#awfc fluff

It didn’t really bother you, the rumours were easily ignored as Alessia curled up beside you, your cat sitting squarely on her chest.

You were never the subject of such rumours. You had been in one relatively public relationship with a former teammate until you mutually split. Everyone knew you were with someone. The pictures of your cat cuddled up with someone that was very obviously not you were littered across your social media. Face never fully shown — a hint of blonde hair and that was about it. But with Arsenal’s squad, it didn’t really narrow it down.

The sun blazed down, the centre circle electric as golden confetti streamed down. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Alessia was practically attached to you, her perfectly manicured nails curling around your bicep.

“I cannot believe it,” Alessia’s voice was hoarse.

“Champions League, baby.” You smiled at her, eyes shining.

“I really want to kiss you,” she blurted out.

You blinked, shocked by her confession. You were still on the pitch. Still had hundreds, if not thousands of fans around you. Cameras. Staff. Teammates. Everything loud and overwhelming and public.

“What?”

“I don’t care,” she said quickly, shaking her head as if you’d missed the point entirely. “I really couldn’t give a rat’s arse who sees.”

You let out a small, incredulous laugh, glancing around as if that might somehow make the moment less real. It didn’t. The world was still spinning in celebration - the girls screaming, hugging, crying, singing - but somehow the noise dulled, softened, narrowed until it felt like it was just the two of you standing in the middle of it.

“Less,” you murmured, quieter now, leaning closer so only she could hear you. “We’re on the pitch.”

“I know exactly where we are.” Her grip tightened on your arm. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “We just won the Champions League. I’ve just-“ She broke off, swallowing, her throat bobbing. “I’ve just done the biggest thing I’ve ever done and all I can think about is you.”

Your breath caught, something sharp and overwhelming settling in your chest.

“Alessia-”

“I’m serious.” Her voice wavered just slightly, but there was steel underneath it, a kind of quiet defiance you didn’t see often. “I’m so tired of pretending. I’m tired of people guessing and getting it wrong and talking about everyone but you.”

You huffed out a soft breath, your hand coming up almost instinctively to steady her at the waist. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me,” she said immediately. “Because it’s not them. It’s you.”

That landed harder than anything else. For a second, you just looked at her. Really looked. The flushed cheeks, the damp strands of blonde hair clinging to her forehead, the way her lips were slightly parted like she was still catching her breath from everything … the match, the adrenaline, this.

“You’re serious,” you said quietly.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want it - God, you did - but because of everything else. The cameras. The headlines. The inevitability of it all.

“The whole world is going to know now,” you murmured.

There it was. The truth of it, laid bare between you. No more half-hidden photos. No more cropped frames and careful angles. No more letting people guess wrong.

Alessia didn’t even flinch.

“I don’t care.”

Three simple words. No hesitation. No fear. Just certainty.

And that was it, really. That was all it took.

Your hand slid from her waist up to her jaw, fingers curling gently just beneath her ear. She leaned into the touch immediately, like she’d been waiting for it. Like she’d been holding herself back for far too long.

“Come here, then,” you whispered.

She didn’t need telling twice. Alessia closed the distance in a heartbeat, her hands coming up to your shoulders as her lips found yours.

It wasn’t soft. Not tentative or unsure. It was everything all at once. Relief and adrenaline and something deep, aching, and long overdue.

Her lips were warm, slightly chapped from the match, and she kissed you like she meant it. Like she’d been holding it in for months and finally couldn’t anymore. You felt it in the way she pressed closer, in the way her fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, grounding herself against you.

The world didn’t disappear, not completely. You were still vaguely aware of the noise, the movement, the flashes of cameras. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t touch you.

Because Alessia was right there.

And she was kissing you like nothing else existed.

You kissed her back just as fiercely, your hand tightening slightly at her jaw, your thumb brushing over her cheek. She let out the smallest sound against your lips, something soft and breathless, and it went straight through you.

It wasn’t neat or polished. It was messy in the way real things are. A little breathless, a little overwhelming, a little desperate. And completely, undeniably real.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at her again. Her eyes were still closed for a second, like she was holding onto it, savouring it. Then they fluttered open, meeting yours. There was a kind of disbelief there. And joy. And something softer, more vulnerable, tucked quietly underneath it all.

A grin tugged at Alessia’s lips, slow and almost shy despite everything.

“Hi,” she said softly.

You let out a small laugh, your forehead dropping against hers. “Hi.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The world started to creep back in around the edges. The cheers, the music, the distant shouts of teammates calling your names, but it still felt like you were wrapped up in something separate. Something just yours.

“We’ve just caused absolute chaos,” you murmured.

“Good.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” There was no arrogance in it, just a quiet kind of satisfaction. She tilted her head slightly, nudging her nose against yours. “Was it worth it?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

Alessia’s smile widened, brighter now. “Good,” she repeated, softer this time.

You glanced past her briefly, catching sight of a couple of your teammates staring, some with wide eyes, some already grinning like they’d just witnessed the best piece of gossip imaginable. Katie gave you a very obvious thumbs up.

You groaned quietly. “We are never hearing the end of this.”

“Probably not,” Alessia said, entirely unfazed.

You looked back at her, raising an eyebrow. “Still don’t care?”

She shook her head, her expression softening again as she looked at you. “Not even a little bit.” Your chest tightened at that.

“Good,” you echoed her earlier words, your voice quieter now.

She leaned in again, not quite kissing you this time, just brushing her lips against yours, quick and affectionate and grounding. It was different from before. Less urgent. More certain. A promise, rather than a release.

When she pulled back, her hand slid down to intertwine with yours, fingers fitting together like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “We should probably go celebrate with the others before they come and drag us.”

You squeezed her hand lightly. “Yeah. Probably.”

Neither of you moved immediately. Just one more second. One more look. One more quiet, shared moment in the middle of everything loud and chaotic and life-changing.

Then you let Alessia pull you along, both of you stepping back into the noise. Into the celebrations, the cameras, the teammates who were already shouting your names.

But this time, you didn’t let go of her hand. And neither did she.

You kept touching it like it might disappear. Your fingers traced the raised lettering, the ridges cool against your overheated skin. It was heavier than you’d imagined. Not just physically, though it dragged pleasantly against your collarbones, but in what it meant. Years of 5 a.m. alarms. Of falling and getting back up. Of coaches barking splits and your lungs screaming in protest. Of almost quitting. Of not quitting.

The scoreboard still glowed at the far end of the rink.

Your name at the top.

The time beside it were obscene.

You hadn’t broken the world record, not quite, but you’d come terrifyingly close. Close enough that commentators were still talking about it in breathless tones. Close enough that you’d shaved almost half a second off your personal best. Close enough that when you crossed the line, you didn’t even know whether to scream or collapse.

You had chosen collapse. Ice cold and wet beneath you as your lungs burned and muscles screamed.

Now, leaning against the barrier, helmet tucked under your arm, the noise of the crowd felt distant. Muffled. Like you were underwater.

“Hey.” Leah’s voice cut through everything.

It was smooth and soft, just that little bit scratchy, like she’d been shouting your name for the last three laps — which she had. It was perfectly balanced, warm enough to steady you but teasing enough to keep you from floating off entirely.

You turned.

“Hey.” You wiggled your eyebrows at her automatically, because if you didn’t make a joke you were absolutely going to cry in front of several thousand people.

She snorted softly. “Not bad,” she shrugged, but her eyes gave her away. They were shining. Her hands fell to your waist as you leaned over the barrier, steady and familiar and grounding.

“Eh,” you cocked your head as if you hadn’t just nearly rewritten history. As if your legs weren’t still shaking from the fastest race of your life. “I’ve done better.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Sure you have.”

Up close, she looked just as wrecked as you felt. Her hair was pulled back messily, strands escaping around her temples. There was a crease between her brows that only appeared when she was anxious — or furious — or trying very hard not to cry. Right now it was definitely the last one.

The arena staff were starting to usher people around you. Cameras angled closer. Someone called your name again. You ignored it.

You collapsed into her.

There wasn’t much grace involved. One second you were upright, the next you were folded over the barrier and into her arms, medal knocking awkwardly between you. She caught you easily anyway, arms wrapping tight around your ribs.

She smelt like apples and safety.

It was ridiculous, how specific that scent was. The shampoo she’d used for years. The faint trace of the hand lotion she always kept in her bag. Underneath it, something that was just her. The smell you associated with early mornings and shared blankets and whispered conversations at 2 a.m.

“Proud of you, baby,” she whispered in your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple. Her lips were warm against your overheated skin.

That did it.

Your eyes started to sting.

You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not on camera. You were supposed to be composed. Professional. Gracious in victory.

But Leah’s thumb was rubbing small circles at your hip, and the medal was heavy against your chest, and your body was finally coming down from the high. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving something raw and exposed in its place.

“I thought I messed up the second lap,” you muttered into her shoulder.

“You didn’t.”

“I clipped my skates.”

“You adjusted.” She pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You always adjust.”

You laughed weakly. “That’s not very poetic.”

“I’m not here to be poetic.” She brushed a stray piece of damp hair off your forehead. “I’m here to remind you that you’re ridiculous.”

“Rude.”

“In the best way.” Her smile softened. “You were flying out there. I’ve never seen you skate like that.”

The truth of that hit harder than the medal had.

You had felt it too, that strange, suspended sensation halfway through the third lap, when everything locked into place. Your stride lengthened without conscious effort. Your breathing synced with the rhythm of your blades carving into ice. The noise faded. Doubt evaporated. There was only movement. Only speed.

For a few seconds, you hadn’t been chasing anything.

You had simply been.

“I kept thinking about what you said,” you admitted quietly.

Leah tilted her head. “I say a lot of things.”

“Before I went out.” You swallowed. “About not skating scared.”

Her expression shifted. Softer. Deeper.

“I meant it.”

“I know.” You pressed your forehead to hers briefly, helmets and cameras and crowds forgotten. “I wasn’t scared.”

Not of losing. Not of falling. Not of failing in front of everyone.

For the first time in a long time, you’d skated because you loved it. Because your body could do something extraordinary and you wanted to see how far it would go.

The announcer called your name again, louder this time. You were due for another round of photos. Interviews. Obligatory smiles.

Leah squeezed your hands once before letting go. “Go be famous.”

You grimaced. “You’re coming with me.”

She laughed. “This is your moment.”

“It’s ours,” you corrected, because it was. Because she’d been there for the injuries. The bad races. The nights you’d sat on the kitchen floor convinced you were finished. She’d held ice packs to your knees and your ego with equal patience.

The medal swung as you straightened. You took a steadying breath.

The tears finally spilled over.

Not dramatic sobs. Just a quiet overflow. Relief. Joy. Exhaustion. Gratitude.

Leah brushed one away with her thumb. “There she is,” she murmured. “That’s the face I was waiting for.”

“What face?”

“The one that knows.”

You blinked at her.

“That you did it,” she clarified. “Not just won. You proved it to yourself.”

The noise of the arena swelled again, no longer distant. Real. Present. Yours.

You glanced once more at the scoreboard. At your name in bright, undeniable letters. Then back at her.

“Love you, Le.” 

And yet … here you were. Sun on your back, city lights glittering, Bella’s excitable voice skipping over half-formed words as she recounted every second of the match for the fifth time. She barely stopped to take a breath as she waved her arms about, her hat bobbing with every enthusiastic jump.

“Norf London forevaaaaa!” Bella sang out again, much to the amusement of a passing group of girls, as you finally made it through the lobby and to the check-in desk. The only, singular downside of this otherwise perfect weekend? By some cosmic joke or cruel twist of fate, you’d managed to book yourself into the same hotel as the Barça team. The very team you’d just watched your side snatch a dramatic win against. And now you felt like you had a massive, blinking target on your back, your red and white standing out just a bit too much against the sombre hordes of Blaugrana-clad Culers.

“Bells, babe,” you murmured, leaning down to catch her attention as she wiggled her hips dramatically to the chant in her head, “maybe don’t sing that right now, yeah?”

She blinked up at you, utterly unbothered, her six-year-old brain working on a totally different wavelength. She was covered head to toe in Arsenal colours. A bright red canon bucket hat, a full Mariona Caldentey kit, right down to the socks, and a pair of tiny adidas trainers that she insisted were ‘football shoes’. She had even demanded her knickers be red this morning for ‘good luck’. You should have known then she was going to be on one.

“We gotta show our support,” she declared, her tiny face set in that stubborn look she inherited from your mum.

“Bells, no one is going to know if you’re wearing red knickers or not.”

“Yeah, well … I’ll know,” she shot back without missing a beat. “And if we lose, it’ll be on you.”

You laughed despite yourself, ruffling her hair and glancing around the crowded hotel lobby. A few Barça players were milling about, faces blotchy and red, some clearly fresh from crying, others sunk deep into their hoods and hats. You wished you’d thought to throw your black hoodie in your bag. Something to hide behind. The lift was taking forever, and the 15 flights of stairs were starting to look like a more appealing option with every passing second.

“C’mon.” Bella huffed, tugging at your hand as she spotted the lift doors finally open.

You followed her reluctantly. And then wished you hadn’t.

Because standing inside the lift were none other than Alexia Putellas, Claudia Pina, and Patri Guijarro. You froze. All three of them glanced up, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and polite wariness. You were very aware of how bright your red and white scarf was in that moment.

“We can wait for the next one …”

“Ugh, no! We’ve been waiting forever, and I need a wee!” Bella announced to the world, already stomping into the lift and pulling you with her.

“Okay, okay, but be quiet,” you mumbled awkwardly, offering a small apologetic smile to the three Barça players as you shuffled into the corner.

It couldn’t have been more than a few moments, a couple of awkward heartbeats, but it felt like a lifetime in that tiny space. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the lift.

“Psst,” Bella stage-whispered, poking your thigh.

You winced. Nothing good ever came from a Bella stage-whisper.

“Yeah?” you replied cautiously, silently praying to whichever Deity might be listening that it wasn’t going to be an awkward question.

“Why are they sad?” she asked, pointing a very unsubtle finger toward the three footballers.

Christ on a bike.

You internally scrambled for an answer, desperately trying to come up with something that wouldn’t be wildly insulting to three of the best players in the world on what was, undoubtedly, one of the worst days they’d had in a while.

“Uh … bad day at the office,” you managed weakly.

“Oh,” Bella murmured, looking down at her trainers like she was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

“That’s what you said when we lost to Brighton,” she added, still staring at her feet.

“Yeh, it was,” you muttered, smoothing down her hair and praying for the lift to move faster.

“And when we lost to Villa.”

“Yep,” you popped the ‘p,’ wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Pina’s lips twitch.

“And the first leg against Lyon … And Chelsea … And Real Madrid.”

“Okay, Bells, we don’t need a full play-by-play of the season, do we?”

“I’m just saying,” she sassed, rolling her eyes.

You could practically feel the tension start to shift. And then Bella, never one to leave a silence unfilled, took a deep breath.

“But then we won against Real Madrid!” she announced, grinning up at you.

“We did,” you agreed, cautiously eyeing which way this conversation might go.

“And Super Mario went ‘boom,’” Bella mimed an exaggerated kick, “and it went right over Misa’s hands, and we went ‘yey!’” She clapped once, mimicking the moment the equaliser hit the net.

You saw Pina and Patri exchange glances, a smile creeping onto their faces despite themselves.

“And then,” Bella continued, “we saw us lose to Lyon … boo Lyon.” She pulled a face.

You bit back a smirk. Even Alexia was watching now, one corner of her mouth twitching.

“But then we went to Stam-mord Bridge,” she stumbled over the words in her excitement, “and we saw Chelsea lose. And that was very funny.”

By now, even Alexia was smiling properly.

“That’s gonna be me one day,” Bella said solemnly, nodding with all the self-importance of a child making a sacred vow.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. I’m gonna be just like Super Mario and score against Chelsea.”

“Mariona didn’t score against Chelsea.”

“I know,” Bella said with a sigh. “It was Aitana … and Pajor … and Pina … and Para-para-way-yo.”

“Paralluelo,” Patri corrected gently.

“Yes! Her.” Bella beamed. “She went zoom and boom and GOAL. And I’m gonna do dat too against Chelshit.”

“Bella!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as laughter filled the lift.

“Well, that’s what you call them,” she shrugged.

“Bien jugado,” Caicedo smiled as you shook her hand.

“Igualmente,” you sighed, clapping her on the shoulder. You liked Linda. She was one of the nicer girls who happily spent some of her time showing you around the city as Misa pouted that she wasn’t getting your full attention.

You made your rounds, humming and fake smiling as you avoided the pitying looks from the Madrid players and the promises from your teammates that you could turn this around.

“Mi vida,” Misa smiled sheepishly at you, her dark eyebrows knitted together.

“Shut up,” you pouted, lifting your arms as you walked towards her.

“Lo siento?” She winced, afraid of your reaction. Would you hate her? You had the only shot on target for Arsenal all game – it was a spectacular short, looping in from the edge of the box aiming straight for the top corner. The net was just waiting to ripple. Except it didn’t. Misa’s glove had pushed it wide. It was some stunning goalkeeping. You couldn’t fault her. Your heart had sunk as it drifted past the post, the annoyance you felt more towards yourself than her.

“Shut up,” you grumbled again, this time wrapping your arms around her neck in a tight hug.

“I truly am sorry, mi vida.” She wasn’t even sure why she was apologising. It was quite literally her job to stop your shots. You sighed, feeling your feet leave the ground as she stood up to her full height.

“Mis, baby, my love. Stop talking,” you complained, wrapping your legs around her waist.

You didn’t care that you were still on the pitch. You didn’t care that you could feel the eyes of all your teammates. You didn’t care that probably a thousand cameras were on you. You didn’t care that this was probably being broadcasted around the world. You just needed Misa.

“Mi vida, honestly, you played … fabulosamente…”

“María,” you warned.

Usually, you loved Misa’s inability to stop talking, especially when you were able to hear her raspy voice and lilted English interspersed with Spanish. But right now, right this minute, you needed silence and a hug from your girlfriend. You buried your nose in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of the wet fabric, grass and something undeniably Misa.

“Lo siento,” she apologised again, her arms tightening against you.

“Shush,” you huffed again, melting into her.

“Bienvenido a casa,” Misa grinned at you, holding the door to her flat open. “Ladies first.”

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, lifting yourself up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. “Gentlewoman?” you laughed again, dropping your bags in the hall.

You loved Misa’s flat. It was the perfect representation of her, all crisp lines and cozy colours. It was odd, that you had your home all the way back in London, and yet this space felt far more comforting than yours ever did. The fuzzy blankets and fruity candles adding to the perfect space. Despite you only living in it for a few weeks at a time, your influences were all over the flat. The Lego flowers you had made over Christmas sat pride of place in the vase on the coffee table, the blanket you had knitted (appallingly badly) was draped over the back of the sofa. Pictures of you and Misa littered the walls and spare surfaces. Your favourite one on the bookshelf. Misa had one of her hands tangled in your hair as she tilted your head up to look at her, the other resting and your hip. You were both mid-laugh, a lovesick gaze in your eye as Misa was obviously about to lean down and kiss you. You knew Misa’s favourite was on her nightstand in her bedroom. It was taken some time in the post-World Cup win, when you were finally celebrating alone. You had a bright red bikini top on, although it wasn’t really hiding much, and her gold medal glinting in the sunlight. From the angle she was sitting at, you could see your hands resting on her muscular thighs as you arched an eyebrow at her, trying to hide your smile. It had taken a lot of convincing, but you had finally managed to get her to keep the framed photograph hidden from public view.

“Do you want a shower, mi vida?” Misa’s voice was gentle in your ear, her hands running up and down your torse. You had already showered in the changing rooms before escaping for the night. But you knew that Misa wasn’t necessarily asking as a way to get clean.

It was one of your favourite ways of reconnecting. It was usually after a gym session in the off seasons when you were all hot and sweaty, or when you had finally returned from a day of tanning in the Spanish sunshine. Misa’s gentle hands doing far more than the cool water ever could to relax you.

“Mmhmm,” you sighed, leaning back into her.

“Buena,” She smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The shower was perfect. The steam cleared your chest as Misa’s hands gently massaged your aching muscles. “I’m not lying when I said you played well, mi vida.”

“I know, baby. You can’t lie for shit,” You wiggled your eyebrow. “I’m just disappointed.” You mumbled as you ran your own hands over her toned stomach.

“Con quién?” Misa’s voice was as soft as a pillow.

“The team,” you shrugged. “Myself.”

“But you played well.” She leant down, pressing a long kiss to the side of your mouth.

“No, we didn’t.” You rolled your eyes. You knew you gave a sub-par performance tonight. You didn’t want her trying to sugarcoat it.

“The team, sure. Arsenal played like … como el culo.” She waited for your small little laugh. “But you, mi vida, your shot was good. I had to work hard to stop you. The whole of my backline did.”

“Agree to disagree?” You asked, hoping she would stop talking about the match.

“Nope,” She stuck her tongue out at you, sensing you needed the humour. “I am right, como siempre. You played well,” She took a step closer to you, her hands falling to your waist.

“and I’m going to spend,” She pressed you back against the shower tiles, the cold biting against your skin. “Toda la noche” she slotted her thigh in between yours. “Proving it to you.”

You blinked, your head reeling at the dizzying pace that Misa had switched on you.

She watched your parents stand up suddenly, your dad muttering under his breath as he turned to gather his things.

“Qué?” Misa questioned, her voice a little too sharp. She didn’t mean for it to sound accusing, but everything was frayed at the edges. She felt like her skin might peel off with how tightly she was wound.

“I can’t,” your dad said simply. He didn’t meet her eyes. Misa looked around; others were doing the same. Shifting nervously, fidgeting, gathering jackets and bags as if movement could protect them from the storm that was coming. “We’ll be inside. We’ll come find you after.”

Misa swallowed. Hard. She thought she knew how hard it was to watch penalties. She’d watched teammates go through it. She’d stood behind the line, prayed, hoped, done all the rituals. But that was different.

Now she was watching you go through it … and it felt like someone had cracked open her ribcage and was squeezing her heart with both hands.

And you weren’t even up yet.

You weren’t a penalty taker. Not really. Not unless you had to be. You had a 100% record, technically - but that was just three penalties across your entire career. One for under-19s. One in a pre-season friendly when you were one of the only first team players on the pitch at the time. And one when you were fifteen in a school tournament. None of them had been like this.

Not with this weight. Not with the world watching. Not with a championship on the line.

England - score.

Misa felt her lungs inflate again. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The air still felt thick and heavy, but at least it was there.

Sweden - save.

She couldn't stop the small fist pump. Her cheer was strangled, half-caught in her throat, but it was there. She knew Hampton. Not well, but enough. Enough through you, and enough through games. Solid keeper. Brave. Capable. If she could stop a penalty from Alexia Putellas on home soil, she could do anything.

England - miss.Sweden - save.

Misa’s entire body tensed. Her heart was beating so hard it echoed in her ears like drums. She watched as you spoke with Lucy, lips tight and jaw set. You nodded once, your face unreadable. All intensity. All storm.

England - save.Sweden - miss.

She hated this. She hated this. Every nerve in her body was screaming. When she was in goal, at least she had control. She had agency. She could do something. But here? In the stands, heart in pieces? She was useless.

England - miss.Sweden - score.

“Joder,” she muttered, biting down on her already sore lip. She could taste blood, could feel the cracked skin protesting. She always did this; licked and bit them raw during matches. It was a nervous habit - something you teased her about constantly.

England - score.

She could breathe again. Just a little. But the panic never fully left.

How did people do this? How did families live like this? Game after game, tournament after tournament, sitting in stands and praying without knowing who they were even praying to?

Sweden - miss.

An anxious, slightly delirious laugh escaped her. It burst out, sharp and surprised, as she watched the Swedish goalkeeper lean too far back and sky the ball into the crowd. Goalkeepers. Always a risk. But still … thank god.

England - miss.Sweden - miss.

Misa didn’t know where to look anymore. She kept flicking her gaze between you and the pitch. You were clearly arguing with Lucy, clearly not happy. She saw you practically shove the ball into her hands, like it burned to touch. Like it would scar you if you held it for a second longer.

A memory flashed behind her eyes. A simple summer evening. The two of you in the park near your house. You were teasing, sweaty from the sun, laughing with your usual mischief.

“It’s useless having a goalkeeper girlfriend if I can’t use you to practise penalties.”

“Useless?” Misa had gasped, scandalised.

“Sí, useless,” you’d grinned, grabbing her shirt and pulling her in for a kiss.

You’d practised. Again and again. Until your thighs ached and your toes blistered. But still, you never felt like a penalty taker.

Lucy stepped up. Placed the ball. Took a breath.

Misa couldn’t watch her. She just couldn’t. Instead, she focused on you. You had your fingers crossed, the other hand clenched around Grace’s like it was a lifeline. Grace had buried her head in your shoulder. Your eyes were scrunched shut.

It was like watching a movie. The part where everything went silent. Where the music disappeared and the only sound left was your own breathing. Or in this case … your heartbeat.

Lucy must’ve scored. Suddenly the world roared back to life. Someone was shaking you. Sound came rushing in like a tidal wave.

The young Swedish girl looked terrified. You clocked it instantly. Leaning back too far. Steps were off. Eyes darting.

She struck it.

It soared.

Someone was screaming. People were crying. You were suddenly on the floor and you weren’t sure who had tackled who first. Hannah was somewhere under the pile. It was chaos. Beautiful, overwhelming chaos.

You don’t even remember being tugged into a huddle. Sarina said something but you couldn’t process any of it. Your body felt electrified, buzzing with joy and exhaustion all at once. You were crying. Happy, ugly, exhausted tears.

It was a blur. Nearly midnight. Your muscles ached in places you didn’t know existed. You had played the full ninety, extra time, and now this.

And yet, somehow, you were vibrating with energy.

Your dad found you first. His hug was crushing, his words a blur. You couldn’t focus on anything except her.

Misa.

“Nunca, nunca vuelvas a hacer eso.” Don’t ever, ever do that again, she scolded, pointing a shaking finger at you.

“I don’t wanna do that voluntarily again,” you groaned, collapsing into her body. She held you like she’d never let go.

“What is it with us and quarter-finals, eh?” you murmured, laughing weakly.

“Huh?”

“Hmm, I wonder who England played in the quarters last Euros?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what was the score, Misa Rodríguez?”

“Callarse la boca,” Shut up she groaned, pulling back just enough to cup your jaw.

“I’m just saying... clearly, we’ve got a thing for comebacks.”

“Shhhh,” she whispered, smoothing her thumb across your cheek. “No hablemos de ese juego.” Let’s not talk about that game.

“Oh no? Want me to talk about your yellow card instead? Angry Misa is such a look, by the way.”

“Shhhhh,” she said again, smiling now, eyes glittering with affection.

“Let’s not even get started on how good you look when you’re yelling in the armband for Real...”

“Deja de hablar.” Stop talking Her voice dropped an octave, all low heat and promise. It sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“My fiancée is a gorge-”

Her lips were on yours, cutting you off. Harsh. Familiar. Full of fire and love and relief and everything.

You melted into her, hands curling around her waist.

“Never… take it to penalties again,” she whispered against your mouth. “Mi corazón no lo puede soportar.” My heart cannot take it.

Maybe that was why you felt like a stranger in the changing rooms. You were good. You were nice enough. But you were never Kim. To make matters worse, you weren’t even a regular starter. Most games saw you stuck on the bench, only brought on in the final ten minutes when Arsenal needed to either hold the line or add a bit of bite. You took every second you got with grit and determination, but it was hard not to feel like a side note. Kim’s little sister. The Other Little. A no one.

Beth always said things happen for a reason. And maybe that was true. The day had been a rough one, training had been upped in preparation for the final push of the season. You were tired, running off of little sleep and mentally drained.

Twist. Pop. Snap.

You didn’t even feel the pain. Not at first. It was like you were so tired, so ready for a break, that your body was numb. It wasn’t until you took another step that the icy hot tendrils of fire wrapped itself around your knee.

“Don’t worry, kiddo.” Katie smiled down at you, crouching by your head, a head resting on your hair. “We’ve got ya,” Steph winked, although concern flooded her features. “Kim will help with everything.” Leah added.

Of course she would. Perfect Captain Kimmy. Ready to help another member of her team. Another ACL for Arsenal to work through. You didn’t want Kim. You had seen how hard the recovery process was. The last thing you wanted was Kim, smiling with too much kindness as she laid out your training schedule, your recovery programme, you diet, your appointments, which exercises you weren’t doing quite right, which weights you were allowed to you and when.

Turning to partying wasn’t the best idea you ever had. And deep down you knew it. The injury had sidelined you in more ways than one; unable to play, you could barely walk without wincing, yet each night you found yourself in a dimly lit bar, a drink in hand, the haze of alcohol blurring the frustration that had taken root in you. Kim had, without even asking, taken the reins of your recovery. She’d moved you into her place with a gentle firmness, her kind, understanding smiles only reminding you just how far you were from what you wanted – or needed.

You knew it was only because she cared. You knew it was her way of showing you love. But to you, it felt like a prison. Your every move was tracked. What time you went to bed, what time you woke up, how much water you drank, how much you ate, what you ate, when you ate, what your schedule was, when you were expected at Colney, when you were at the gym, when you were in the medical room. You were ready to scream.

A couple of friends from back home had finally made the move to London and they were more than willing to help drown your sorrows. It started out small, sneaking out your front door like you were 16 again. But soon, the occasional nights out turned into an almost nightly adventure. Yes, you were still on crutches. Yes, you could hardly move without being in some kind of pain. But there you were, sitting in one of the many London bars, downing another drink.

Drinks took the edge off; they numbed the ache in your knee and the pain in your heart. They quietened the voices in your head, ones that sounded far too similar to your sister. You couldn’t pinpoint when football had gone from the best thing in your life, the only thing you wanted to do, the thing that made your heart so full of joy, to the thing you despised most in the world. It once was your everything, your reason for being. There was nothing that could match the feeling you had when a ball was at your feet. You weren’t sure what hurt more, your knee, your head or your heart.

Now, you felt nothing but resentment. Hungover, exhausted, weighed down by the clunky crutches, everything was just too much. You hated it, you hated everything about it. The rehab, the repetitive exercises with very little to show for it, the hovering, the phone calls, the media, the fake smiles, the feeling of being an outsider.

You hated the cold, sterile physio room, the fluorescent lights and weird smell. You hated the gym that always blasted music too loudly and was slightly too cold. You hated the football pitches with their perfectly manicured grass and clean white lines. You hated it. You hated yourself.

You wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind – to walk out of Colney, of North London, of England and disappear for good. Maybe you would become a goat farmer in the remote regions of South America. Kim wouldn’t be able to micromanage you from all the way out there. Maybe … leaving it behind wasn’t a bad thing. You knew football was the cause. It had been since well before your injury. Maybe just disappearing would be best for everyone. Kim wouldn’t have to stress about you, the team wouldn’t have to deal with an angry defender who spent more time as a bench warmer than on the pitch. Sure, Arsenal Management might be angry, but they would get over it. They wouldn’t have to pay you, so they weren’t losing out financially.

You felt the tears roll down your cheek.

“And what time do you call this?” The voice was unmistakable – Kim, standing by the doorway with her arms crossed and that familiar look of disapproval etched across her face. Of course, it was her. She’d made your schedule, down to every exercise, every physio appointment, and every check-in. She knew the exact minute you were supposed to be here, and she knew you were late.

"Fuck off," you muttered, not even bothering to look her way as you rolled your eyes, limping slowly toward the medical office at the back of the room. You couldn’t handle her lectures today, not with your head pounding and your knee screaming with every step.

"Don't talk to me like that," Kim said, her voice steely.

"Whatever," you huffed, pushing forward, the sound of your crutches on the floor echoing loudly.

Kim’s eyes narrowed, and you could feel her studying you, taking in the bleary eyes, the tired face, and the way you swayed slightly. "Are you drunk?" she asked, her tone blunt as ever, arms folded tight against her chest, her disappointment radiating from every pore.

"No." The word came out more defensively than you’d intended, and you hated how it only made you sound guiltier.

"So just hungover, then," she said, her lips pressed into a thin line. "This isn’t what you’re here to do, you know. You think you’re helping yourself by wasting the night away at some bar?”

You wanted to fire back, to tell her she didn’t understand, but the words seemed trapped in your throat. You stood there, feeling small and exposed, like every flaw and frustration was laid out under Kim’s scrutiny. She looked at you as if you were nothing more than a project, a mess she had to put back together, whether you wanted it or not. And the worst part? A tiny part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe she was right.

“Well, we can’t all be St. Kim now, can we?” you muttered bitterly under your breath.

“What?” She straightened, her eyes narrowing, daring you to repeat it.

“Nothing,” you dismissed, turning away, hoping she’d let it slide.

But she wasn’t one to back down. “No, what did you say?”

You felt your frustration bubbling over, unable to hold it back any longer. “I said we can’t all be St. Kim,” you exploded. “The perfect one with all the answers and the flawless game, the one everyone thinks I should be more like.”

Kim took a sharp breath, her expression unreadable. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I’m not you!” you spat out, feeling a strange relief in finally saying it aloud. “I know that, okay? But apparently no one else does. All anyone ever says to me is that I need to be more like perfect Captain Kimmy who has everything under control and knows exactly what to do, as if that’s so easy!”

“No one expects you–”

“Oh really?” You cut her off, the words flying out of you. “What was it Jonas said before he left? Oh, right, if I just played more like Kim, maybe we wouldn’t be losing. What did Renee say when I asked about her plan for me? Hmm, our back line is stacked, but if I wanted to try and play more like Kim, I might get more minutes. Or what about the girls, every single day with her little comments? ‘Keep going, Y/N, or I’ll tell Kim you’re slacking off’, ‘What would Kim say?’, ‘Don’t make me get Kim’. And the girls back at Scotland? They all say the same damn thing: be more like Kim, or I’ll never make captain. Like being more like you is the only way to be anything in this game. So yeah, I’m sorry if drowning my sorrows in a bit of alcohol isn’t up to the perfect Kim Little standard!”

Silence filled the room. Tears streamed down your face as you looked at your sister. For once, she didn’t look composed. For once, she wasn’t the perfect Kim Little, calm under pressure. Kim stood there, momentarily stunned, her mouth opening and closing as if she were struggling to form a response. The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged, as you braced yourself for the inevitable flood of disappointment or anger.

You were breathing like you just ran a marathon. You were in pain and terrified. Terrified that you had just fucked up the best relationship you ever had.

"You really think that’s what I want for you?” she asked quietly,

“What else would you want?” you shot back, though the sharpness in your tone had faded. "You’ve always been the standard, Kim. You’re what everyone wants me to be. Hell, even you’ve hinted at it.” She blinked, taking a slight step towards you. “Look, I know it feels like…like everyone’s comparing you to me. And maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s unfair. But it’s not what I want, okay? I just want you to be you.”

You shook your head, the bitterness still lingering. "Then why are you always pushing me, always hovering, always making sure I’m on top of every little thing? It’s like…it’s like you don’t think I’m enough on my own.”

Kim’s shoulders slumped slightly. "Because I know how hard this is for you, honey. And I know that pushing yourself to heal, to come back stronger, isn’t easy. I thought…I thought if I could help make it a little easier, then maybe you wouldn’t feel so lost.”

“I don’t need you to fix me, Kim,” you replied, feeling your voice crack. “I need…I need to figure things out on my own, in my own way. And right now, I don’t even know if this is what I want anymore.”

Her eyes widened, a flash of panic crossing her face. “You’re saying you don’t want to play?”

Did you want to play?

“I don’t know. I thought this is what I wanted. I thought Arsenal was going to be…I thought it would be us, working together, playing like we used to. But now, everything just feels…wrong. And I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore.”

For a long moment, Kim didn’t respond. You’d just said out loud what you hadn’t even allowed yourself to think fully: that maybe football, the thing that had once been your life, no longer had a place in it. You heart hammered in your chest.

“Oh, honey.” Kim sighed, moving to come at stand in front of you, her hands outstretched. You blinked, another tear rolling down your cheek. Without hesitation, she pulled you to her, your head falling onto her shoulder as you let the tears fall again. “If you need to step made, then that’s what you’ll do, yeah? Everyone goes through rough patches, especially after an injury.”

“But, what if it’s not just a rough patch.” You blubbered. “What if I don’t want to come back?”

“Then you don’t,” she said with certainty.

You swallowed. “You really think I can just…step back? That I won’t be letting everyone down?”

You felt Kim press a kiss to your temple. “It’s your life. You’re the only one who gets to decide. And if that means taking a step back, then take it. If it means hanging up your boots for good. Then do it. You aren’t letting anyone down, I promise.” You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Can we go home?” You mumbled, voice tired.

"Remember, you’re married. You love her," Kim reminded gently, her Scottish accent warm and soothing as she placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

You shook her off with a dramatic shrug, glancing off to the side. "Not whilst she’s in blue," you said with a smirk, half-joking but also incredibly serious.

Kim raised an eyebrow, trying to hide her amusement, though a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"That’s what we like to hear," came Katie's playful response, clearly enjoying the spark of mischief in your tone. She leaned in with a wolfish grin, unfazed by the disapproving glance Kim shot in her direction.

“Honestly,” Kim muttered, rolling her eyes but unable to hide her amusement, “you two are impossible.”

You chuckled, exchanging a knowing look with Katie, who winked in return, thoroughly unbothered by Kim’s scolding.

The London Derby – a clash of colours, red vs blue, Arsenal against Chelsea. The stadium was electric, fans on both sides roaring as the teams took their places, the rivalry as fierce as ever. This wasn’t just any match; it was a battle of pride, a test of skill, a stage where heroes were made.

On one side, Arsenal’s new Left Winger, all determination and fire, an unstoppable force that already had 10 goals to her name. Across from her, Chelsea’s Right Back, just as new to the club but with a resolve just as sharp. One of the best defenders in the world, and ready to prove herself.

It was Bronze vs Y/S/N – a head-to-head destined to draw all eyes, both players back in the WSL and ready to prove they belonged.

You loved playing with Lucy – there was an undeniable rhythm when you were on the same side. Your link-ups at City and England were the stuff of legends and had followed you across to La Liga F. But playing against her? That was something else entirely. There was an excitement, a spark that transformed the entire field into a chessboard, a dance floor for you to twist and turn on.

You knew exactly how she moved, the subtle shifts of her weight before a sprint, the flicker of her eyes before she went for a pass. You could practically feel what was running through her head, and she’d always been an open book to you on the field. But it worked both ways. Lucy knew your tactics inside out, the plays you liked, the feints you tried to slip past her, even the tiny tells you had when you were about to break away. She saw it all.

This mutual understanding turned the match into something thrilling – a mental game layered onto the physical. Every pass you intercepted, every tackle she made, felt like a challenge issued and answered. It was a test of skill and instinct, one that you rarely found with other opponents. There was an intensity to it, a sense of pushing each other to the edge, each play daring the other to do better. Against her, you played your best.

“Loser’s tied up tonight?” Lucy whispered in your ear as you lined up for the corner, her hands grazing your hips in a way that set your heart racing, even if you wouldn’t show it.

“Bring it, Bronze.” You shot back, unfazed, letting your smile seep into your voice. You’d trained against her for years now; her mind games weren’t new territory. If anything, you were more amused than anything else.

Lucy let out a dramatic sigh, clearly ready to keep up the act. “Ugh, that’s Bronze-Y/S/N, thank you very much,” she whispered, sounding almost offended, but the glimmer in her eye gave her away.

“Well, the back of your shirt still says Bronze,” you replied, raising an eyebrow and glancing back at her with a smirk.

“And yours still says Y/S/N.” She countered. Before you could toss another witty remark back, you heard a voice cutting through the tension.

“Stop flirting and concentrate, Luce,” Hannah called out, her tone half-exasperated, half-amused as she tried to organise her back line.

You could see Lucy bite her lip, her cheeks tinged pink, a slight laugh escaping her. "Yeah, Lucy, wouldn't want flirting with your incredibly sexy wife to be the reason I score now would we." You winked, sticking your tongue out as you nodded at Katie.

You charged down the wing, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you collected a beautifully weighted pass from Leah from the edge of the box. Without breaking stride, you looked up, assessing the field. Lucy and Hannah were the only Chelsea players left between you and the goal.

The options whirled in your mind in seconds. A long-range shot? It would be ambitious, a shot from barely over halfway. You were still in the centre circle, but Hannah was off her line, hovering just far enough to tempt fate. The safer play would be to drive it forward, close the distance, but Lucy was waiting, ready to close in if you tried to slip past her. You could see her watching you, ready to pounce the moment your concentration slipped.

Your eyes flicked to the goal, a decision making itself for you. Steeling yourself, you brought your leg back, letting power build. Releasing it in a controlled strike, you watched as the ball launched from your boot, a perfect arc carrying it high and fast over the field.

Hannah scrambled back, her fingertips grazing the air, but it was too late. The ball sailed over her reach and crashed into the back of the net, sending the netting rippling in glorious confirmation.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the entire pitch seemed to hold its breath. The impossible shot hung in the air, every eye tracing its perfect arc until it dropped, nestling into the back of the net. And then, the silence shattered. Cheers exploded from the stands, a roar that rolled over the field and settled into your bones, fuelling the rush already coursing through you. You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, a wide grin breaking across your face as what you had just done fully set in.

Turning back, you searched the field for Lucy, anticipation bubbling up in you. When you caught her eye, her expression was priceless – caught between surprise and reluctant admiration. Her mouth opened as if to protest, but then she closed it, lips twisting into a smile that was more fond than annoyed, even if it was tinged with a hint of competitive frustration.

For a moment, neither of you said a word. You simply shared that look, the quiet acknowledgment of having pushed each other, of knowing exactly how to get under each other’s skin on the field – and of enjoying every second of it.

"Is it too much to use the red ties?" you teased, a smirk tugging at your lips as you strolled up to Lucy, your voice dripping with teasing charm.

Lucy let out an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand to her chest like she was utterly wounded. "My pride is on the floor, and yet you still kick me when I'm down!" she replied, though her eyes sparkled with laughter, making it impossible for her to sell the act.

You laughed loudly, thoroughly undeterred by her theatrics. "What can I say? London is red after all," you replied as you stepped even closer, closing the last of the distance. Without hesitation, you slipped your arms around her waist, pulling her against you. "And your arse will be too by the time I’m done with you," you whispered, your voice dropping to a seductive murmur as your lips brushed her ear.

Lucy’s cheeks flushed that perfect shade of pink, and she gave a nervous laugh, casting a quick, cautious glance over her shoulder. “We’re still in public, you know,” she murmured, though the deepening colour in her cheeks showed she wasn’t entirely complaining.

“Oh, I know.” You looked up at her with a wicked smile, savouring the moment, not quite ready to pull away just yet.

But before you could say anything more, Leah’s voice cut through the tension, loud and teasing. “Oi, stop with the weird foreplay and go shower!” she called, casting an exaggerated eye-roll in your direction and folding her arms, though a hint of a grin tugged at her mouth.