Welcome to my blog. You can find all the stories listed in the Masterlist below. Come in and read. I hope you enjoy it. :)
☆MASTERLIST
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I mainly write for Arsenal and Barcelona players, but I’m open to other teams as well (Chelsea, City, United, etc.). I also write romantic, platonic, and sister dynamics. If I receive requests for other players and I feel comfortable and inspired, I may write them too.
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-no copying, translation, or adaptation of any of my works is permitted.
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After a fire that almost cost her life, Y/N wakes up unaware of everything that has happened while she remained unconscious.
From the "Crossfire" universe.
Continuation of "Where Time Stands Still"
Masterlist
---
It had been six days.
Since that morning when you opened your eyes completely disoriented, fought against the respirator without understanding where you were, and forced the medical team to intervene once again to stabilize you.
Since then, the hospital had regained a deceptive calm.
The alarms were gone.
The hallways were filled once again with the usual back-and-forth of nurses, doctors, and family members.
But for those waiting for news about you, time remained completely standing still.
The brain swelling was gradually decreasing.
The fractures were evolving just as the orthopedic surgeons expected.
The burns were beginning to heal.
Your lungs, punished by the smoke, were responding a little better each day.
On paper, everything was good news.
And yet, you still hadn't woken up.
Steph had stopped counting the hours.
Now she measured the days by the nursing shift changes, by the visits from the firefighter crew after their shift ended, and by the Arsenal players who showed up every afternoon after training with the absurd hope of finding you awake upon crossing the door.
Nobody wanted to admit it out loud.
But the uncertainty was starting to weigh heavier than the accident itself.
The visits had turned into a silent routine.
Every afternoon, around the exact same time, the doors to the floor would open to let in a small group of faces that the nursing staff already knew by heart.
Steph was the first.
She never missed a day.
She would arrive after training with a backpack slung over her shoulder, a bottle of water almost always half-empty, and the same tired expression that had been settled on her face for days. She would greet the nurses with a polite smile, ask if there had been any changes during the morning, and, after invariably hearing the same response, walk to your room.
She always did the exact same thing.
She would drop her backpack onto the chair.
Wash her hands. Walk over to the bed. And reach for your hand.
It was an automatic gesture, almost unconscious.
As if she needed to check for herself that you were still there.
That your heart kept beating beneath the steady beep of the monitor.
Then the rest would slowly arrive.
Some days Leah would show up with a coffee for Steph that inevitably ended up getting cold on the table.
Other days, Beth would burst in with some absurd story from training, convinced that even if you remained asleep, some part of you was still listening.
Katie insisted on updating you on all the locker room gossip.
Kyra had spent days threatening to eat the chocolate cake that was still resting, perfectly wrapped, on the small table next to the window.
“I'm doing her a favor,” she protested one afternoon, crossing her arms as she stared at the box in resignation. “That's been sitting there for almost a week. It probably isn't even chocolate anymore.”
“Don't you dare touch it,” Steph answered without looking up from the magazine she was pretending to read.
“What if it expires?”
“Then we'll buy another one.”
“What if she wakes up a month from now?”
Steph slowly closed the magazine.
“Then we'll buy another one a month from now.”
Kyra raised both hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright... I was just saying.”
Leah offered a weary smile from the other side of the room.
“Drop it, Ky. That cake is practically part of the furniture now.”
A faint laugh rippled through the room.
It wasn't a particularly loud laugh.
But it was enough to break, for just a few seconds, the silence that had been settled between those four walls for days.
Because everyone kept talking to you.
As if at any given moment you were going to open your eyes and join the conversation.
As if the sleep you remained trapped in could be broken simply by hearing a familiar voice.
Because stopping to talk to you felt far too much like giving up.
And none of them were willing to do that.
The visits would start to wrap up when the hallway clock approached eight in the evening.
Visiting hours would end in less than half an hour, and as had been happening over the last few days, the nurses began popping their heads discreetly into the rooms to remind families that it was time to start saying goodbye.
“Five minutes, girls,” one of them warned with a gentle smile before moving down the hallway.
“We promise not to hide under the bed,” Beth replied with absolute seriousness.
The nurse let out a soft laugh.
“Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried.”
“See? It was a real possibility.”
Katie nudged her with an elbow.
“Stop giving them ideas.”
The conversation faded out again shortly after.
Not because they lacked things to talk about.
But because everyone ended up staring in the exact same direction.
Toward you.
You remained exactly the same as when they had arrived.
Breathing peacefully. Oblivious to everything.
Steph stayed seated beside the bed, one hand intertwined with yours while absently running her thumb over your knuckles.
It wasn't even a conscious gesture anymore. It just happened.
“We have recovery tomorrow morning,” Leah commented, breaking the silence as she stood up. “So we'll be back after lunch.”
Beth nodded.
“And I'll bring another book.”
Katie raised an eyebrow.
“Are you seriously going to keep reading her romance novels?”
“She's not complaining.”
“Because she's asleep.”
“Minor details.”
Kyra smiled.
“Honestly, we don't know if she hates them or loves them.”
“When she wakes up, she'll give us her literary review.”
“And she'll probably fail your book selection.”
Leah let out a soft, gentle laugh as she grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair.
“Come on, let's go. Give Steph a couple of minutes alone before they kick us out.”
The group began gathering their things slowly, making as little noise as possible. Beth gave your leg a subtle, careful tap over the sheet by way of goodbye, while Katie and Kyra offered Steph one last affectionate look. Steph barely nodded her head to thank them for coming.
“We'll be here first thing tomorrow, Steph,” Leah murmured from the doorway, making sure she heard her.
“Thank you,” Steph replied in a faint, tired voice.
When the door clicked shut behind them, the room fell silent once again.
That silence that Steph had gotten far too used to.
For a few seconds, she did nothing.
She just sat there, fingers intertwined with yours, her eyes fixed on you.
The orange sunset light was beginning to seep through the window, staining the room in a warm tone that contrasted sharply with the hospital's sterile white.
Steph let out a long sigh.
“I think Beth is already on her third romance novel...” she murmured with a faint smile. “I don't know if I should be more worried about you or her literary tastes.”
The monitor responded with the exact same steady beep as always.
She didn't even expect an answer anymore.
She had learned that talking to you wasn't about getting a response. It was about reminding herself that you were still there.
“The doctor said today that everything is continuing to improve. The ribs are healing well, your leg too... and they said your lungs barely make any sound when you breathe now,” she said, a small smile appearing on her face. “I knew you were going to be an excellent patient.”
Her fingers absently stroked the back of your hand.
“Though you could start cooperating a little bit more.”
Silence settled between the two of you once again.
Steph looked down.
She had spent days telling herself to stop asking you to wake up.
That it wasn't fair. That you would do it when your body was ready.
But every time she was left alone with you, she always ended up falling into the same trap.
“Just open your eyes...” The sentence escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Even if it's just for five seconds. Just so I know you're still here with me.”
Emotion choked her throat for a few moments.
She leaned down slowly until her forehead rested against the edge of the mattress, without letting go of your hand for a single second.
“I miss you so much.”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
So quiet it was almost swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner.
And it was in that exact instant of absolute silence, as the last golden light of the sunset began to fade from the room's walls, that she felt something.
Very faint.
So subtle she thought it was just her imagination.
She frowned slightly, remaining completely still, waiting.
Nothing.
She breathed out slowly.
Exhaustion, she thought.
I'm just tired.
But just as she was about to sit up, she felt that slight pressure once more.
A tiny movement. Almost imperceptible.
As if one of your fingers had tried to close around hers.
Steph snapped her head up.
Her eyes dropped immediately to your joined hands.
“...Y/N?”
She held her breath.
Nothing happened for a few seconds.
The monitor kept ticking at the same steady rhythm. The room remained just as silent.
Steph was on the verge of convincing herself that she had imagined it.
Until, very slowly, your index finger moved again.
Steph stopped breathing entirely.
It wasn't a sudden jerk.
Nor was it one of those involuntary spasms the doctors had explained could happen during recovery.
It was different. Small. Weak.
But deliberate.
She saw it with her own eyes.
Your finger flexed once more, just a few millimeters around her hand.
“...Y/N...” she whispered, unable to look away.
Her heart began pounding so hard against her chest she could hear it in her own ears.
She didn't want to get her hopes up. Not again.
Over the last few days, she had come to believe she had seen an eyelid twitch or a change in your breathing, only to discover it had been exhaustion playing tricks on her.
This time she needed to be sure.
“Honey... if you can hear me...” she said, her voice trembling. “Squeeze my hand again.”
The room went completely still once more.
Steph began to look down, convinced she had imagined the whole thing.
Then, she felt the pressure.
Very light. But unmistakable.
Your fingers tried to close over hers a second time.
Tears sprang to her eyes before she could even react.
“Oh my God...”
A completely broken laugh escaped through her tears.
“No... no, I'm not imagining this...”
She stood up so quickly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor.
With one hand, she kept holding tightly onto yours. With her other hand, she searched frantically for the nurse call button.
“Please!” she shouted toward the door, unable to contain herself. “Nurse!”
Barely a few seconds later, the door swung open.
The nurse on duty appeared with an alert expression.
“What's wrong?”
Steph pointed at your joined hands without letting go.
“She moved.”
The woman quickly glanced at the monitor before stepping closer to the bed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Her voice came out firm for the first time in many days.
“She squeezed my hand twice.”
The nurse observed your face for a few moments and then pulled a small penlight from her uniform pocket.
She gently shone it into your pupils, checking your vitals.
Then she turned back to Steph.
“I'm going to call the neurologist.”
That was enough to make Steph's heart race all over again.
She didn't know what it meant.
She didn't know if it was the start of waking up or simply another reflex.
But for the first time since the accident, it wasn't just her waiting for a sign.
Now the doctors were waiting for it too.
The door had barely clicked shut behind the nurse when Steph returned immediately to your side.
She didn't let go of your hand again. Not for a single second.
Her eyes darted constantly between your face and your intertwined fingers, as if she were terrified that tiny movement had been a figment of her imagination.
“Come on...” she whispered, her breathing ragged. “Do it again.”
But you remained motionless.
The monitor kept ticking at the same steady rhythm.
The room went quiet once more, but this time was different.
It was no longer the silence of resignation. It was the silence of anticipation.
Barely a minute passed before the door opened again.
Two nurses entered alongside the neurologist who had been tracking your progress since you were admitted.
“Good afternoon, Steph,” the doctor greeted calmly, stepping up to the bed. “They told me there was a voluntary movement.”
Steph nodded immediately.
“She squeezed my hand.”
“Once?”
“Twice.”
The doctor exchanged a quick glance with one of the nurses before taking his place by the head of the bed.
“Let's check.”
With slow movements, he began the examination.
He shone a light into your pupils, checking the response in both eyes.
Then he took a small light and passed it slowly in front of your face.
“Y/N...”
There was no response.
“Y/N, if you can hear me, I need you to try and open your eyes.”
Steph held her breath.
Nothing.
The doctor didn't seem disappointed.
He simply continued.
“Squeeze my hand.”
He placed two fingers between yours.
He waited. Five seconds. Ten.
Then, your fingers flexed once again.
Very slightly.
But enough to exert a gentle pressure against the neurologist's hand.
Steph felt the tears rush back immediately.
The nurse looked up at the doctor.
“She did it.”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
He didn't smile.
But something appeared in his expression that Steph hadn't seen in days.
Hope.
He leaned over the bed once more.
“Very good. That was a very good response. Now I want you to try again; this time try to open your eyes.”
The entire room hung suspended in time.
Nobody breathed.
Steph was still holding your hand so tightly her fingers almost hurt.
Your eyelids fluttered, as if they weighed tons.
The ceiling light seemed to filter through your eyelashes for the first time in almost a week.
But your eyes still couldn't open all the way.
The neurologist didn't take his eyes off your face.
There was no rush in his movements.
He knew that after a trauma like yours, even the smallest effort took a massive toll on the brain.
“That's it... very good...” he said in a calm, almost comforting voice. “Don't force it more than you need to.”
Your eyelids fluttered again.
For a split second, it looked like they were going to open.
But they ended up falling shut once more.
Your breathing quickened slightly from the exertion.
Steph felt her stomach drop.
“Is she... is she okay?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
The doctor raised a hand, asking for calm.
“Yes. It's normal.” He checked the monitor again and then looked back down at you. “She's responding to simple commands. That's exactly what we wanted to see.”
“Y/N...” the neurologist continued in the same unhurried tone, “if you can hear me, you don't need to try and open your eyes right now. You've worked hard enough.”
As if you had understood those words, the tension that had gathered on your face gradually faded away.
Your fingers also stopped exerting force.
Not because they had gone completely motionless again.
But because they seemed to have relaxed.
Steph let out the breath she had been holding for who knows how long.
She hadn't even realized she was crying until a tear fell onto the back of your hand.
The doctor finished checking your vitals and took a small step back.
“I think we are entering a new phase.”
Steph looked up immediately.
“Is she going to wake up?”
“I can't tell you exactly when. It could be tonight, in a few hours, or even tomorrow. But this is no longer just a reflex. She is starting to obey commands.”
The difference was monumental.
Steph closed her eyes for just a second.
It was the first truly good news since the accident.
The first one that wasn't accompanied by a “but.”
“We'll try to keep the environment quiet for the next few hours. The fewer stimuli she receives, the easier it will be for her brain to continue recovering.”
Steph nodded right away.
“Can I stay?”
The man offered a kind smile.
“I don't think we could get you out of here even if we tried.”
That drew a soft chuckle from one of the nurses.
Steph smiled too, for the first time in many days.
A small smile. Tired. But completely sincere.
When the medical team left the room, silence returned once more.
Only this time, it no longer felt so heavy.
Steph slowly sat back down beside the bed.
Without ever letting go of your hand.
She looked at it for a few seconds before bringing it to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.
“Take all the time you need,” she whispered, her voice cracked with emotion.
---
When the first light of dawn began to filter through the room's curtains, the hospital slowly started to wake up.
The first medication carts were already rolling down the hallways.
The hushed voices of the shift change blended with the distant sound of doors opening and closing.
Inside the room, however, absolute calm reigned.
Steph was still right where she had promised she would be.
At some point during the early hours, exhaustion had finally won over.
She was sleeping in the chair, leaning toward the bed, with her head resting on the edge of the mattress and one hand intertwined with yours.
Even in her sleep, she hadn't stopped holding you.
Her breathing was slow and deep.
Her hair, usually tied back neatly for training, now fell messily over part of her face.
The dark circles under her eyes spoke for themselves.
She had barely slept a few hours at a time in days.
On the small table rested a completely cold cup of coffee.
Next to it, a novel Beth had left the previous afternoon remained open to the same page.
Nothing seemed to have changed.
Until you took a slightly deeper breath.
It was such a subtle gesture that it went completely unnoticed.
Your brows furrowed for just a split second right as your eyelids began to flutter gently.
As if the dawn's light managed to make its way to a place where you had been asleep for far too long.
Everything felt heavy.
Your chest. Your arms. Your legs.
Even opening your eyes seemed to demand a strength you barely remembered having.
With an immense effort, your eyelashes parted a few millimeters.
The brightness made them snap shut almost instantly.
You breathed slowly and tried again.
This time you managed to keep them open.
Everything was blurry.
White blurs. Shadows. A ceiling you didn't recognize.
The steady beep of a monitor reached your ears a few seconds before you were able to process where you were.
You blinked slowly as memories flooded back like a whirlwind.
The fire. The smoke. The heat. The impact.
Then, nothing.
The memories appeared scattered, incomplete, like puzzle pieces you couldn't quite fit together yet.
Your throat felt dry. It even hurt to breathe.
You tried to turn your head slightly.
A sharp sting immediately shot through your entire body, forcing you to stop.
That was when you felt something warm wrapped around your hand.
You lowered your gaze slowly.
Fingers were still intertwined with yours. You followed that contact with your eyes.
And you saw her.
Steph.
Asleep.
With her cheek resting on the mattress, so close to you that you could make out the faint rise and fall of her breathing.
She looked exhausted. Far more exhausted than you remembered her being.
Her hand was still holding yours firmly.
As if she had spent the entire night making sure you wouldn't go anywhere.
An emotion that was hard to describe swelled in your chest.
You didn't know how long she had been there. You didn't know how much time had passed.
But she was still with you.
Your lips began to curve very slowly.
A small smile. Weak. Almost imperceptible.
But completely genuine.
With the tiny bit of movement your body allowed you, you flexed your fingers just a few millimeters around hers.
You didn't mean to wake her.
You just needed to feel that it was real.
That you weren't dreaming. That she was right there too.
Steph frowned slightly in her sleep.
Her thumb responded purely out of habit, absently caressing the back of your hand without even being fully awake.
That made your smile grow just a little bit more.
Only a moment later, Steph felt movement once again.
This time it was different. Clearer.
Her breath hitched.
She blinked slowly, still caught between sleep and reality.
She raised her head groggily.
Her eyes, still half-closed, looked first toward the monitor out of sheer habit.
Then they dropped down to your joined hands.
And finally, they reached your face.
She went completely still.
As if the entire world had stopped turning.
She didn't breathe. She didn't say a single word.
She just looked at you, her bloodshot eyes widening bit by bit as her mind processed the image right in front of her.
Your eyes were open. Focused. Fixed on hers. A small, faint smile remained untouched on your tired face.
For three eternal seconds, the only sound in the room was the steady beep of the monitor, accelerating by just a few beats at the intensity of the moment. Steph seemed paralyzed, terrified that a single sudden movement would shatter the illusion and throw her right back into the nightmare of the past few days.
But it wasn't an illusion. You were there.
With exhaustion etched across your face, dry lips, and eyes still misty with confusion.
But awake.
The smile you could barely hold broadened just a bit more upon seeing her so completely stunned.
Steph parted her lips slightly.
She wanted to say your name.
She couldn't.
Emotion choked her throat before a single word could escape.
Her eyes began filling with tears almost instantly, blinking rapidly as if she needed to make sure she wasn't still dreaming.
“...Y/N...?” she finally managed to whisper, her voice so broken it was barely audible.
It took you a few seconds to respond.
Not because you didn't want to.
But because even breathing still took an incredible amount of effort.
You tried to speak. Your lips parted just a few millimeters, but no sound managed to come out.
Only a raspy breath escaped your dry throat. You frowned slightly in frustration.
Steph shook her head immediately, leaning in even closer.
“Shh... no, don't talk...” she whispered. “You don't need to.”
Her eyes swept endlessly over your face, as though she wanted to memorize every single tiny expression.
She reached out a trembling hand toward your cheek with infinite gentleness, as if she were still afraid of hurting you.
She stroked it with just the tips of her fingers.
She needed to feel the warmth of your skin. She needed to prove to herself that you were real.
“Hi...” she whispered through her tears, letting out the most beautiful and yet most broken smile you had ever seen. “Hi, baby...”
And you, gathering the last remaining bits of strength you had left, smiled back.
Because, after everything, she was the very first person you had wanted to see upon waking up.
You stared at her in silence for a few seconds. Your eyelids felt heavy, but you had no intention of closing them again. Not when Steph was right there, looking at you as if she had just witnessed a true miracle.
Steph let out a short, choked laugh, completely broken by tears, and slowly rested her forehead against yours. The warmth of her skin, the tremor of her breath, and the escaping tears brushing against your cheekbone brought you back to reality in the gentlest way possible.
With an effort that felt like it consumed half the strength you had left, your fingers tried to squeeze Steph's hand. It was a weak movement, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but she felt it immediately.
She pulled back just a few centimeters to look at you, holding your hand against her chest, right where you could feel the rapid beating of her heart.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to tell you a thousand things.
To ask if you were okay. If anything hurt. To tell you how much she had missed you.
But no words seemed enough.
She simply shook her head gently as another tear slipped down her cheek.
“I'm going to call the nurse,” she said, though she didn't budge a single millimeter. “The doctor said that as soon as you opened your eyes, we had to let him know.”
You shook your head.
It was a gesture so slight it barely brushed the pillow, but your intention was clear.
Steph arched her brows, caught between surprise and endearment, as she wiped her tears away with the back of her sweatshirt sleeve.
“No?” she asked, a small smile appearing on her fatigued face. “You're just waking up and the very first thing you do is disobey medical orders?”
Your lips curved again. You made a massive effort to gather air in your lungs, feeling a slight tug in your ribs that forced you to pause for a second. Steph held her breath, ready to stop you, but you insisted.
“Just... a minute...” you managed to rasp out in a low, harsh, and broken whisper.
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“You're just as stubborn as ever...” Her thumb slowly stroked the back of your hand. “Just a minute... huh?”
You nodded very slowly.
She pulled the chair even closer until it was practically pressed against the bed.
She didn't say anything for a few seconds. She just looked at you.
As if she wanted to make up for all the days in a row when you hadn't been able to look back at her.
“I thought...” she started, swallowing with difficulty. “I thought so many times that when you woke up, I was going to have a beautiful speech prepared...” An embarrassed smile appeared through her tears. “And now it turns out I can't come up with anything at all.”
A small, raspy exhale—halfway between a laugh and a sigh—escaped your throat. The dull ache in your ribs protested slightly at the movement, but not even that could erase the warmth spreading through your chest.
Your fingers squeezed hers with all the strength you could muster, which was barely more than a firm touch.
“Don't... need... speeches,” you managed to rasp out in a tired thread of a voice, pausing between each word to gather the air you were missing.
Steph let out a choked laugh and looked down at your intertwined hands before bringing her eyes back to yours, now clear of the anguish that had clouded them for almost a week. The tension hardening her jaw and slumping her shoulders simply dissolved.
“Thank goodness,” she murmured, leaning in a little closer and running her fingers with infinite gentleness over your forehead, brushing away a strand of hair while careful not to touch the small bandage. “Because the truth is Beth's been practicing a dramatic monologue for when you woke up, and I really didn't want to compete with her.”
“Beth...?”
A soft laugh escaped her lips.
“Yeah... Beth.” She shook her head, still brimming with emotion. “She came every single day.”
Your eyebrows raised just a fraction.
“Every...?”
“Every day. Her, Leah, Katie, Kyra... practically half the locker room.” Your eyes widened a bit more, surprised. “Even the girls you barely knew have been asking about you. And the firefighters...”
Your breath hitched for a split second.
The memory of the fire rushed back all at once.
The flames. The smoke. The voices. The weight of the helmet.
Steph noticed the sudden shift in your expression immediately. Her hand wrapped around yours with a little more firmness.
“Hey... look at me.” She waited until your eyes met hers again. “Everyone made it out. They're okay.”
A silent tear escaped from the corner of your eye. She wiped it away with her thumb before it could even fall onto the pillow.
“Mark came by every afternoon after his shift,” Steph continued in a quiet whisper, her thumb continuing to gently soothe your skin. “And the whole crew from the station hasn't stopped sending flowers and food... Though Kyra ended up eating half of it, to nobody's surprise,” she joked softly.
Steph smiled as she watched a faint wave of relief finally wash over your face.
She kept absently stroking the back of your hand with her thumb, watching your every expression with almost obsessive attention.
It was still hard for her to believe that you were actually awake.
That you could look back at her. That you could hear her.
You, on the other hand, were still trying to piece your memories together.
Everything felt wrapped in a kind of fog.
You remembered the fire. You remembered the smoke. The sound of sirens cutting through the night.
The wood creaking above your head. The dull impact. And then, nothing. Absolute darkness.
You stared up at the hospital ceiling, feeling your throat burn every time you tried to swallow. The flowers in the corner, the “Get Well Soon” balloons, the stack of books on the table—none of it fit with the sensation that, just seconds ago, you had been trapped among the flames.
Three soft knocks interrupted your thoughts as the door creaked open, revealing a nurse.
“May I come in?” she asked. Upon seeing your open eyes, she froze for just a second before breaking into a wide smile. “Good morning.”
Steph let out a soft laugh, still in disbelief. “She just woke up a few minutes ago.”
The nurse nodded quickly, stepping closer to the bed while glancing at the monitor and automatically checking your vitals.
Her expression remained calm, though she couldn't hide the fleeting look of relief that crossed her face.
“Perfect... That is wonderful news.” She offered Steph a reassuring smile before turning her attention back to you. “I'm going to inform the doctor. He'll want to see you right away and ask you a few questions, okay?”
Your eyes followed her as she stepped out of the room, feeling the tiredness and confusion begin to weigh heavily on your chest once more.
Barely a minute later, the door opened again. Doctor Harris, the neurologist overseeing your case, entered at a brisk yet measured pace, followed by the nurse. He carried a small medical penlight in his hand and a chart under his arm. Upon meeting your open, focused gaze, a genuine and relieved smile appeared on his face.
“Good morning, Y/N,” he greeted in a calm voice as he walked up to the side of the bed. “I'm Doctor Harris, the neurologist who has been managing your case.”
He set the chart on the table and offered a brief smile to Steph before refocusing his full attention on you.
“First of all, I am very glad to see you awake.”
You could only respond with a small smile, your throat feeling far too raw to say anything more.
“Don't worry, you don't need to talk much. We're just going to do a quick check to make sure everything is functioning as expected, alright?”
He began asking basic routine questions, each one answered positively, along with mobility tests that you passed effortlessly. Everything was going well, until he arrived at the question that had left you so disoriented.
Doctor Harris jotted down a few final notes on his chart with a slight nod of his head, visibly pleased with your responses.
“Strength, reflexes, responsiveness... Everything looks excellent so far,” he said, slowly lowering the clipboard and looking directly at you. “Now, Y/N, I want to ask you one last question to evaluate your orientation to time. Tell me...” the doctor continued in a soft tone. “Do you know what day it is today, or do you have any idea how much time you think has passed since the fire?”
“I... I don't know,” you admitted, frowning slightly. “Yesterday...? A few hours?” you ventured uncertainly.
The silence that followed was enough to send a small knot tightening in your stomach.
The doctor didn't answer right away. He simply exchanged a swift glance with Steph.
A brief look. But heavy with meaning.
And it was then that you realized your answer was very far from reality.
“It is completely understandable that you feel like it was just a few hours ago,” Doctor Harris chimed in, breaking the silence in a slow, comforting voice. “But no, Y/N. Today is your seventh day here. You have been unconscious for six days. During the first few days, we had to keep you medically sedated to give your brain and lungs time to recover from the trauma and smoke inhalation.”
¿Six days?
The number echoed in your head like a distant rumble. In your mind, the wood creaking above you and the suffocating heat of the fire had happened just minutes ago. The realization that the world had kept turning for nearly a whole week took your breath away for a moment.
You looked at Steph, as if hoping she would deny it. But one look at her was all it took to know it was true.
Her bloodshot eyes. The dark shadows under her eyelids. Her rumpled sweatshirt. The bone-deep exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
It all made heartbreaking sense at once.
They hadn't been a few lost hours on shift. They hadn't been quick, passing visits. It had been six full days during which she hadn't budged from that chair, keeping vigil over your sleep and holding your hand through the dark.
A strange tightness began to settle in your chest. It wasn't the pain from your ribs. It was guilt.
An immense, overwhelming guilt.
Your fingers sought hers with a little more strength.
“Your neurological responses are impeccable, Y/N. You've made it through the worst. Now you just need to rest. Over the next few days, it's completely normal to experience headaches, dizziness, confusion, or even memory gaps related to the accident. It doesn't necessarily mean there's any permanent damage. We will gradually increase your activity levels based on how your body responds.”
With a subtle nod to Steph, the doctor and nurse left the room, allowing the quiet calm to return once more.
“Steph...” You felt a knot so tight in your throat that it almost hurt more than any physical injury.
She looked up immediately.
“Yeah?”
“I'm sorry.” The two words barely carried in a whisper. But they were enough.
Steph frowned instantly.
“What?”
Your eyes began to fill with tears.
“I made you go through this...”
Steph froze for a split second, as though her ears had processed the sound but her brain flatly refused to accept the meaning behind your words.
Then, she shook her head very slowly, a mix of sheer disbelief spreading across her face.
“No... No, don't you dare.”
She stood up hurriedly from her chair, leaning over the bed right away. Taking infinite care not to press against any of your injuries, she brought both hands to your face, cupping your cheeks with her warm, trembling palms. She forced your eyes to meet hers, which were brimming with tears once again.
“Don't you dare apologize to me for that, Y/N,” she continued. “You were saving lives. You were doing your job. None of this was your fault.”
She felt the faint vibration in your chest and the tremble in your lips, so she smoothed her thumbs over your cheekbones, trying to soothe you.
“If I spent six days sitting in that chair, it wasn't because you forced me to,” she murmured, gently brushing her nose against yours in a gesture that brought the air right back into your lungs. “It was because there was absolutely nowhere else in the world I would rather be while you couldn't open your eyes.”
Your tears escaped anyway. They weren't heavy sobs. Nor was it desperate weeping.
Just quiet, silent tears that trickled slowly down your cheeks before Steph could catch them with her thumbs.
“But... look at you,” you managed to whisper, feeling your voice break slightly. “You're exhausted, Steph. You've barely slept...”
Steph let out a tired laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah... I am exhausted.” She glanced down at her crumpled sweatshirt and the cold coffee on the table. “And I probably need a shower, a hairbrush... and about twelve straight hours of sleep. But you're here. And that's all that matters.”
Your lips curved back into a small smile as you felt that icy tightness in your chest dissolve completely. For the first time in almost a week, the air in the room felt light and peaceful.
“Promise me... you'll go home and get some rest for a bit,” you murmured.
Steph rolled her eyes with playful resignation, though she couldn't hide the devotion in her gaze.
“Alright. I'll go take that shower and change my clothes,” she conceded with a smile, leaning down slowly to press a soft, lingering kiss onto your forehead. “But only if you stay right here regaining your strength, without worrying about a single thing.”
“Deal...” you managed to utter, feeling your eyelids grow irresistibly heavy once more.
Steph sat back down by your side for just a few more seconds, caressing the back of your hand with her thumb until she watched your breathing turn deep and steady. The fog, the smoke, and the endless waiting were finally behind you. You were safe, and when you opened your eyes again, she would be right there.
Instruction Manual for Disaster || Irene Paredes x Little Sister!Reader x Clara Serrajordi x Patri Guijarro
Three weeks of flawless behavior seemed like the ultimate record to prove to Irene that you had matured. But fate had other plans for Clara and you.
Part of the "The Perfect Crime (Or Almost)" universe.
Based on this request-> here, I hope you like it!!
Masterlist
---
Serving two weeks of football community service under Irene Paredes' dictatorship had been, without exaggeration, the worst punishment of your lives.
Clara and you had developed a clinical phobia of sweaty bibs and a millimeter-accurate radar for finding lost balls around the Sports City.
So, when the punishment ended, both of you made a solemn promise.
“Never again.”
“Never again.”
“No more stupid ideas.”
“No cars.”
“No lies.”
“Nothing that could give Irene another grey hair.”
You sealed the pact by locking pinkies with ridiculous solemnity.
Patri, who happened to be walking right past you, observed you for a few seconds before shaking her head.
“I don't believe a word you say.”
“This time it's for real,” you protested.
“We have matured so much,” Clara added with complete conviction.
Patri burst out laughing before her voice came out filled with pure sarcasm.
“Sure.”
“How little faith you have.”
“It's experience, small fry,” Patri added, giving you a friendly pat on the back of your neck before walking away toward the gym. “Enjoy your maturity, let's see how long it lasts.”
And, for once, Patri was wrong.
Because three full weeks went by without a single incident.
Not a single lost ball. Not a broken window. No culinary experiments in the club's kitchen.
No attempts to build ramps for the equipment carts.
Nothing.
Irene even started to relax.
She stopped automatically checking any room where the two of you were.
She went back to leaving her car keys on the table without hiding them.
She regained the habit of answering with a simple “yes” when you asked for permission to do something, instead of staring at you for ten seconds trying to figure out where the trap was.
That's why, when she had to leave the house for a bit that morning, she left very clear instructions.
“I don't want any surprises.”
You, sitting on the back of the sofa while absently changing channels with the remote, looked up. “There won't be any surprises.”
Irene narrowed her eyes slightly. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
Her attention immediately shifted to Clara, who was lying face down on the living room rug, doing absolutely nothing with an admirable level of concentration.
“And you?”
Clara raised a thumb without taking her face off the cushion. “Trust us.”
Irene remained completely still for a few seconds.
“Every time someone says that sentence in front of me, I feel like I should call the insurance company before leaving the house,” she said while sighing.
Clara sat up slightly, offended. “We've proven it to you, have some faith in us.”
“I lost faith the day you two turned my car into a piece of contemporary art.”
You made a face. “We already paid for the repair.”
“Which is precisely why I hope there isn't a sequel today.”
She walked toward the entrance, grabbed her keys, and put on her jacket.
Before opening the door, she turned around again, pointing a finger at both of you alternatively. “Don't break anything.”
“We won't break anything,” you both replied at the exact same time.
Irene observed you for a few more seconds.
There was something disturbing about how synchronized you were.
She shook her head slowly but didn't dare say anything else. The door closed with a definitive click behind her, and the silence of the house enveloped you, broken only by the voices coming from the TV show you were watching.
For two full minutes, neither of you moved. Clara was still face down on the rug, and you kept the TV remote suspended in the air, as if the slightest noise could make Irene turn around in the hallway.
When the roar of her car engine was heard in the distance down the street, Clara let out a dramatic sigh and rolled over on the rug until she was lying on her back.
“Let's see...” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “'Not breaking anything' is a very low goal. We should aim for excellence.”
“Clara,” you warned, leaving the remote on the table. “We just promised. Plus, we locked pinkies with Patri watching.”
“I'm not talking about doing anything bad, Y/N,” she protested, sitting up abruptly with her legs crossed. “On the contrary. I've been thinking for three weeks that the car scare really made her miserable. What if we give her a good surprise? The kind that clears our criminal record forever.”
You crossed your arms, looking at her with distrust, but Clara already had that spark in her eyes that always convinced you to do things.
“What kind of surprise?” you asked cautiously.
Clara placed a hand over her chest, pretending to feel offended. “See? That's the problem. You already assume my ideas end in tragedy.”
You looked at her in silence for a few seconds before answering. “Because usually they do.”
“That was one time.”
“It was several times.”
“Details.”
You got up from the sofa to go to the kitchen for a glass of water while she kept talking to you from the living room.
“Listen to me first.”
“I'm listening.”
“Remember Irene has been saying for weeks that she wants to assemble the new bookshelf in the office?”
“Yeah...?”
“And that she never has time because something always happens at the club.”
You nodded absently.
It was true.
Ever since it was delivered, the box had been leaning against a corner of the office waiting for someone to have a free afternoon to assemble it.
“Well...” Clara appeared in the kitchen doorway with a proud smile. “We assemble it.”
“Is that all?” you said as you set the glass down on the countertop.
“That's all.”
You stayed silent, weighing the options. The plan was strangely mature. No cars. No lies. No sneaking off anywhere.
Just assembling a piece of furniture.
In fact, it was a nice gesture. Irene had been saying for weeks that she would do it someday.
Surely she would be thrilled to come back and find the office finished.
“It doesn't sound like a bad idea.”
“Because it isn't!”
“It's weird that it isn't.”
“I'm growing as a person.”
“Well...” you finally admitted. “I guess we can try. But if there is a single screw left over, we disassemble the whole thing. I don't want the bookshelf falling on top of her.”
“Nothing is going to be left over, Y/N. Trust Engineer Serra.”
You couldn't help but laugh, but satisfied with her answer, you both walked toward the office.
Irene's office was probably the most organized room in the entire house.
Every folder rested perfectly aligned on the main shelf. Pens were placed by color inside a small wooden organizer. Tactical books occupied an entire shelf, ordered by height.
Even the wall calendar had all the notes written in the same flawless handwriting.
Clara spun around in a full circle.
“Living here gives me anxiety.”
“It makes me scared to touch anything.”
“Which is why we're going to make her life better.”
The huge box was still leaning against the wall.
Still sealed. Still wrapped in protective plastic.
You knelt down to read the instructions printed on the side.
“'Estimated assembly time: ninety minutes. Recommended for two people.'”
Clara smiled. “Perfect. We are two people.”
“It also says tools are required.”
“Irene has a toolbox in the storage room.”
You looked at her in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“Because once she forced me to hold a board for forty minutes.”
“That explains a lot.”
Five minutes later, you both returned carrying the toolbox, while Clara left the box in the middle of the office.
She stood observing it with her hands on her hips. “Well... Shall we open it?”
You just nodded, already walking toward the box.
With the help of a utility knife, you carefully cut the adhesive tape.
Upon opening the flaps, dozens of perfectly protected boards appeared, along with several clear bags full of screws and a huge instruction manual.
Clara took the manual. She looked at it. She turned it around. And ended up frowning.
“It has too many pages.”
You immediately snatched the manual out of her hands.
“Don't even think about it.”
“I was just going to skim it.”
“We are going to follow it step by step.”
“So little faith.”
“I want to make it out alive by the end of the day.”
Clara raised her hands in surrender.
“Alright, boss.”
For the next half hour, against all odds, the plan worked.
The pieces began to take shape.
The main frame was assembled.
The lower shelves fit perfectly.
You were even surprised by how well it was turning out.
“See?” Clara bragged as she tightened the last screw on a shelf. “Who said my ideas always ended badly?”
You smiled, satisfied. “I think, for once, it turned out well.”
The bookshelf was tall, sturdy, and most importantly: when Clara pushed it slightly to check its stability, it didn't move a single millimeter.
“Hell yeah!” Clara celebrated, high-fiving you with a slap that echoed through the entire office. “Look at that! And the best part, no screws left over! What did I tell you? Engineer Serra.”
You looked at the piece of furniture, feeling a jolt of real pride. You had cleaned up the dust, gathered the tools, and the house was spotless.
“It looks like something from a catalog, honestly,” you admitted, stretching your back. “There's just one detail missing. So it looks identical to the picture Irene wanted, we need to put the adhesive LED light strip that came in the small box. It goes right on the very top shelf.”
“I'll go get the ladder,” Clara offered, turning around.
“Don't worry, if I step on the wooden stool I can easily reach,” you said, dragging the tall stool Irene used to reach the top sections of the closets.
“Y/N, wait,” Clara warned, stopping at the door. “That stool has a wobbly leg, remember Irene said she had to...”
“I can reach, really, I just need to stick this corner.”
Clara let out a long sigh, one of those that already sounded like anticipated defeat.
“You are exactly the type of person who shows up in 'this is not going to end well' videos.”
“And you are exactly the type of person who exaggerates for sport.”
“I'm not exaggerating.”
“Yes, you are.”
“And yet, you always end up proving me right.”
You smiled smugly as you finished placing the stool in front of the bookshelf.
“Thirty seconds and we'll have done the good deed of the year.”
You stepped onto the first rung, the wood creaking just a bit. “See? It holds up perfectly.”
“That sounded like a horror movie.”
Ignoring her, you stepped onto the second rung. From there, you could easily reach the top section of the furniture.
You carefully removed the protective plastic from the LED strip and began sticking it along the top edge of the shelf.
The first few inches turned out perfect.
“What did I tell you?” you said proudly.
“A little bit more to the right, don't you think?” Clara commented, narrowing her eyes from below. “It's getting a little crooked.”
You looked down in disbelief. “Crooked?”
“A little bit.”
You narrowed your eyes too, trying to see the angle from above. “It's not crooked.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Clara, from up here it looks completely straight.”
“Because you're on top of it.”
“Which is precisely why I have a better perspective.”
Clara huffed. “That makes no sense at all.”
“Of course it does.”
“Move it two centimeters.”
“I am not peeling it off now.”
“Y/N...”
“Fine.”
With an exaggerated sigh, you carefully peeled off the last section of the adhesive strip to reposition it just a bit to the right.
“Now?”
Clara tilted her head. “Mmm...”
“Don't do that 'mmm'.”
“Just a tiny bit more.”
You looked at her with an expression of pure exhaustion.
“I swear, if I come down and it looks the same...”
“Trust the artistic eye,” she interrupted.
You rolled your eyes, amused, as you stretched your arm a bit further.
“Now?”
Clara narrowed her eyes again. “I think...”
She stayed silent for a few seconds.
“What?”
“I think now it's too far to the right.”
You turned slowly to look at her. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
“I'd enjoy it more if it didn't look like a five-year-old stuck it on blindfolded,” Clara replied, an innocent smile appearing on her face, earning her a murderous look from you.
“I'm going to throw the roll of tape at your head if you don't shut up,” you threatened, though the corner of your lips curved upward.
“Okay, okay... it's fine like that,” she said while letting out a laugh.
You stretched your arm out again to reposition the very end.
The tips of your fingers barely reached that corner, and your body had to lean forward a bit more.
“Y/N, seriously, don't lean so much,” Clara warned, taking a step forward with her hands out. “The stool is making a really weird noise.”
At that exact moment, you noticed that the end of the strip had gotten stuck to itself.
You frowned. “Ah...”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
You tried to peel it off with your fingernail, but there was no way.
“It folded over.”
“Leave it like that.”
“It looks hideous.”
“It's fine.”
“It's not fine, Clara. If Irene sees that the light strip has a knot in the corner, her eye is going to start twitching,” you insisted, letting out a frustrated little laugh while scratching at the plastic with your fingernail again.
“Then let it twitch! But get down from there already, you're making even me nervous.”
You shook your head without taking your eyes off the strip.
“Give me five seconds.”
“You've been saying 'five seconds' for five minutes.”
“Now it really is five seconds.”
With one hand, you held down the part that was already stuck, and with the other, you tried to separate the adhesive with extreme care.
“Come on...” You frowned.
You gave it a slightly firmer tug, but it wouldn't give an inch.
Clara had completely abandoned the idea of looking for the ladder. She remained right in front of you, arms half-raised out of pure reflex, as if somehow she could catch you if something happened.
“Y/N...”
“Almost there.”
“Y/N, I'm serious, get down. The stool is complaining in three different languages,” Clara insisted, taking another step toward you.
There was something in the tone of her voice that made you think about listening to her for a split second.
But then you saw the end of the strip finally starting to peel off.
“It's coming off!” You smiled, satisfied.
You pulled just a little bit more, and the adhesive gave way all at once.
The momentum of the tug made your whole body lean forward, causing the wobbly leg to slide a few centimeters across the floor.
Instinctively, you dropped the LED strip and reached for something to hold onto. Your fingers caught the top edge of the bookshelf, gripping it tightly. Fortunately, it didn't move.
But the heavy screwdriver resting on the top shelf did.
Clara looked up just in time to see it slide, so slowly it almost seemed like it was doing it on purpose just to mess with you.
“No, no, no...”
“What...?” you asked, confused, still trying to regain your balance.
You instinctively followed the direction of her gaze. The screwdriver's handle spun one last time and fell vertically.
The impact was dry, not particularly hard, but you felt a hit right above your forehead, and for a second, you didn't even understand what had happened.
“Ouch...” was all you could say, followed by the sound of the screwdriver bouncing off the floor with a metallic clatter.
“Did it hit you?!”
“I think so. But I'm fine, it was just the scare,” you answered, frowning at the dull pain that was starting to settle right at your hairline.
Clara didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on your forehead, and out of pure reflex, you brought a hand to your head.
Your fingers had barely touched the area of the hit, but you immediately felt something different. It wasn't just the bump you expected from the impact, but it was also strangely wet. When you pulled your hand away and looked at your palm and fingers, your breath caught in your throat.
A bright red color covered everything.
Clara took a sharp step back, her eyes widening so much it almost looked like they were going to pop out of her sockets. Her face lost all color in a second, turning as white as the office walls.
“Y/N...” she managed to articulate in a thread of a voice, pointing at you with a trembling finger. “Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't do anything.”
“Clara, seriously, it's just a scrape...” you tried to say, but as you took a step down to finally get off the stool, the floor seemed to tilt slightly.
To make matters worse, luck didn't seem to be on your side, because the moment you took that step, the stool decided it was a great idea to take the final and definitive breath of its miserable useful life.
The wobbly leg didn't just slide—the old wood splintered completely under your weight with a loud snap.
You fell to your knees, immediately feeling the scrape, while the dull pain in your forehead took on a whole new intensity. The stool was reduced to a pile of splintered slats beside you; however, the real problem was still right above your eyebrow. Head wounds have always had the reputation of being the most outrageously dramatic on the human body, and yours decided to honor that rule.
As you fell to your knees, the flow of blood found a clear path and ran straight down your forehead in a warm, steady stream, passing between your eyes and dripping directly onto the floor.
“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” Clara said as she reached your side and helped you sit on the floor.
“Clara... I think it was just...” You tried to reassure her.
You didn't get to finish the sentence.
Seeing a drop fall from your chin onto the t-shirt you were wearing, Clara let out a scream.
“YOU ARE BLEEDING EVERYWHERE!”
“Don't shout...”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN DON'T SHOUT?!” Clara brought her hands to her head, pulling at her hair in desperation. “I'm getting something to stop the bleeding.”
She ran toward the front bathroom, tripping over the toolbox, and returned in record time with a whole roll of paper towels, which she pressed against your forehead with extreme care.
The white color disappeared almost instantly beneath a red stain.
Clara's eyes went wide as saucers.
“Don't look at me like that, you're scaring me more than the hit itself.”
“It won't stop.”
“Head wounds just bleed a lot...”
“That information isn't helping me right now!”
She grabbed more paper.
It got soaked right away, too.
“No, no, no... Irene is going to kill me. This time she really is going to kill me.”
“It wasn't your fault.”
“Of course it was! I should have forced you to get down!”
“Clara...”
“And on top of that, I told you the light strip was crooked! If I had just kept my mouth shut, you'd already be down!”
You didn't know whether to laugh or worry more about her than about yourself.
Because her eyes were completely glossy and her hands were trembling as she kept pressing down on the wound.
“We're going to the hospital.”
“Isn't that an exaggeration?”
Clara looked at you as if you had completely lost your mind.
“Y/N... half your face is covered in blood.”
You looked down.
Only then did you see the drops falling onto the freshly cleaned office floor.
“...Oh.”
“Yeah. 'Oh'.”
Without wasting another second, Clara reached for her phone with trembling hands.
“I'm calling Irene.”
“No! Don't call her yet,” you said quickly. “First let's go to ER. Maybe it's just a couple of stitches.”
Clara let out a completely hysterical laugh.
“'Just a couple of stitches'?! You're talking like you chipped a nail!”
“You have to admit the bookshelf turned out gorgeous...”
“If you make one more joke while you're bleeding out, I swear I'll carry you to the hospital like a sack of potatoes.” Clara pointed a finger at you, on the verge of a breakdown.
“Okay...” You let out a nervous little laugh. “We have no way of getting to the ER unless we call a taxi, and if I step into one dripping blood all over the seat, the driver will throw us out halfway there,” you reminded her, while applying pressure with the nth block of paper towels.
“That's true! We don't have a car!” Clara started pacing in circles around the office, hands on her head. “Okay, okay, stay calm, Y/N. Think fast, who do we call? An ambulance?! The fire department?!”
“Clara, for the love of God, call Patri. She lives nearby and has a car.”
“Patri! Yes! Patri is the solution!” she said as she grabbed her phone and dialed.
“Answer... answer...”
On the fourth ring, Patri's calm voice came through the other side.
“What did you break this time?”
Clara opened her mouth.
But for a few seconds, absolutely nothing came out.
“Clara?”
“...I think Y/N is going to die.”
There was absolute silence.
Even you raised your head to look at her in disbelief.
“WHAT?!” Patri roared through the speaker.
“I'm not going to die!” you protested from the floor.
“THEN WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT?!”
“Because there's so much blood!”
“Did she cut a finger off?!”
“No!”
“Did she break a leg?!”
“No!”
“CLARA!”
“A SCREWDRIVER FELL ON HER HEAD!”
“How...?”
“There's no time for questions! We need you to come!”
Patri let out a sigh so deep it almost sounded painful even through the speaker.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” Patri declared, her tone changing instantly from exasperation to pure emergency mode. “Put something on it to apply pressure and don't let her move. I'm heading out now.”
The click of the phone ending the call left you both in the office once again.
“Fifteen minutes...” Clara repeated, staring at the phone as if it were to blame for everything. “These are going to be the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Y/N, please tell me you're not seeing any white light.”
“Clara, it's just a gash,” you protested, although the towel you had put on was already starting to get heavy from the wet blood. “The hit hurts, but I don't feel like walking toward the light. Although if you keep pressing with that much force, you're going to push the paper straight into my skull.”
“Sorry... sorry...”
She immediately loosened the pressure.
And it was right then when you noticed a drop fall onto your wrist.
It wasn't blood. It was a tear.
You looked up.
Clara's chin was trembling.
She was trying with all her strength to hold it in, but her eyes were already completely filled with tears.
“Clara...”
“I'm so sorry.” Her voice barely came out in a whisper.
Another tear fell onto your fingers.
“I told you to get down...” She shook her head over and over again. “...I told you that stool was broken.”
“I know.”
“And I kept telling you to move the light strip...”
“It wasn't your fault.”
“Yes, it was...”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Clara. We both know perfectly well that I'm incapable of listening when I get something stuck in my head.”
“And besides,” you added, trying to offer a smile that wouldn't pull too much at the skin on your forehead, “the LED strip turned out spectacularly straight. You have to admit my sacrifice was worth it.”
Clara let out a choked laugh, half sob, half complaint, and quickly wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
“You are unbearable, Y/N. Seriously. You are bleeding out on Irene's floor and you're still making jokes.”
“It's a virtue.”
The next ten minutes passed in a strange kind of bubble. Clara didn't let go of the bundle of paper towels again, maintaining a constant and much more regulated pressure, apologizing in a low voice every time you made a small wince. She helped you sit up more comfortably by resting your back against the base of the bookshelf—which, indeed, didn't wobble at all—and made sure to kick the splintered slats of the stool out of the way with her foot so you wouldn't get poked.
Keeping her word with military punctuality, the echo of a hurried and familiar car horn echoed down on the street in exactly fifteen minutes.
Getting up from the floor required a coordinated effort. Clara held you by the waist as if you were made of fine glass, while you swapped the soaked paper for a clean blue towel you grabbed from the kitchen. You both went down the building's stairs slowly, step by step, with you holding your breath and Clara watching your every move like a bodyguard.
As soon as you crossed the doorway and stepped onto the sidewalk, Patri was already out of the car with the passenger door wide open. Upon seeing you two appear—you with the towel covering half your forehead and Clara with bloodshot eyes and stained hands—the Mallorcan's jaw dropped.
Patri scanned the scene from top to bottom.
First your t-shirt. Then the knee of your pants, completely scraped. The blue towel, already splattered with red.
And finally, Clara's face, which looked like it was two seconds away from bursting into tears again.
“...Oh my god.”
She went up the two steps of the entrance in just a couple of strides and gently held you by the chin.
“Let me see.”
She pulled the towel back just a centimeter.
But that was enough to immediately cover it again. “Yep... ER.”
Patri then turned her full attention to Clara.
She found her completely motionless.
Her hands were still stained with blood.
She was breathing way too fast.
“Serra.”
“Huh?”
“I need you to calm down.”
“I am calm.”
Patri raised an eyebrow.
“You haven't blinked in five minutes.”
Clara blinked three times in a row, as if she had just realized it.
“...Okay, maybe not that calm.”
Patri took a step toward her and held both of her cheeks with her hands.
“Listen to me. Y/N is talking, she's conscious, she's walking, she's complaining, she's making jokes. Those are all very good signs. Right now, the only thing we have to do is take her to see a doctor. Got it?”
Clara's eyes filled with tears again.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent sure.”
“She's not going to die?”
Patri closed her eyes for a moment before answering.
“No. And stop using that word because you took ten years off my life with that call.”
A small laugh escaped Clara's lips. “Sorry.”
“We'll talk about that later,” she replied while opening the passenger door all the way. “Come on, let me get you in.”
You walked those last few steps to the car, and she helped you sit down with extreme care.
“Keep your back firmly against the seat. Don't take the towel off. And if you feel more dizzy, nauseous, or sleepy, tell me immediately.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“I'm not a doctor.”
“You boss us around like one anyway.”
Patri huffed. “You talk too much for someone with an open head wound.”
The car ride was a festival of controlled speed and absolute tension. Patri drove with her jaw clenched and her eyes fixed on the road, dodging Barcelona traffic with an ease that only true urgency brings, while Clara kept shifting nervously in the back seat, leaning in between the driver's and passenger's seats.
“I swear, Patri, the bookshelf didn't move a millimeter. It turned out perfect. The screwdriver was collateral damage,” you said, your voice slightly muffled by the fabric of the towel as you finished telling her everything.
“Shut up and stop talking, small fry, you're making me even more nervous,” Patri scolded with a small smile tugging at her lips, though that didn't stop her from glancing at you sideways every few minutes with genuine concern. “I've got enough on my plate trying to figure out what face I'm going to make at Irene when she walks through the door. She's going to kill the three of us. You two for the mess, and me as an accomplice.”
Clara let out a desperate groan from the back seat. “Don't remind me...” She fell back against the headrest and covered her face with both hands. “I just can't call her. I can't. She's going to disown me even if she isn't my mom.”
“I don't think Irene can disown you if you're not family,” you murmured.
“Look, Serra, breathe,” Patri said, casting a quick glance in the rearview mirror. “Save the drama for when we leave the ER. Right now, the priority is getting Y/N's forehead looking good as new.”
Clara half-obeyed, taking in a breath so exaggerated she almost looked like she was going to hyperventilate.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the engine and the blinker signaling a lane change.
Until Patri's phone, connected to the car's system, started ringing. On the screen appeared a name that made all three of you freeze completely.
Irene.
The silence was absolute.
Patri looked at the screen. Then she looked at you two.
And looked back at the screen.
“Don't answer it...” Clara whispered.
“Are you crazy? If I don't pick up, she's going to think something happened.” Patri let out a nervous laugh, though the tension in her jaw multiplied by ten.
“Something has happened!”
“Exactly.”
The car phone emitted a third ring, filling the atmosphere with an unbearable sense of urgency.
“Patri, please, just pretend you're anywhere else,” Clara begged, leaning forward with wide eyes.
“Right, anywhere else with the car's hands-free system blaring away? Sure, foolproof plan,” Patri sarcastically remarked, before pressing the button on the steering wheel with her thumb. She swallowed hard and changed her tone in a millisecond as she answered. “Hey, capi! What's up?”
Irene's voice came through the car's speakers. She sounded strangely calm, with that relaxed tone of someone who had just finished running errands and was on her way home. That peace that was scarier than any of her shouts in the locker room.
“Hey, Patri. Nothing, just leaving the supermarket. I was calling home, but neither of the two little runts is picking up their phone. Are you still at the Sports City? Just in case you see them around or know if they went to train on their own.”
Clara covered her mouth with both hands in the back seat, shrinking down until she almost disappeared. You pressed the blue towel tighter against your forehead, feeling your heart skip a beat.
“At the Sports City? No way, captain. Actually... it turns out I popped out for a bit to run some errands and I ran into them on the street. Yeah, that's it. They were out for... a walk.”
Patri prayed internally that that sentence sounded even remotely believable.
On the other end of the line, there was a short silence.
“A walk?” Irene repeated, slowly.
“Yeah... it was a nice day.”
All three of you automatically looked through the windshield. The sky was completely overcast. A couple of raindrops had even just hit the glass.
Patri closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
“...Well, I mean... a nice day for... walking.”
It took Irene a few seconds to respond. “Patri.”
“Yeah?”
“Why do I hear your car's blinker?”
Patri opened her mouth as quickly as she closed it again.
“Because...”
She glanced at you for a second. Then at Clara.
Neither of you had an answer.
“...because I'm driving.”
“I already deduced that. And why are you driving with them?"
Patri let out her breath very slowly. There was no elegant way out anymore.
“Because...”
Before she could finish the sentence, a small wince escaped your lips as the car went over a speed bump.
“Ouch...”
Silence. A silence so absolute that even the sound of the engine seemed to disappear.
Irene's voice returned a second later.
Much lower. Much more serious.
“Was that Y/N?”
Nobody answered.
“Patri, what happened?”
Patri dropped her head against the headrest for a fraction of a second.
“Don't get mad.”
“Patri.”
“Don't get too mad.”
“Patricia.”
Patri sighed, giving up as she saw the hospital sign appearing in the distance. “They aren't out for a walk. We're arriving at the ER.”
Irene didn't reply.
Not a “what?”. Not a “how?”.
Nothing.
The silence that came from the other end was infinitely worse.
“She has a gash,” Patri added quickly. “It's bleeding a lot, but she's been conscious the whole time. She talks, walks, responds perfectly.”
“And how did she get a gash if they were on the sofa?” Irene's voice sounded dangerous, with that tense calm before the storm that indicated she was processing the information at a thousand miles per hour. “Patri, what did you two do?”
“I didn't do anything!” the Mallorcan defended herself, flipping the blinker to head up the ER ramp. “Look, captain, they wanted to do a good deed. They assembled the office bookshelf, but a screwdriver had a fling with Y/N's forehead while putting up the lights, and the wobbly stool decided to pass on to a better life. Don't panic, she's fine, but she needs some stitching.”
The screech of tires echoed from the other end of the line. Irene had just executed a full-on illegal U-turn in the middle of the avenue.
“I'm heading there,” she declared in a voice that turned your blood cold, right before hanging up with a sharp click that resonated through the entire car.
Crossing the ER doors, the scene was worthy of a framed photo: Clara with blood-stained hands and a face of absolute panic, you with half your head hidden behind the blue fabric of the kitchen towel, and Patri plowing through reception with a scary level of determination. After a quick assessment that confirmed you were fully conscious, oriented, and showing no signs of a concussion, they quickly brought you to another room to give you some stitches.
“It's a clean cut about three centimeters long, right at the hairline,” the doctor on duty explained while cleaning the area with gauze and saline solution. “The handle of the screwdriver must have caught the skin awkwardly as it fell vertically. Everything bleeds profusely on the head because of the capillaries, but it's nothing serious. Five stitches and you'll be good as new.”
Clara dropped into a metal chair, covering her eyes with her hands. “Five stitches. Five grey hairs straight to Irene's collection. Patri, you were right. Our maturity lasted three weeks.”
You swallowed hard upon hearing the doctor. “Is it going to hurt?”
“We'll give you local anesthesia.”
“And...?”
Before you could finish the question, the door burst open.
All three of you turned your heads at the same time.
Irene's jacket was half-zipped, her brown hair slightly messy from running from the parking lot, and she had an expression on her face that mixed pure terror with absolute existential dread.
She stood completely frozen at the foot of the stretcher. She looked at the doctor. She looked at the stains on Clara's clothes. She looked at Patri. And finally, she looked at you.
For an eternal second, she just stood there, breathing fast, with one hand still gripping the doorframe.
Her gaze swept over your bandaged forehead, the towel—now completely stained red—resting on a metal tray, and the gauze the doctor was holding against the wound.
“Hi,” you greeted her with a small, guilty smile.
The doctor, completely oblivious to the family drama that had just invaded the room, cleared his throat discreetly.
“Are you a relative?”
“Her sister,” Irene answered without taking her eyes off you.
“Perfect. There don't seem to be any signs of major trauma. We're going to put in five stitches, and then she can go home with some recommendations. Everything is progressing well.”
Irene simply nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”
She waited for the doctor to finish preparing the tray with the anesthetic and suture materials before stepping up to the stretcher.
The first thing she did was stand right in front of you and place a hand on your cheek, brushing away a strand of hair stuck with dried blood with extreme care.
Her eyes scanned your face for a few seconds, looking for any sign that something was wrong.
“How are you feeling? Does the light make you dizzy? Do you feel nauseous?”
“No, really. I'm fine. The hit just throbs a little bit,” you admitted, feeling your face burn with embarrassment.
Irene let out a sigh she didn't even realize she was holding. It was as if she could finally breathe again for the first time since Patri had said the word “ER.”
“You gave me such a scare.” The sentence came out in a whisper.
And for the first time since she had walked in, you noticed her voice was trembling.
Seeing that vulnerability in Irene's eyes hurt significantly more than the screwdriver blow itself. Her hand remained against your cheek, warm and steady, the only real anchor amidst the hospital's smell of disinfectant.
You turned your head just a fraction, barely enough to rest your cheek a bit more against the palm of her hand.
“I'm sorry...”
The apology was so quiet it was almost lost beneath the distant beeping of a monitor down the hallway.
Irene shook her head slowly.
“No. Don't apologize to me right now.”
Her thumb gently stroked your cheekbone. “I just... needed to see that you were okay,” she said, swallowing hard. “When Patri told me 'ER'... I didn't know what I was going to find when I got here.”
Her voice cracked again at the end of the sentence. She wasn't crying. But she was dangerously close.
From the chair, Clara watched the scene completely motionless.
Her hands were still stained with dried blood.
Her eyes were swollen. And guilt weighed on her shoulders like a lead slab.
Patri glanced at her from the side. She knew that expression.
She knew perfectly well what was going through her head.
The doctor finished putting on his gloves.
“I'm going to inject the anesthetic. You'll feel a slight sting.”
“Okay.”
The needle had barely grazed the skin when Irene, without even thinking, reached for your hand.
She intertwined her fingers with yours automatically.
Just like she had been doing since you were little every time you had blood drawn or got vaccinated.
You smiled.
“You know I'm nineteen years old and you still do this?”
“And when you're forty I'll still do it if needed.”
“You are so annoying.”
“Very much so.”
The doctor chuckled softly under his breath as he infiltrated the anesthesia.
“That's a good sign. If they're still bickering, the patient is doing just fine.”
Patri let out a huff of laughter.
“Trust me, doctor. When these two start picking on each other, it means the world is still spinning.”
The man finished infiltrating the area.
“We'll wait a minute and start with the stitches.” He nodded toward Irene. “You can stay if you want. Though some people prefer to step out during the suturing.”
“I'm staying.”
She didn't even hesitate.
It was at that moment that her attention shifted from you to the metal chair in the corner.
Clara was still curled up in on herself, staring fixedly at her own hands stained with dried blood. Lost in her own thoughts.
“Serra,” Irene said. Her voice came out surprisingly soft.
Clara looked up slowly, as if waiting for the final sentence.
“Come here.”
“Irene, I... I swear that...”
“I didn't ask you for an explanation,” Irene interrupted her calmly, gesturing with her head. “Come here.”
Clara clumsily got up from the metal chair and took the three steps separating her from the stretcher. She stood beside Irene with her head bowed and her arms pressed against her body, unable to look you in the face.
Irene sighed and, without letting go of your hand, used her other hand to grab Clara by the back of the neck, firmly pulling her toward you both until Clara's head rested against her shoulder.
“You're both okay,” Irene murmured, ruffling Clara's hair with a mixture of frustration and tenderness. “That's the only thing I care about right now. We'll talk about the office, the stool, and the fantastic idea of installing LED lights later... but you're both okay.”
Clara didn't answer.
For a few seconds, she just stood there, completely still, with her forehead resting against Irene's shoulder.
“I thought...” she said shakily. “I thought I had done something really terrible to her.”
Irene closed her eyes for a moment.
“I know.”
“There was so much blood...”
“Look at you, Serra, miss drama queen. Head hits bleed like fountains, it's not that big of a deal,” Patri chimed in from the door, arms crossed and a teasing smile on her face. “Besides, look at her, she's still alive and being a pain in the neck as always.”
“I'm right here, you know?” you said, with an expression of complete resignation.
Patri just gave you a cheeky wink.
Irene gave Clara a light tap on the head to get her to stand up straight, breaking the hug and giving her a pat on the shoulder.
“Next time you two want to remodel my house, just stick to buying me a plant,” Irene said, shaking her head, but with a tired smile that betrayed her relief. “It's okay now, Serra, don't worry about it. It was an accident.”
Clara wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, letting out a short, choked laugh. The color was finally returning to her face.
“Okay, okay... But for the record, the furniture is completely level,” Clara murmured, trying to recover her pride.
The doctor cleared his throat with an amused smile.
“If the family reunion is finished... I think I can sew up the patient now.”
All four of you turned your heads toward him.
“Oh, right... sorry,” Irene replied, taking a small step back without entirely letting go of your hand.
“Is it going to be very gross?” Clara asked with a wince.
“For her, not too much. For you guys, depends on how easily squeamish you are.”
Patri immediately pointed her thumb at Clara.
“She faints with needles.”
“That happened once!”
“Three times.”
“Two!”
“Three. I have evidence.”
The doctor let out a soft laugh.
“Maybe it's best if you wait outside.”
Clara opened her mouth to protest, but ended up huffing.
“Fine... but only because I've done enough for today.”
All three of you laughed at the same time.
Even Irene, who had had her heart in her throat for nearly an hour, let out a brief laugh before shaking her head.
“Seriously... I don't know what I'm going to do with you guys.”
“Love us very much.”
“I already do. Too much, in fact.”
There was a short silence.
A quiet one.
Very different from the one that had filled the car on the way to the hospital.
Irene squeezed your hand one last time before letting go to let the doctor work.
“Come on, champ. Five stitches and we're going home.”
“And then?”
“Then we order dinner.”
Patri raised her hand.
“I vote for pizza. After that scare, I've earned it.”
“Me too,” Clara added quickly.
All three of you looked at her at the same time.
“What? Guilt makes you really hungry.”
A new round of laughter filled the room.
And as the doctor began placing the first stitch and the four voices blended once again among jokes and complaints, Irene couldn't help but think that, as chaotic, impulsive, and exasperating as they were...
She wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.
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Entering a new dressing room, in a new country and with a different language can be overwhelming. However, for Y/N, adapting to FC Barcelona Femení becomes much more interesting under the watchful and silent gaze of Alexia Putellas.
Part of the "In Your Language" universe.
Masterlist
---
She had played in Champions League finals.
She had lifted Ballon d'Or awards in front of millions of people.
She had taken penalties with an entire stadium holding its breath.
And yet… She had never taken this long to decide what to wear.
Alexia let out a sigh as she looked at the disaster she had created in her bedroom.
Two shirts rested on the bed, one white and one sky blue, perfectly ironed barely an hour ago. Next to them was a pair of trousers she had already discarded twice only to consider them again five minutes later, a pair of shoes still undecided, and a jacket that had been hanging on the back of the chair for more than half an hour.
She frowned slightly as she looked at the white shirt.
No. Too formal.
The blue one. Maybe too casual.
She looked at both of them again as if, after several minutes, one of them was going to offer the answer on its own.
“It can't be...” she murmured to herself.
It was a dinner. Just a dinner.
So why did her stomach feel so twisted in knots?
She walked over to the bedroom mirror as she finished buttoning up the blue shirt for the fourth time that afternoon.
She looked at it for a few seconds, then slowly shook her head.
No. Too wrinkled.
She sighed and took the shirt off again.
Five minutes later, she was wearing the white one. A minute later, she was wearing the blue one again.
If any of her teammates had seen her at that moment, they would have never believed that this woman, incapable of deciding between two shirts, was the same captain who led Barça with an almost intimidating confidence.
But the captain wasn't there. Just Alexia.
And Alexia had been spending more than twenty minutes trying to find the best way to impress a girl who probably wasn't even going to notice the shirt she chose.
She smiled involuntarily at the thought of you.
She remembered your laugh during the previous day's training session, when Patri had tried an impossible nutmeg and the ball had ended up hitting her own shin.
You had tried to hold back your laughter out of politeness and had only lasted exactly three seconds before bursting into giggles.
The image drew an involuntary smile on her lips again.
“Concentrate, Ale...” she said, as she picked up her phone from the bed.
18:07.
There was still time. More than enough.
Though that didn't stop her from opening the translator app for the third time in less than ten minutes.
She wrote slowly. “Te ves muy bonita.”
The translation appeared instantly. “You look very beautiful.”
Alexia read it once as she sat on her bed, barely moving her lips as she tried to memorize the pronunciation.
“You... look... very beautiful...” she said out loud, only to shake her head immediately.
It sounded weird.
She erased the sentence and tried another one.
“Estás preciosa.”
No. Too much.
She sighed, locking her phone before letting it drop onto the bed again. “I'll just improvise...”
Just as she was about to put on another shirt again, her doorbell rang, cutting through the silence. She quickly grabbed the nearest sweatshirt and pulled it over her head as she went downstairs. It didn't take long for her eyebrows to knit together; she wasn't expecting anyone that day, much less did she remember ordering anything.
When she crossed the hallway that led to the front door and turned the doorknob, she immediately regretted it.
“Surprise!” Kika exclaimed, stepping into the hallway without asking for permission, carrying a bag of potato chips as if she had come to watch a Champions League match.
Behind her, with an apologetic smile that wasn't fooling anyone, Patri walked in, followed by Vicky and Clara, who were already arguing about something they had seen on TikTok.
“What... what are you doing here?” Alexia managed to articulate, blinking a couple of times, still with her hand on the doorknob.
“Well, nothing, we were passing by and decided to make a stop,” Patri exclaimed as she dropped onto the couch.
“You were passing by?” Alexia repeated slowly, closing the door behind her without taking her eyes off them.
Patri nodded with an almost offensive naturalness. “Yeah.”
“Patri,” Alexia said, crossing her arms.
“Yes?”
“You live almost half an hour away from here.”
“Well...” she shrugged. “We went for a walk.”
“A very long one,” Vicky added with a completely innocent smile.
Alexia narrowed her eyes. She didn't believe it for a second.
Kika, meanwhile, had already found the kitchen. “Do you have anything to snack on?”
“Kika...”
“What? The walk builds up an appetite.”
Alexia let out a slow sigh; she knew this wasn't an improvised visit, she knew them too well to believe them.
Patri was smiling more than usual. Vicky was biting her lip to keep from laughing. Kika was rummaging through the cupboards with a confidence she only had when she was trying to distract someone. And Clara kept avoiding looking at her, as if the living room floor were suddenly far more interesting.
“What have you done?”
“Us?” Vicky asked with an innocence so poorly acted it was almost cute.
“Yes. You.”
“Nothing.”
“Vicky.”
“What?”
“Every time you say 'nothing' it means you've done something.”
“That is a very serious accusation.”
“It's an accusation based on real events,” Alexia countered, without relaxing her arms and taking a step toward the center of the living room. “Clara. Look at you. You can't even hold my gaze for two seconds. Who was it?”
Clara cleared her throat, glancing sideways at Patri as if asking for permission.
“Clara,” Patri murmured.
“Yes?”
“Don't.”
“But she's asking me!”
“Well, make something up.”
“I don't know how to lie,” she said as she sank into the armchair.
“Irene,” Alexia blurted out suddenly, and the realization hit her like a bucket of cold water. She put a hand to her forehead, rubbing her temples. “I asked her for advice yesterday about a restaurant and she swore on her children she wouldn't say anything.”
“Look, it didn't completely slip out from Irene,” Patri defended her, stretching her legs out on the coffee table with total confidence. “She only said you were being very mysterious looking for romantic places and that, to quote her exactly, 'Ale has been murmuring things in English on the massage table for three days as if she were possessed.' The rest we deduced ourselves. We're midfielders. We read the game.”
“Hey, Ale!” Vicky's shout came from upstairs, interrupting the confession. “Is the white linen shirt for tonight? Because it looks like you're going to a communion, not a date! Kika, come up and see this!”
Alexia's eyes widened, feeling a sudden and uncontrollable heat rising up her neck.
“Don't touch anything!” she exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Patri and Clara before turning on her heels and taking the stairs in quick strides.
When she reached the threshold of her bedroom, the disaster was total. Vicky was holding the white shirt against her own body in front of the mirror, while Kika, fingers still inside the potato chip bag, critically evaluated the dark trousers Alexia had discarded twenty minutes ago.
“The blue one, one hundred percent,” Kika sentenced, turning toward her with a chip in her hand and using it to point at the bed. “The white one makes you look too serious. You want to go casual, but... you know, attractive.”
Alexia stood static under the doorframe, the sweatshirt she had put on in a rush suddenly feeling much too hot.
“Can you... get out of my room?”
“No.”
The answer came so fast and synchronized it almost felt rehearsed.
Alexia blinked. “What do you mean, no?”
“No, Ale,” Patri repeated, having just shuffled up the stairs and now leaning against the doorframe next to Clara. “We have come on an official mission. You are in the middle of a crisis.”
“It's not a crisis,” Alexia lied, crossing her arms, although the pile of discarded clothes on the corner armchair gave her away completely.
“Ale, you have three shirts on the bed, two pairs of trousers on the floor, and you're wearing a sweatshirt backwards,” Vicky pointed out, gesturing to the collar of the sweatshirt that, indeed, Alexia had thrown on in a rush with the tag in front.
Alexia looked down at her own chest, noticing the mistake, and let out a huff of pure frustration as she rubbed her hands over her face, her composure completely evaporating.
“It's just a dinner,” she murmured, almost to convince herself, letting herself drop onto the bed. “A normal dinner.”
“Sure, to make a girl fall in love with you,” Kika declared, moving her eyebrows exaggeratingly.
“Kika, please,” Alexia pleaded, feeling the heat in her cheeks intensify as she buried her head in her hands.
“Don't get dramatic, capi,” Patri said, finally entering the bedroom and carefully moving one of the pairs of trousers to sit next to her on the edge of the mattress. “If we're here, it's because we know you find it horribly difficult to ask for help.”
Alexia slowly looked up, letting her hands fall to her knees. She observed her four teammates spread out across her room: Clara still apologizing silently with her eyes, Vicky smoothing out the seams of her shirt, Kika cheekily offering her the bag of chips, and Patri looking at her with that sisterly patience that characterized her so much.
She let out the breath she didn't even know she was holding. The knot she had been carrying in her stomach since the afternoon hadn't gone away, but their presence made it feel less heavy. Less lonely.
“I just... don't want to mess up,” she confessed in a whisper, her voice losing all authority. “It's not my language. Every time I try to put a long sentence together with her, I feel like my brain is going at three different speeds and only random words come out of my mouth. I don't want her to get bored. Or for her to have to make double the effort to understand me.”
“My goodness...” Vicky whispered, unable to help herself. “You really like her.”
Alexia closed her eyes for a moment, knowing it was no longer worth trying to deny it. “A lot.”
The word came out so low it was almost lost in the room. For the first time since they had arrived, none of them made a joke.
Because they all knew Alexia Putellas, and they knew how difficult it was for her to admit something like that.
“Ale,” Patri said as she gave her a soft pat on her thigh. “You've been talking to her for months in the gym, in the dining room, sharing footballs. If she had wanted to say no to you, she would have said no. But she said yes. She isn't going to dinner with the player of the year; she is going to dinner with you. She doesn't care if you put a verb where it doesn't belong.”
“What if she only accepted out of politeness?”
The silence lasted exactly one second before all four of them burst out laughing at the same time.
“Excuse me?” Kika asked, still laughing.
“Are you being serious?” Vicky added.
Patri shook her head. “Ale... I think you've been inside your own head for too long.”
Alexia frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“That maybe you are too busy worrying about your English... and you haven't noticed a few things,” Patri said.
“What things?”
“Well...” Clara started, shrugging. “That Y/N does her part too.”
“What do you mean 'her part'?”
Kika left the bag of chips on the chest of drawers before speaking. “The first day we thought she was simply trying to integrate. You know, new country, new dressing room...”
“But then it started to become too specific,” Clara continued with a small smile.
Alexia looked at them one by one, completely lost while Patri took the floor again.
“Do you know how many free seats there were the other day in the dining room?”
Alexia blinked. “Many.”
“And where did she sit?”
Alexia opened her mouth to answer and closed it again. Because she knew the exact answer.
Next to her.
“That doesn't mean anything.”
“Okay,” Patri accepted immediately, raising a hand. “In yesterday's drills, there was a free spot with Vicky and with Kika. And what did she do?”
It took Alexia barely a second to remember the scene.
She had finished putting on her shinguards while the rest of the team was already taking positions for the rondo. You looked up, observed the circle for a moment, and walked directly until you stood right in front of her.
She had thought it had simply been a coincidence.
“She got in my group.”
“Exactly,” Patri said, pointing a finger at her. “And it wasn't because there was no space. It was because she wanted to.”
“It still doesn't mean anything.”
Vicky let out a laugh. “How optimistic of you.”
“Ale, that girl has been looking for you every time we take a water break for two weeks,” Kika intervened.
Alexia arched an eyebrow. “That's not true.”
“No?” Clara asked with a calm smile. “On Monday, Pere was explaining the next drill and she looked three times over to where you were before paying attention.”
“Did you count them, or what?” Alexia asked.
Clara shrugged. “I was bored.”
“And that's not even the best part,” Vicky said, crossing her arms and visibly enjoying the moment. “Esmee told me the other day that Y/N was asking her for help to learn Spanish.”
“Esmee?” Alexia repeated, blinking in surprise. “But Esmee speaks Dutch and English, why would she ask her for help?”
“Exactly because of that, genius,” Vicky huffed, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Because she needed someone who understood her own language to explain things to her properly.”
A huge smile began to form on Alexia's face, so wide it threatened to split her cheeks.
“She's learning Spanish?” she asked, unable to hide the excitement that had slipped into her voice.
Vicky nodded with a little smile. “For a few days now. She asks Esmee things when she doesn't understand an expression, how something is pronounced, or what the difference is between two words.”
Alexia looked down for a moment. She felt that strange warmth settling in her chest again.
The same feeling that appeared every time she thought of you.
“See how you are exaggerating?” Kika reproached her, opening her closet with total naturalness to start taking a look. “Neither of you has any idea how to talk to the other, but you are going to understand each other anyway. In the end, you're going to end up inventing your own language, you'll see.”
“Okay...” she murmured finally as she took a deep breath. “I think I'm a little less scared now.”
Patri gave her a little nudge with her shoulder.
“That's the Alexia we know.”
“Now there's only one important thing left,” Vicky announced, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm.
Alexia arched an eyebrow. “What?”
All four of them pointed at the exact same sky blue shirt.
“Put that one on already.”
Alexia rolled her eyes, unable to hold back a laugh. “You're annoying.”
---
When Alexia finally left her house, she was wearing a grey suit, black loafers, and the famous blue shirt they had insisted so much on to convince her that she looked good.
She took advantage of the fact that she still had plenty of time before picking you up to stop by a florist, choosing a small bouquet of tulips that she hoped you would like.
The drive felt absurdly short.
Perhaps because she had spent the whole week imagining that moment.
Perhaps because, for the first time in a long time, she was more nervous about a simple dinner than about a final.
She parked in front of the building a few minutes before the agreed time. She turned off the car engine and sat in silence for a moment, staring at the bouquet of tulips resting on the passenger seat. The color of the flowers stood out under the dim twilight that was beginning to fall over the streets of Barcelona.
Before getting out, she let out a slow sigh, trying to empty the air from her lungs. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror, adjusting the hair that fell over her shoulders, and finally got out of the car, taking the flowers to head toward your door.
She rang the doorbell and for a few seconds absolutely nothing happened. Until she heard footsteps approaching from the other side.
The sound made her heart beat so hard against her chest that she was convinced you could hear it even before opening.
When the front door opened, all the mental noise of the afternoon shut off completely.
Alexia was left speechless. She looked you up and down, taking in how beautiful you were in a simple outfit that suited you wonderfully.
The whole speech she had rehearsed during the drive disappeared instantly. She could only stand there, completely still, with the bouquet in her hands and a smile so sincere that not even she herself was able to contain it.
“Hola...” she greeted at last, with a small nervous laugh. Her fingers gripped the bouquet a bit tighter. “These are... for you.”
She held out the tulips to you with a shyness that would have surprised anyone who knew her on the pitch.
Your eyes lit up instantly. “They're beautiful. Thank you.”
You took the bouquet with a lot of care, bringing it closer for a moment to admire it before looking back up at her.
“I love tulips.”
The relief Alexia felt was so evident it was almost endearing. “Really?”
You nodded with a smile. “I do.”
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.
Not because the silence was uncomfortable. But because you both seemed too busy looking at each other.
Alexia cleared her throat softly, trying to remember any of the sentences she had practiced all afternoon.
“You... look...” Her brain went completely blank again.
She saw you hold back a smile, amused by the effort she was making.
“Beautiful... very beautiful.” She said it slowly, pronouncing each word with a lot of care, as if she were afraid to break them.
Hearing her, you felt the warmth rising to your cheeks. “Thank you.”
A laugh escaped Alexia's lips, a mix of relief and embarrassment.
“Sorry... My English...”
She shook her head before even finishing the sentence.
You smiled with so much tenderness that the knot that had been settled in her stomach for hours finally began to loosen.
“Then we're even,” you reassured her.
Alexia tilted her head slightly. “Hmm?”
You raised a hand and, pointing to yourself, said with a heavy accent:
“Mi... español... muy malo.”
“No, no...” she corrected immediately, taking another step toward you. Her voice sounded soft, stripped of any trace of the shyness from a moment ago. “Ha sido... perfecto. Very perfect.”
Your cheeks took on an even deeper crimson tone, and you looked down at the tulips with a timid chuckle. Alexia couldn't help but notice how you bit your lip, the exact same gesture you made when you were concentrated, and she felt her heart skip a beat.
“Gracias,” you answered in a low voice, looking back at her. You made a small mental effort before letting out the next sentence you had reviewed with Esmee: “Tú... estás... muy guapa, Alexia.”
Alexia felt the world stop for an instant.
She blinked just once, completely unable to respond.
Not because she hadn't understood.
But because those four words, pronounced with a clumsy and adorable accent, felt to her, without exaggeration, like one of the most beautiful things anyone had ever said to her.
“¿Has... has practicado eso?” she asked almost in a whisper, still unable to believe what she had just heard.
You bit the inside of your cheek, embarrassed.
“Un... poquito,” you said, making a tiny gesture with your fingers to accompany the word. “Esmee... helped me.”
Alexia let out a small laugh, unable to hide the emotion filling her chest.
“Gracias...” she murmured sincerely. “Eso ha sido... muy bonito.”
She took another step, closing the distance with a naturalness that gave you goosebumps. She leaned in slowly to press two soft kisses on your cheeks. You felt the warmth of her touch, the subtle brush of her jawline, and that elegant perfume that perfectly completed the effect.
When she pulled back, her eyes were still shining with that nervousness that had accompanied her all afternoon, though now it no longer seemed to weigh on her. The smile she had been wearing since you had pronounced those words in Spanish was still there, impossible to hide.
“¿Nos vamos?” she asked softly.
You nodded immediately. “Just... a second.”
You went back into the apartment to put the tulips in a vase with water. While you arranged them on the countertop, you couldn't help but smile to yourself.
When you returned to the entrance, Alexia was still exactly where you had left her.
With her hands tucked into her trousers pockets, rocking slightly on her heels while she waited.
Seeing you appear, she looked up almost immediately.
“¿Lista?” she asked, offering you one of her arms.
“More than ready,” you answered, intertwining your arm with hers without hesitating for a single second.
Alexia looked down at your intertwined arms.
It was a small gesture. Almost insignificant.
But the smile that appeared on her face was not.
“Good,” she murmured.
“Good?”
“Good.”
You looked at her sideways, amused. “Is that all you have to say?”
Alexia looked up at you. “No.”
“Oh, really?”
She shook her head, though it took her a few seconds to find the words.
“You look... very nice.”
The smile that appeared on your face was immediate, wanting to play with her a little. “Again?”
Alexia stopped in her tracks. “What?”
“'Very beautiful' and now 'very nice'. You're recycling vocabulary.”
Alexia's expression transformed into a mix of indignation and embarrassment. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No. I have... many words.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me another one.”
Alexia observed you in silence.
The confidence she had shown for exactly three seconds vanished.
“¿Ahora?”
“Yes. Tell me another word.”
Alexia frowned, clearly concentrating.
“You are...”
She paused. You waited patiently.
“You are...” she tried again.
“What?”
Alexia looked at you with a seriousness you didn't expect.
“Distracting.”
The word took you completely by surprise.
Not because of the meaning.
But because she had pronounced it with such naturalness that it took you a second to process it.
“Distracted?”
Alexia shook her head. “No. You are distracting me.”
And then it was your turn to be left speechless.
Alexia seemed to realize what she had just said only after she had said it.
Her eyes widened slightly. “That was good?”
“More than good,” you answered in a whisper, feeling an electric tingling sensation run down your spine.
Alexia exhaled a sigh of pure relief, and that laugh of hers, so husky and contagious, appeared again. She ran her free hand over the back of her neck in a gesture that gave away that, no matter how much she tried to look like the imposing captain she always was, with you she was completely at the mercy of what she felt.
“Okay... target achieved,” she joked.
They continued walking toward the car.
This time, however, the smile on neither of your faces disappeared.
Alexia opened the passenger door for you and waited for you to get in before walking around the vehicle.
As she started the engine, the car screen turned on, revealing the map with the route to the restaurant and, right next to it, the music player app. Alexia looked at the screen for a second, then at the phone in her hand, and finally turned toward you.
“No more translations for ten minutes, please,” she joked, letting her shoulders drop with a sigh of relief. “Mi cerebro... needs a break.”
You let out a laugh, settling into the seat.
“You can speak Spanish, you know.”
Alexia looked at you quickly before turning her eyes back to the road. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Alexia paused, as if the answer were so obvious that she didn't understand why you had to ask.
“Because...” she started, frowning slightly as she searched for the words. “This is your language.”
You looked at her in silence for a few seconds. Knowing that she was voluntarily exhausting her mental energy just so you wouldn't have to strain yourself squeezed your heart in an incredibly sweet way.
“Alexia...” you repeated, your voice much softer now. “You don't have to do that. Really. I don't want you to get tired because of me.”
She took advantage of a red light to stop the vehicle and turn completely toward you. She rested an elbow on the center armrest, looking at you with a calm and sincere seriousness.
“No es...” she explained, searching for the exact word in her mind before continuing. “No es una obligación. I want to. Quiero hablar tu idioma. Para... to understand you better.”
“But I also like hearing you speak Spanish,” you confessed, closing the distance between the two of you by placing your hand near hers.
Alexia blinked, and for an instant, she seemed to lose her breath. A subtle blush stained the tips of her ears again, and she diverted her gaze toward the dashboard with a timid smile she tried to hide without success. The traffic light turned green, forcing her to return her attention to the road.
“Vale...” she conceded at last, shifting gears smoothly. “A deal, then. Un trato.”
“What deal?”
“Half and half,” she proposed, looking at you sideways with a playful spark in her eyes. “Cincuenta por ciento español, cincuenta por ciento inglés. Si yo... if I block, tú me ayudas. Y si tú no entiendes, yo te explico. Deal?”
“Deal.” You gently locked your pinky finger with hers.
Alexia looked down at your hands and, for a moment, seemed to completely forget she was driving.
“Is that an official deal?” she asked.
"Completely official.”
“Good.”
“Ale...”
“What?”
“We just said we are going to speak half in Spanish and half in English.”
Alexia frowned slightly. “Yes.”
“And you just said 'good'.”
“Is a very important word.”
“It's a very easy word.”
“Exactly. I start easy.”
You burst out laughing. “Conveniente.”
“Very.”
You looked at her for a few seconds, amused. “So... what percentage are we at?”
Alexia thought about it with exaggerated seriousness. “Hmm...” she murmured. “Fifty percent.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You speak English. I speak English. Fifty-fifty.”
“That's not how it works.”
“Why not?”
“Because we are both speaking in English.”
Alexia remained silent for a few seconds and then made a face.
“Okay. You are right.”
“I know.”
“Don't be too happy.”
“Why?”
Alexia looked at you sideways, with a small smile on her lips.
“Because now I have to find another argument.”
“And do you have many?”
“Many.”
“Yeah?”
“No.”
The laugh that escaped your lips filled the inside of the car again.
Alexia smiled as she heard you.
And even though the drive wasn't very long, neither of them seemed to be in a rush to arrive.
---
When they arrived at the restaurant, the conversation moved forward in little leaps.
Sometimes in English.
Sometimes in Spanish.
And, on more than one occasion, in a strange combination of both languages that neither of them bothered to correct.
You discovered that Alexia tended to move her hands while she spoke, especially when she was telling a story she was passionate about, as if her fingers needed to draw in the air the words that her English vocabulary still struggled to reach.
You also discovered that when she couldn't find a word, she would frown the exact same way she did during training sessions when she was trying to find an impossible pass.
And Alexia discovered that you had a habit of repeating new Spanish words in a low voice.
As if you were savoring them, or perhaps saving them in a corner of your mind so you would never forget them.
“Cerveza...” you whispered, scanning the menu with your index finger. “Croquetas...”
Alexia rested her chin on the palm of her hand, her elbow steady on the table. The candlelight flickering between the two of you outlined her features and painted golden glints in her eyes. She was looking at you with such absolute attention that, for a moment, the background hum of the restaurant—the laughter from other tables, the clinking of glasses—seemed to fade away completely.
“Your accent...” she commented softly, interrupting your reading.
You looked at her over the edge of the menu. “What about my accent?”
“It's... cute,” she admitted, widening her smile and searching for the right word in her mind. “Tierno. Muy... suave. When you say 'croquetas', it's like... music.”
You felt a warm tingling sensation rising straight up your neck. “Don't make fun of me, Putellas. I bet my Spanish sounds like I'm reading an instruction manual.”
“No, really,” she insisted, leaning in a bit over the table with that characteristic seriousness of hers that she usually put into press conferences, but this time tinged with a sweetness that disarmed you. “I like it. A lot.”
To prove it, she stretched out a finger and gently touched the edge of the menu you were holding, lowering it a few centimeters so she could look you directly in the eyes.
“Dime otra palabra,” she asked in a low voice.
“Another one?”
“Yes. La que quieras. Any word.”
You swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of her gaze locked onto yours. You thought about what you had been feeling since you saw her outside your door, the drive in the car, the complicity that had settled between the two of you so naturally.
“Contigo,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. (with you)
Alexia blinked, and for an instant, she seemed to lose her breath. The finger she kept on your menu slid millimeters down, brushing the back of your hand almost imperceptibly. The subtle blush you had seen in the car stained the tips of her ears once again.
“Contigo...” she repeated slowly, savoring the word as well, but giving it back to you in a much deeper tone. “Me gusta.”
“The word or the pronunciation?” you asked with a thread of boldness, wanting to regain control of your own heartbeat.
Alexia looked down at your hands, which were now just inches apart on the table. With a deliberate slowness that gave you goosebumps, she closed the distance and brushed your pinky finger with hers, imitating the deal from the car.
“Both,” she answered, looking back up at you with a bright spark in her eyes. “Pero más... el significado.”
And suddenly, the word game stopped feeling like a simple joke.
Because that was exactly what Alexia had been doing since day one.
Trying.
Trying to talk to you.
Trying to understand you.
Trying to find a way to get closer to you even when she didn't have the right words.
The realization hit you with a warmth so sudden and profound that it left you breathless, much more than any of the words you had said to each other so far.
It wasn't just about this restaurant, or the small crisis caused by her friends choosing the right clothes, or even her insistence on using English throughout the drive. It was about the previous weeks, the little details you might not have paid much attention to at the time; the texts that took a little longer than usual to arrive because she was probably polishing them with a translator, the patience with which she would repeat an idea if she saw your brow furrow just a millimeter, or that way of hers of staying silent, observing you, memorizing your gestures to make up for the lack of vocabulary.
Alexia wasn't playing at learning a language for fun. She was building a bridge to you, stone by stone, word by word.
---
It took a little while for this continuation to come out, sorry to everyone who was asking for it, I hope you liked it! :)
The safest place || Renée Slegers x Reader!Daughter x Aggie Beever-Jones
Between medications, rest days, and a rain that never seems to end, Aggie turns a quiet apartment into the safest place in the world for someone who is still learning how to recover.
Based on this request -> here, I hope you like it!!
Second part of "The most difficult save"
Masterlist
---
The silence that wrapped around the house felt almost strange.
After years of living around impossible schedules, training sessions, trips, and training camps, you weren't used to staying still.
And much less by force.
The neck brace had already disappeared two days ago, although your neck was still stiff and sudden movements still caused a dull ache that ended up settling behind your eyes.
The concussion was treacherous.
There were mornings when you almost forgot it was there. And others when getting up too fast was enough to make the world seem to sway for a few seconds.
By medical recommendation, no gym. No running. No footballs.
No screens for too long.
And, what was driving you the most desperate, no football.
You sighed for the fifth time in less than ten minutes while you sat on the couch, listening to the London rain beating against the windows.
“Did you know that the ceiling has exactly one hundred and thirty-two small imperfections?”
Renée's amused voice came from the kitchen.
“Have you counted them?”
“I'm on the third round,” you said, a tired smile appearing on your lips.
“That explains a lot of things.”
Renée had decided to spend most of her days at your apartment since you were discharged from the hospital.
She had flatly refused to leave you alone during the first days of recovery, no matter how much you insisted that you could manage perfectly fine.
The doctors had been clear.
The first forty-eight hours were the most delicate, but even after that, you still needed supervision. Any sudden change —a worsening headache, vomiting, confusion, or excessive drowsiness— would mean returning immediately to the hospital.
And although the risk decreased with each passing day, Renée wasn't willing to take it.
“Mom...”
“Mhmm?”
“I am perfectly capable of training.”
“No.”
“To do mobility work.”
“Neither.”
“Walking?”
“Only a little.”
You sighed exaggeratedly. “What a thrilling life.”
Renée placed a cup of tea on the living room table before affectionately ruffling your hair.
“A boring life is a safe life for your head right now.”
Just as you were about to open your mouth to launch another counter-argument —because you had inherited that stubbornness directly from her— the subtle sound of a key turning in the main lock of the entrance interrupted the debate.
The footsteps that entered the hallway were quick, a little clumsy from the obvious effort not to make too much noise, followed by the rustle of a jacket being hung up in a hurry.
Aggie poked her head through the frame of the living room door. Her cheeks were a bit flushed from the cold of the rain, a few strands of blonde hair were stuck to her forehead, and she was wearing a sweatshirt three sizes too big that made her look adorably comfortable.
“Am I interrupting a family argument, or am I still in time to save the atmosphere?” she asked with a shy smile.
“You arrive just as your girlfriend was trying to convince me that she can go back to training,” Renée answered before you could even open your mouth.
“Because I can!”
“You can't,” they answered in unison, turning their heads toward you at the exact same time.
“Okay... that was a little scary,” you murmured, blinking a couple of times.
Renée let out one of her few and highly valued low laughs before standing up, picking up her empty cup from the table.
“Well, I think it's time for me to go. The team's flight leaves in a couple of hours and, as much as I would love to fall off the grid for a week, I'm afraid Arsenal still expects me to manage a match.”
You got up from the couch while she placed her cup on the countertop before turning back to face you. You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt because you knew the enormous effort she was making to divide herself between you and the club.
“Are you completely sure you don't need me here?”
She had asked the exact same question that morning.
And the night before.
And after leaving the hospital.
“Completely sure, mom. Go win that match,” you insisted, smiling to reassure her.
Renée held your gaze for a few long seconds, one of those moments where it feels like she is reading your entire genetic code to make sure you aren't hiding any secrets from her. In the end, she took a step forward, catching you in an unusually soft hug, mindful of the stiffness that still remained in your neck. She leaned in to leave a tender kiss on your forehead before pulling away just a few inches.
“No playing the tough girl just because I'm not here.”
You narrowed your eyes as you responded, “I don't do that.”
Renée arched an eyebrow. You both knew that was a lie.
“Rest. Take your medications at the right time. If the pain gets worse, call me. If you feel dizzier than usual, call me. If you notice anything strange...”
“...I call you.”
A small smile finally appeared on Renée's face. “Good.”
Then she turned her head toward Aggie, who had remained silent, respecting that moment between mother and daughter.
“You are in charge, Aggie. Thank you for doing this,” Renée said, and although her tone softened her usual firmness, the seriousness was still written in her eyes.
“Don't worry, Renée. I won't let her out of my sight for a second,” she promised.
Renée nodded slowly. She knew it wasn't an empty promise, as she had confirmed it over the last few days.
She had seen Aggie show up every morning with a different bag: a breakfast she knew you liked, flowers that ended up brightening the living room, or any excuse to make you smile for five minutes.
She had seen her remind you of the exact time for your medications even before your phone alarm went off. She had seen how she automatically lowered the brightness of all the lamps before you walked into a room. And, above all, she had seen the way she looked at you.
With an almost reverent care. As if she still found it hard to believe you were okay.
That was why, when she spoke again, her voice no longer sounded like a coach giving instructions.
It sounded simply like a mother's voice.
“I know you won't.”
Your mom gave you one last caress on the cheek, brushing her thumb against your skin, and after a final general look to make sure everything was under control, she turned around. She gave Aggie's shoulder a squeeze as she passed, her steps echoing firmly down the hallway until the sound of the front door closing and the turn of the key confirmed that, for the first time in days, Renée's strict surveillance had officially withdrawn.
The silence that followed lasted exactly three seconds before Aggie turned toward you, letting out a sigh so exaggerated that you couldn't help but let out a laugh.
“What?” you asked.
Aggie placed a hand on her chest, dramatizing.
“I survived.”
You frowned, amused. “From what exactly?”
“Well, I'm still a little afraid of your mom,” she answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Afraid? Five minutes ago, she practically adopted you.”
“Exactly because of that!” she countered, pointing at the door Renée had just walked out of. “Did you see the way she looked at me? I felt like she was giving me a job interview.”
“Exaggerated.”
“I'm not exaggerating. I'm convinced that if I had answered even one question wrong, she would have taken away my permission to enter this apartment.”
You smiled, shaking your head. “She's not that intimidating.”
Aggie let out an incredulous laugh.
“No? Then explain to me why every time she asks me a question, I feel like I'm answering in front of a committee.”
“Because you make yourself nervous.”
“Of course I get nervous!” she protested, dropping dramatically onto the armchair. “She's Renée Slegers.”
You looked at her with an arched eyebrow. “She's my mom.”
“And also a coach who is incredibly imposing.”
She paused for a moment before pointing an accusing finger at you.
“Besides, she is the only person on this planet whose opinion of me actually matters to me.”
That managed to wipe the mocking smile off your face.
Aggie lowered her gaze a bit, playing distractedly with the huge sleeves of her sweatshirt. “I want her to think I can take care of you.”
Her confession was so simple that it completely disarmed you.
There was no drama. No grand declarations.
Just a truth spoken in a low voice.
You walked over slowly, sitting down next to her. “She already thinks so.”
“Yeah?” she said, looking up.
You nodded. “My mom wouldn't trust just anyone with her daughter fresh out of the hospital. And much less someone who plays for Chelsea,” you added, breaking the solemnity of the moment with a gentle smile that made Aggie let out a weak laugh, though her eyes remained fixed on yours, searching for that confirmation.
You shifted a bit closer to her, being careful not to make sudden turns that would stir up the dull pain that still appeared most of the time. Aggie reacted out of pure instinct; she stretched out her arm and let you lean against her side, wrapping you in that familiarity so unique to her, controlling her own strength as if you were made of porcelain.
“If you only knew the times she has told me you're a good girl when you're not around...” you confessed, carefully dropping your head onto her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her perfume mixed with the rain outside. “She won't say it to your face because she has an iron reputation to maintain, but you can see it in her eyes, love. She trusts you. I do too.”
Aggie remained silent for a couple of seconds, but you felt the air enter her lungs more lightly, finally deflating the tension she had brought in from the street as she kissed the top of your hair.
“Well... that takes a weight off my shoulders,” she admitted in a whisper, caressing your arm over your own sweatshirt —which actually belonged to her—. “How is your head?”
The question came out much softer than everything before.
Her eyes swept over your face almost automatically again, searching for any sign of tiredness or discomfort.
It was a gesture she had repeated so many times during those days that it had already become a habit.
An, for some reason, it never failed to soften your heart.
“Much better than a few days ago.”
However, Aggie didn't seem entirely convinced.
Her hand left your arm only to move up to your cheek. With the tips of her fingers, she brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen over your face before observing you for a few more seconds.
As if she were verifying the answer for herself.
“Don't lie to me,” she murmured in a voice so soft it almost blended with the sound of the rain against the windowpanes. “I know you. You have that tiny line between your eyebrows that only shows up when you're trying to ignore the pain.”
You let out a long sigh, surrendering to the evidence. It was impossible to hide anything from her when she looked at you that way, with such absolute attention that she seemed capable of reading your heartbeat.
“Okay, you caught me,” you admitted, narrowing your eyes a bit as you settled closer against her side. “It's not like the first day, really. But it's still there, like an annoying echo. And staying still doesn't help; it gives my brain too much time to think about the pain.”
Aggie's hand slid with extreme gentleness from your cheek to the back of your neck, letting the warmth of her palm relax the stiffness that still settled at the base of your head. She began to give you a slow, almost imperceptible massage, being careful not to apply any sudden pressure.
“That's exactly why I came prepared to distract that stubborn brain of yours,” she said, and a small, smug smile appeared on her lips as she reached her free arm toward the backpack she had left on the floor. “Zero screens, zero bright lights, and it requires exactly the level of effort the doctor allows you.”
From the bag, she first pulled out a cardboard box with a vintage design and then a paper bag from which a delicious smell of butter immediately escaped.
“I brought one of those mystery games that come with paper cards and analogue clues. And, of course, the best croissants from the corner to make sure the detective is well-fed. What do you say?”
You lifted your head a couple of inches from her shoulder to look at her, meeting her bright eyes filled with an illusion so pure it made you completely forget about everything else.
“I say you are officially my favourite person,” you smiled, leaning in to give her a kiss.
Aggie smiled against your lips before returning the kiss with the same gentleness she had done absolutely everything with since the accident. When she pulled away just a few inches, she rested her forehead against yours.
“That's cheating,” she murmured.
“Why?”
“Because every time you say things like that to me, I forget I came with a very well-organized plan for you to rest.”
You let out a low laugh. “And what's the plan now?”
“Now...” she lifted the paper bag with a triumphant gesture, “first, you eat. Then, we solve a fictional murder. And, if you survive my incredible detective skills...”
“Which are non-existent.”
“...alright, slightly questionable,” she corrected with dignity, “then I'll let you win.”
“How generous.”
“I am.”
She carefully pulled out one of the croissants and held it close to you. “But before all of that, doctor's orders.”
You gave her a look of mock indignation.
“You too?”
“Me too.”
“This is starting to look like a conspiracy.”
“Because it is.”
She smiled without the slightest remorse as she broke off a small piece of the croissant. “Open up.”
You looked at her for a few seconds, pretending to weigh whether you should protest. “Are you seriously going to feed me?”
“Seriously.”
“Aggie...”
“Open up.”
You ended up obeying through laughter, even though your cheeks were turning red without you being able to help it.
When you took the first bite, the croissant was still warm. The butter melted almost instantly, and, for a second, all that existed was that familiar taste and the constant sound of the rain beating against the windows.
The next few hours passed with a calm that you still hadn't completely gotten used to.
The rain never stopped falling over London, wrapping the apartment in a constant murmur while the croissants slowly disappeared and the living room table ended up covered in cards, paper maps, and small notes written in both of your messy handwritings.
At some point between the third suspect and the butler's alibi, the heaviness behind your eyes had won the battle. Now you found yourself completely lying out along the couch, your legs covered under a blanket and your head carefully resting on Aggie's lap.
She had settled against one of the ends to give you more room to lie down after you had refused to go to your bed. She had one hand resting on your hip, while the fingers of the other moved with an almost rhythmic slowness through the strands of your hair.
“...and that's why the gold cufflink couldn't be in the greenhouse if the storm started at ten,” Aggie murmured in a thread of a voice, lowering her tone drastically as she noticed how your eyelids were growing heavier and heavier. “Although, honestly, I think the game is cheating. Nobody leaves a pocket watch lying around at the crime scene unless they want to get caught.”
You let out a faint sigh, tracing a tiny smile without actually opening your eyes. The swaying sensation had completely vanished, replaced by the comforting weight of the sleep that was starting to claim you.
“You're making up the clues so you don't have to admit we lost,” you whispered, your voice thick with exhaustion.
Aggie let out a low laugh that barely broke the silence of the apartment. “I would never do something like that. My integrity as a detective is at stake.”
“Sure...” Your response got lost in a yawn that made her smile even wider.
Without stopping the caresses on your hair, she looked down at your face.
The shadows under your eyes were still there, much softer than days before, but enough to remind her that your body was still spending every single ounce of energy on recovering. She noticed how your eyelashes fought to stay open, how your face, which had remained slightly frowned for a good part of the afternoon, was finally starting to relax.
“Come on, shut up already and sleep for a bit,” she whispered.
“I'm not sleepy...” you insisted, although your own body contradicted you as you curled up almost unconsciously closer to her, seeking her warmth.
“No, of course you're not.”
“I'm just... resting my eyes.”
“The favorite excuse of everyone who is about to fall asleep.”
“It's true.”
Aggie let out an amused sigh, a soft vibration you felt against the crown of your head. Her fingers slowed down a bit, but they didn't stop, continuing that lazy and constant path.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The silence settled between you both again, comfortable, the kind that never needed to be filled with words.
Aggie was already starting to convince herself that you had finally fallen asleep when she heard your voice, barely a murmur.
“Aggie?”
“Yeah?”
It took you a couple of seconds to gather the strength to speak, not because it hurt, but because the warmth of her body and the blanket had you floating in a state of absolute relaxation. You moved barely a millimeter, rubbing your cheek against the softness of her sweatshirt.
“Thank you.”
Aggie's fingers paused for a moment.
“For what?”
“For everything,” you answered, swallowing before continuing. “For staying when you could be doing anything else, for coming every day, for putting up with me even when I've been in a bad mood, for reminding me of the pills, for making me eat even when I protest, for distracting me when I feel like I'm going to go crazy being cooped up. And for making this feel a little less scary.” You finished as you searched for her hand resting on your stomach and intertwined your fingers with hers.
Aggie's grip on your fingers became firm and warm immediately. For a couple of seconds she said nothing, but when she spoke again, her voice sounded even softer.
“You have nothing to thank me for, silly,” she murmured, and you knew she was smiling. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be right now.”
You let out a long sigh. Your muscles softened completely on her lap and your breathing began to match the slow movement of the hand that kept sliding through your hair, until sleep finally defeated you.
Aggie smiled to herself.
She looked down just a bit at you and left a fleeting kiss on your forehead, lingering a second longer than necessary.
“I love you...” she whispered so low that the rain against the windows almost managed to steal the words away. “So much.”
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The most difficult save || Renée Slegers x Reader!Daughter x Aggie Beever-Jones
Ninety minutes were enough to remind everyone that, sometimes, the most important match is played off the pitch.
Based on this request-> here, I hope you like it!!
Masterlist
---
The plane had just touched down when the characteristic sound of seatbelts unbuckling began to fill the cabin.
A few people had already stood up, trying to reach their carry-on luggage before the plane had even come to a complete stop. You, on the other hand, remained seated by the window, watching the raindrops slowly slide down the glass.
London welcomed you exactly the same as last time.
Grey. Damp. And strangely familiar.
You let out a sigh before unlocking your phone. You hadn't wanted to do it during the flight; you needed a few hours of peace before facing the outside world again.
Mistake.
The moment you turned it on, notifications began to flood the screen.
Congratulatory messages. Pending interviews. Tags in posts.
And, mixed in among all of that, comments you could almost recite from memory.
"She only signed because her mother is the manager."
"What a coincidence that Arsenal needed a goalkeeper right now."
"Favoritism at its finest."
You pressed your lips together. You knew you shouldn't be reading them.
You had repeated it to yourself over and over since the club had made the official announcement.
But you always ended up falling for it.
Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that they were just words from strangers hiding behind a screen, they still found a way to creep into your head.
"Already at it?" a voice asked from the other end of the phone.
You blinked, realizing you had answered Aggie’s video call almost out of habit.
Her image appeared on the screen, her hair still damp from training. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt—probably two sizes too big—and a smile that seemed to have become her personal trademark.
She didn't need to ask what you were doing.
Just looking at you was enough.
"You've been reading the comments again, haven't you?"
You huffed, leaning your head back against the seat’s headrest. "I promised I wouldn't."
"And you broke that promise in record time."
"They hadn't even opened the plane door yet."
Aggie let out a low chuckle. "That explains a lot."
You shook your head, though a small smile managed to slip out anyway. "Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing at you. Well... maybe a little. But only because you are completely incapable of listening to your own advice."
You stayed quiet for a few seconds before looking down at your phone again.
"Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing by accepting the offer."
Aggie's smile vanished completely.
She adjusted her position, leaning her forearms on the table in front of her, as if she wanted to get just a little bit closer to you despite the miles separating you.
"Are you serious?"
You nodded very slowly.
"I spent years playing abroad precisely to avoid this. I wanted to build a career on my own, to prove that I could make it to a big club without anyone mentioning my mom's last name. And now... it feels like all that effort disappeared the second I signed the contract."
Aggie remained silent for a few seconds.
Not because she didn't know what to say, but because she wanted to find the right words.
"Do you know what the problem is with reading comments from people who don't know you?"
You looked up, meeting her eyes, which hadn't drifted away from you for a single second.
"You start putting more value on their opinion than on the opinions of the people who have actually seen the whole journey you've been through."
You frowned slightly, but she didn't hesitate to keep going.
"I played against you, and I finished the match saying you were a nightmare because it felt like you had magnets in your gloves. That day, I didn't even know you were Renée's daughter. All I knew was that there was a goalkeeper who had ruined our afternoon, and that was just a friendly match."
"How dramatic." A short laugh escaped your lips as you said it.
"I'm not exaggerating. In fact, I think I'm underselling it." She paused before giving you a tender smile. "Look, Arsenal didn't sign Renée's daughter; they signed a goalkeeper who spent years proving she deserved to take this step. The only thing happening here is that it’s easier for some people to talk about who your mother is than to acknowledge the work you put in to get this far."
You felt the weight on your shoulders grow a little lighter, but even so, you couldn't stop the words from slipping out with that same lingering doubt.
"And what if they never stop seeing it that way?"
Aggie gave a gentle shrug. "Then you'll just have to give them the exact same problem every single weekend."
You looked at her, not quite understanding, and she just smirked as she continued.
"Keep saving absolutely everything until they get tired of repeating the same old excuse."
This time you actually laughed. A genuine laugh. The kind that managed to loosen even the knot you'd had in your chest for days.
Aggie smiled with satisfaction upon hearing you. "Much better."
"What?"
"That laugh. I’ve been missing it."
You shook your head, a smile still resting on your lips.
"I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"You always find a way to convince me that everything is going to be okay."
She held your gaze for a few seconds before answering in a low voice.
"I’m not trying to convince you that everything is going to be okay. I'm just trying to make you remember who you are when you start to forget."
---
Half an hour later, you pushed your luggage toward the arrivals area.
There were families hugging after weeks apart. Children running between the airport pillars. Drivers holding up signs with names written in bold black letters.
And then, you saw her.
Renée was leaning against one of the railings, a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She was wearing a dark jacket, her hair tied back in a hurried bun. To anyone passing by, she was simply a woman focused on her own business; to you, she was the face that meant coming home.
You smiled without even realizing it and walked toward her, dragging your suitcases behind you.
"Excuse me, do you know where I can find the Arsenal manager? I've been told she’s pretty strict."
Renée looked up from her phone upon hearing your voice. The professional rigidity in her shoulders vanished instantly, and a warm smile—the kind she only saved for when you walked through the front door after months away—lit up her face.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and took two quick steps toward you, pulling you into a firm, protective hug. She held you tight long enough to remind you that, before any contract or badge, there was you.
As she pulled back, she didn't let go of your shoulders; she looked at you intently, those analytical eyes searching this time only to make sure you were okay.
"She is very strict," she played along, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "And she hates it when her players are late. But I think she can make an exception for you."
She took the largest suitcase from your hands before you could protest and started walking with you toward the airport exit. The cold, damp city air hit your face the moment you stepped through the automatic doors.
"How was the flight?" Renée finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Long. I think I slept maybe an hour if I was lucky."
"I figured."
You turned your head to glance at her from the corner of your eye. "How is it that you always know?"
She let out a low chuckle. "Because you've been exactly the same for twenty-three years."
You shook your head, amused. "You're exaggerating."
"Exaggerating?" she said, throwing you a look of mock disbelief. "When you were eight years old, you insisted you could stay up all night because 'goalkeepers train at night too.' Ten minutes later, you were fast asleep on the sofa, hugging a pair of gloves that were way too big for you."
"You can't keep telling that story," you countered, rolling your eyes, though a amused smile escaped your lips anyway.
"Of course I can."
"Mom..."
"It’s a great story."
"It’s humiliating."
"It’s adorable."
"It’s emotional blackmail," you corrected, though the warmth in your chest wiped away any real hint of a complaint.
"It’s the privilege of being your mother," she stated, popping the car trunk open with a click of the key.
The sound of the rain softly pattering against the windshield accompanied the first few minutes of the drive.
London was still exactly as you remembered it.
The wet streets. The red buses. People walking hurriedly with an umbrella in one hand and a coffee in the other.
You rested your head against the window, watching the scenery drift past your eyes.
"Aggie told me to stop reading the comments."
Renée didn't take her eyes off the road. "And did you listen to her?"
You let out an ironic laugh. "I think we both know the answer to that."
This time it was she who smiled. "Yeah... I know it too."
She remained quiet for a few seconds before speaking again.
"Did they hurt you?"
The question was so calm it almost went unnoticed.
It didn't sound like an interrogation.
It sounded like a mother asking something she’d been wanting to know for hours, even if she hadn't said it out loud.
"A little," you murmured, looking down at your hands.
Renée nodded slowly, keeping quiet for a few seconds before continuing.
"When I signed my first contract as a head manager, someone wrote that I was only there because I had been lucky."
You couldn't help but look at her in surprise; she had never told you that before.
"I remember spending an entire night reading comments. One after another. Convincing myself that if I kept looking, I’d find one that proved I actually deserved to be there." She offered a small smile—the kind born more from memory than from joy.
"And did you find it?"
She shook her head. "No. I found a hundred more comments telling me the exact opposite."
You pressed your lips together as the car fell silent once again before she broke it once more.
"Do you know what I learned after a long time?" she said, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. "That the people who actually know your work are usually never the ones making the most noise."
Her words hung in the air between the two of you.
"Your teammates know why you're here. The coaching staff knows why you're here. I know why you're here. And, even if it’s hard for you to believe right now, you know it too."
You turned your gaze back to the rain that kept falling over the city.
You didn't answer.
But the rest of the drive passed in a comfortable silence, the kind you only share with someone who knows you perfectly.
---
Months passed much faster than you could have ever imagined.
Between training sessions, travels, training camps, and matches, you had barely had time to stop and think about everything that had changed since you landed in London on that rainy morning.
The criticism hadn't disappeared. It probably never would.
There were still people who reduced all your hard work to a simple, "she’s Renée's daughter."
But, fortunately, it had also started to matter a little less with each passing matchday.
Because online opinions made a lot of noise.
The opinions of your teammates, however, did not.
They had seen every extra training session after the rest of the team had headed back to the locker room.
They had seen Renée correct you exactly the same way—if not even more strictly—as any other player.
And they had also seen something that the fans would never quite understand.
That carrying the Slegers last name had never been an advantage.
It was a responsibility.
The roar coming from the other side of the tunnel managed to snap you out of your thoughts.
Thousands of voices blended into a single, indistinguishable sound.
The Emirates was always imposing. It didn't matter how many times you had stepped onto that pitch over the last few months. There was always a moment, right before walking out, when your stomach seemed to remember that this was still a dream.
You crouched down to adjust your laces one more time, even though it wasn't necessary. You had already done it twice before. But nerves had that strange habit of forcing you to check things you knew perfectly well were fine.
"You’re going to end up snapping them if you keep messing with them."
The voice made you look up.
Aggie was just a couple of meters away from you. She was already wearing her team's shirt, her hair perfectly tied back, carrying that relaxed expression that seemed to defy any high-stakes situation.
You smiled immediately. "I didn't know you monitored my gear now, too."
"Only when you’re playing against me."
"And why is that?" you replied as you stood up.
Aggie took a small step toward you, making sure first that no one was paying too much attention to them.
"Because if I’m going to lose, I at least want to make sure it’s not because of a loose shoelacing."
You let out a laugh. "How considerate."
"I am."
"Even when I'm your opponent?"
"Especially when you're my opponent."
You shook your head, amused. "I don't know if that makes any sense."
"It doesn't," she replied, shrugging. "But then again, it doesn't make sense that I fell in love with a goalkeeper either."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
Aggie feigned thinking it over for a few seconds. "That I can never celebrate a goal when we play against each other."
"Because you never score on me," you teased her, a mischievous smile appearing on your lips.
"That was a low blow," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"It was a fact."
"I don't like you anymore."
"Liar," you whispered back, your smile widening.
Aggie let out an exaggerated sigh before closing the small distance still separating you.
With total naturalness, she reached out a hand to straighten the collar of your jacket, which had folded over without you noticing.
Her fingers just barely brushed against your skin for a second. "There you go."
"What did you just do?"
"Saved you from looking terrible in the photos."
"Was that the problem?"
"Of course, think about my reputation. My girlfriend has to look good." She raised an eyebrow with mock seriousness.
Before you could reply, the murmur of the other players arriving broke the bubble you were in, forcing both of you to take a step back to put some distance between you.
"Well," Aggie spoke up again, a smile growing on her face once more. "I guess now I can finally wish you bad luck."
"You don't even believe that yourself," you replied.
"No," she admitted with a chuckle. "Never."
The two of you stared at each other for one more moment.
There was no need to say anything.
There was something almost automatic in the way you both understood exactly when it was time to stop being a couple and become rivals.
---
From the opening whistle, the match was intense.
Both teams pressed high, forcing their opponent to play fast and with zero room for error. The ball traveled from one end of the pitch to the other almost without a break, as chances began to surface in both penalty areas.
A little over twenty minutes had passed when the first major intervention arrived.
A play down the wing ended with a cross into the box that found Aggie completely unmarked.
For a fraction of a second, the stadium held its breath.
She struck the volley first-time, and you reacted out of pure instinct.
You dove to your left and managed to tip the ball with the tips of your fingers, sending it against the post before it went out past the goal line.
"Come on!" Leah shouted as she came over to give you a slap on the shoulder.
You took a deep breath as you got back on your feet.
On the other side of the box, Aggie placed both hands on her hips before shaking her head, amused.
"I told you that you wouldn't score on me," you threw at her with a half-smile, taking advantage of the moment while the rest of the players were setting up for the corner kick.
Aggie let out a short laugh, narrowing her eyes with pure competitiveness. "Next time, you won't reach it."
There was no easy next chance for her. During the following minutes, the derby turned into an absolute battle. The scoreboard read a tense 1-1 after halftime, and Chelsea had gone completely on the attack in the second half.
In the technical area, Renée followed every single movement with her arms crossed over her chest.
She didn't shout much.
She had never been that kind of manager. She preferred to observe, correct when necessary, and trust that her players would find the solutions inside the pitch.
Though with you, she always made a conscious effort to behave exactly the same way she did with everyone else.
Not one extra gesture. Not one different look. Not one single privilege.
It was something both of you had agreed on even before you signed with Arsenal.
Outside of the club, she was your mother. Inside those lines, she was simply your manager.
And both of you respected that boundary.
In the eighty-eighth minute, Chelsea won a dangerous free kick near the corner flag. All the tall players, including the opposition's center-backs, pushed into the six-yard box looking for the miracle winner to break the tie. The box turned into a suffocating tide of shoving, red and blue shirts, and the murmur of sixty thousand people floating in the air.
The cross came in with power, curling dangerously toward the six-yard box.
You felt the space around you vanish in a matter of seconds. Bodies jostling. Arms trying to win position. Boots clashing against one another.
You took a step forward as you tracked the trajectory of the ball and leaped above the crowd of players with both arms fully extended.
For an instant, everything seemed to stop. Your fingers reached the ball, clutching it securely. But, at the exact same time, several players had also gone for the header.
One of the Chelsea center-backs arrived late to the jump, with Leah trying to hold her back at the same time.
Furthermore, Aggie, who had attacked the near post, tried to brake at the last second upon realizing you already had the ball in your hands.
But it was too late.
The bodies collided in mid-air. You felt a heavy impact against one of your sides that made you completely lose your balance.
And, before you could even understand what was happening, another head struck yours with violence.
The sound of the impact was dull and painful. And in that same moment, your whole body stopped responding.
The ball slipped from your hands as you fell backward. You didn't have time to protect yourself as your head hit the turf directly.
The next thing you registered wasn't the roar of the crowd, but a deafening, sharp, constant ringing that seemed to drill into your ears from the inside out.
You tried to open your eyes, but the light had turned into a white, blurry glare that burned your pupils, forcing you to close them again. The ground felt strangely unstable, as if the pitch were tilting to one side. You wanted to bring your hands to your head, to feel the texture of your gloves to reassure yourself that you were still there, but your arms weighed a ton. They wouldn't respond.
You heard distant voices calling your name and simultaneously shouting for the medics, but you couldn't identify any of them.
Aggie, who had fallen to her knees from the same collision, was the first to turn toward you. All the competitiveness, the banter in the tunnel, and the tension of the derby vanished from her face in a heartbeat. Seeing that you weren't moving and that your eyes remained shut, her breath caught in her throat. She crawled across the turf toward you, reaching out a trembling hand, but Leah firmly held her back by the shoulder.
"Don't touch her, Aggie. Let the paramedics come in," Leah said, though her own voice was shaking.
Aggie brought her hands to her head, taking a step back, her eyes locked on you, searching for any movement that might indicate you were okay. The pain in her chest at that moment had absolutely nothing to do with football.
In the technical area, the world ground to a halt for Renée. The tactical notebook where she jotted down plays fell to the ground, sliding across the grass. She completely forgot about the television cameras broadcasting the derby live, the match officials, and every professional protocol they had spent so many nights agreeing to protect.
Every fiber of her body screamed at her to cross those few meters separating her from you.
But she also knew that, right now, the worst thing she could do was get in the way of the people trying to help you.
So she stood frozen. Her hands clenched into fists. Her breath completely held.
Without taking her eyes off you for a single second.
A few meters away, the medics had already immobilized your head while one of them spoke calmly, trying to get any kind of response.
"Y/N, if you can hear me, I need you to stay completely still."
There was no answer. Only a slight wince of pain that barely lasted an instant.
Aggie felt her stomach twist into a knot.
"Is she conscious?" she asked, unable to help herself.
No one answered.
The medics remained focused on assessing your condition while another quickly gestured with her hand, calling for a cervical collar.
The entire stadium remained in an uncomfortable silence. Not even the rival fans seemed to remember that this was a derby.
"She’s reacting to pain, that’s a good sign," the doctor murmured, breaking the tension in the six-yard box as she fitted the collar with pinpoint precision. "But we need to take her to the hospital immediately."
With perfectly coordinated movements, they began to carefully slide the spine board beside you.
Working together, the paramedics managed to place you onto the board without moving your neck or spine any more than strictly necessary.
Everything unfolded with an almost mechanical precision.
Too fast. Too rehearsed. And precisely because of that, it was even more terrifying.
Aggie didn't take her eyes off you.
She noticed how one of your hands, still covered by your glove, lay slightly tilted across your abdomen.
It was such a strange sight.
She was used to seeing you get back up after every fall, argue with your defenders, or smile after a great save. Seeing you completely motionless turned her stomach.
When they finally carried you off the pitch, they were forced to pass near the Arsenal technical area, making it inevitable for Renée to see you.
Her eyes followed every single movement of the medical team.
The collar. The board. The immobilization straps.
Every new procedure made reality weigh a little heavier.
This was no longer just a knock you were going to get up from in a few seconds.
This was something much more serious.
And that feeling terrified her.
---
The smell of disinfectant was the first thing Renée noticed as she walked through the hospital's automatic doors.
The white lights of the emergency room made everything seem even colder.
Too quiet. Too slow.
Just over forty minutes had passed since the ambulance left the stadium, though to her, it felt like an eternity.
She was still wearing her matchday clothes.
She hadn't even thought about changing.
She had simply left the stadium the moment the match ended, letting her assistant manager handle everything else.
Now she sat in one of the waiting room chairs, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands clasped in front of her face.
For the first time in a very long time, she didn't have a plan. There were no instructions to give. There was no tactical decision that could change what was happening on the other side of those doors.
All that was left was to wait. And she hated waiting.
Hurried footsteps broke the silence of the hallway.
Renée looked up just as she saw a familiar figure turn the corner.
Aggie.
She was wearing her Chelsea tracksuit, her hair now pulled into a messy bun, leaving a few loose strands around her face. She was breathing heavily, as if she had run through half the hospital.
Their eyes met for just a single second.
"How is she?" Aggie managed to articulate, her voice cracked and breathless from the effort. "On the pitch... she wasn't moving. I went into the locker room, changed as fast as I could, and came straight here. Have the doctors told you anything?"
"Nothing yet," Renée replied, with a forced calmness that couldn't quite hide the trembling in her voice. "She went into the trauma room twenty minutes ago. They’re doing a CT scan and several tests to evaluate the head impact. We just have to wait."
Aggie nodded slowly.
She wanted to say something. Anything.
But the words seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere in her throat.
She ended up sinking into the chair next to Renée, resting her forearms on her legs as she hid her face in her hands for a few seconds.
Silence settled between the two of you once more.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It was the silence of two people sharing the exact same fear.
"It was my fault..." Aggie murmured without looking up.
Renée turned slowly toward her. "Don't say that."
"If I hadn't gone for that ball..."
"Aggie." Her voice came out firm for the first time since she had arrived at the hospital.
Aggie looked up, her eyes filling with tears at the same time.
"I tried to brake when I saw she already had it under control... I swear I tried."
Renée held her gaze for a few seconds.
Then she shook her head very slowly. "I've seen the replay."
Aggie stopped breathing for an instant.
"It wasn't your fault."
"But..."
"It was a collision. An accident. These things happen in this sport."
Aggie lowered her gaze again. "That doesn't make it hurt any less."
Renée felt a knot in her throat.
For the first time since they had known each other, she didn't see an opponent standing before her, nor a Chelsea player.
She saw the girl who loved her daughter.
And who was just as terrified as she was.
Without thinking about it too much, she reached out a hand and placed it on Aggie’s shoulder.
It was a small gesture. Almost automatic.
"She’s going to be absolutely furious if she wakes up and finds out you're blaming yourself for something you didn't do."
A breathless laugh escaped Aggie just as a tear finally slid down her cheek.
"Yeah... she’d probably scold me."
"I am pretty sure she would. The first thing she’d do is throw a glove at your head."
Suddenly, the characteristic magnetic click of the restricted area doors broke the silence of the hallway. Both of them snapped to their feet at the exact same time, driven by the same jolt of adrenaline.
A middle-aged doctor, wearing a lab coat and holding a chart in his hands, stepped out into the corridor, looking around until his eyes found them.
Aggie stayed half a step behind, holding her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard that she feared the doctor might hear it.
He looked at them both for a brief moment, noting the obvious tension in the air, and fortunately, didn't take long to speak. His face relaxed into a calm expression—the kind of look doctors only use when they bring good news.
"We have the CT scan results," he announced, opening the chart. "There are no skull or cervical fractures, and we didn't find any internal bleeding, which was our main concern given the impact and the time it took for her to regain full consciousness on the pitch."
A unison sigh, heavy and laden with accumulated tension, escaped Renée and Aggie's chests. Aggie felt her legs go weak and had to lean slightly against the back of the metal chair.
"However," the doctor continued, recapturing their attention, "she has a severe concussion. The whiplash to the neck and the direct impact against the turf caused a heavy trauma. She is going to have a significant headache over the next few days, photophobia, and probably some nausea. She will be admitted tonight under medical observation to monitor her progress, but she is out of danger."
"Is she awake?" Aggie managed to ask, taking a step forward, completely forgetting that technically she wasn't a direct relative in the eyes of the hospital rules.
"Yes, she just woke up fully a few minutes ago. She’s a bit disoriented from the painkillers, but she is conscious. She asked about the match result, if that’s any consolation," the doctor commented with a small smile. "You may go in to see her, but one at a time, please. She needs as little visual and auditory stimulation as possible."
Renée turned toward Aggie. She looked at the girl's tired face, the marks of the match’s effort still visible on her features, and the trail of tears on her cheeks. She knew perfectly well what Aggie needed at that moment.
"You go first," Renée said in a low voice, completely surprising the forward. "I'm going to call the club to give the medical report and calm things down with the press. Besides... if I go in first, I’ll just go into manager-mode and start checking her reflexes, and that’s the last thing she needs right now."
Aggie looked at Renée with immense gratitude, unable to articulate a word.
"Go on," Renée gave her a gentle nudge on the arm.
"Are you sure?"
Renée nodded without hesitation. "Completely."
The doctor led her down a quiet hallway, illuminated by the same white light that seemed to erase any notion of time. Every step made the knot in her stomach grow a little more.
Until finally, they stopped in front of a room.
The doctor opened the door just a few centimeters.
"Remember to speak in a low voice. If you notice she’s getting tired, the visit will have to be short."
Aggie nodded without taking her eyes off the room, pushing the door open carefully.
The light was dimmed. The blinds were closed to keep the brightness from bothering your eyes.
The heart monitor emitted a constant, peaceful beep.
You remained lying on the bed, still wearing the cervical collar. You had an IV in your left arm, and a small bandage peeked through your hair, right where the impact had been hardest.
Your eyes were closed, and for an instant, Aggie felt the same fear from the pitch all over again.
But then she heard your voice.
"If you just stand there... I’m going to start thinking you were the one who took the hit."
Aggie let out a completely broken laugh.
The tension built up over the last hour collapsed all at once.
She crossed the room in just two steps until she was right beside the bed.
"You are an idiot."
You opened your eyes very slowly. Even the dim light of the hospital room sent a slight sting behind your eyes, forcing you to blink a few times to focus on her face. You smiled barely a fraction, though the gesture ended up turning into a wince of pain.
"That’s what the doctor told me, but in fancier words."
"You gave me the worst scare of my life," she said, letting out a shaky breath as she sank into the metal chair right next to the mattress. She slowly reached out her fingers, intertwining them with yours, doing it with a softness that began to disarm you.
"I’m sorry," you managed to say.
Aggie shook her head immediately, squeezing your fingers with extreme softness, as if she feared any sudden movement might worsen the pain reflected in your eyes.
"Don't you dare apologize, Y/N," she whispered, her voice cracking a bit again. "You went for that ball the way you always do. With everything you had. I'm the one who should be saying sorry..."
"If you start with that, I’m going to have to use what little energy I have left to call the nurse and ask them to throw you out," you interrupted her, slurring your words slowly from the effect of the painkillers, but keeping that stubborn intensity in your gaze. "It was an accident. Nothing more."
Aggie offered a tiny, tired smile. Seeing that even with a rigid cervical collar and an IV in your arm, you were still trying to take control of the situation and protect her from her own guilt, completely disarmed her too.
"Don't ever do something like that to me again."
"It wasn't exactly in my plans."
"Well, remove it from your future ones, too."
Despite the pain throbbing through your head, a small smile reappeared. "Yes, ma'am."
She shook her head, never breaking eye contact.
"I love you too much to ever go through something like that again."
For the first time since you woke up, the smile vanished completely from your face.
You squeezed her fingers within yours with what little strength you could muster.
"I love you too."
The silence that followed didn't need to be filled with anything else.
Outside that room, monitors kept beeping, hurried footsteps echoed, and muted conversations passed between nurses.
But for a few seconds, the entire hospital ceased to exist.
There was only the two of you.
---
By the time you opened your eyes again, it was already night.
The room was plunged into near-total darkness, broken only by the soft green glow of the heart monitor and the distant reflection of streetlights filtering through the slats of the blinds.
The pain in your head was still there, but now it felt duller, like a distant echo—a sign that the doctors had been managing the painkillers on time while you slept. The rigid cervical collar was still bothering your neck, limiting your movement, but you no longer felt that suffocating tightness from the first few hours.
You slowly turned your eyes toward the right side of the bed.
The metal chair was still in the same spot, but Aggie was no longer sitting in it. Instead, Renée's silhouette was outlined against the faint light coming from the hallway.
Your mom was sitting with her back against the headrest, her legs crossed and her arms folded over her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on you, wearing that analytical expression she always put on when studying match films in the early hours of the morning, but her eyes reflected a deep exhaustion that no television camera would ever capture.
Noticing the slight change in your breathing and the movement of your eyelids, Renée immediately leaned forward, breaking her rigid posture.
"Hey there, sleepyhead," she said, her voice coming out lower than expected. Much softer than usual.
You blinked a few times before managing to focus on her face. "What time is it?"
"Almost eleven."
You frowned slightly. "Have you been here this whole time?"
Renée let out a small chuckle through her nose. "Did you expect me to leave?"
You tried to shrug. The cervical collar immediately reminded you that it wasn't a good idea.
"Well... you have a team to coach."
"And I have a daughter in a hospital."
The response was so immediate it left you with nothing to say.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
Renée took the opportunity to observe you calmly.
Your pupils were reacting well. You were still oriented.
The color of your skin had improved compared to when you first arrived.
One part of her—the coach—was making that assessment almost without realizing it.
The other part just needed to make sure you were still there.
"And Aggie?"
"She left a couple of hours ago. She needed to rest—she didn't want to, but I made her. She’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning."
Renée gently reached out her arm, brushing the back of your fingers with hers. The contrast between the cold coach the world knew and the mother looking at you in that dim light was absolute.
"You should have seen her face when I told her she had to leave," Renée added, a hint of amusement softening the fatigue in her voice.
You let out an exhalation that was meant to be a laugh, but the throbbing in your temples forced you to cut the effort short.
"She’s stubborn," you whispered, feeling your throat strangely dry.
"She is," Renée agreed. She reached toward the nightstand, picked up a plastic cup of water, and held the straw to your lips with a steady hand. "Drink a little."
You carefully obeyed, taking a couple of small sips. The water relieved the dryness in your throat a bit, though the simple act of swallowing sent a sharp sting through your head.
Renée pulled the cup away the moment she noticed the wince you tried to hide.
"Slowly," she murmured, settling back into her chair and resting her elbows on her knees to be a little closer to you. "The doctors said severe headaches are going to be the norm for the next few days. The hit you took was no joke."
"You should go get some rest, Mom," you asked her after a few minutes, your voice barely above a whisper.
Renée let out a low, incredulous laugh, as if you had just said the most absurd thing all night. "And leave you here alone? Not a chance."
"I'm fine."
"You just woke up after a severe concussion, you’re wearing a neck brace, and less than five minutes ago you needed help to drink water. No, Y/N. You are not fine."
You didn't have the strength to argue.
You knew perfectly well where you had inherited your stubbornness from.
Renée sighed when she saw you stay silent. "You gave me a horrible scare."
There was no reproach. Just a honesty so raw it made a knot form in your throat.
"When I saw you on the pitch..." She looked away for a few seconds, as if she were still seeing that image. "I thought about all the times I had told you to be brave, not to be afraid to come out and clear a ball." Her voice cracked for just an instant. "And for a second, I wished I had never taught you any of those things."
"Mom..."
She shook her head slowly before you could try to apologize. "No, let me finish. I know this is part of football. I've known it my whole life. I've seen horrible injuries, I’ve supported players through months of rehabilitation, I always told them that accidents happen and that it’s not worth living in fear." She paused, clearing her throat. "But it turns out it’s a lot easier to say when the person lying on the ground isn't your daughter."
Silence settled between the two of you once more.
You stared at the ceiling, trying to hold back the burning sensation starting to build behind your eyes.
"You don't have to be the coach twenty-four hours a day, Mom," you said in a very low voice, turning your head the bare minimum the collar allowed to look at her. "It's okay to have been afraid."
Renée offered a tired smile—the kind she rarely showed in public, full of a tenderness she reserved exclusively for you. With her free hand, she carefully brushed away a strand of hair that had come loose from the bandage.
"I'm going to be fine, I promise."
"I know," she whispered. "Just... give me a little time to believe it again."
Then, without letting go of your hand, she rested her head against the back of the chair.
Arsenal could wait. Training could wait. The press's questions could wait.
That night, there was only one victory that truly mattered.
And she was lying right in front of her, breathing peacefully.
---
so, I'm not really sure if I like this or not 😬
I'll try to get up to date with the requests I have lined up. I've got some free time on my hands right now, so I'll do my absolute best :)
Hi. May ask If you would be Open to write for Renee? I know she is technically Not a Player but a Coach. I Had this Idea of Arsenal needing a new Goalkeeper and der renees daughter(Reader) signs for Arsenal after playing in another country. She gets a concussion during a Game and even Passes out. Leaving Renee to Not only be worried as a Coach but also as a Mom. Cause to her it doesn't Matter that she is an adult. She still is worried. Also Reader is dating either a Player of the Team they are playing against ( maybe Niamh or aggie) or If she is Dating a teammate maybe she could Date Taylor, Steph or Leah?
Sorry that was such a long request. 🫣
hiii, sorry for the delay; your request has just been published. I hope you enjoy it! :)
The Perfect Crime (Or Almost) || Irene Paredes x Little Sister!Reader x Clara Serrajordi
The synergy between Y/N Paredes and Clara Serrajordi on the pitch is a blessing for Barça, but in real life, it’s a chaotic nightmare.
Based on this request-> here, I hope you like it!!
Masterlist
---
Clara and you had met long before moving up to the Barça first team.
Before the spotlights. Before the full stadiums. Before pressure even had a name.
You met on smaller pitches, with worn-out goals and impossible hours, where football still felt more like a game than a responsibility.
And since then, you never stopped being yourselves.
Chaotic. Competitive. Incapable of taking anything completely seriously for more than five minutes.
Everyone knew that wherever one was, the other would be too. And that synergy, which on the pitch was a blessing for the team, in real life was a nightmare. Because if one had a questionable idea, the other didn't just back it up; she improved it with a level of audacity that only youth and a lack of fear can give.
That afternoon, after training, they had called Irene, your sister, into a meeting. Therefore, with her being your driver, you had to wait for her to come out. Clara had decided to keep you company under the excuse of having someone give her a ride home.
However, both of your patience had run out far too quickly, and to make matters worse, you were hungry.
That in itself was already dangerous, because the problem was that hunger always made the two of you creative.
"Fifteen minutes," Clara scoffed, letting her head drop against your shoulder as you both watched the door of the sports complex. "Irene said fifteen minutes fifteen minutes ago."
"That is technically still punctuality, Paredes version."
"That is technically a crime."
You let out a small laugh from the bench where you were waiting, still with your sports bag between your feet. Training had been long, suffocating, and your stomach had been protesting for half an hour.
"We can wait."
Clara looked at you as if you had just proposed a national tragedy. "Or..."
That single word was already a bad sign.
You turned your head slowly. "No."
"I haven't even said anything."
"Because I know you."
The smile that appeared on her face confirmed all your worst forebodings. "Irene's car is literally right there."
Your eyes followed the direction of her finger.
And there it was. The car perfectly parked. Spotless.
Intimidatingly spotless.
"Clara."
"Listen to me first."
"No."
"Just for food."
"No."
"Ten minutes."
"No."
"Patri once told me that impulsive decisions build character."
You turned immediately. "That is completely false."
"Well, maybe not in those exact words."
It didn't take Clara long to convince you, because when she wanted to, she could be extremely persuasive.
So, five minutes later, you were walking toward the car.
The worst part was that it wasn't even the first time you had taken the emergency keys that Irene left "just in case." Although normally that "just in case" implied something much less questionable than escaping for food without warning. (Plus, most of the time, you always went with a responsible adult)
"This is a bad idea," you murmured.
"The best stories start like this."
"So do police reports."
Clara ignored the comment as she settled into the passenger seat with absolute happiness.
"God, this is so comfortable," she commented, adjusting the rearview mirror with a grin from ear to ear. "Come on, ten minutes and we're back. Nobody will ever know."
You sighed as you started the engine. The sound of the motor came to life with a smooth, expensive purr that only served to remind you of the massive amount of money your older sister's favorite toy cost.
"Don't let it stall," Clara warned, stretching her legs across the passenger space as if she owned the vehicle. "If the car senses your fear, it will automatically lock up. It's modern technology, Y/N. It doesn't forgive weakness."
"Shut up, Serra," you murmured, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that your knuckles turned white while your attention fully submerged into the road, though a small laugh was already escaping your lips.
Barcelona kept moving around you with that familiar chaos of motorbikes, traffic lights, and people walking fast. Clara controlled the music as if she were the DJ of an improvised festival while debating with you whether burgers were more worth it than tacos.
"Tacos," you insisted.
"Burgers."
"Tacos."
"I can't believe you are so gastronomically limited."
"I can't believe you talk like that while I'm driving my sister's stolen car."
"Borrowed," Clara corrected immediately. "Stolen implies criminal intent."
"And what is this?"
Clara pretended to think about it. "A nutritional emergency."
In the end, as always when it came to food, the burgers won. They got the order in record time and, with the paper bags giving off a glorious scent, they started the drive back to the Ciudad Deportiva.
They had plenty of time. Twelve minutes. A resounding success.
Until you drove back into the underground parking lot.
"Okay, park exactly where it was," Clara directed, gesturing with her hands as if she were guiding a plane landing. "Left, left... a little more. Watch out for the pillar."
"Clara, I know perfectly well where the pillar is, I've been seeing it the whole seas..."
The sound appeared before you finished the sentence. It wasn't deafening, but in the silence of the underground parking lot, it echoed like a bomb.
The car came to a dead stop. You froze completely, hands glued to the steering wheel and eyes wide open. The car music kept playing in the background, creating a ridiculous contrast with the emptiness that had just formed in your stomach.
Slowly, like in a horror movie where you know the monster is right behind you, you turned your head to the right.
Clara had frozen halfway through putting another fry into her mouth. Her face had lost all its color, taking on a white shade that confirmed your worst nightmares.
"Tell me that was something else," you pleaded in a thread of a voice.
"That wasn't the car."
You blinked slowly. "Oh my God."
"It could have been... the floor."
"Clara."
"The acoustics of the parking lot are deceptive," she insisted, as if she were trying to convince herself too.
"Clara."
"Okay, fine, maybe it wasn't the floor," she admitted, slowly lowering the french fry without taking a bite. "But we shouldn't assume the worst-case scenario either. Think positive."
"What is positive about this?"
"That the engine is still running."
You turned off the car immediately. The silence that flooded in was sepulchral, broken only by the rustling of the paper bag from the burgers. You unbuckled your seatbelt at record speed and got out of the car, practically tripping over your own boots. You crouched down next to the front right wing, ignoring the cold of the concrete, and fixed your eyes on the disaster.
It wasn't a subtle scratch that you could hide by rubbing it with your hoodie sleeve. It was a deep scrape, about fifteen centimeters long, that had stripped the dark blue paint away to reveal the metallic gray underneath. And to top off the artwork, the friction against the corner of the concrete pillar had slightly dented the bodywork inward.
"She's going to kill us," you whispered, resting your forehead against your knee. "She won't wait for the season to end. She's going to disinherit me."
Clara put both hands to her head when she reached your side. "Oh God."
"CLARA."
"IT WASN’T ME!"
"YOU WERE DIRECTING!"
"AND YOU WERE DRIVING!"
"BECAUSE YOU GAVE ME HORRIBLE INSTRUCTIONS!"
"I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD A PERSONAL VENDETTA AGAINST PILLARS!"
You leaned against the car with an expression of absolute horror.
Because the problem wasn't the scratch. It was whose car it belonged to.
Irene Paredes. Your sister.
Owner of an admirable patience. Except when it came to her things.
And particularly her car.
"Let's see..." Clara said, inspecting the battle scar while narrowing her eyes. "Panic doesn't solve problems. If you look at it from far away, with your eyes a bit squinted and under the right light... you can still see it a whole lot, okay, sorry. Don't look at me like that."
"It's Irene's car!" You gave her a light hit on the shoulder, your eyes wide. "That woman cleans the rims with a toothbrush on Sundays! She has a mental radar for any damage!"
"Then we hide it!" she blurted out, grabbing you by the shoulders so you would stop hyperventilating. "Think fast. We go into the locker room, put the keys exactly where they were, and act normal. When Irene comes out and sees the dent, she'll think someone hit it while she was in the meeting. A delivery truck. Or a board member's car. Yes, we blame the board. Nobody dares to contradict Irene, but they aren't going to investigate a board member's car either."
"That is the most cowardly, low-down, and worst-structured lie I have ever heard in my entire life," you said, staring at her.
Clara opened her mouth, offended. "Thank you, I try to innovate."
You looked at her with absolute incredulity while she kept analyzing the dent as if she were looking at a tactical setup and not the probable end of your football careers.
"We can't hide it."
"We can try."
"Clara—"
"Listen to me before you panic again."
"I haven't stopped panicking!"
Clara ignored that. She crouched next to the scratch and passed a finger close to the exposed metal with an alarming amount of concentration.
"Okay... damaged paint, small dent..."
"“Small”." You said in disbelief.
"I am being emotionally responsible."
"That looks like a war wound."
Clara looked up. "I've seen TikToks of people fixing worse things."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because when a sentence starts with 'I've seen TikToks,' it usually ends in the emergency room."
"You’re so dramatic."
"You convinced me to steal a car!"
"Borrow—"
"Don't you finish that word."
Clara closed her mouth. For three full seconds, neither of you said anything.
Just the silent parking lot. The smell of the burgers going cold. And Irene's car staring at you both accusingly from every possible angle.
"Okay," Clara broke the silence, standing up with a dramatic sigh. "There's no time to debate our options. There are less than ten minutes left before your sister finishes signing documents or whatever it is captains do."
She helped you up while she kept talking. "We go in, return the keys, sit down to eat the burgers, and if anyone asks, we were on the bench the whole time debating climate change."
You didn't have the strength to protest. The real fear of Irene had left you in a state of absolute submission. You walked through the corridors at a fast pace, trying not to let your sneakers squeak against the floor.
Entering the locker room, which luckily was still empty, you approached your sister's locker with trembling fingers. You opened her bag and slid the keys back into the exact same pocket you had taken them from.
"Step one complete," Clara whispered, sitting on the wooden bench and opening the paper bag with an enthusiasm that bordered on psychopathic. "Now, let's eat. Stress burns calories."
You sat next to her, but the first bite of your burger tasted like pure cardboard. Your eyes went constantly from the locker room door to the clock on the wall. Five minutes. Seven minutes. Nine minutes.
The doorknob turned.
Clara swallowed a piece of a fry almost without chewing and adopted a posture of being deeply focused on her phone. You froze, the burger halfway to your mouth, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
Irene walked into the locker room. She was carrying a folder with the club's logo under her arm and the serious expression she always had after discussing tactical blocks and schedules, but upon seeing you both, her expression softened a little.
"Hey, peques," Irene said, placing the folder on her locker with a weary sigh. "What a drag they put us through with those preseason matches. Thank goodness we're finally going home. Clara, are you ready? I'll take you."
Clara and you looked at each other out of the corner of your eyes. A visual dialogue of a millisecond:
"Does she know?"
"No, impossible."
"Smile, damn it, smile!"
"Irene!" Clara exclaimed with a friendliness so exaggerated it was ridiculous. "You... you look great today. Really. That tracksuit looks spectacular on you. It really highlights your presence."
Irene stopped, her hand halfway to opening her bag. She looked at Clara with narrowed eyes, that same steady, icy stare she used to intimidate rival forwards before they took a corner.
Then, she shifted her gaze to you.
And that was enough for the panic to rush right back up to your throat. Because there was something universally terrifying about being watched by Irene Paredes when she suspected something.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't dramatize. She just stared.
And that was so much worse.
Her eyes moved slowly from you to Clara. Then to the bag of burgers. Then back to both of you.
"What did you break?"
The silence was immediate.
Clara opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"What?" she laughed nervously. "What a specific question."
Irene let out a short, tired exhale as she opened her bag.
"You've been complimenting me for forty seconds on a tracksuit I wear three times a week and that literally looks just like yours," she said, pointing at Clara without looking at her. "And my sister looks like a hostage in an international negotiation."
You straightened up way too quickly. "We're not being weird."
Irene arched an eyebrow.
Clara intervened immediately. "Exactly. Completely normal."
"Uh-huh."
Your sister leaned against the locker, crossing her arms. "Last chance."
Clara looked at you out of the corner of her eye. You looked at her.
And at that exact moment, you both made the worst possible decision.
"Nothing." The answer came out perfectly synchronized.
Irene blinked. "Perfect."
She took the keys out of her bag and twirled them around her finger. "Let's go then."
Your heart plummeted. Because of course.
OF COURSE.
The car.
Clara went rigid next to you. "Right now?"
"Right now?" Irene repeated Clara's words with an agonizing slowness, stopping the swing of the keys. "I don't know, Serra, unless you'd prefer to sleep here in the locker room. Yes, right now."
You jumped to your feet, feeling your legs tremble.
"It's just... Clara hasn't finished eating yet!" you blurted out, pointing at the paper bag as if it were proof of life. "And you know what the club nutritionists say, Irene. Leaving digestion halfway cuts off the metabolic rhythm. It's extremely dangerous."
"Extremely dangerous," Clara seconded, nodding her head so fast you almost feared she would give herself whiplash. "An imminent risk of muscle injury, captain. If I were you, I'd wait another ten short minutes sitting right here. Talking about life. About... about how beautiful the sky looks today."
"How curious," she murmured. "Because I could swear that before I left, you both wanted to leave already."
Nobody spoke, and Clara smiled.
A horrible smile. Tense. Artificial. "People evolve."
Irene locked her gaze onto you. "Y/N, you are blinking so much it looks like your eyes are sending out Morse code."
She took a couple of steps forward. The jingling of the keys in her hand sounded in your ears like the bells of judgment day itself. She stopped right in front of you both, forcing you to look up from the bench. Her analytical gaze moved down from your suspiciously pale faces to Clara's hoodie, dropped to the floor, and stopped.
Following the direction of her eyes, you discovered with horror the loose end that ruined everything.
On the floor, right next to Clara's bag, was a crumpled drive-thru receipt with the time perfectly printed on it: 16:48.
Irene crouched down with agonizing elegance, picked up the little piece of paper with two fingers, and read the contents out loud.
"Two large meals, extra fries, and barbecue sauce. Sixteen hours and forty-eight minutes. In other words, exactly 20 minutes ago." Irene looked up, locking her eyes on you. "The restaurant is two kilometers from here. Unless you've grown wings, you used a car. And given that neither of you has..."
The silence that flooded the locker room was so dense you could almost cut it with scissors.
"It was a truck," Clara blurted out all at once, unable to take the pressure any longer.
"A what?" Irene arched an eyebrow.
"A board of directors' truck!" Clara exclaimed, standing up and gesturing chaotically. "We were... we were walking back with the food, completely innocent and as pedestrians, when we saw a huge truck lose control in the underground parking lot. It crashed into your car, Irene. A vehicular tragedy! We tried to stop it, but it fled the scene. If I were you, I'd ask for the club's security footage right now. We have to report the board members."
You covered your face with both hands, sinking into the wooden bench.
"That is the most cowardly, low-down, and worst-structured lie I have ever heard in my entire life," you whispered, repeating the exact words you had told her in the parking lot.
"I am trying to save us, Y/N!" Clara shot back in a desperate whisper.
"Save yourselves from what, Serra?" Irene's voice fell like a bucket of cold water. "If the phantom truck of the board of directors hit my car... why are your faces completely white, and furthermore, why is there a grease mark right on the unlock button of my key fob?"
Slowly, you pulled your hands away from your face and looked at your older sister with the softest, most regretful eyes you could possibly manage.
"We were so hungry, Irene..." you admitted in a thread of a voice. "And the keys were right there, so lonely... and the concrete pillar moved. I swear it moved on its own, it appeared out of nowhere."
Your words hung in the air while she kept holding the receipt between her fingers, looking at you with that calmness that foreshadowed a diplomatic disaster.
Beside you, Clara had stopped pretending to have any dignity and looked like she was reconsidering every single decision that had brought her to this moment.
"I want to understand the timeline," she said with a terrifying serenity. "So let's go step by step. Because maybe I'm missing something."
You felt your heart keep beating violently inside your chest.
"I was in a meeting. You two were waiting for me. And at some point between 'we are hungry' and 'the phantom truck of the board of directors'... you decided to take my car."
Clara raised a finger. "Borr—"
Your murderous glare shut her up immediately, and Irene continued.
"You drove to a restaurant."
You barely nodded.
"You bought burgers. And then you turned a parking lot pillar into a participant to cover up your lack of ability to drive properly."
Your sister placed the keys on the bench and rubbed her forehead.
And for a second—just one—she reminded you less of the Barça captain and more of your older sister.
"Why lie?" she asked then, lowering her voice a bit.
The question hit you harder than any scolding.
"Because…" you looked at the floor, "I thought you were going to be furious. I'm really sorry. We didn't mean to mess it up. We were just hungry and it seemed like a good idea at the time… and then the hit happened and we panicked."
Irene watched you for a few seconds.
"And you," she turned toward Clara.
Clara straightened up as if she were standing before a court. "I'm sorry too."
"A lot?"
"A whole lot."
"More than how sorry you were while you were organizing a cover-up?"
Clara hesitated. "…yes?"
"And the truck?"
"That was maybe a bit too creative."
Irene let out some air through her nose. It wasn't exactly a laugh, but it was dangerously close.
You noticed it. And Clara did too. Because both of you looked at each other out of the corner of your eyes with a suicidal shred of hope.
Irene saw you exchange that look and arched an eyebrow. "Don't mistake patience for absolution."
The hope died instantly.
Your sister picked up the keys again. "Let's go."
Your stomach dropped once more. "To the car?"
"Yes, Y/N. To the car. I want to see the crime."
Clara muttered something that sounded like a prayer as she grabbed her things and linked her arm through yours.
The walk to the parking lot was unbearably silent. The only sounds were sneakers against the floor and the faint jingling of the keys in Irene's hand.
Both of you walked half a step behind her, like two convicts being escorted to their public execution.
When they turned the corner and the car came into view, Irene stopped.
She observed the damaged side. The scratch. The dent.
The stripped paint. And the famous pillar.
Her eyes went from the car to the concrete. Then back to the car.
Then she turned her head toward you both.
"…Fifteen centimeters."
Clara swallowed hard. "Twelve if we're being optimistic."
Irene ignored her. She approached slowly, passed her hand near the damage, and examined the surface with the precision of a forensic detective.
You were barely breathing. The silence stretched out for so long that you started considering pretending to faint.
"Do you know what bothers me the most?"
"The dent?" you asked weakly.
"No." Irene straightened up and looked at you both. "That you parked terribly."
The silence lasted for half a second. And then Clara let out a choked noise. You were left with your mouth wide open, halfway between relief and utter confusion.
"If you were going to wreck it, you could have at least left it centered."
Clara looked at you. You looked at Clara, and both of you burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh," you whispered, horrified.
"I'm trying," she gasped, "but I thought she was going to kill us."
"I'm still considering it," she said.
Irene watched you both for a few seconds, shaking her head. With that impossible mix of exhaustion, incredulity, and resigned affection that only older sisters mastered.
"But," she said, putting her hands into her tracksuit pockets. "You two are paying for the repairs."
The laughter died immediately.
"Both of us?" Clara said.
"Both of you."
"But I was only moral support."
"Hey!!" you said, offended, as you smacked her arm.
Irene got into the car and you both followed immediately, while Clara muttered something about starting to sell non-essential organs.
"Okay, tomorrow first thing I'm going to talk to the coaching staff. For the next two weeks, you two are going to be officially in charge of collecting all the balls, cones, and bibs after every training session. And if a single ball is missing from the inventory, another week will be added."
Clara stopped muttering. "I'm sorry... what?"
Irene adjusted the rearview mirror with absolute calmness as she started the car. "You heard me."
The engine came to life, and the familiar sound only managed to increase your sense of an anticipated funeral.
"Two weeks," Clara repeated, as if she needed to process it out loud. "Of picking up... things?"
"Balls, cones, and bibs," Irene listed with surgical serenity as she drove out of the parking lot. "Football community service."
You were still trying to take it all in.
"Is that an official punishment, or did you just make it up?"
"I am the captain. The line between those two things is very flexible."
Clara put a hand to her chest. "This is an abuse of power."
"This is the consequence of actions."
"But we are already going to pay for the car!"
"Correct."
"Then this is a double penalty!"
Irene didn't even look at her.
"Two weeks is a whole lot," you protested.
"It could have been three."
"Irene!"
"Y/N."
You sighed and crossed your arms.
The car moved in silence toward your homes. The perfect crime had been an absolute disaster, the truck lie had lasted less than a minute, and a month of hard labor and empty pockets awaited you, but as Clara reached into the bag again to rescue the last french fry and winked at you, you knew that at least the story had been worth it.
Hello. Would you be willing to write Irenes little sister is also a Barcelona Player and she is best Friends with Clara. They Take Irenes Car and accidentally Put a Scratch or dent on it. Since they didn't ask to Take the Car they try to hide it?
sorry for the delay, your request has just been posted, enjoy :)
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Off The Record || Ella Toone x Detective Sister!Reader x Alessia Russo
After months of silence following a night that changed everything in Switzerland, Alessia Russo and Ella Toone's sister meet again at a seemingly innocent dinner.
Based on this request -> here, I hope you like it!!
Masterlist
---
Dinners hosted by Ella were rarely quiet.
Ella insisted on calling them “chill plans,” as if that could erase the fact that they always ended up turning into a chaotic mix of overly loud laughter, overlapping conversations, and at least one absurd argument about football that no one remembered starting.
Alessia knew this.
And yet she had agreed to come.
Maybe because it was summer and London felt strangely light that night. Maybe because she hadn't run into several of the girls in weeks.
Or maybe—and that possibility was much more uncomfortable to admit—because when Ella casually mentioned that perhaps her sister might show up, something in her stomach had tightened before she could help it.
The restaurant was filled with the elegant murmur of glasses and low conversations. Warm light. Small candles. Barely perceptible music.
Ella was talking animatedly from the other side of the table while Leah and Lotte argued about some impossible play that probably only they understood.
Alessia slowly twirled the glass between her fingers.
"You're missing the conversation on purpose," Taylor commented, watching her over the rim of her glass.
"I'm participating."
"Liar."
Alessia let out a tiny smile. "I'm tired."
"Uh-huh."
Taylor studied her for a second longer.
Too perceptive for her own good.
"Are you expecting someone?"
The question came so casually that it was almost unfair.
Alessia took a small sip before answering. "No."
Taylor arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
Luckily, Ella interrupted before she could keep questioning.
"She’s taking too long," she complained dramatically while checking her phone. "I told her that if she didn't come in person, I was going to get her."
Alessia felt the name even before hearing it.
As if her body had learned to recognize it before her head.
"She works too much," Ella continued, shaking her head. "Honestly, I think the police station adopted her."
A small laugh went around the table.
Alessia tried to smile too.
She tried.
Because there was something uncomfortable about hearing people talk about you as if you were still a normal part of her life.
And maybe that was the most ridiculous thing of all.
It wasn't that you two had stopped knowing each other.
It wasn't enmity. Not even a fight.
It was worse.
Because silence was much harder to explain.
Before, you used to talk. Not always. But enough.
Occasional texts. Jokes when Ella organized gatherings. Unexpectedly long conversations about any silly thing while waiting for Ella to show up late to her own plans.
Alessia had learned to recognize your dry humor. Your exhausted way of smiling after long shifts. The way you seemed to observe everything before speaking.
And after Switzerland…
Nothing. No fight. No closure.
Just a distance so carefully constructed that it hurt to admit how much she had noticed it.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
July.
The memory appeared without asking for permission. Confetti. Overly loud music.
The glorious weight of the trophy still running through the entire hotel like live electricity. And a pair of tired eyes looking at her from the other side of the VIP lounge.
Alessia pushed the thought away before letting it go too far.
Not yet. She didn't want to go back there just yet.
"Look who decided to honor us with her presence."
Ella's voice cut through the noise at the table.
And everything inside Alessia went still.
It was almost automatic.
She looked up, and there you were.
Dark coat over your arm. Hair still slightly damp, as if you had stopped by home in a rush before coming. The tiredness was still marked under your eyes, softened only slightly by the warm light of the restaurant.
Something stupid and far too familiar settled in Alessia's chest.
Because the problem had never been no longer seeing you.
It was that you still felt just as easy to find in any crowd.
Ella practically threw herself toward you.
"Look who decided to show up!"
Your small laugh arrived seconds later.
And Alessia hated the instant relief it brought her to hear it.
"I missed you too."
"You're late."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Ella stepped back just enough to look at you. "I was moments away from personally coming to kidnap you."
"Dramatic."
The conversations around continued as Ella dragged you toward the table.
Alessia watched without wanting to watch.
The tired way you said hello. The automatic politeness. That almost imperceptible gesture of scanning the room before settling into it.
And then your eyes found hers. Just a second. But it was enough.
Because for an instant, the glasses, the music, the conversations vanished.
And in their place appeared something much more dangerous.
White sheets. A quiet room. Your low voice in the middle of the early morning.
Alessia's heart stumbled against its own ribs.
Too fast. Too familiar.
Ella, completely unaware of the emotional disaster she was managing, gently pushed you into the empty seat next to her.
"At least she changed her clothes. Last time she was wearing that leather jacket that smells like old police station coffee."
Alessia barely heard the laughter.
Because suddenly you were too close.
The clean perfume. The accidental brush of your arm as you sat down. And that absurd bodily awareness that she hated not having forgotten.
You settled in with quiet movements.
Controlled.
As if nothing between you two had changed. As if you had never stopped talking.
Alessia held your gaze for just an instant before speaking. "Hey."
Your attention shifted to her automatically, a bit surprised.
"I thought the earth had swallowed you whole." Her voice came out softer than intended.
A small smile appeared on your mouth. And it was worse. Because she still knew exactly what those smiles looked like.
"The earth tried," you said, settling the napkin on your lap. "But it seems it still doesn't want to take responsibility for me."
Alessia's lips curved just slightly.
Small. Involuntary.
Because to her, that was what was unfair. That even after months, it was still so easy to feel thrown off-balance around you.
The conversations resumed their course around the table. Something about holidays. About the next national team camp. Some gossip someone had found out about.
Alessia tried to concentrate. She really tried.
But it was complicated when your presence occupied too much space even without doing anything.
It didn't help that you were sitting so close.
Nor that you still smelled faintly of soap and that soft perfume that characterized you. Nor that, for some unbearable reason, you still looked exactly like the type of person who belonged to long nights and private conversations.
"Are you still alive or has the police station already declared you state property?" Lotte asked from across the table.
Your small, amused exhalation came before the answer. "They still let me out under supervision."
"A miracle," Leah chimed in.
"Don't encourage her," Ella said. "Then she thinks she's interesting."
"Too late."
The laughter circulated again.
And Alessia caught herself watching you while you spoke.
The quiet way you responded. The tiredness still hidden in your posture.
Everything so normal it was almost irritating.
Because that was what was baffling.
You seemed perfectly comfortable.
As if the months of distance had been insignificant.
As if Switzerland belonged to a different life.
"And you?" you asked then, turning just slightly toward her. "How's summer going?"
Alessia took a second too long to answer. "Good."
Your eyebrow arched just slightly. "How descriptive."
The observation pulled an ironic smile from her.
Terrible idea.
"I learned it from your texts."
And there it was.
Small. Soft.
But enough.
Something tightened between the two of you.
Because before she could stop herself, the phrase had already come out.
And you understood it.
Of course you understood it.
Your fingers went still just for a moment over your glass.
It wasn't dramatic. Probably no one else noticed it.
But Alessia did.
And for an instant, she hated the cruel relief it brought her.
Because at least it meant something.
That she hadn't been the only one feeling the weight of the silence.
Ella, completely oblivious, appeared in the middle of the moment.
"Ah, look, you're already talking!" she smiled exaggeratedly. "I feared I'd have to put you two in family therapy."
"Ella," Alessia murmured.
"What? I just support social reconciliation."
"We're not even fighting," you said, your response coming out automatically.
And Alessia felt something uncomfortable shift beneath her ribs.
Because technically, it was true.
You weren't fighting.
That would have been easier.
Simpler than faking normalcy with someone whose absence she had learned to notice all too well.
By the time dinner came to an end and everyone started saying goodbye, fate seemed to have decided it wanted to pull a good joke on you.
Your sister was watching you with a suspicious naturalness. Very suspicious.
"You're heading north, right?"
You blinked. "...Yes."
"Perfect," Ella repeated, far too pleased with herself. "Then you can drop Lessi off."
Alessia felt something drop straight into her stomach. "Ella—"
"What?" her smile was manufactured innocence. "It's literally fifteen minutes. Besides, with the storm that's brewing outside, no car is going to accept your ride in less than an hour."
Alessia gritted her teeth, keeping her gaze fixed on her best friend while trying, desperately, to decipher if this was just one of Ella's usual thoughtless ideas or if the subtle tension that had floated over the table during the last two hours had been too obvious.
Beside her, you didn't move immediately. There was a fraction of a second in which your fingers, already holding the car keys, stopped their jingling. Your eyes scanned the space between Ella and Alessia, measuring the escape options with that analytical speed that was so unsettling sometimes. But there was no clean way out. Refusing to drive your sister's best friend under a sky that threatened to break over London would have been declaring out loud that, indeed, something was going on.
"I don't mind," you said finally.
Ella clapped once, triumphant. "Look how nice it is when you cooperate."
Alessia wanted to protest again. But the problem was that an embarrassingly honest part of her had already said yes beforehand.
So she ended up adjusting her coat while the group continued to scatter around.
And maybe that was the dangerous part.
That only when the others started disappearing into taxis, cars, and distracted goodbyes did Alessia realize something.
The first time they were going to be left alone since Switzerland was about to happen right now.
From minute one, the car ride was full of awkwardness, the only thing that could be heard was the radio trying to fill the silence.
Alessia didn't know what to say, she had so many things to let out that she didn't know where to start. Her thoughts immediately flew back to that July night in Switzerland after winning the Euros.
The entire hotel was still vibrating after the victory.
Music escaped from the main lounge with overly loud bass, mixing with bursts of laughter, improvised chants, the metallic sound of the trophy constantly changing hands, and the gold medal still heavy on her neck.
Everyone seemed unable to stand still. And Alessia understood why.
They had won.
There wasn't a word big enough to describe it. She had spent most of the night surrounded by cameras, teammates, and endless hugs. Celebrations that blended into one another until they lost their shape.
But even in the middle of all that, she had seen you.
Not immediately. It was later. When she escaped the lounge for a few minutes looking for air.
You were leaning against the bar with a glass in your hands, away from all the chaos. The dim lighting of the hotel drew soft shadows on your face as you absentmindedly watched the movement in the lounge.
You were still wearing your accreditation hanging around your neck. You were dressed in the England shirt with Ella's name and number on it.
Your eyes found hers as soon as she approached. A small smile appearing. The same one that always seemed to reach your eyes first whenever it came to her.
"I thought you had already moved onto the stage," you said.
Alessia let out a tired exhale as she leaned her forearms on the bar. "I considered it."
"And?"
"Too much noise."
"Coward."
Alessia turned her head just slightly toward you. "Says the person hiding at a bar."
An amused exhale escaped you, mixing with the murmur of the music that kept bouncing from the dance floor.
"I have a sister who celebrates for both of us," you replied, taking a light sip from your glass. "Someone has to make sure she doesn't try to steal the team bus tomorrow morning. Tactical strategy."
Alessia laughed, feeling her shoulders truly relax for the first time all night. Being around you always had that effect. It didn't matter if the world outside was exploding, if they had just made history in front of thousands of people, or if photographers were still looking for any angle in the lobby; your presence worked like an anchor. A bubble of silence in the middle of the noise.
They stayed there for a couple of minutes, simply watching the tide of white shirts and confetti flooding the hotel, sharing a closeness that at that moment felt as natural as breathing.
"Your eyes are red, Toone," Alessia commented in a low voice, using the family last name with that confidence that only came from having practically grown up inside your house. "You should go to sleep."
"You're holding a gold medal and you can barely keep your back straight, Russo," you hit back, turning completely to look at her, with a softness in your eyes that gave Alessia a strange flip in her stomach. "Congratulations, by the way. Truly. You did amazing."
The compliment, said in that voice of yours so stripped of media paraphernalia, slipped right under her skin. Alessia swallowed hard, unable to break eye contact. Her fingers, unconsciously fidgeting with the gold metal on her chest, stopped.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Neither of them realized it, but suddenly, the space between the two became too small. The air grew charged with a different kind of static, one that had nothing to do with the championship and everything to do with the years of restrained glances behind Ella's back, with the messages that were deleted three times before being sent, and with that absurd curiosity that both had tried to bury under the label of "friendly complicity."
"Let's get out of here," Alessia blurted out before her brain could process the risk.
Your eyes remained on her. Not alarmed.
Just surprised.
"Is this a kidnapping?" you asked finally, with that quiet irony you used when you needed to hide something behind humor.
Alessia let out a smile. "Depends."
You didn't ask any more analytical questions, nor did you weigh the consequences with the coldness of your profession. You just left the half-finished glass on the wood of the bar, unhooked the accreditation from your neck, and gently took Alessia's hand to leave.
The trip up to the fifth floor where her room was had no words. The digital indicator of the numbers kept rising with a monotonous hum that seemed to amplify the echo of your own breathing inside the metal cabin. The Euro victory faded into the absolute background; the real adrenaline was locked inside that lift with you.
And then, the room.
The sharp click of the door fitting into the frame was the trigger. Neither of you bothered to look for the light switch. In the darkness broken only by the light from the outside corridors, your hands found her waist with an urgency Alessia had never seen from you. You moved with a restrained desperation, tearing down in a single stroke the clean distance you had maintained for years.
Your lips against hers had a hungry taste, and Alessia gave in completely, tangling her fingers in your hair, dragging you toward the bed in a whirlwind of white sheets and breathless gasps.
But the world seemed to slow down just after that. Because, at some point between messy breaths and the adrenaline still running through her body, your hands stopped moving with desperation and went still against her.
That was when the silence appeared.
Not awkward. Just intimate.
The dim light coming in from the city barely outlined your face when you turned your head and your eyes met.
Alessia felt a small flip in her stomach.
Because the problem had never been loving you.
The problem was that now she could no longer pretend this didn't exist.
Your fingers brushed a strand of hair away from her face with a softness that contrasted too much with the intensity of seconds before.
And that was where something shifted. Because until that moment, she could justify it. The euphoria. The cup. The victory. The early morning. The tiredness.
All the irresponsible things that usually accompany unrepeatable nights.
But this had nothing to do with impulses.
Your eyes scanned her face as if you were memorizing it. And Alessia felt fear.
An absurd and completely different kind of fear.
Not of you. But of what came next.
"Less—" Your voice came out low. Almost cautious.
She swallowed hard. "Don't say anything."
The phrase escaped too quickly. Your eyebrows tensed just slightly. Not hurt, just surprised.
Alessia shifted her gaze toward the ceiling. She had spent the night celebrating in front of entire stadiums, and yet this was what had her out of breath.
"Not because I regret it," she clarified immediately, far too fast.
Your eyes returned to her. Waiting.
Always too patient. And maybe that was what ended up disarming her.
"Just..." she let out a small exhale, "I don't want to think just yet."
For an instant, you didn't answer. Outside, the music kept playing against the hotel windows. But inside there, everything had been suspended.
You forced yourself to nod. Without pressure. Without demanding explanations.
"Okay."
Afterward, you didn't talk much. The early morning ended up turning into something unexpectedly quiet. You watched as she settled her head against your chest, you began to draw random shapes on her back while you felt Alessia intertwining your other hand with hers.
They fell asleep like that, with fingers joined and the distant echo of the celebrations fading little by little against the glass. Alessia fell asleep thinking that, at least for a few hours, the future could wait.
Until she opened her eyes at eight in the morning.
The sun's rays were barely starting to enter the room, but the first thing she noticed was the cold. The right side of the bed was completely empty.
Her heart gave an uncomfortable thud. There was no drama. No note left behind like in the movies.
Just an impeccably tidy room. And her phone vibrating on the nightstand.
For a ridiculously hopeful second, she thought you might still be downstairs. That maybe you had gone for coffee. But upon opening the text, she felt her stomach sink.
Y/N: Had to leave early. Work. x
Alessia read the text twice.
And yet, something felt strange. Because you weren't running away. But you hadn't stayed, either.
That was where it all started. Not with a fight.
Nor with a mistake. But with something much more silent. Because the following days were full of airports, press, and celebrations on her end. And you, meanwhile, excusing yourself with work.
Your replies took longer. Hers did too.
Messages written and deleted. Conversations that always seemed to be left halfway.
Until, without realizing it, both ended up building a distance as elegant as it was cowardly.
"You still play with your rings when you're nervous." Your voice finally broke the silence, bringing her back to the present.
She forced herself to blink, realizing that they had already arrived at her house. She let out a soft sigh, surrendering to the evidence, and let her hands drop to the sides of the seat. She knew you well enough to know that your detective eyes didn't miss those details, but the fact that you had mentioned it out loud—with that familiarity Alessia thought she had lost a long time ago—made the atmosphere inside the car shift completely.
Your eyes remained fixed on the windshield for a couple of seconds longer, watching the raindrops burst against the glass and slide down in perfect threads before the wiper cleared them away. The car engine was now turned off, and the lack of outside noise made every little exhale between the two of you heard with an almost painful clarity.
Alessia settled into the seat, leaning her shoulder against the passenger door. The cold from the window seeped slightly through her coat, but she didn't care. She was watching you in profile, taking in the line of your jaw and the way your fingers had finally relaxed their grip on the steering wheel.
"Why did you do it?" she asked suddenly. There was no anger in her voice, just a genuine curiosity that had been choked up in her throat for months.
The question hung suspended between you. Not an accusation. Not a reproach. Just truth.
The silence that followed was not evasive; Alessia recognized it all too well to mistake it. It was the silence of someone who was carefully choosing which part of herself to allow to be seen.
"That depends," you said at last, turning your head. "Which part are we talking about?"
Alessia held your gaze. "Don't do that."
Your fingers slid slowly off the steering wheel and came to rest on your leg.
"I'm not doing anything," you replied in a low voice. "I just want to be sure which version you need to hear."
Alessia dampened her lips before answering. "The one from the hotel. Everything. Did it mean anything to you?"
And for the first time since they had gotten into the car, it seemed like control was slipping away from you just a bit.
You let out a sigh and leaned your head back against the headrest. "Of course it meant something."
The answer came so directly that Alessia stopped breathing.
She hadn't expected it. Not like that.
Her fingers went still on her lap as something uncomfortable and dangerously close to relief rose up her chest.
But then you spoke again. "And that was exactly the problem."
The relief stumbled over itself.
Your eyes drifted toward the fogged-up window.
"I work with things that don't always stay at the office, Less."
She kept silent.
"It's not just horrible hours or calls at three in the morning," you continued. "There are people. Cases. Situaciones that I prefer never reach you. I learned a long time ago that the smartest thing to do is keep a distance between my life and the people I care about."
"So you decided for me?" she asked, and this time her voice carried a hint of bitterness.
"No." There was a pause in which the sound of the storm seemed to grow louder. "I tried to decide for both of us."
"That's not better."
"I never said it was."
The rain filled the silence after that. Your fingers rested still on your leg, but Alessia could notice the tension hidden behind that so carefully trained calm. And for the first time since she had known you, you didn't look like a detective. Just someone exhausted from holding too much.
"Ella doesn't know anything," you said suddenly, breaking the truce.
Alessia blinked, surprised by the turn in the conversation. Her best friend's name falling between you with a different weight.
"I know, she never knew. She wasn't going to find out from me."
"She's your best friend. And she's my sister."
Alessia felt something tighten inside her stomach.
"If this went wrong..." you swallowed hard, "I didn't want to see her caught in the middle."
And then came the part that Alessia didn't expect so quickly. Your honesty.
"I couldn't bear the thought of losing you both."
Alessia watched you for several seconds. A part of her understood it, but the other part was still hurt, because understanding wasn't always enough.
"And you thought this was better?"
Your expression tensed just slightly.
"Disappearing?" she continued, her voice still quiet but trembling underneath. "Leaving me to wake up alone and pretend afterward that nothing happened?"
Your lips parted. "Less..."
"I woke up and you were already gone."
Suddenly, guilt flashed through your eyes before you could hide it.
"I had to attend to a case."
Alessia shifted her gaze toward the rain. "I know."
"But also..." your voice dropped, "I was afraid to stay. I think I was trying to protect myself too."
"And you decided it had already gone wrong before even trying?"
You didn't answer. And that lack of defense was answer enough.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. The interior of the car felt too small now.
Alessia ran her tongue over her lips before asking the only question that mattered. "What do you want now?"
Your eyes met hers. For the first time, you didn't seem to weigh consequences.
Nor scenarios. Nor potential damage.
Just truth.
"I don't know. I just know I've spent months trying to convince myself that staying away was the right thing to do. And seeing you tonight made it much harder."
Alessia's heart gave an absurd thud. Painful, yet at the same time ridiculously hopeful.
"That would have been useful a few months ago."
Your lips curved just slightly. "I'm a detective. Emotional communication was never my strong suit."
A small laugh escaped Alessia's lips, the air shifting between you.
Not lighter. Just more real.
It was in that instant that she understood something fundamental: Switzerland had been an impulse. It had been the adrenaline of the cup, the confetti, the alcohol, and an unreal early morning on the fifth floor of a hotel. But this that was happening under the London storm was something else. This was real. It was much harder, because now both of you knew perfectly well what was at stake.
"Are you still afraid?" she asked in a whisper, leaning just slightly toward the center.
Your eyes didn't leave hers. You didn't lie. You knew that any evasion now would destroy the truce. "Yes."
Alessia nodded just slightly. "Good."
Your eyebrows moved subtly, surprised by her answer. And then she stepped a millimeter closer, letting her breath brush against your cheek.
"Me too."
The silence that followed no longer felt empty. Just full of everything that had been left pending for far too long.
Your eyes dropped for an instant toward her lips, lingering there, but you didn't lean in. Not this time. And Alessia understood why; you had already run away once for making decisions alone, and you weren't going to push her into anything she didn't consciously choose.
It was she who finished closing the distance. Slowly, almost cautiously, letting your breaths mingle first in the darkness of the car. Until finally, your lips met.
Nothing like the one in Switzerland. Not desperate. Not urgent. It was a slow, warm kiss. But above all, sincere.
Your hands found her face with a softness that completely disarmed her, and for the first time in months, she stopped feeling abandoned inside something that had never truly ended.
When you separated by just a few centimeters, neither of you spoke right away. There was no need. Your fingers kept brushing the line of her jaw, reluctant to lose contact, and Alessia's hand ended up finding yours over the car's center console.
When your fingers gently squeezed hers, Alessia decided that, for now, the future could wait a second time.
---
I'm not sure if I fully like this one or not, but I wanted to post something
Loving ur fics honestly they get me through some days :) any chance of an Alessia Russo x detective reader fic maybe reader is related to one of the other England girls as well.
thank you so much for your words, they mean a lot to me <3. I'm sorry your request took so long, I hope you like this one! honestly, I didn't quite know how to fully dive into R being a detective, so I just made small mentions of it, but I hope you like it anyway :)
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