says. 

She regretted her choice of words not even a minute later. There were two defenders between you and the goal. You were determined to make it 8. That is until you get taken out by not one but two players. You felt one set of studs go into the outside of the ankle and another set on the inside. You truly had never felt pain like it. 

Alexia heard your outcry of pain and could do nothing but watch as you laid on the floor clutching your ankle. 

“I need you to get up. I need to go to her” Alexia stood to her feet, desperate to be by your side. 

“You can’t go onto the pitch” Mapi slowly got up, careful not to knock her knee. 

Her warning fell on deaf ears and Alexia was already rushing towards the pitch. As expected she was stopped by Jona but she stayed near the sidelines waiting for you. 

“Please get up” Alexia whispers to herself. She began to fear the worst when she sees the physio signal for a stretcher. 

“We both know she’s too stubborn to use it Alexia. Give her a few minutes and she’ll be up” Jona pats his captain’s shoulder in support. 

The coach was right. It took a little longer than Alexia would have like but you are up on your feet. It’s obvious that the injury is bad because you are using the teams physios as crutches so you don’t put any weight on your ankle. 

What is the ultimate telling sign is the way you refuse to meet Alexia’s gaze when you get to the sidelines. Nevertheless she follows you into the tunnel and waits by the door of the medical room. 

“Come with me, please” you have your back towards Alexia but she can hear the pain in your tone. 

“I’m here” 

Alexia sits on a chair beside you as the physio begins examining your ankle. At the first touch you wince and move your foot away which only makes it hurt more. He gives you a couple of minutes to compose yourself but asks to try again. Your arms hide your face as the pain becomes excruciating. The only thing stopping you from breaking completely is the soothing way Alexia is stroking her hand over your thigh. 

“They’re almost done. Try and breathe for me ok?” 

And try you did but you also failed. It was a form of panic and you knew it. 

The physios explain that they think it’s major ligament damage and that they will take you for scans once you’re back in Barcelona.  

“I’m going to give you some space. Alexia, make sure she ices it and try to get her to stay still. Give it ten minutes then she can put the boot on and use the crutches. No weight on it, understand?” 

“They studded my ankle, not my ears. Don’t speak about me as if I’m not here” you sit up quickly. At least now you understood why you needed to keep still. 

Alexia got up as the physio left. She places ice on your ankle as gently as she could before she turned out the lights. She knew that when you were overwhelmed the darkness help calm whatever you were feeling inside. 

“Whatever it is, i’ve got you. I know how you think and how you’re going to want to do this alone but that won’t happen. I won’t let it”

Alexia moves the chair so that it was closer to your head. She places a gentle kiss on the crown on your head. 

“I don’t want to talk about it” 

You turn your head away from her. That hurt Alexia but she knew it was your coping mechanism and once you’ve processed what’s happened you will be more open to talk.

Alexia had just opened her mouth when she heard a door slam and a lot of foul language. 

“That’s Lucy and if she’s in here for the reason I think then I’m going to kill her” 

Your girlfriend rolled her eyes. You weren’t in the mood for this and deep down she knew the reason why the English defender was now in lockeroom even though there is 10 minutes left, maybe less. 

“Y/N I’m coming in” technically it wasn’t a question but still she could have waited for a response. 

“Get out” you growl. 

“Oh did I interrupt something” Lucy gives you both a playful look. 

“You’re a fucking idiot Luce. I know for a fact you didn’t get subbed off because that wasn’t part of the plan so that only leaves one reason” 

“Y/N calm down” alexia begs.  

“I was defending you. They took you out. I wasn’t going to let them get away with it” Lucy met your anger and walked towards you. That was a mistake. 

“Get out!” You stand up and your own weight collapses underneath you. 

“Lucy, please” Alexia begs your England team mate who raises her hands in defeat and leaves you be. 

She then helps you back on the bed. A couple of minutes pass and you hear the final whistle following by the cheers of your team. 

“I’m not going back out. Torre can lift the trophy” 

“Y/N. You’re their captain and you scored a hattrick. It should be you up there” 

“Well I’m not going to be and you can go tell them. Go Alexia” 

She saw the look in your eyes. The look, which in the past, told her that your mind was made up and there was nothing she could do to change it. 

“Just come out when you’re ready. We don’t let moments pass by without celebrating them. You told me that” before leaving Alexia made sure she turned on the TV so that you could at least watch the trophy ceremony. 

You didn’t like what you just did but you did it anyway. Alexia has had a tough few weeks and she need this, she needed it more than you needed her. 

As instructed Marta lifts the trophy and you feel fine about it. Barcelona has a group of leaders but it just so happens that only one can wear the armband. 

The silence wasn’t comfortable and it started to put you on edge. You saw the boots and crutches by the examination table taunting you.  

Don’t let the moment pass by. 

Alexia watches Marta lift the trophy and then celebrated with the team like they do after every trophy win. She hoped you might have come out by now. 

She is near the centre circle when she hears the crowd errupt. She may have her back to the tunnel but she knows it’s you. 

“I thought you said she wasn’t coming out” Jana asks. 

“No. I said she wasn’t lifting the trophy” Alexia knew you would come out. Due to your slow pace, no thanks to the crutches, Alexia met you half way. 

You let the crutches drop to the floor as you wrap your arms around her neck. 

“I’m sorry for pushing you away. I just —“

“Needed a minute. I know. You’re here now and that’s all that matters” she lets you rest against her as your hands you the crutches. 

“Have you been crying mi amor?” She noticed the tear staines on your cheeks. 

You nod slightly and she can see that something is going on in your head because your eyes begin to well up. Alexia cups your cheek and gently wipes away the stray tear that has fallen. 

“You don’t have to wait until I’m not there to cry Y/N”

“I know” 

Side by side you walk towards your team mates who are all ready to greet you. Bruna is the first one too you, of course she is. 

“Here” she hands you the game ball “I got everyone to sign it for you” 

“Thanks B. You know I’ve got so many of these I’ve lost count. Why don’t you go give it to a fan?” The young forward takes the ball back happily and runs towards a little girl. She makes her turn around so that you can see the fan is wearing you shirt. You send her a little wave and it makes her day. 

“I don’t want to be injured” you stick your bottom lip out causing you girlfriend to chuckle slightly. 

“We’re professional football players, we never want to be injured but sometimes it happens. There’s nothing we can do about it” Alexia was full of wisdom. 

She definetly didn’t feel this way when she got hurt but you decide not reopen old wounds. 

“And these things are stupid” you wave one of your crutches around. 

“Are you going to be complaining everyday until you’re back on the pitch?” 

“Yes Alexia, I am. If you don’t like it then tough because you’re stuck with me” 

“I’m ok with that and I’m ready to return the favour because we both know I wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine when I got injured” 

“You can say that again. I almost sent you back home to your mothers” you were teasing her and she knew it. You didn’t like being more that 5 feet away from Alexia when she was hurt. 

“We both know if I went back to my mama’s that you would be right behind me” 

You could only nod in agreement. Alexia suggests you do what will be half a lap of the pitch so you can thank you fans. It’s a slow amble but she doesn’t seem to mind. The rest of the team had walked ahead so now it was just you, Alexia, Mapi and Ingrid. 

“Does this mean we can do our physio together?” Mapi asks you. 

“No” Alexia and Ingrid say in unison. 

“Why not? We will push each other to get better” 

“And that’s the reason why. You’re too competive, you will make it into a game and we” she points to herself and Alexia “know that it’ll end badly”. 

When you are back at the hotel you are dragged into the celebrations and for the most part you don’t mind it. After a little while you realise that Alexia isn’t around and that is something you do mind. You feel yourself getting more anxious without having her calming presence beside you. 

Then you hear your phone go off. 

Come to you room. Your rehab starts now. 

When you enter your room, Alexia is standing outside the bathroom. 

“I’m going to need you to remove your clothes” Alexia says and your eyes widen. 

“Ok” you pull your shirt off in record time, the shorts however were more of a task. 

“Let me” once the injured leg was free alexia places your crutches aside “rest on me” she tells you. 

She looks up grinning like a devil which makes you shake your head. She always did have half a mind in the gutter when it came to you. 

“Maybe later” she pecks your lips and doesn’t expect for you to pull her back in for something more passionate. 

“Sure, Putellas”

She pretends to act offended at the use of her surname. Alexia then uses her strength to lift you backwards and onto the bed, something she could have done earlier. 

“I’m going to take your boot off. It might hurt” she was so gentle in the way you undid the Velcro straps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry” she says when she hears you wince. 

“I’m ok” you reassure her even though you were far from it. 

What happens next came as a shock but a good one. Alexia lifts you up and carries you bridal style towards the bathroom where you are met with a bubble filled bath. 

“You did this for me?” 

“Yes. Although I’m going to be joining you so I guess it’s also for me” 

“Are you now?” You tease. 

Alexia nods her head in excitement with a huge smile plastered on her face. 

Your girlfriend helps you in and then lowers herself behind you. With one hand on your thigh and the other one on your abdomen, you allow yourself to relax. As you tilt your head back to rest against Alexia it gives her full access to your exposed neck and she takes advantage of the opportunity. She knows things can’t get too heated so she settles with peppering kisses on your sensitive spots. 

The two of you stay in the bath until the water becomes cold and your hands like like prunes. 

“You’re strong Y/N, you’ll be ok” Alexia says as she lays in bed with you. You have a movie on and somehow Alexia has gotten some popcorn. 

“I’ll be alright” 

It wasn’t how you expected the night to end. You thought you would be celebrating with your team, jumping for joy and taking advantage of the free champagne. Instead you are in bed, with you leg elevated and ice compressing the injured area. The this one commonality in the current and what come have been; you have Alexia by your side.