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fletchysohot · 11 months

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Lil' Blue Euros Star

You and Conor have been apart for way too long and he's worried about the next game in the Euros. Happy international break guys!

Word count: 2.7k

You adjust yourself against the pile of pillows stacked haphazardly against the headboard of your bed waiting for the FaceTime call to connect. Once the call connects your face falls when Conor doesn't greet you with his usual giddy smile. . The seemingly permanent brightness in his eyes has been replaced by a certain veil of dullness, his hair unstyled, messy, and unwashed, his sticky locks falling against his cheek, framing the dark circles that have formed under his eyes now absent of their cerulean spark.

“Conor,” you let out and he just offers you a weak smile in return, most likely an attempt at calming your worries.

“Are you feeling okay babe?” you ask him , your voice full of concern.

“Yeah,” he says, laying his cheek on the pillow, a content sigh escaping his pale peach coloured lips, “just tired… been training hard.”

“You look awful.” Your eyebrows knit together in concern at the sight of the state the man is in.

“Thanks," he laughs, the skin by his eyes crinkling as a chuckle escapes his mouth. “I missed you too.”

“I'm sorry, I-” you fumble looking for words, trying your best to salvage the situation you've gotten yourself into.

“I know,” he smiles reassuringly, nuzzling his face against the pillow to get more comfortable. “Do I really look that bad though?”

Your face must give away the answer since the man sighs, rubbing his tired face. “I just haven't been sleeping that well, you know?"

“Jude's snoring that bad?” You chuckle, trying to get him to light up, silently hoping that is the problem and it's nothing more serious.

“No, no,” he says absentmindedly, “Jude's a good roommate…”

“What's the issue then?” You search his face hoping for a hint of an answer or something to ease your mind. Conor would sometimes get nerves before big away games but this seemed different.

The answer doesn't come instantly, your boyfriend looking around just to avoid meeting your gaze, slight shame clouding his features.

“Babe?” you ask softly as if speaking to a frightened animal.

“I just… I know these few games are very important… I know a lot of people are watching. Nothing serious to worry about.” He searches for the right words to ease your worry. Or maybe he's trying to calm himself, reassuring himself. You silently wonder how many times he has said the same words to himself in the mirror, hoping they would feel less like lies and more like the truth.

“Conor…” you frown seeing the subtle remnants of past emotions linger in his features - the way his youthful features are made heavy and older with worry, the way his bottom lip is red and coarse probably from him biting it when he thinks too much, the absence of the familiar rosiness from his soft cheeks. Conor looks so unlike himself it makes you want to tell him to come home now so you can protect him from the world. You are brought out of your thoughts however when he speaks again.

“They wanna potentially sell me you know." He averts his eyes to play with a loose thread sticking out of the pillowcase his cheek is currently laid on. You frown seeing his icey eyes briefly become misty before he blinks the frustration and sadness away. You hate seeing him like this, helpless and deflated. The past few months have not been kind to him, between fans losing hope in him and everyone having an opinion to share between people on social media and pundits. He had bravely held up a front for you but now the whisperings of Chelsea selling him as part of their summer clearout had obviously become the final straw that broke his back. Your heart broke to see him push himself to the limit, often coming home barely being able to keep his eyes open at the dinner table.

“You have to take it easy though Con,” you say, finally breaking the brief silence that has fallen between the two of you.

“I have to prove to them that-" his voice is laced with frustration and fatigue as he tries to mask the anger threatening to appear on his face. You know he is trying to keep his head down, work as hard as he can for both club and country. He had always been adamant that actions speak louder than words adopting it as his work ethic, however somehow no matter how hard he would work and push himself it was not enough to keep up with the expectations from the people who held his faith in their hands. And even though he was insistent it didn't bother him too much it was clear to you that was getting to him. But both of you knew Conor would not run his mouth and rather keep it in until he could leave it out on the pitch.

“No you need to listen to your body,” you say firmly. “We can't have you pick up an injury."

“Babe I'm fine.” His voice becomes shaky once again.

“Conor you look horrible.” You sit up in frustration. You know you are being harsh to the man on the other side of the screen, but you want, no, need to shake him and make him snap out of it before his inherent need to please people gets him hurt.

“Please listen to me,” you plead, “ you have to be more careful. I want you home in one piece, not on crutches.”

“I have to prove to the club that-” he starts again, his voice laced with frustration and anger, you know it's not directed at you, but you feel your face turn sour.

“If the club is too blind to see what you bring-” You raise your voice, aware in the back of your mind that the conversation is beginning to move dangerously close to an argument.

“The club has made a ton of signings. Guys who are younger, fitter, more talented than me and if I don't step up my game and earn my place I'll end up benched forever or worse…” you see his face tense as if holding something back. “sold.”

“Why would getting sold be so bad though?” You say without thinking, too caught up in wanting to eliminate the way his eyes are full of hurt and exasperation.. .

He looks at you in surprise. Him leaving Chelsea has been lingering in the air for a while now, an unspoken subject that neither of you ever dared breach. Both of you very aware that it has been the reason for Connor to wear himself thin, for the small arguments about seemingly mundane problems. However it is also the one subject you and Conor would not dare touch due to fear of it consuming him completely.

“Chelsea is my home,” he says after a moment, his PR training kicking in.

“Conor.” you say tiredly.

“Chelsea is my home” he says again. His voice quieter, like he's reassuring himself more than informing you. You know lately he's been having his moments of doubt whether he and the club have become too distant from each other, whether he has outgrown his roots, whether it's time for a new challenge. You cannot help but wonder if with the plethora of changes at the club Conor still feels has a home at Stamford Bridge.

“Conor,” you say, “I know you love Chelsea, I know it's home, but you know no one would blame you-” you soften your voice speaking slowly, carefully observing any changes in his expression.

Conor looks at you as if asking “are you kidding me?”

“Okay SOME people would blame you… All I'm saying is - moving to a club that loves you and cherishes you wouldn't be that bad… I just… I hate seeing you like this baby. I'd rather you move than run yourself into the ground trying to prove something they should already know. I just worry about you, you know.” The words fall from your mouth before you have a chance to catch them. You close your eyes and hold your breath bracing for the wrath that may follow now that you have overstepped the unspoken boundary that is Conor and his football career.

When you don't hear a reaction you open your eyes expecting him to be furious or having hung up on the call. You would deserve it for taunting him like that. But all you are met with is pain in his eyes.

“Your whole life is here,” he says calmly. He looks soft and tired and defenceless almost like an angel. You feel as if he has laid down his weapons, unwilling to fight or argue, completely at your mercy. The moment feels incredibly intimate, you know Conor has never let his guard down like this in front of you. He is the type to grit his teeth and suffer alone in silence. And yet here he is, offering you himself completely. He's tired of being the strong one, always saying the right thing, looking the right way, not a hair out of place even after playing a 120 minute match in a UCL final.

“My whole life is wherever you are Conor.” You offer him the words he has yearned to hear for what feels like forever, an olive branch of sorts.

The man shuffles, about to say something but you cut him off. “I can work from anywhere, wherever you are that's where I want to be, if that means I might have to get up earlier to take a train or have a few business trips here and there just to see you doing whatever you love and glowing, I'll do it.”

For the first time that evening Conor's face lights up with the familiar smile that finally reaches his eyes reigniting a spark the size of a forest fire that has been dormant for months now ,making you feel like all your problems melt away for a moment. Seeing the glow return to Conor's features makes your chest ache with longing to kiss him, to run your fingers through his hair, to feel his body shake as he laughs at your antics. You watch him, counting the freckles on his nose and mapping out each millimetre of his smile, the way the corners of his lips curl upwards.

“I love you,” you say smiling, “so so much.”

“Where is that coming from?” he chuckles, a certain sparkle dancing in his eyes.

“I don't know… I just wanted to say it," you felt a blush creep onto your cheeks. “I miss saying it to you in real life."

“I'll be home soon enough,” he murmurs hiding his face in the pillow most likely trying to hide his own love sick grin and blush. “Just tomorrow's game and…”

“And you'll do amazing,” you smile tilting your head to the side watching him look at you with one eye..

“Think Southgate is benching me.” he groans and just like that the forest fire turns into a candle flame in his eyes.

“Well I'll be hoping for bench cam then." You notice a small smile ghost his lips, “Now do you wanna hear about my extremely boring day that had zero football involvement?”

“PLEASE!” he yelps, “Go into detail as much as you can."

You chuckle at his excitement and begin to tell him about how you had been, what you had eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the dogs you had seen on the street, work and office gossip. Conor's eyes flutter shut about half way through the in-detail analysis of the newest episode of the tv show you were watching to pass the time. You spend a moment admiring how peaceful he looks dozed off, not disturbed by everything going on in his head at the moment and all the worries haunting his waking hours. You wish you could wrap your arms around him, move the strands of hair out of his face, drape a blanket over him so he's not cold, to be able to draw circles on his shoulder as he slept but alas you have to settle for the tiny screen in which he lived, what had felt like a permanent situation as of late.

The game had been a stalemate since the beginning of the game. Any attempt at scoring by England had been eliminated by the North Macedonian defence and a few mistakes by the England squad. As Conor had predicted, Southgate had opted to bench him and play Mason instead, citing that he was a better fit for today's strategy. Once you saw the lineup and Conor out of the starting XI you felt your stomach drop, knowing he probably blamed himself for not doing enough, reciting all the foul things people on Twitter would toss his way. At the 79th minute the other team's centre back did a dirty move on Jude making him stay on the ground gripping his knee. Your breath hitched as you watched the medics and his teammates crowd around the teen tending to him, you had seen Conor's teammates limp off with serious injuries what felt like countless times now, seeing the same fate hit someone as young as Jude broke your heart. Luckily the boy was on his legs in a few minutes being helped off the pitch by a medic and Mason. You would have to remember to get an update on that from Conor later. The camera on the big screen panned to the dugout where Conor was stood next to Southgate being briefed as he still adjusted his kit. trying to haphazardly stretch his muscles and warm up.

You felt yourself shift in your seat, almost spilling your drink as you craned your neck to get a better view, earning a chuckle from Sasha who was sat next to you. Your eyes followed Conor like your life depended on it watching him run wherever the ball went. You could feel your heart beat faster and faster by the minute. Every time someone got close to Conor you would hold your breath until you knew he was safe from danger. When extra time rolled around you felt yourself slouch in the seat. They had five minutes to create a good chance that would bring them a win. You watched as the rest of the midfield played tightly passing between each other while Conor ran around them looking for empty spaces to cover everyone else. Finally at the 92nd minute he had the ball at his feet skillfully outrunning the other team, not letting them get the ball. You could see him desperately searching for a teammate to pass to, but everyone was too far or being covered by the other team's players. Conor pulled back his leg and shot for the goal causing you to yelp. Your heart stopped in the minute as you watched the ball fly through the air followed by the entirety of the stadium erupting in cheers. Connor was surrounded by his teammates hugging him and cheering. You felt your friends pat you on your back and tell you congrats as you couldn't keep the bright grin off your face until the whistle blew signalling the end of the game. You watched as Conor ginned at the crowd clapping his hands above his head doing his round with his teammates surrounding him with matching smiles. For the first time in ages you felt like the fans loved him the same way you did, even if their love would pass soon enough, you hoped he would soak it in while it lasted. And by the looks of it he was doing exactly that as Conor looked elated-like he had just won the World Cup with England and with that erased any doubts or worries that could have found home in his mind. He walked around the pitch clapping his hands above his head at the crowd, however his eyes searched for you in the crowd. Once he got sight of you his grin spread even wider. You mouthed a “I'm so proud of you” at him, not sure if he discovered it, but judging by the way he threw his head back in joy he knew exactly what you had tried to communicate.

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