#gerwnt

growing up, your parents were the kind who believed idle hands were the devil's playground or whatever the hell they called it. they never let you lounge around the house with some video game controller in hand, lost in pixelated worlds.

no, video games were a rare thing when your parents weren't looking. instead, your days were packed with activities that were designed to build character, skills, and resilience. one parent pushed you toward the rough-and-tumble world of football, as you called it back then, kicking balls in muddy fields under overcast skies, learning to tackle and sprint until your lungs burned.

the other parents insisted on the grace of ballet, where you spent hours at the barre while perfecting turns and plies in mirrored studios that smelled of rosin and sweat.

it was a perfect balance that your parents thought. you got strength and rough from the pitch, while you learned grace and poise from the studio. you didn't question the two abnormal talents much as a kid since it was just life.

by the time you were ten, you were juggling all of your practices like a pro. all of your early mornings started with ballet class and there you'd feel the stretch in your calves, along with the burn in your thighs while you held positions that seemed impossible to do.

you were on psg's youth academy by fifteen, and the senior team was eyeing you for promotion. however, it was a difficult choice. the demands intensified since ballet advanced to pointe work and the shoes were giving you pain in the ankles by the time you reached football practice. you held off from the senior team for a while since ballet had you in a prestigious studio, and everyone knew that you were still performing in recitals outside of soccer training.

it wasn't until you were seventeen that the fork in the road became impossible to ignore. you chose full time football and put ballet aside like a cherished but outgrown toy. your parents supported it, one beaming with pride at your pro contract, the other was a bit wistful but understanding.

that doesn't mean you quit ballet entirely. oh no, it's still there. six years later at manchester city, the trainers advise restrictions on no full pointe work during season to avoid strain, and to limit any turns that could tweak your ankles but you sneaked in barre exercises in the training room, using the ballet-inspired moves to maintain that core strength everyone raves about.

you could plank for minutes on end and that makes your teammates' jaws drop. they could do the same, yet you could double the timing.

during stretching, vivianne asked you how you could stretch with much flexibility, and you brushed it off because it was years of practice.

sydney, your girlfriend who transferred to manchester city just months ago, left her old club behind to be closer to you. the two of you started dating three years ago during a loan-year you had at bayern. it was in-between your time at PSG and here in manchester.

it was a bold move from sydney, since she grew up and spent her entire career at bayern. you've built a community here in manchester, and it was something that sydney is still fitting into.

however, in sydney's eyes, it was pure love. she arrived with her bags and that happy grin. she didn't worry about any of the apartment stuff, since she was living with you. at the airport, her eyes could've been a solar system full of twinkles when she saw you waiting at the airport.

now, she's settled in, rooming with you in your cozy apartment overlooking the city.

sydney admires your talents like they're wonders of the world. soccer and ballet are just the tip of the iceberg, she says. during matches, she watches you from midfield as the defender while you're the attacking one. the woman's position giving her a perfect view as you orchestrate plays for bunny up top.

your agility is no match for anyone since you can jump and dodge tackles with grace. also, should we mention how you have the highest header height in the league? since some of your goals were high headers that had a ballerina's extension.

"it's the ballet training y/n has seen from her youth," experts comment in post-game analyses, "it gives her that sort of push that no other player has in the league, it is that fluidity most players lack."

however, your skills go beyond sports. with sydney, you've shared so much more. baking is one. you taught her how to make croissants from scratch on a rainy sunday afternoon. this was the Sunday after she came to manchester. the shared kitchen was filled with the scent of butter and yeast.

"okay, so fold the dough like this," you demonstrated, your hands deft as you layered the pastry, "and chill it between turns. patience is key in all of this, syd." you teased as sydney stood beside you, apron dusted with flour as her tongue pokes out in concentration.

"you're a natural teacher, babe," she said, watching as you shaped the dough into perfect crescents, "where'd you learn this?" you shrugged while smiling, "one of my old activities. parents signed me up for a baking class when i was nine since they said it built fine motor skills."

the croissants came out golden and flaky, and sydney moaned around her first bite.

"marry me," she joked, pulling you in for a floury kiss.

those baking sessions often lead to more intimate nights since one evening, after a win against arsenal, you surprised our girlfriend with homemade pie and you can still remember how the rich aroma scented the apartment.

"how do you know all this?" syd asked, fork midway to her mouth. you leaned across the table with your foot brushing hers under it, "you know how." you smirked as syd shook her head in awe, her eyes soft. "you're the best, do you know that?"

back during your loan at bayern, there was one evening in the hotel where georgia was strumming her guitar off-key, complaining about the strings. "it's all out of tune," she grumbled, plucking at them discordantly.

without a word, you reached over, taking the instrument gently as georgia looked at you in confusion.

everyone, georgia klara and sydney, watched as your fingers danced over the pegs while adjusting the strings. then, you strummed a short tune, nothing over ten seconds, just something to prove that you fixed georgia's strings.

the room fell quiet as your teammates stare at you handing the guitar back to georgia.

"there you go," you said casually.

sydney was floored, her mouth agape, "what the hell? how did you do that?" you chuckled, "I learned that in music class during secondary school. it was a semester of learning guitar and even cello." she propped herself up on an elbow, staring down at you with those piercing eyes.

"what the fuck?" her voice was laced with admiration as she said that with a hint of playful jealousy.

sydney admires you so deeply, it's almost tangible. sydney's in love, head over heels, and she shows it everyday. she jokes constantly that you're a master of all trade or a queen of everything. you laugh every time, with your face smiling under her gaze.

"come on, syd. you're talented too.... like you're way better than me at midfield."

that is true. sydney has a few points on you when it comes to midfielder rankings, "and languages," you add, "you're on your fourth... spanish now, right? i've only got two under my belt which is english and french from psg."

sydney scoffed, before smiling.

both of you had talents, but sydney thinks that yours has more ranges.

masterlist

the morning light filters weakly through your curtains. the soft glow of it casts across your bedroom, illuminating the sleeping woman beside you. lea looks so peaceful now, her expression a sharp contrast to what it was last night.

reaching out, you let your fingers gently brush over her hair. you’ve never really been this close to her before, never really noticed how she has lighter streaks in her blonde hair that the sun catches on.

she’s curled tightly into you and for a long moment, you’re content to just be.

but then lea’s lips part and the softest of sighs slips out. you freeze, wondering if she’s about to wake.

your question is soon answered when she stirs a second later. her brows furrow and then her eyes flutter open.

you’re greeted by a familiar blue. one that quickly clouds with confusion.

it’s very telling the exact moment lea remembers the events that led to her current circumstance because the adorable sleepiness that she’d woken up with vanishes entirely.

‘oh god.’ she chokes out.

she sits up abruptly, wincing at the sudden movement. her head spins and she fights the urge to throw up.

‘lea-’ you start, sitting upright too but she goes on like she hasn’t even heard you, dragging a hand through her tousled hair.

‘no i shouldn’t have come. i-i never should have said anything. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.’

the striker barely manages to get out the last word and she bites down on her wobbling bottom lip, to stop a sob from spilling forth.

her eyes frantically dart to the door and back down to her lap. she’s absolutely refusing to make eye contact with you.

‘i’m so so sorry.’ she whispers, with the same heartbreaking note.

your chest feels tight with how much you hate seeing her this way. so small and vulnerable, so unlike her usual self.

exhaling, you reach out to grab hold of her trembling hands.

lea stills immediately and then in the tiniest voice you have ever heard, says, ‘please don’t hate me for ruining everything.’

now it’s your turn to want to cry.

‘lea don’t you remember what i said?’

the bayern munich player nods slightly, ‘yeah but i know you only said it because i was being difficult. i was drunk and you had to pacify me somehow.’

her words cut deep. did she really think that?

‘schülli…’

‘no. no. i said things last night. things i didn’t mean to-‘

‘lea.’ you cut in softly.

the blonde in question isn’t listening though, having been far too focused on working herself up again.

sharply pulling away from you, she shakes her head, ‘i was a fucking mess. i came here drunk and just dumped all that on you like a selfish idiot.’

running a hand through her hair again, the german woman groans, ‘god i’m such an idiot.’

you can practically see the way she’s putting her walls up. brick by brick, she’s trying to do so before you can reach across the distance she’s retreating to.

physically she’s right there but emotionally she’s withdrawing into herself. further than you can reach her.

though you’re not going to let that happen.

‘look at me schülli. please just look at me.’ you entreat.

the blonde is shaking and it takes her a long moment but eventually she does but you don’t miss the way her hands clench into fists. like she’s bracing for impact.

despite your instinct to comfort her, to reach out and bridge the gap, you keep your own hands where they are because you don’t want to risk overwhelming her.

not when she’s already looking like she is one wrong sentence away from a panic attack.

in a voice that’s steady and sure, you say, ‘i meant what i said last night. i wasn’t just saying what i thought you wanted to hear. or what would calm you down. i said what’s true.

something flickers in lea’s eyes. hope maybe? it’s gone before you can place it, drowned out by doubt just as quickly as it’d appeared.

the forward is quiet when she murmurs, ‘you don’t have to do this. you don’t have to make me feel better about making a fool of myself. you’re not obliged to pretend.’

you frown, ‘lea i love you.’

she flinches like you’ve burned her.

‘you couldn’t have meant it. not really.’

‘lea-’ you beg, stomach twisting at the pain written on her face.

the blonde pulls away properly now, scrambling to push herself off your bed.

‘stop. just stop. you said what you had to say to keep me from completely falling apart and i get it okay? i was a mess and y-you were being kind. it’s why i-’ lea breaks off, her breaths coming fast and uneven.

she’s on the edge of your bed now and she murmurs, ‘you take care of people. that’s what you do.’

‘schülli stop.’

but lea doesn’t. instead she laughs. a broken hollow sound.

‘it’s okay really, you can stop pretending now. i’ll get over it and we can act like this never happened.’

frustration bubbles up in your chest and you snap, ‘no!’

it’s more forceful and harsh than you intended it to be but has the desired effect on lea who stares at you, caught off guard by your tone.

‘i’m not acting like this never happened. i won’t go back to acting like i don’t love you because i’ve had enough of that.’

you mean it. that’s clear and it is beginning to dawn on the blonde.

very slowly, you reach out, giving lea every chance to pull away should she choose to. but she doesn’t and instead, remains still as you brush your fingertips over her cheek and then cup her face.

the striker’s breath hitches as the tenderness in your gesture and encouraged by that, you use your other hand to tuck loose strands of her hair behind her ear.

with a soft exhale, you murmur, ‘schülli i’ve been in love with you for so long. i only went on dates because i didn’t know you felt the same.’

lea’s lips part slightly like she wants to say something but nothing comes out.

‘i wasn’t trying to hurt you….i just…i thought i was protecting myself by trying to move on.’ you continue.

running your thumb over her cheek again, you drop your hands down into your lap and shakily breathe, ‘i never let myself believe i could have this. have you.’

lea swallows hard and her hands lift up and hover over your wrists fractionally. like she wants to hold on but is afraid to.

you let her decide.

one breath in. one breath out. another breath in. another breath out.

on your third breath, lea makes a decision.

finally, finally her hands settle on your wrists. gingerly and tentatively at first before her fingers curl around your wrists as she tightens her grip.

she can feel your pulse hammering under her very fingertips and she knows now that this is real.

‘you meant it.’ lea whispers.

‘i meant it.’ you nod, echoing the sentiment back.

lea closes her eyes for a moment. as if she’s letting the words sink into her entire being. when she opens them again, they're still that same particular share of blue you’ve always loved. still shining with tears. still a little fragile.

but alight with something intimately soft that you’ve never seen before.

lea offers you a tiny smile and this time, lets you in.

‘no more dates schülli.’

‘no more dates.’

‘just you. only ever you from now on.’ you promise again.

your lea holds onto you and huffs out an emotional laugh. at long last, she relaxes.

then she pulls you close, right till you’re held up completely against her and your breaths mingle in the small space in between.

‘okay.’

just that one faint word before she does what she thinks she’s been waiting her whole adult life to do.

she kisses you.

Your eyes glued on her as she reminiscent the moment. Hands flying, eyes bright. A chuckle leaves your mouth and out of the corner of your eye, you think you see it: the smallest falter in Carlotta’s smile. Her gaze lingers on you as your eyes meet. You catch her biting on the inside of her cheek before her attention drops to her plate. You gently kick her shin under the table gaining her attention. You present her a soft smile, nodding towards her, asking if she’s okay, without words.

Carlotta shakes her head and rises to her feet, excusing her. You’re fast on her heels.

“Hey, Calli. Wait.”

“What?” it comes out bitter. Her sight stays straight ahead.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Slowly she halts and turns in her spot. “No why?”

“Cause you seem distant.”

“Why do you care?” she shrugs. “Cause the whole time you’re hanging with them!” her words leave a sour taste.

“No, no wait.” You closed up to her. Your hand slings gentle around her arm. “That’s not the case. I invite you...”

“Yeah, to play cards or watch movies… with them.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Because you’re hanging out with them all the time,” she throws her hands up. “And I’m just invited out of politeness,” the brunette states.

Your breath catches. “You could’ve said something if you wanted to hang alone or…”

“It’s not about alone or not. It’s about why. Was I invited because you wanted me there or because it was convenient.” She interrupts you.

You stare at her, heart thudding. Then softly. “I understand and I’m sorry. I should’ve thought more about how it makes you feel,” your gaze falls on your shoes, shoulders slumping.

“It’s okay, all right.” She says eventually. “Good we talked about.”

Silence fills the space between you. “Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Your eyes slowly creep up. “You’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“Anything new with the apartment in Leverkusen?”

“My parents got the keys yesterday.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. Will you excuse?” she points into the direction of her room.

You shrug, “of course.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah… until then.”

It’s the day of departure to the Swiss hotel you’re staying for the tournament. You stand in front of her room coffee as she loves it in your hand, the one she always has to start a perfect day.

When the door opens her gaze flickers to the cup then to you.

A second of silence hangs between you. “I got you something.”

She reaches for the cup, your fingers brushing slightly, heat emitting from the spot, her eyes fall to the floor. “Thanks,” she said her voice flat.

Just that. No smile no question. Nothing.

The team finishes the last packing after breakfast before the coach leaves. You’re one of the firsts to be ready to wheel your suitcase down, loading it into the bus and climbing inside. Janina and Giulia are walking with you towards the bus parked in the driveway of the camp.

You settle in a seat, a section you regularly sit, with her. After a few minutes your eyes fall on Carlotta as she steps into the bus and trots the aisle down. Sunlight catching in her hazelnut hair, making it lighter, as she walks by.

Past you.

She throws her body into the seat next to Jule. Instantly their chatter fill the otherwise silent morning air.

Engosssed in thoughts you didn’t notice that Sjoeke fills the space next to you.

“Try to sleep.” She places her head against your shoulder and closes her eyes.

“You know me.”

“Exactly.”

You huff and let your sight drift outside the window. Familiar faces rushes by the bus into the camp and out of it. The music drowning the world around you out. Chest heavy, mind racing.

When the team arrives, the sun hangs low in the sky its warm clinging stubbornly to the evening air. Players spill out, collecting their bags from the storage compartment. You scan the crowd for yours. The handle comes into your vision and a hand grab tight around it. Your sight wanders the arm up until your gaze meets with Carlotta’s amber orbs. Slowly you approach her.

“Thank you.” Your fingers curl around the handle and Carlotta makes no move to let go. Your hands brush in the movement. “I should head upstairs,” you comment. Even then she stills. Your brows furrow and you glare at her. “This is no joke.”

“Chill out.” She rolls her eyes, gaze burning onto you. “There’s plenty of time before training starts.”

You feel heat rise in your body and making its way to your cheeks.

She knew.

She absolutely knows your pre-training routine the rhythm you follow before every practice and match. How you move when arriving at a hotel.

“Seriously?” the word comes out as a low growl.

She shrugs and retorts her hand from the handle.

“Thank you,” you mutter pulling the bag away and walking past her. Past Jule without looking back.

The distance between you still lingers even in the idyllic landscape of the Swiss alps. Carlotta choses Jule for every little thing, drills, meals, movies, they even hang out after curfew, that was usually your thing to do.

How you knew?