Lucy_Bronze

Chapter Thirteen: The Game

Y/N was trying very hard to concentrate on Lucy's rib mobility, but it was becoming increasingly difficult when Lucy was standing in front of her in nothing but joggers and a sports bra.

"You're very tense," Lucy observed, watching Y/N's face.

"I'm concentrating."

"Your hands are shaking."

"They're not shaking."

"They're definitely shaking."

Y/N pressed her fingers more firmly against Lucy's ribs, checking for restrictions in movement. This was a perfectly normal physiotherapy assessment. She did this all the time. The fact that it was Lucy—Lucy with her stupidly defined abs and her annoyingly perfect posture—shouldn't make any difference.

"Deep breath in," Y/N instructed.

Lucy inhaled, her ribs expanding under Y/N's hands. Y/N tried to focus on the biomechanics, on the movement patterns, on literally anything except how warm Lucy's skin was.

"Is something wrong?" Lucy asked innocently.

"No. Why?"

"You seem distracted."

"I'm not distracted."

"You've been palpating the same rib for three minutes."

"I'm being thorough."

"You're being something."

Y/N stepped back, clearing her throat. "Your ribs are fine. No restrictions. You can put your shirt back on."

"Are you sure? You seemed very focused on that one spot."

"I'm positive. Shirt. Now."

Lucy grabbed her t-shirt with a knowing smile. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were flustered."

"I'm not flustered."

"Your face is red."

"The heating is on too high."

"It's September."

"It's a warm September."

"Y/N."

"What?"

"You can just say I make you nervous."

"You don't make me nervous."

"Then what do I make you?"

Distracted. Flustered. Extremely aware of every muscle in her body. "Annoyed. You make me annoyed."

"Liar."

Lucy pulled her shirt on—slowly, deliberately—and Y/N tried very hard not to watch. Failed, but tried.

"So," Lucy said, once she was dressed. "Millie's organizing a team night out tomorrow. You should come."

"I have work."

"It's Saturday. You close at six."

"I might have plans after."

"Do you?"

"I could."

"But do you?"

"No."

"Then come out with us."

Y/N hesitated. The last team outing had ended with Lucy punching someone. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"It'll be fine. Different venue, better security, and I promise not to assault anyone."

"That's not reassuring."

"Come on. Please? I want you there."

And there it was—that soft, hopeful expression that Y/N was completely incapable of saying no to.

"Fine," Y/N said. "But if this goes badly, I'm blaming you."

"Fair enough."

The next evening, Y/N stood in front of her closet having a minor crisis.

What did one wear to a night out with professional footballers? Her usual jeans and button-up seemed too casual. But she didn't own anything fancy. Her entire wardrobe was various shades of black with the occasional grey.

She texted Ella.

Y/N: What do I wear to a club?

Ella: Are you going OUT? Voluntarily?

Y/N: Yes.

Ella: With LUCY?

Y/N: And her team.

Ella: OMG

Ella: Okay wear the black jeans, the baggy ones

Ella: And that white shirt I made you buy

Y/N: I don't have a white shirt.

Ella: Yes you do, I literally watched you buy it

Y/N: Oh. That white shirt.

Ella: The one that shows off your arms

Y/N: This seems revealing.

Ella: That's the point!!! You have great arms, show them off

Y/N: I'm going to look like I'm trying too hard.

Ella: You're going out with Lucy. You should be trying hard.

Y/N: We're not together.

Ella: Sure you're not.

Y/N: We're not!

Ella: Then why are you having a wardrobe crisis?

Y/N didn't have a good answer for that.

She ended up in the fitted black jeans and the white shirt, her hair down for once instead of in its usual ponytail. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The shirt did show off her arms—the definition in her biceps and the tattoos on her forearms. She looked... good. Different. Like someone who actually went out instead of working until she passed out from exhaustion.

Lucy was picking her up at 8. At 7:55, Y/N's doorbell rang.

Lucy was early. Of course she was early.

Y/N opened the door and immediately forgot how to form words.

Lucy was wearing dark jeans and a tank top that showed off her arms in a way that should be illegal. Her hair was down, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she had on just enough makeup to make her eyes look even more striking than usual.

"Hi," Lucy said, then stopped. Her eyes traveled over Y/N slowly, appreciatively. "Wow."

"What?"

"You look... wow."

"That's not a sentence."

"You look really good, Y/N."

Y/N felt her face heat. "So do you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You look... the tank top is... your arms are—" She stopped. "You look nice."

Lucy grinned. "You're flustered again."

"I'm not flustered."

"You can't form complete sentences."

"That's unrelated."

"Sure it is." Lucy held out her hand. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

They drove to the club—a place in Central London that Millie had chosen. It was nicer than the last venue, with actual security at the door and a dress code that Y/N had apparently managed to meet.

The team was already there, scattered around a large table in the VIP section. Sam waved them over enthusiastically.

"Y/N! You came!"

"I was invited. Seemed rude not to."

"I like her," Sam announced to the table. "She stays."

"We've been over this," Y/N said. "That's not your decision."

"It absolutely is."

Y/N and Lucy settled in, Lucy sitting close enough that their thighs pressed together. The team was in good spirits—they'd won their match that afternoon—and the energy was infectious.

"Drinks?" Millie asked.

"Just water for now," Y/N said.

"Water? We're celebrating!"

"Someone has to be responsible."

"That's what taxis are for."

"Millie has a point," Lucy said.

"Don't encourage her."

They ordered drinks—Y/N eventually caving and getting a beer—and the conversation flowed easily. Y/N found herself actually enjoying it, the anxiety from earlier fading as she relaxed into the group dynamic.

Then Lucy stood up to go to the bar, and Y/N made the mistake of watching her walk away.

The tank top showed off not just her arms but her shoulders, her back, the way she moved with athletic grace that made people turn and stare. Y/N wasn't the only one watching—several people at nearby tables were tracking Lucy's progress across the room.

"You're staring," Sam said, leaning over with a knowing smile.

"I'm observing."

"You're staring. It's okay, everyone stares at Lucy."

"I'm not everyone."

"No, but you're definitely staring."

Y/N forced herself to look away and focus on the conversation at the table. They were discussing something about training schedules, and Y/N tried to contribute without revealing that she knew way too much about professional football training methods.

When Lucy came back with drinks, she leaned close to Y/N's ear. "Want to dance?"

"I don't dance."

"We've been over this. Everyone dances."

"I make an exception to that rule."

"Come on. One song."

"That's what you said last time."

"This time I mean it."

Y/N wanted to say no. Wanted to stay at the table where it was safe and she didn't have to worry about making a fool of herself. But Lucy was looking at her with those eyes, and Y/N was constitutionally incapable of refusing.

"Fine. One song."

They made it to the dance floor, and Y/N immediately regretted every decision that had led to this moment. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and she had no idea what to do with her body.

"Just move," Lucy said, starting to sway to the beat.

"That's terrible advice."

"It's the only advice I have."

Y/N tried to move, feeling awkward and stiff. But Lucy was smiling at her, dancing close, and gradually Y/N found herself relaxing into it.

"See?" Lucy said. "Not so bad."

"I look ridiculous."

"You look great."

"You're biased."

"I'm honest."

They danced for several songs, Lucy gradually moving closer until they were pressed together, moving in sync. It was intimate, charged, and Y/N was acutely aware of every point of contact.

"I need a drink," Y/N said eventually, needing some space before she did something stupid like kiss Lucy in the middle of the dance floor.

"Okay. I'll be right here."

Y/N made her way back to the bar, ordered water, and was waiting for it when she noticed Lucy wasn't on the dance floor anymore.

She scanned the room and found her—sitting at the bar on the opposite side, and she wasn't alone.

A woman was talking to her. A very attractive woman with long dark hair and a dress that probably cost more than Y/N's entire wardrobe. And she was leaning close to Lucy, smiling, clearly flirting.

Y/N felt something hot and uncomfortable twist in her chest.

She shouldn't care. They weren't together. Not officially. Not in any way that gave Y/N the right to be jealous.

But she was jealous. Intensely, irrationally jealous.

She moved closer, trying to hear the conversation over the music.

"—think you're amazing," the woman was saying. "I watched your match this afternoon. That tackle in the second half was incredible."

"Thanks," Lucy said. She didn't sound particularly interested, but she also wasn't shutting it down.

"I'm Sophia, by the way."

"Lucy."

"Oh, I know who you are." Sophia leaned even closer. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Come on. One drink. I promise I'm more interesting than I look."

Lucy laughed, and Y/N felt that hot feeling intensify.

She should walk away. Should give Lucy space to turn this woman down on her own. But her feet weren't cooperating with her brain.

"Lucy," Y/N said, appearing at her side.

Lucy turned, and something flickered across her face—satisfaction? Relief? Y/N couldn't tell.

"Hey. I was just—"

"Can we talk? Privately?"

"Sure. Excuse me," Lucy said to Sophia, who looked distinctly put out.

They found a quieter corner, away from the bar and the dance floor, and Y/N tried to figure out what to say. She didn't have a right to be jealous. Didn't have a right to pull Lucy away from a conversation.

"What's wrong?" Lucy asked.

"Nothing. I just—" Y/N stopped. "Who was that?"

"Sophia. She was just being friendly."

"She was flirting with you."

"Maybe a little."

"And you were letting her."

"Was I?" Lucy's smile was teasing now, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Yes. You were."

"Does that bother you?"

"No. Yes. I don't know."

"Y/N Y/L/N." Lucy stepped closer. "Are you jealous?"

"I'm not jealous."

"You sound jealous."

"I'm concerned."

"About what?"

"About that woman hitting on you."

"Why does that concern you?"

Because you're mine, Y/N wanted to say. But they weren't together. Not officially. Not in any way that gave her the right to claim Lucy.

"Because she seems... persistent," Y/N said instead.

"She does seem persistent."

"So maybe you should go back there and make it clear you're not interested."

"What if I am interested?"

Y/N felt like she'd been slapped. "What?"

"I mean, we're not together, right? Officially? So technically I'm free to talk to whoever I want."

"That's—" Y/N stopped. Lucy was right. They hadn't defined anything. Hadn't put labels on what they were doing. Y/N had no claim on her.

"So if I wanted to go back over there and let Sophia buy me a drink, that would be fine, right?"

"Right," Y/N said, her voice tight.

"Okay then." Lucy's smile was infuriating. "I'll see you later."

She walked back toward the bar, and Y/N stood there feeling like an idiot. This was a game. Lucy was playing a game, testing her, trying to get a reaction.

And Y/N had no idea what to do about it.

She watched Lucy sit back down next to Sophia, watched them resume their conversation. Sophia was laughing at something Lucy said, touching her arm, leaning in close.

Y/N's hands curled into fists.

This was stupid. She should just leave. Go home, forget about this, stop torturing herself by watching Lucy flirt with someone else.

But her feet still weren't cooperating.

She moved closer, close enough to hear their conversation again.

"—should get out of here," Sophia was saying. "Go somewhere quieter where we can actually talk."

"Maybe," Lucy said.

Sophia's hand was on Lucy's thigh now, high up, possessive. Lucy wasn't moving it away.

"I think you're incredibly sexy," Sophia said, leaning closer. "And I'd really like to kiss you."

Y/N saw red.

She crossed the distance between them in three strides, grabbed Lucy's face in both hands, and kissed her hard.

Lucy made a surprised noise but immediately kissed back, her hands coming up to grip Y/N's waist. The kiss was intense, possessive, claiming—everything Y/N had been holding back for weeks.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Y/N turned to Sophia.

"What are you looking at?" Y/N asked, her voice dangerous.

Sophia's eyes widened, and she quickly gathered her things and left without another word.

Y/N turned back to Lucy, who was smiling like she'd just won the lottery.

"So," Lucy said. "You are jealous."

"Shut up."

"That was very hot."

"I said shut up."

"Make me."

Y/N kissed her again, softer this time but no less intense. When they broke apart, Lucy was still smiling.

"Got what you wanted?" Y/N asked.

"Absolutely."

"You're infuriating."

"You love it."

"I tolerate it."

"Same thing."

"Stop saying that."

Lucy grabbed Y/N's hand. "Want to get out of here?"

"What about your team?"

"They're fine. I want to be alone with you."

"Why?"

"Because I've been trying to get your attention all night and you've been very determined to ignore me."

"I wasn't ignoring you."

"You were absolutely ignoring me. The sports bra thing earlier? The tank top? The dancing? All of it was to get your attention."

"That's manipulative."

"That's strategy."

"Same thing."

"You keep saying that. I don't think you know what it means."

"I know exactly what it means."

They made it outside, and Lucy called for her car. The drive to Lucy's house was tense, charged with something electric that Y/N couldn't name.

When they got inside, Narla greeted them enthusiastically, but Lucy just let her out into the garden and then turned to Y/Nwith intent in her eyes.

"Come here," Lucy said.

Y/N crossed to her, and suddenly she was being pushed back against the door, Lucy's mouth on hers. The kiss was desperate, heated, like Lucy had been holding back all night and couldn't anymore.

Y/N kissed back just as desperately, her hands finding Lucy's waist and pulling her closer. They stayed like that for minutes—or hours, Y/N lost track—just kissing against the door until both of them were breathing hard.

Lucy's hands moved to the hem of Y/N's shirt. "Can I—?"

"Yes."

Lucy pulled the shirt up and off, dropping it somewhere on the floor. Her eyes traveled over Y/N's torso—the sports bra, the defined abs, the faint scars on her arms.

"You're so beautiful," Lucy murmured.

"You're biased."

"I'm honest."

Lucy kissed her again, hands exploring now, mapping the planes of Y/N's stomach, the curve of her waist. It felt good, better than good, and Y/N let herself sink into it.

Then Lucy's hands moved to the clasp of her sports bra, and Y/N felt panic spike in her chest.

She kept kissing Lucy, tried to push through it, but her body had gone tense and Lucy noticed immediately.

"Hey," Lucy pulled back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Keep going."

"Y/N. You're tense."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Talk to me."

Y/N felt her face heat with embarrassment. "It's stupid."

"If it's bothering you, it's not stupid."

"I just—" Y/N stopped, trying to find words. "I've never done this before."

Lucy blinked. "Done what?"

"This. Sex. Any of it."

There was a beat of silence, and Y/N wanted to disappear into the floor.

"Oh," Lucy said softly. "Okay."

"I know I'm 23 and that's probably weird—"

"It's not weird."

"—and I know you probably expected—"

"Y/N. Stop." Lucy cupped her face gently. "It's not weird. And I didn't expect anything."

"You didn't?"

"No. I just wanted to kiss you. Everything else is... we don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

Y/N felt relief wash over her. "You're not disappointed?"

"Why would I be disappointed?"

"Because I'm 23 and inexperienced and probably terrible at this—"

"You're not terrible at anything. And being inexperienced isn't a bad thing."

"It feels like a bad thing."

"It's not." Lucy grabbed Y/N's discarded shirt and handed it to her. "Here. Put this back on."

"What?"

"Put it back on. We're going to go sit on the couch like normal people and not do anything you're not ready for."

"Lucy—"

"I'm serious. Come on."

Lucy grabbed her hand and pulled her to the couch, settling them both down. Y/N pulled her shirt back on, feeling simultaneously relieved and embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," Y/N said.

"For what?"

"For being weird about this."

"You're not being weird. You're being honest about your boundaries, which is exactly what you should do."

"But you wanted—"

"I wanted to kiss you. Which we did. Everything else can wait until you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready?"

"Then we'll figure something else out. But I don't think that's true."

"How do you know?"

"Because you kissed me in front of that entire club tonight. Because you were clearly into it until I moved too fast. Because this is about timing and comfort, not about whether you want to or not."

Y/N leaned her head on Lucy's shoulder. "You're very understanding about this."

"I care about you. I want you to be comfortable."

"Even if that means we don't have sex?"

"Even then. There's more to a relationship than sex."

"Is that what this is? A relationship?"

Lucy was quiet for a moment. "I don't know what this is. But I know I want to keep doing it. Whatever 'it' is."

"Me too."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the earlier tension dissipating. Y/N felt herself relaxing, the embarrassment fading into something more manageable.

"Can I ask you something?" Lucy said eventually.

"You can ask."

"Why haven't you... I mean, you're 23. Have you just not wanted to, or...?"

Y/N thought about how to explain it. "Bit of both, I guess. I never really had time when I was younger—too focused on school and football and trying to survive my parents. And then when I did have time, I was too anxious about it. Felt like everyone else had figured it out years ago and I was behind."

"You're not behind."

"I feel behind."

"That's just comparison. Everyone moves at their own pace."

"What was your first time like?"

"Awkward and fumbling and over embarrassingly quickly." Lucy laughed. "I was 17 and had no idea what I was doing."

"That's reassuring."

"My point is, everyone's first time is awkward. But you have the advantage of being with someone who actually cares about you and will make sure you're comfortable."

"You care about me?"

"Obviously. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Just checking."

They fell back into silence, and Y/N felt her eyes getting heavy. The adrenaline from earlier had worn off, leaving her exhausted.

"Tired?" Lucy asked.

"Bit."

"Want to sleep here?"

"On the couch?"

"We can move to the bed if you want."

"Couch is fine."

Lucy shifted so they were lying down, Y/N's back pressed against the couch cushions and Lucy curled around her front. Narla eventually came back inside and settled at their feet, and everything felt peaceful, comfortable, right.

"Lucy?" Y/N murmured, already half-asleep.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not making this weird."

"Thanks for being honest with me."

"We're very mature."

"The most mature."

"Go to sleep, Lucy."

"You go to sleep."

"I am sleeping."

"No you're not. You're talking."

"Talking in my sleep."

"That's not how sleep works."

"You're not how sleep works."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Your face doesn't make sense."

Lucy laughed softly. "Go to sleep, Y/N."

"Make me."

But Y/N was already drifting off, warm and safe and comfortable in Lucy's arms. And as she fell asleep, her last thought was that maybe being inexperienced wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Not when she was with someone who made her feel like this—safe, cared for, like she wasn't broken or wrong or behind.

Just Y/N.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11

Chapter Twelve: The Dates

"This is a terrible idea," Y/N said, staring at the bowling shoes Lucy was trying to hand her.

"Why is it a terrible idea?"

"Because bowling shoes are a crime against humanity. Look at them. They're hideous."

"They're functional."

"They're functionally hideous."

"Just put them on, Y/N."

"Make me."

Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe."

"Because I will absolutely make you put on these shoes."

"I'd like to see you try."

Five minutes later, Y/N was sitting on a bench with Lucy kneeling in front of her, forcibly removing her boots.

"This is undignified," Y/N complained.

"This is your own fault for being difficult."

"I'm not being difficult. I'm being principled."

"You're being a child."

"Same thing."

Lucy got one boot off and started on the other. "You know, for someone who claims to be mature and responsible, you're remarkably stubborn about stupid things."

"Bowling shoes aren't stupid things. They're important matters of personal dignity."

"They're shoes."

"They're ugly shoes."

"All bowling shoes are ugly. That's part of the experience."

"Then the experience is flawed."

Lucy got the second boot off and held up the bowling shoes triumphantly. "Foot."

"No."

"Y/N."

"Lucy."

"I will sit here all night."

"So will I."

They stared at each other for a long moment, both refusing to budge. Finally, someone behind them cleared their throat.

"Are you two going to bowl or just argue about shoes?" a teenager asked, clearly waiting for their lane.

Y/N sighed and stuck out her foot. "Fine. But I'm doing this under protest."

"Your protest is noted." Lucy slipped the shoes on with a smug smile. "See? Not so bad."

"They're terrible and I hate them."

"You'll survive."

They made it to their lane—number two, which Lucy claimed was lucky—and Y/N had to admit the shoes were actually comfortable, even if they looked ridiculous.

"Okay," Lucy said, selecting a bowling ball. "What are we playing for?"

"Playing for?"

"Yeah. Stakes. Makes it more interesting."

"I thought we were just bowling for fun."

"Fun is for people who aren't competitive. We need stakes."

"What kind of stakes?"

Lucy thought for a moment. "Loser has to cook dinner for a week."

"That's not fair. You're a good cook."

"Exactly. So you better win."

"You're on."

Lucy went first, strutting up to the lane with entirely too much confidence. She released the ball with perfect form, and it curved beautifully down the lane to hit the pins dead center.

Strike.

"Show off," Y/N muttered.

"That's just skill, baby."

"Don't call me baby."

"Why not?"

"Because we haven't established if that's an acceptable term of endearment."

"Noted. Would you prefer 'darling'? 'Sweetheart'? 'My beloved'?"

"I'd prefer Y/N."

"Boring. Your turn, my beloved."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

Y/N grabbed a ball and approached the lane. She'd bowled before—mostly at birthday parties as a kid—but it had been years. Still, how hard could it be?

She released the ball, and it immediately veered into the gutter.

"Gutter ball!" Lucy announced gleefully. "That's zero points."

"I'm warming up."

"Sure you are."

Y/N's second ball knocked down six pins, which she considered a moral victory.

"Six pins. Not bad for someone who's 'warming up.'"

"Shut up."

They continued like that for several frames, Lucy maintaining a comfortable lead while Y/N's balls had a disturbing tendency to find the gutter. By the fifth frame, Y/N was getting frustrated.

"This game is rigged," she announced.

"How is bowling rigged?"

"The lanes are uneven. My ball keeps curving."

"That's called physics, Y/N. And possibly poor technique."

"My technique is fine."

"Your technique is sending balls into the gutter."

"That's the lane's fault."

"Sure it is."

On her next turn, Y/N was lining up her shot when she noticed Lucy standing directly in her line of sight, stretching with her arms above her head and Y/N's concentration wavered.

"What are you doing?" Y/N asked.

"Stretching. I'm stiff."

"You're distracting me."

"Am I?" Lucy smiled innocently. "That's not intentional."

"Yes it is."

"Prove it."

Y/N tried to focus on the pins, but Lucy was now leaning against the ball return, all casual confidence and visible abs. It was extremely distracting.

"Stop it," Y/N said.

"Stop what? I'm just standing here."

"You're deliberately standing there to distract me."

"If you're distracted by me just existing, that sounds like a you problem."

Y/N threw the ball with more force than necessary. It curved beautifully down the lane and knocked down nine pins.

"Ha!" Y/N spun around triumphantly. "See? Not distracted."

"You left one pin standing."

"That's nine more than a gutter ball."

"Fair point."

When Lucy's turn came around, Y/N decided two could play at that game. She positioned herself where Lucy couldn't help but see her and started doing "stretches" that were absolutely unnecessary for bowling.

"What are you doing?" Lucy asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Stretching. I'm stiff."

"You're mocking me."

"I'm just existing. If that's distracting, that sounds like a you problem."

Lucy narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She lined up her shot, released the ball, and—

Gutter ball.

"What?" Lucy stared at the lane in shock. "That never happens."

"Guess you got distracted."

"You did that on purpose."

"Did what? I was just stretching."

"You were being deliberately distracting."

"Prove it."

They spent the rest of the game trying to distract each other in increasingly ridiculous ways. Lucy would lean over to tie her shoe at strategic moments. Y/N would adjust her shirt collar just as Lucy was about to bowl. Lucy started making commentary about how the lighting made Y/N's eyes look particularly nice. Y/N countered by pointing out how Lucy's biceps looked great when she threw the ball.

By the final frame, they were neck and neck, both of them having bowled significantly worse than their first few frames.

"This is your fault," Lucy said. "I was winning before you started the distraction tactics."

"You started it with the stretching."

"That was legitimate stretching."

"It was strategic positioning."

"Same thing."

"Not even close."

Lucy bowled her final frame—eight pins, then a spare. Respectable, but not great.

"Beat that," Lucy said.

Y/N needed nine pins to win. She picked up her ball, approached the lane, and released it with what she hoped was perfect form.

The ball curved down the lane and hit the pins dead center.

Strike.

"Yes!" Y/N spun around with her arms in the air. "I win!"

"That was luck."

"That was skill."

"You got five gutter balls this game. That's not skill."

"And yet I still won."

Lucy looked genuinely put out, which was adorable. "Best two out of three?"

"Nope. You said one game, stakes were one game. I win. You cook for a week."

"That's not fair. You cheated."

"I didn't cheat. I employed strategic distraction techniques."

"That's cheating."

"No, that's psychology."

"Same thing."

"You keep saying that. I don't think you know what 'same thing' means."

Lucy crossed her arms, pouting. "You're very smug for someone who bowled five gutter balls."

"I'm very smug for someone who won despite bowling five gutter balls."

"I demand a rematch."

"Denied. Take your loss with grace."

"I don't have grace. I'm a sore loser."

"I've noticed."

Two days later, Lucy dragged Y/N to a mini-golf course.

"This will go better than bowling," Lucy announced.

"Why?"

"Because I'm excellent at mini-golf."

"Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're probably excellent at everything and it's very annoying."

"You think I'm excellent?"

"I think you're an overachiever."

"That's not a no."

They paid for their round and grabbed putters. The course was themed like a jungle, complete with plastic animals and water features that were definitely health hazards.

"Same stakes as last time?" Lucy asked.

"You want to lose twice in one week?"

"I'm not going to lose."

"Famous last words."

"I'm serious. I'm very good at mini-golf."

"We'll see."

Lucy was, annoyingly, very good at mini-golf. She got a hole in one on the first hole, then another on the second. By the third hole, Y/N was getting concerned.

"How are you this good?" Y/N asked.

"Practice. I come here sometimes when I need to clear my head."

"You come to mini-golf to clear your head?"

"It's meditative."

"It's mini-golf."

"Meditative mini-golf."

Y/N managed to keep it close for the first few holes, but by the eighth hole—a particularly tricky one with a windmill—Lucy was ahead by six strokes.

"This is humiliating," Y/N said.

"You're doing fine."

"I'm losing by six strokes."

"Could be worse."

"How?"

"Could be seven strokes."

"I'm going to hit you with this putter."

"That's assault."

"It's justice."

On the ninth hole, Y/N noticed Lucy bending down to "check the green" directly in her line of sight. Her jeans were doing impressive things, and Y/N's putt went wide by at least two feet.

"Oops," Lucy said, not sounding sorry at all.

"You did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

"Bent over. Right there. Where I could see."

"I was checking the slope of the green."

"There's no slope. It's artificial turf."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Hmm. Must have miscalculated."

"You're cheating."

"I'm using my assets."

"That's definitely cheating."

When Y/N's turn came, she made sure to take her time lining up her shot, bending down to "check the angle" while Lucy watched. The position showed off exactly what she wanted it to show off.

"That's not fair," Lucy said.

"What's not fair?"

"You're... doing that."

"Doing what? I'm checking my angle."

"You're being deliberately distracting."

"If me checking my angle is distracting, that sounds like—"

"Don't say it."

"—a you problem."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

They made it through the rest of the course trading distraction tactics and increasingly ridiculous accusations of cheating. Lucy claimed Y/N's putter was illegal. Y/N suggested Lucy was using professional-grade golf balls. Lucy accused Y/N of creating wind currents with her breathing.

In the end, Lucy won by three strokes.

"I win," Lucy announced.

"You cheated."

"I played strategically."

"Same thing."

"You literally used that excuse after bowling."

"That was different."

"How?"

"Because I won."

Lucy laughed and bumped Y/N's shoulder. "Sore loser."

"The sorest."

"Good thing you're pretty."

"Good thing you're good at cooking."

"Wait, we didn't set stakes for this one."

"Oh. Right." Y/N thought about it. "Best two out of three?"

"What's the third competition?"

"I don't know. We'll figure something out."

The "something" ended up being football.

Lucy had suggested it casually—"Want to kick a ball around sometime?"—and Y/N had agreed before thinking about the implications.

Which were: Lucy was a professional footballer. One of the best players in the world. And Y/N hadn't played seriously in years.

This was going to be a disaster.

They met at a small field near Lucy's house on a Sunday morning. It was empty except for them, the grass slightly damp with dew.

"Ready to be humiliated?" Lucy asked, already juggling a ball.

"Ready to prove you wrong."

"Confident. I like it."

"I'm full of misplaced confidence."

"That's my favorite kind."

They started with just passing, Y/N's touch rusty but gradually improving. Lucy was taking it easy on her, Y/N could tell—passing gently, not using her full speed or skill.

"Stop going easy on me," Y/N said.

"I'm not going easy on you."

"Yes you are. Pass properly."

"This is properly."

"Lucy."

"Fine." Lucy's next pass came in hard and fast. Y/N trapped it cleanly, surprising both of them.

"Not bad," Lucy said.

"I told you I used to play."

"You said you were decent."

"I was. Am. Whatever."

They moved to one-on-one, taking turns trying to get past each other. Lucy was obviously better—her footwork was incredible, her touch perfect—but Y/N held her own better than expected.

"You're actually pretty good," Lucy said after Y/N managed to dispossess her.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I am surprised. Most people can't get the ball off me."

"Most people aren't as stubborn as me."

"Fair point."

They continued playing, both of them getting more competitive. Lucy nutmegged Y/N twice, which was humiliating. Y/N managed to dribble past Lucy once, which felt like a major victory.

"Okay," Lucy said, breathing hard. "One more. If you can get past me and score, you win the overall competition."

"And if I can't?"

"Then I win, and you have to admit I'm better at sports than you."

"Those weren't the original stakes."

"New stakes. Better stakes."

"What do I get if I win?"

"The satisfaction of beating a professional footballer."

"That's not tangible."

"Fine. Dinner. Wherever you want. My treat."

"You always pay anyway."

"This time I'll pay without you arguing about it."

"Deal."

Y/N started at midfield, Lucy positioned defensively. This was stupid—Y/N knew she couldn't actually beat Lucy, not really—but she was going to try anyway.

She took off, moving the ball forward with quick touches. Lucy backpedaled, patient, clearly not worried.

Y/N feinted left, then went right. Lucy didn't bite. She tried a stepover. Lucy just smiled.

"You're going to have to do better than that," Lucy said.

"I'm warming up."

"Sure you are."

Y/N tried another move—a fake shot that turned into a cut inside. Lucy was there immediately, blocking the angle.

Then Y/N did something she'd practiced as a kid—a quick elastico that sent the ball one way while her body went the other.

It worked.

She was past Lucy, clear path to goal, and—

Arms wrapped around her waist and suddenly she was being pulled backward. She tried to stay on her feet but Lucy's momentum was too much. They went down together, Y/N landing on her back with Lucy on top of her.

They were both laughing, breathless from the run and the tackle.

"That was a foul," Y/N said.

"That was excellent defending."

"You literally dragged me to the ground."

"I stopped you from scoring."

"By fouling me."

"By any means necessary."

They were still lying on the grass, Lucy propped up on her elbows so she wasn't crushing Y/N completely. This close, Y/N could see the gold flecks in Lucy's eyes, could count the freckles across her nose.

"You're sweaty," Y/N observed.

"So are you."

"Gross."

"You like it."

"I tolerate it."

"Same thing."

"Stop saying that."

Lucy grinned and kissed her, right there in the middle of the field. It was quick and sweet and tasted like grass and sweat and early morning.

"So who won?" Lucy asked.

"I got past you."

"I stopped you from scoring."

"You fouled me."

"Debatable."

"It's really not."

"Let's call it a draw."

"A draw means we both cook for a week."

"Or neither of us does and we order takeaway."

"I like that option better."

They lay there for a while longer, catching their breath and existing in the peaceful quiet of the empty field. Eventually, Lucy rolled off and helped Y/N to her feet.

"You really are pretty good," Lucy said. "That elastico was clean."

"Learned it from watching videos online."

"Of me?"

"Among others."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. I watched a lot of videos."

"Creepy."

"You're the one who made me go on dates with you."

"These aren't dates."

"What are they?"

Lucy paused. "Activities. That we do together. As two people who enjoy each other's company."

"That's the definition of a date."

"Is it though?"

"Lucy."

"Fine. These might be dates."

"Might be?"

"Are. These are dates."

"Was that so hard to admit?"

"Excruciating."

They walked back to Lucy's car, both of them muddy and sweaty and happy. This was nice, Y/N thought. These weird not-dates that were definitely dates. This undefined thing they were doing that felt more real than any relationship she'd had before.

"Want to come back to mine?" Lucy asked. "Shower and watch something?"

"Is this code for something?"

"It's code for 'I don't want today to end yet.'"

"Oh. Then yeah, I want to come back to yours."

Two days later, Lucy showed up at Y/N's practice at closing time with a bag of groceries.

"We're baking," she announced.

"We're what?"

"Baking. It's like cooking but with more sugar."

"I know what baking is. Why are we doing it?"

"Because I want to, and you're going to help me."

"I don't bake."

"Neither do I. It'll be an adventure."

"An adventure in food poisoning."

"Optimistic as always."

They set up in Y/N's tiny kitchen, Lucy pulling out ingredients while Y/N watched with increasing concern.

"What are we making?" Y/N asked.

"Cookies."

"What kind?"

"Chocolate chip. Classic."

"Do you know how to make chocolate chip cookies?"

"I have a recipe on my phone. How hard can it be?"

Famous last words.

It turned out baking was very different from cooking. Lucy, who could make perfect carbonara without a recipe, was completely lost when it came to measuring cups and precise temperatures.

"It says cream the butter and sugar," Lucy said, staring at the recipe. "What does that mean?"

"Mix them together?"

"That's what I thought, but it seems too simple."

"Maybe it is that simple."

"Baking is never simple."

They attempted to cream the butter and sugar, which mostly involved making a mess and questioning their life choices.

"This looks wrong," Lucy said, peering into the bowl.

"What's it supposed to look like?"

"I don't know. Creamy?"

"That's not helpful."

"This is why I stick to cooking."

They somehow made it through combining the ingredients, though Lucy managed to get flour on her face, her shirt, and somehow in her hair.

"How did you get flour in your hair?" Y/N asked.

"I don't know. It's very mobile flour."

"That's not a thing."

"Clearly it is. Look at me."

Y/N was looking. Lucy was covered in flour, her hair a mess, her expression one of intense concentration as she tried to form cookie dough balls. She looked ridiculous and adorable and Y/N wanted to kiss her.

So she did.

"What was that for?" Lucy asked when they broke apart.

"You have flour on your nose."

"So you kissed me?"

"Seemed like the logical response."

"Your logic is weird."

"You like it."

"I really do."

They got the cookies in the oven and set a timer. Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen smelled amazing.

"See?" Lucy said proudly. "We're excellent bakers."

"We haven't tasted them yet."

"Pessimist."

The timer went off, and Lucy pulled the cookies out. They looked... acceptable. Maybe slightly overdone on the edges, but not burned.

"Let's try one," Lucy suggested.

They each grabbed a cookie and bit in simultaneously.

The cookies were terrible.

Not just bad—actively offensive. They were somehow both dry and undercooked, sweet but also weirdly salty, and had the texture of cardboard mixed with sand.

"Oh my god," Lucy said, immediately spitting hers into the sink. "What did we do wrong?"

"Everything. We did everything wrong."

Y/N tried to swallow her bite and immediately regretted it. "I think you might have mixed up the salt and sugar."

"I definitely measured correctly."

"Did you though?"

"I thought I did. But now I'm questioning everything."

They stared at the tray of terrible cookies, both of them trying not to laugh.

"Well," Y/N said finally. "At least we tried."

"We failed spectacularly."

"That's still trying."

"Is it though?"

"Yes. Failure is part of the learning process."

"Very philosophical for someone who just ate a terrible cookie."

"I'm full of wisdom."

"You're full of terrible cookie."

They ended up throwing out the entire batch and ordering pizza instead. As they sat on Y/N's couch eating significantly better food than they'd made, Lucy turned to her.

"I'm sorry the cookies were terrible," Lucy said.

"I'm not. It was fun."

"Eating cardboard was fun?"

"Watching you be bad at something was fun."

"Rude."

"You're good at everything else. It's nice to know you have a weakness."

"I have many weaknesses."

"Such as?"

"Baking. Also, you."

Y/N felt her face heat. "That's very smooth."

"I have my moments."

"Apparently."

They finished their pizza while watching something mindless on TV, Lucy gradually migrating closer until she was practically in Y/N's lap.

"You're very cuddly," Y/N observed.

"Is that a complaint?"

"An observation."

"Do you want me to move?"

"No."

"Good. Because I wasn't planning to."

They stayed like that for the rest of the evening, and Y/N thought about how much things had changed in just a few weeks. They'd gone from that explosive fight to this—easy domesticity, terrible baking attempts, competitions over mini-golf.

It was good. Better than good.

It was terrifying how much Y/N was starting to need this. To need Lucy.

But tonight, she wasn't going to think about that.

Tonight, she was just going to enjoy the fact that Lucy was here, warm and solid against her, and they'd made terrible cookies together like two people who maybe, possibly, were figuring out how to be happy together.

Even if they still hadn't defined what "together" meant.

Even if Y/N still woke up sometimes worried this was all too good to be true.

For now, it was enough.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

Chapter Eleven: The Breaking and Rebuilding

! TW: SELF-HARM!

Y/N's phone had been buzzing all day.

Lucy: I'm sorry.

Lucy: Please can we talk?

Lucy: I fucked up. I know I fucked up.

Lucy: Y/N please.

Lucy: I'm sorry.

She'd ignored every single one. Deleted some of them without reading. Let others sit there unread, the notification taunting her from her lock screen.

She didn't want to talk to Lucy. Didn't want to hear explanations or apologies or whatever else Lucy thought might fix this.

Because it couldn't be fixed, could it? Lucy thought she was using her. Lucy didn't believe her when she said she loved her. Lucy had looked at her like she was just another opportunistic fan trying to get close to someone famous.

And that hurt more than Y/N wanted to admit.

"You okay?" Sarah asked around 3 PM, watching Y/N stare blankly at a treatment plan she'd been working on for twenty minutes.

"Fine."

"You've been staring at that same page for ages."

"I'm thinking."

"You're brooding."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"Y/N—"

"I'm fine, Sarah. Really."

But she wasn't fine. Her clients had noticed too—Mr. Henderson had asked if she was feeling alright, and the teenager with the ankle sprain had said she seemed "kind of sad." Even Bueno was being extra clingy, following her around the practice like he was worried she might disappear.

By the time 9 PM rolled around and her last client left, Y/N was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work. She was emotionally drained, physically tense, and so tired of thinking about Lucy that she wanted to scream.

She needed a distraction. Something physical, something that would let her turn her brain off and just feel something other than this hollow ache in her chest.

She changed in the bathroom—sports bra and shorts that she kept in her locker for the rare occasions she had energy to work out after work. Her reflection looked tired, drawn, like she hadn't slept in days. Which she hadn't, really. She'd spent last night lying awake, replaying the fight over and over, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong.

The answer was everywhere. It had gone wrong everywhere.

She walked into the gym area, Bueno trailing behind her. The punching bag hung in the corner—she'd installed it for clients working on upper body strength, but right now she needed it for something else entirely.

She needed to hit something.

She didn't bother with gloves or wraps. Just walked up to the bag and swung.

The impact jolted up her arm, sharp and grounding. She hit it again. And again.

With each hit, she tried to push out the thoughts crowding her mind. Lucy's face when she'd found the jersey. Lucy's voice saying "how do I know you're not just using me." Lucy walking out without looking back.

Hit. Hit. Hit.

Her knuckles started to hurt, then burn, then go numb. She didn't care. She kept going, putting all her weight behind each punch, all her frustration and hurt and anger.

She felt something warm and wet on her hands. Blood, probably. Still didn't care.

She needed this. Needed the pain, needed the physical exhaustion, needed to feel like she had control over something even if it was just how much she hurt herself.

"Y/N!"

The voice barely registered. She kept hitting the bag.

"Y/N, stop!"

Hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her back. She shrugged them off and hit the bag again.

"Y/N, you're bleeding—"

"I don't care." Her voice came out rough, breathless.

"Well I care—"

"Then leave. No one's forcing you to be here."

She swung again, and this time the hands caught her wrist, stopping the movement. The grip was firm but gentle, and Y/N knew who it was before she turned around.

Lucy.

Of course it was Lucy.

"Let go," Y/N said, not looking at her.

"No. You're hurting yourself."

"I said I don't care."

"I care. I care that you're hurting yourself."

Something in Lucy's voice—soft, broken, desperate—made Y/N's walls crack slightly. But she couldn't deal with this right now. Couldn't deal with Lucy being here, being concerned, acting like she cared after everything she'd said last night.

"Y/N, please—"

Y/N tried to pull away, but Lucy's grip tightened. Not painful, just insistent. Y/N tried to pull harder, tried to break free so she could go back to hitting something, go back to feeling something other than this terrible ache.

But Lucy was stronger, or maybe Y/N was just tired, because suddenly she couldn't seem to get away. Lucy was pulling her back from the bag, away from the one thing that was helping, and Y/N felt something in her chest collapse.

"No—" she started to say, but her legs went out from under her.

She hit the floor hard, Lucy going down with her, and suddenly Y/N couldn't breathe.

The air wouldn't come in. Her chest was tight, too tight, like someone was sitting on it. She gasped, trying to pull in oxygen, but nothing was working.

Panic attack. The clinical part of her brain supplied the information unhelpfully. You're having a panic attack.

"Y/N? Y/N, what's—oh fuck. Okay. Okay, it's okay—"

Lucy's voice, high and scared. Y/N tried to focus on it, tried to use it as an anchor, but the panic was too strong.

She couldn't breathe. She was going to die. She was going to die on the floor of her own practice because she couldn't get air into her lungs.

"Y/N, breathe. Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth—"

Couldn't. She couldn't.

"Okay, okay, um—" Lucy's hands were on her face, warm and solid. "Look at me. Can you look at me?"

Y/N's eyes found Lucy's. Lucy looked terrified, which should have been concerning but somehow helped. If Lucy was scared, that meant Y/N was still here, still present.

"Good. That's good. Now breathe with me. In—" Lucy took an exaggerated breath in. "And out."

Y/N tried. The air came in shaky and insufficient, but it came in.

"Good. Again. In—"

They breathed together, Lucy's hands steady on Y/N's face, Lucy's eyes locked on hers. Slowly, painfully slowly, Y/N's chest started to loosen. Air started coming easier.

"That's it. You're doing so well. Keep going."

Y/N focused on Lucy's voice, on the pattern of breathing, on the feeling of Lucy's hands on her skin. Gradually, the panic receded, leaving her shaky and exhausted and so fucking embarrassed she wanted to disappear.

And then the tears came.

She'd held it together last night when she'd told Lucy about her scars. She'd held it together this morning when she'd woken up alone. She'd held it together all day while pretending everything was fine.

But now, sitting on the floor of her gym with Lucy's hands on her face and her own hands bleeding, she couldn't hold it together anymore.

The sobs came hard and ugly, her whole body shaking with them. She couldn't stop, couldn't control it, couldn't do anything except cry like something fundamental had broken inside her.

"I'm sorry," Lucy was saying, over and over. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I did this. I'm so sorry."

Y/N tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. Just more sobs, more tears, more of the raw hurt she'd been holding back.

Lucy pulled her in, wrapping arms around her and holding tight. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I was hurt and scared and I took it out on you and I'm sorry."

Y/N buried her face in Lucy's shoulder and cried harder. She'd never cried like this in front of anyone except maybe Ella, and even then not often. But she couldn't stop now. All the pain from last night, from her childhood, from years of holding everything in—it was all coming out at once.

"I've got you," Lucy murmured, one hand stroking Y/N's hair. "I've got you. Let it out. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. But Lucy was here, holding her, and that was something.

After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Y/N's sobs started to subside. She was left hiccupping and shaking, her face pressed against Lucy's shoulder, completely wrung out.

"Better?" Lucy asked softly.

Y/N managed a nod.

"Okay. Okay, good." Lucy pulled back slightly. "Can I see your hands?"

Y/N had forgotten about her hands. She pulled them up and winced. Her knuckles were torn up, bloody and raw, and now that the adrenaline was fading, they hurt like hell.

"Jesus, Y/N." Lucy's voice was pained. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

She helped Y/N to her feet—Y/N's legs were still shaky—and guided her to the treatment room. Y/N sat on the table while Lucy gathered supplies, moving with efficient purpose.

"This is going to sting," Lucy warned, dabbing antiseptic on Y/N's knuckles.

It did sting, but Y/N barely felt it. She was too numb, too exhausted to care.

Lucy worked in silence, cleaning each wound carefully. When she was done with Y/N's knuckles, she started wrapping them in gauze.

Then she stopped.

"Y/N," she said quietly. "Did you—" She stopped, took a breath. "Did you cut yourself?"

Y/N went very still. She could lie. Should lie. But she was so tired of lying.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and damning.

"Fuck," Lucy breathed. "Y/N—"

"It was just once," Y/N said, her voice hoarse from crying. "Last night. After you left. I just—I needed to feel something else."

Lucy's face crumpled. "This is my fault."

"It's not—"

"Yes, it is. I did this. I made you feel—" She stopped. "Where?"

"What?"

"Where did you cut?"

Y/N hesitated, then slowly pushed up the leg of her shorts. There were three thin cuts on her upper thigh, red and angry but not deep. She'd been careful, even in the moment. Had known exactly how much would hurt without doing real damage.

Old habits.

Lucy stared at them for a long moment, then without asking, grabbed more antiseptic and gauze.

"What are you doing?" Y/N asked.

"Taking care of you. All of you."

"Lucy—"

"You took care of my shoulder. Let me take care of this."

Lucy cleaned the cuts as gently as she'd cleaned Y/N's knuckles, her touch reverent and careful. When she was done, she pressed a kiss to the bandage.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Y/N felt fresh tears prick her eyes. "Stop apologizing."

"I can't. This is—" Lucy looked up at her. "I made you feel exactly how your parents made you feel. Like you weren't enough. Like you couldn't be believed. Like you were the problem. And I hate myself for it."

"You didn't—"

"I did. And I need you to know that I was wrong. About all of it. I don't think you're using me. I don't think you're manipulative. I believe you when you say you love me."

Y/N's breath caught. "You do?"

"Yes. And I'm an idiot for not saying it last night when you needed to hear it." Lucy moved to stand directly in front of Y/N, taking her bandaged hands carefully. "I was scared. I read all those comments about my performance, and I was already feeling like shit about myself. And then I found that jersey and it was like confirmation of everything I was afraid of—that you couldn't possibly actually want me, that you must have some ulterior motive, that this was too good to be true."

"Lucy—"

"Let me finish. Please." Lucy took a shaky breath. "You were right. I was looking for a reason to push you away. Because I'm terrified of being vulnerable with someone. Because the last serious relationship I had ended badly and I'm scared of going through that again. Because it's easier to find reasons why something won't work than to believe it might."

Y/N listened, her heart pounding.

"But I don't want to push you away," Lucy continued. "I want you. I want this. And I'm sorry I made you feel like I didn't. I'm sorry I questioned your intentions when everything you've done has shown me exactly who you are."

"Which is?"

"Someone who cares so much that she pays for everything because she doesn't want me to think she's using me. Someone who never asks to come to my matches because she doesn't want to make me uncomfortable. Someone who suggested we keep things private to protect me. Someone who has been protecting me this entire time, even when it meant hiding parts of herself."

Y/N felt tears sliding down her cheeks again. "I should have told you. About knowing who you were."

"Maybe. But I understand why you didn't. And you were right—if you'd told me from the start, I would have been cautious. I would have put up walls. We probably never would have gotten here."

"Is 'here' a good place?"

"I think it could be. If we can get past this."

"I don't know if we can." Y/N's voice was small. "You really hurt me, Lucy. You made me feel like everything between us was fake. Like I was just some opportunistic fan who—"

"I know. And I'm so sorry. I can't take back what I said, but I can promise to do better. To trust you. To not let my own insecurities make me hurt you."

"How do I know you won't do this again? Next time you have a bad day, next time something triggers your insecurity?"

"You don't. I can't promise I'll never fuck up again. But I can promise to try. To communicate better. To not take my shit out on you." Lucy squeezed Y/N's hands gently. "And I can promise to believe you when you tell me how you feel."

Y/N studied Lucy's face. She looked exhausted, worried, like she'd been crying too. Her hair was a mess, her clothes rumpled, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

"You look terrible," Y/N said.

"I didn't sleep. I was too busy hating myself for what I said to you."

"Good. You should hate yourself."

"I do. Trust me."

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension gradually easing.

"I love you," Y/N said quietly. "I need you to know that. It's not manipulation, it's not a tactic. I genuinely love you, even when you're being an idiot."

"I know. And I—" Lucy stopped, took a breath. "I'm not ready to say it back yet. Not because I don't feel it, but because I need to be sure. I need to not fuck this up by saying it before I'm ready."

It hurt, but Y/N understood. "Okay."

"But I care about you. So much. More than I've cared about anyone in a really long time."

"Okay."

"And I want to make this work. I want to figure out how to be with you without my issues getting in the way."

"Your issues are always going to be there. Mine too."

"I know. But maybe we can work through them together instead of letting them destroy us."

"Maybe."

Lucy pulled Y/N into a gentle hug, careful of her bandaged hands. "I'm sorry I made you hurt yourself. Both times."

"You didn't make me. I chose to."

"But I created the circumstances that made you feel like you needed to."

"You're not responsible for my coping mechanisms."

"Maybe not. But I can be responsible for not making things worse."

They held each other for a while, both of them breathing easier now. Y/N felt wrung out, exhausted, but also lighter somehow. Like crying had released some of the pressure that had been building.

"What do we do now?" Y/N asked.

Lucy pulled back, thinking. "I have an idea. It might be stupid, but—"

"All your ideas are stupid."

"Rude. This one is especially stupid." Lucy stood up. "Stay here."

"Where are you going?"

"You'll see."

Lucy left the room, and Y/N heard her footsteps in the hallway. Then silence. Then footsteps coming back.

The door opened, and Lucy walked in.

She walked right up to Y/N and then—

Stumbled slightly, like she'd tripped over her own feet, and crashed into Y/N.

"Shit, sorry!" Lucy said, steadying herself with hands on Y/N's shoulders.

Y/N stared at her. "What are you doing?"

"Starting over." Lucy stepped back, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'm Lucy. Lucy Bronze. I'm 34, I play football professionally, and I'm here because I've done something stupid to my shoulder."

Y/N felt a smile tugging at her lips despite everything. "You're insane."

"I'm also very competitive, occasionally too intense, and I definitely have control issues. I can be jealous and possessive, and sometimes I take my bad days out on people who don't deserve it."

"This is ridiculous."

"I also care deeply about the people I let in, I'm loyal to a fault, and I make a mean carbonara. I have a Westie named Narla who's my whole world, and I'm absolutely terrible at admitting when I'm wrong."

"Lucy—"

"And I'm really, really sorry for fucking this up. But if you're willing to give me another chance, I promise to do better. To be better. To not let my issues make me hurt you again."

Y/N felt her smile grow, even as fresh tears pricked her eyes. "This is the stupidest thing you've ever done."

"Is it working?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Can I try this again? The whole getting to know you thing? Without the lying by omission part?"

Y/N thought about it. She could hold onto her hurt, could make Lucy work for forgiveness, could keep her walls up.

Or she could let herself try again.

"Okay," she said finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"You have to actually communicate with me. When you're having a bad day, when something's bothering you, when you're feeling insecure. You tell me instead of letting it build until you explode."

"Done. What else?"

"You have to trust me. Actually trust me. Not just say you do but then question my motives every time something seems off."

"I can do that."

"And you have to accept that I knew who you were before we met. That I've watched you play, that I admire you as an athlete, that I had a jersey with your name on it. You have to be okay with all of that."

Lucy was quiet for a moment. "That one's harder. Not because I think you're using me, but because it reminds me that you could have anyone. You could have someone who's not in the public eye, who doesn't have the baggage I have. And you chose me anyway, and that's terrifying."

"I chose you because of who you are, not in spite of it."

"I know. Or I'm trying to know. That's what I'm working on."

"Okay. Then I have one more condition."

"What?"

"You have to forgive yourself. For last night, for making me cry, for all of it. Because I can't move forward if you're constantly flagellating yourself over past mistakes."

"That's a big ask."

"I know. But it's important. We both fuck up. That's part of being human. What matters is what we do after."

Lucy nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll try."

"Good." Y/N held out her bandaged hand. "Hi. I'm Y/N YL/N. I'm 23, I'm a physiotherapist, and I'm probably going to work myself to death if someone doesn't stop me."

Lucy took her hand carefully. "Nice to meet you, Y/N."

"I'm also emotionally unavailable, I deflect with humor, and I have serious trust issues stemming from childhood trauma."

"We all have baggage."

"Mine comes in matching luggage sets."

"I like matching sets."

"I also knew exactly who you were when we first met, I've been a fan of yours for years, and I have multiple jerseys with your name on them that I'm not getting rid of."

"Multiple?"

"Barcelona, Lyon, and England. The holy trinity."

Lucy laughed, and it sounded genuine. "That's actually kind of flattering."

"It's extremely flattering. You're an incredible player."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Y/N paused. "I also love you. Just putting that out there from the start this time."

"Noted."

"And I'm scared that I'm going to fuck this up somehow. That my issues or your issues or both our issues are going to destroy this before it has a chance to be something real."

"What if we just see where it goes? No expectations, no labels, just... seeing."

"Seeing?"

"Yeah. We see each other. We figure out how to navigate each other's baggage. We take it one day at a time instead of trying to define everything right now."

Y/N considered this. "No labels?"

"Not yet. Let's just be us for a while. Figure out what that means."

"I can work with that."

"Good."

They stood there for a moment, hands still clasped, both smiling despite the emotional devastation of the last 24 hours.

"Can I kiss you?" Lucy asked. "Or is that moving too fast for the starting over thing?"

"You can kiss me."

Lucy leaned in and pressed her lips to Y/N's. It was soft, gentle, nothing like their usual intensity. It felt like a promise, like a beginning, like maybe they actually could make this work.

When they pulled apart, Lucy rested her forehead against Y/N's.

"I really am sorry," she said quietly.

"I know. And I'm sorry too. For not telling you sooner about knowing who you were."

"We're a mess."

"The messiest."

"But maybe that's okay."

"Maybe."

They stayed like that for a while, just breathing each other in, both of them exhausted but hopeful.

"Come home with me?" Lucy asked. "Not for—just to sleep. I want to hold you."

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But we're taking Bueno."

"Obviously. I wouldn't dream of leaving him behind."

They gathered Y/N's things, locked up the practice, and headed to Lucy's car. Y/N's hands were throbbing now, her thigh stinging where she'd cut, her eyes puffy from crying. She probably looked like absolute shit.

But Lucy was holding her hand carefully, and that made everything feel slightly less terrible.

"Thank you," Y/N said as they drove.

"For what?"

"For coming back. For stopping me from destroying my hands completely. For staying even when I told you to leave."

"I'll always come back. Even when you tell me not to."

"That's concerning from a consent perspective."

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

They made it to Lucy's house, where Narla greeted them with her usual enthusiasm. Lucy got Y/N settled on the couch with water and painkillers, then disappeared to grab comfortable clothes for both of them.

When she came back, she sat next to Y/N and carefully changed the bandages on her hands, checking to make sure the cuts weren't getting worse.

"These are going to hurt for a while," Lucy said.

"I know."

"No more punching bags without wraps."

"Deal."

"And no more cutting."

"I'll try."

"That's all I ask." Lucy finished with the bandages and moved to check the cuts on Y/N's thigh. They were fine—superficial, already starting to close. But Lucy's expression was pained as she looked at them.

"I'm sorry," Lucy said again. "I'm sorry I made you feel like this was your only option."

"It wasn't your fault—"

"It was partly my fault. And I need to own that."

"Okay. But I also need to own my part. I chose to do it. You didn't force my hand."

"Literally."

"That was terrible."

"I know. I'm tired."

"Me too."

They migrated to Lucy's bedroom, both of them too exhausted for anything except sleep. Lucy pulled Y/N close, careful of her injuries, and Y/N let herself be held.

"This is going to be hard," Y/N said into the darkness. "Figuring out how to be together without destroying each other."

"Probably. But I think it's worth it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're worth it."

Y/N felt herself smile. "You're worth it too. Even when you're being an idiot."

"Especially when I'm being an idiot."

"That's just called enabling."

"I prefer 'unconditional support.'"

"Same thing."

"Semantics."

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling Lucy's heartbeat steady against her back. They had a long way to go. Trust to rebuild, wounds to heal, patterns to break. But for the first time since their fight, she felt like maybe they could actually do it.

Maybe they could figure out how to be together without their issues destroying them.

Maybe.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9

Chapter Ten: When Walls Come Crashing Down

Y/N's day had been absolute chaos from the moment she'd opened the practice. A teenager with a sprained ankle had shown up without an appointment, Mr. Henderson had needed an emergency session for his knee, and somehow she'd managed to double-book two clients for the same slot. By the time 8 PM rolled around, she was exhausted, hungry, and wanted nothing more than to collapse on her couch.

Her phone buzzed.

Lucy: Match just finished. Coming to get you in 30?

Y/N: You won, right? Saw the score.

Lucy: Yeah. See you soon.

Something about the text felt off—too short, too blunt—but Y/N chalked it up to post-match exhaustion. She finished tidying up, said goodbye to Sarah, and was locking up when Lucy's Range Rover pulled up outside.

Y/N climbed into the passenger seat, already launching into a story about her chaotic day, when she noticed Lucy's expression.

"Hey," Y/N said slowly. "You okay?"

"Fine." Lucy's voice was clipped.

"You don't look fine."

"I said I'm fine, Y/N."

Okay. So Lucy was definitely not fine.

"You won though, right? 2-1?"

"Yes."

"That's good—"

"Can we just go? Please?"

Y/N fell silent, watching Lucy's jaw clench as she pulled away from the curb. Something was clearly wrong, but Lucy wasn't offering any information, and Y/N didn't know how to ask without making it worse.

They drove to Y/N's flat in tense silence. Lucy's hands were tight on the steering wheel, her entire body radiating tension. This wasn't post-match tiredness. This was something else.

When they got inside, Bueno greeted them enthusiastically, but even he seemed to sense the weird energy and retreated to his bed after a cursory sniff.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Y/N asked carefully.

"About what?"

"Whatever's bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me."

"Lucy—"

"I said I'm fine, Y/N. Can we just watch something?"

Y/N wanted to push, but she'd learned that pushing Lucy when she was in this mood rarely ended well. So she just nodded and grabbed the remote.

They settled onto the couch, but the usual easy intimacy was gone. Lucy sat stiffly, maintaining a distance between them that felt deliberate. Y/N put on some action movie neither of them really wanted to watch and tried not to feel hurt by the space.

About twenty minutes in, Y/N noticed Lucy scrolling through her phone. Not unusual—Lucy often checked her phone during movies. But something about her expression made Y/N look closer.

Lucy's face was tight, her jaw clenched, and her eyes were scanning rapidly across her screen. From where Y/N was sitting, she could just make out the Instagram interface.

And comments. Lots of them.

Y/N shifted slightly, trying to see better without being obvious. Most of the comments seemed negative—she caught words like "mistake" and "should have passed" and "not good enough."

Ah. So that was it.

"Lucy," Y/N said gently. "Maybe put the phone down?"

"I'm just checking something."

"You're reading hate comments."

"I'm not—" Lucy stopped. "It's not hate. It's criticism."

"It's people on the internet who've never played professional football telling you how to do your job."

"Some of them have valid points."

"No, they don't. You won the match."

"I made mistakes."

"Everyone makes mistakes. That doesn't mean you need to torture yourself reading about them."

"I'm not torturing myself."

"Yes, you are. I can see your face."

Lucy's jaw tightened further. "Just drop it."

"Lucy—"

"I said drop it, Y/N."

The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. Y/N wanted to say something, wanted to make Lucy feel better, but everything she thought of sounded trite or meaningless.

So she just sat there, watching a movie she didn't care about, while Lucy continued scrolling through comments that were clearly making her feel worse.

This was going to be a long night.

Around 11 PM, they migrated to the bedroom. Lucy had barely spoken all evening, and Y/N was starting to feel anxious. She'd seen Lucy in bad moods before, but this felt different. Heavier. Like something was building beneath the surface.

"I'm going to shower," Lucy announced, already heading toward the bathroom.

"Okay. I'll be here."

Lucy disappeared into the bathroom, and Y/N changed into sleep clothes—joggers and an old t-shirt. She was folding Lucy's jacket when she heard the shower turn on.

Lucy had left her overnight bag on the bed. She usually kept spare clothes at Y/N's now, but she'd brought a bag this time for some reason. Y/N grabbed it to put it away in the closet where Lucy's stuff usually lived.

She opened the closet, reaching for a hanger, when she noticed Lucy standing in the bathroom doorway.

"What are you doing?" Lucy's voice was sharp.

"Just putting your bag away—"

"Don't."

Y/N turned, confused by Lucy's tone. "What?"

Lucy's eyes were fixed on something in the closet. Y/N followed her gaze and felt her stomach drop.

Hanging at the back, half-hidden behind other clothes, was a Barcelona jersey. Number 15. Bronze.

Shit.

"Is that mine?" Lucy asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

"Lucy—"

"Is. That. Mine?"

"It's a Barcelona jersey, yes—"

"With my name on it. My number." Lucy took a step closer. "You have a jersey with my name on it."

"I can explain—"

"You said you didn't know who I was." Lucy's voice was rising now. "When we first met, you pretended you had no idea who I was. But you have my fucking jersey in your closet."

"Lucy, just let me—"

"How long? How long have you been lying to me?"

"Since the beginning, but—"

"Since the beginning." Lucy laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Since the very beginning. You've been lying to me this entire time."

"I didn't lie, I just didn't correct your assumption—"

"That's the same fucking thing, Y/N!" Lucy was shouting now. "You let me believe you didn't know who I was. You let me think I could be normal around you, that I didn't have to worry about you being a fan or wanting something from me. And the entire time you've been lying."

"I wasn't lying—"

"Then what do you call it?"

"I call it trying to protect what we had! You said yourself you liked that I didn't know who you were, that you could be yourself around me. I didn't want to ruin that."

"So you just decided to keep lying? For weeks?"

"I didn't know how to tell you! Every day that passed made it harder, and I—"

"You what? You thought I'd never find out?"

"I don't know what I thought! I just knew that if you found out, you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what? Betrayed? Used?"

"I never used you—"

"Didn't you?" Lucy's eyes were blazing. "How do I know this whole thing wasn't just to get close to me? To use me for my connections, for your practice?"

Y/N felt like she'd been slapped. "Are you serious right now?"

"You're a new business owner who just happens to start dating a famous footballer. Seems pretty convenient."

"Convenient?" Y/N's voice was rising now too. "You think I'm with you because it's convenient?"

"I don't know what to think anymore!"

"Then let me spell it out for you—I'm in love with you, you absolute idiot!"

The words hung in the air between them. Y/N hadn't meant to say it like that, hadn't meant to say it at all right now, but it was out there and she couldn't take it back.

Lucy stared at her. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to manipulate me with feelings—"

"Manipulate you?" Y/N felt something snap inside her. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? I'm telling you I love you and you think I'm manipulating you?"

"I don't know what else to think! You've been lying to me since we met!"

"I omitted information, I didn't lie—"

"It's the same thing!"

"No, it's not! I never pretended to be someone I'm not. I never used you for connections or fame or any of that bullshit you're accusing me of."

"Then why do you have my jersey?"

"Because I'm a fan! Because I've watched you play for years! Because before I knew you as a person, I admired you as an athlete. Is that a crime?"

"It is when you pretend you have no idea who I am!"

"I was protecting myself! I was protecting us!"

"By lying?"

"By not making it weird! You said yourself that you liked that I treated you like a normal person. If I'd told you from the start that I knew who you were, that I'd watched your matches, that I had a fucking jersey with your name on it, how would you have reacted?"

Lucy was quiet for a moment. "I would have been cautious."

"Exactly. You would have put up walls. You would have assumed I wanted something from you. And we never would have gotten here."

"Maybe we shouldn't have gotten here."

That hurt more than Y/N expected. "You don't mean that."

"Don't tell me what I mean."

"Lucy, please. Just listen to me—"

"I've been listening. All I'm hearing is excuses."

"They're not excuses, they're explanations—"

"Same thing."

"No, they're not!" Y/N was shouting now, her control finally snapping. "I have done everything I can to show you that I'm not using you. I pay for every meal, every drink, every fucking coffee because I don't want you to think I'm with you for your money. I never ask to come to your matches because I don't want you to think I'm using you for access. I never ask you to post photos of us because I don't want people knowing we're together and having that affect your career. It was my idea to avoid PDA, my idea to keep this private. What more do you want from me?"

"I want you to have been honest from the start!"

"I wanted to! Every single day I wanted to tell you! But I was terrified of losing you, and clearly I was right to be scared because look at us now!"

"That's not my fault—"

"I'm not saying it's your fault! I'm saying I made a choice to protect what we had, and maybe it was the wrong choice, but I made it because I care about you. Because I love you."

"Stop saying that—"

"Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Because you can't use it as ammunition against me?"

"Because I don't believe you!"

Y/N felt something crack in her chest. "You don't believe me."

"How can I? How can I believe anything you say when I know you've been lying to me since we met?"

"I wasn't lying about my feelings. I wasn't lying about caring about you. I wasn't lying about any of it except who I knew you were before we met."

"That's a pretty big exception."

"I know it is! And I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I'm sorry I let it go on this long. I'm sorry I hurt you. But I need you to understand that everything else—every feeling, every moment, every fucking word I've said to you about how I feel—that was real. That is real."

Lucy was quiet for a long moment, and Y/N hoped—prayed—that she was getting through to her.

Then Lucy spoke, her voice cold. "How do I know that? How do I know you're not just a really good actress who saw an opportunity and took it?"

And there it was. The one thing Y/N couldn't defend against. The accusation she couldn't disprove.

"You don't," Y/N said quietly. "You just have to trust me."

"Trust you? After you've been lying to me for weeks?"

"I wasn't lying about us—"

"You were lying about everything! About who you are, about what you knew, about your intentions—"

"My intentions were always genuine—"

"Were they? Or were you just playing the long game? Get close to the famous footballer, build a relationship, and then what? Use my connections to grow your practice? Get photo opportunities? What was the endgame here?"

"There was no endgame!" Y/N was shouting again, frustration and hurt boiling over. "There was just me, falling for someone I never expected to fall for, and being too scared to ruin it by admitting I knew who she was!"

"That's convenient."

"It's the truth!"

"I don't know what the truth is anymore!"

"The truth is I love you! The truth is every moment we've spent together has been real for me! The truth is I would rather work myself to death than use you for anything because the thought of you thinking I'm with you for any reason other than genuinely caring about you makes me sick!"

"Then why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because I was scared! Because I knew this would happen! Because I knew the second you found out, you'd question everything, and look—I was right!"

"You don't get to be the victim here—"

"I'm not trying to be the victim! I'm trying to explain—"

"Well, your explanation isn't good enough!"

"Then what do you want from me? What can I possibly say that would make this better?"

"I don't know! Maybe nothing! Maybe this is just fucked beyond repair!"

"Don't say that—"

"Why not? It's true!"

"No, it's not—"

"Yes, it is! You lied to me, Y/N. You looked me in the eye and pretended you didn't know who I was, and that's not something I can just get over!"

"I never looked you in the eye and lied—"

"Lies of omission are still lies!"

"Fine! Yes, I lied! I lied by not telling you I knew who you were! I'm a terrible person who made a bad decision! Is that what you want to hear?"

"I want to hear that you understand why I'm upset!"

"I do understand! But I also need you to understand why I did it!"

"I don't care why you did it!"

"Yes, you do! You're just too angry to admit it!"

"Don't tell me what I think!"

"Someone has to, because you're clearly not thinking clearly right now!"

"Fuck you, Y/N!"

"No, fuck you! I opened up to you about my scars, about my parents, about all the shit I never tell anyone, and now you're throwing it all back in my face because I didn't tell you I bought a fucking football jersey!"

"This isn't about the jersey—"

"Then what is it about? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you're looking for a reason to push me away!"

"That's not—"

"Isn't it? You had a bad match, read some shitty comments, and now you're taking it out on me!"

"That's not what this is—"

"Then what is it? Because this reaction seems pretty disproportionate to the crime of not telling you I'm a football fan!"

"It's not about being a fan! It's about trust! It's about honesty!"

"And I'm being honest now! I'm telling you everything—that I knew who you were, that I watched your matches, that I admired you before I knew you. I'm laying it all out, and you're still not satisfied!"

"Because I don't know if I can believe you!"

"Then maybe we're done here!"

The words came out before Y/N could stop them, and she saw Lucy flinch like she'd been struck.

"What?" Lucy's voice was quiet now, dangerous.

"You heard me. If you can't believe me, if you can't trust me, then maybe we're done. Because I can't keep defending myself against accusations I can't disprove. Either you believe me or you don't."

"So that's it? You're giving me an ultimatum?"

"No, I'm stating a fact. I can't be in a relationship with someone who thinks I'm using them."

"I never said—"

"You implied it. You questioned my intentions. You suggested I'm with you for your fame or your connections or your money. And if that's really what you think of me, then what's the point of any of this?"

Lucy was quiet, her jaw working like she was trying to find words.

"Say something," Y/N demanded.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you believe me. Say you know I love you. Say something that isn't an accusation."

"I can't—"

"Then get out."

Lucy's eyes widened. "What?"

"I said get out. If you can't believe me, if you think I'm some opportunistic leech who's using you, then there's no point in you being here. So leave."

"Y/N—"

"I mean it, Lucy. Get. Out."

"You don't mean that—"

"Yes, I do. I'm not going to stand here and let you accuse me of using you when I have done everything in my power to show you that's not true. So either you believe me, or you leave. Those are your options."

Lucy stared at her, and Y/N could see the conflict on her face. Part of her wanted to stay, wanted to work this out. But the other part—the hurt, defensive part—was winning.

"Fine," Lucy said finally, her voice cold. "I'll go."

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Y/N wanted to call her back, wanted to take it all back, but her pride wouldn't let her. If Lucy really thought she was being used, then fuck it. Let her leave.

Lucy paused at the door, her hand on the handle. "You know what? You're right. I am taking out my frustrations on you. I had a shit match, I read comments from people telling me I'm not good enough, and I took it out on you. That's on me."

"Lucy—"

"But that doesn't change the fact that you lied to me. That you looked me in the eye every day and chose not to tell me the truth. So maybe you're right. Maybe we are done."

She opened the door and left without looking back.

Y/N stood in the middle of her living room, listening to Lucy's footsteps fade down the hallway, listening to the building's front door slam, listening to her car start and drive away.

Then she looked at Bueno, who was watching her with sad eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, her voice rough. "I'm fine."

Bueno whined.

"I am. I'm completely fine."

She wasn't fine.

She walked to her bedroom and stared at the Barcelona jersey still hanging in her closet. The thing that had started this whole disaster.

She should throw it away. Should burn it. Should do something to erase the evidence of her lie.

Instead, she just closed the closet door and sat on her bed.

She'd told Lucy she loved her. And Lucy had accused her of manipulation.

She'd opened up about everything—her feelings, her fears, her intentions—and Lucy hadn't believed her.

Maybe they really were done.

The thought made her chest hurt in a way she wasn't prepared for.

______________________________________________________________

Lucy sat in her car outside Y/N's building, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white.

What the fuck had she just done?

She'd gone in there angry—at herself, at her performance, at the comments—and she'd taken it all out on Y/N. She'd found the jersey and instead of asking about it calmly, she'd exploded.

And Y/N had told her she loved her.

Lucy slammed her fist against the steering wheel.

Y/N loved her. Had said it multiple times, with increasing desperation, and Lucy had thrown it back in her face.

Because she was scared. Because she was hurt. Because finding out Y/N had been lying—even by omission—had felt like betrayal.

But Y/N was right about one thing: Lucy had been looking for a reason to push her away. Had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for proof that this was too good to be true.

And when she'd found that jersey, she'd latched onto it like a lifeline. Here was the proof she'd been waiting for. Here was the evidence that Y/N wasn't really who she said she was.

Except... Y/N had never claimed to not be a football fan. She'd claimed to not know Lucy specifically. And technically, pretending not to recognize someone was different from lying about being a fan.

But the distinction felt flimsy now, sitting in her car while the woman she—

Lucy stopped that thought before it could complete.

She'd fucked up. She knew she'd fucked up. She'd taken her bad day and her insecurities and she'd weaponized them against Y/N.

And now Y/N had told her to leave.

Lucy should go back up there. Should apologize. Should tell Y/N that she believed her, that she knew Y/N wasn't using her, that she was just scared and hurt and lashing out.

But her pride wouldn't let her. Because Y/N had lied. Had let Lucy believe something that wasn't true for weeks. And that hurt, even if Lucy understood why she'd done it.

Lucy started the car and pulled away from the curb.

She'd give Y/N space. Give them both space to cool down. And tomorrow—tomorrow she'd figure out how to fix this.

If it could be fixed.

The thought that it might not be fixable made Lucy's chest tight.

She drove home on autopilot, barely registering the streets passing by. When she got home, Narla greeted her enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the disaster her owner had just created.

"I fucked up, Narla," Lucy said, sinking onto the couch. "I really, really fucked up."

Narla just wagged her tail, which Lucy supposed was as much comfort as she was going to get.

She pulled out her phone, her finger hovering over Y/N's contact.

She should text. Should apologize. Should do something.

But what could she say? Sorry I accused you of using me after you told me you loved me? Sorry I took out my bad day on you? Sorry I can't seem to accept that someone might actually care about me without ulterior motives?

All of it sounded inadequate.

So instead, Lucy just sat there, staring at her phone and hating herself.

Because Y/N had been right about everything. About Lucy looking for reasons to push her away. About Lucy taking out her frustrations on her. About all of it.

And instead of admitting that, instead of apologizing and trying to work through it, Lucy had left.

"I'm an idiot," she told Narla.

Narla seemed to agree.

Lucy knew she needed to make this right. Needed to apologize properly, needed to tell Y/N that she believed her, that she trusted her, that she—

That she what?

That she felt the same way Y/N did?

Lucy wasn't ready to examine that. Not tonight. Not when everything was such a mess.

So she just sat on her couch with Narla pressed against her side, and tried not to think about the look on Y/N's face when she'd said "get out."

Tried not to think about how Y/N had said "I love you" three times and Lucy had rejected it every time.

Tried not to think about how she might have just ruined the best thing that had happened to her in years.

Tomorrow. She'd deal with it tomorrow.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8

Chapter Nine: The Scars

!TW: SELF-HARM AND ABUSE!

It was a Wednesday evening, and Y/N had actually closed the practice at a reasonable hour for once. Lucy had shown up at 7 PM with Thai food and that smile that made Y/N's chest do complicated things, and they'd settled onto the couch with Bueno sprawled across their feet like a fuzzy ottoman.

"This is nice," Lucy said, her head resting on Y/N's shoulder while some documentary about penguins played on the TV. "We should do this more often."

"Do what? Watch penguins?"

"No. This. Just existing together without you working until midnight."

"I don't always work until midnight."

"You worked until 11:30 last night."

"That's technically not midnight."

"Y/N."

"Fine. I work too much. You've made your point."

Lucy grinned and pressed a kiss to Y/N's jaw. "Good. Character growth. I'm proud of you."

"Your pride is noted and appreciated."

They fell back into comfortable silence, Lucy's hand resting on Y/N's stomach under her t-shirt in that casual, possessive way she had. Y/N was wearing her usual at-home uniform—black joggers and a grey t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows because her flat was warm.

She didn't think anything of it. It was just her and Lucy, comfortable and safe, watching penguins do whatever penguins did.

Then Lucy's hand moved from her stomach to her arm, fingers tracing absent patterns on her forearm. Y/N felt Lucy's hand still, felt her fingers brush over the scars she knew were there, felt the exact moment Lucy registered what she was touching.

"Y/N?"

Y/N's entire body tensed. "Yeah?"

"What are these?"

"What are what?"

Lucy sat up, gently taking Y/N's arm and turning it toward the light. The scars were faint—most of them years old—but visible if you were looking. Thin white lines scattered across her forearms, some longer than others, all carefully placed where they could be hidden by long sleeves or makeup.

"These scars," Lucy said quietly. "On your arms."

Y/N pulled her arm back quickly, pushing her sleeves down. "It's nothing. Just Bueno's nails. He gets excited sometimes."

"Y/N—"

"I need to trim them, actually. Keep forgetting."

"Y/N, those aren't from a dog."

"Yes they are. Bueno's clumsy, he scratches—"

"Y/N." Lucy's voice was gentle but firm. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying—"

"Yes, you are. Those are too uniform, too deliberate. They're not scratches." Lucy reached for Y/N's arm again, but Y/N stood up abruptly.

"I said they're from Bueno. Can we just drop it?"

"No. We can't just drop it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're lying to me, and I want to know why."

"Maybe I don't want to talk about it."

"That's fine, but at least admit that you're avoiding the conversation instead of lying about it."

Y/N felt her jaw clench. "You know what? This is why I don't—" She cut herself off, running a hand through her hair. "Forget it."

"Don't do that. Don't shut me out."

"I'm not shutting you out. I'm asking you to drop it."

"And I'm saying I can't." Lucy stood up too, her expression concerned. "Y/N, please. Whatever this is, you can tell me."

"No, I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Y/N's voice was rising now, frustration and old panic bleeding through. "Because it's none of your business, okay? Not everything about me needs to be analyzed and discussed. Some things are private."

"I'm not trying to analyze you. I'm worried about you."

"Well don't be. I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Yes!"

"Then why are you getting so defensive?"

"I'm not getting defensive!"

"You're literally shouting at me right now."

Y/N was shouting. She was shouting at Lucy, who was just concerned, who just wanted to understand, and Y/N couldn't seem to stop herself.

"This is exactly why I don't talk about this shit," Y/N said, her voice hard. "Because people ask questions and they look at you differently and they think you're broken or weak or—"

"I would never think you're weak."

"You don't know that. You don't know what you'd think."

"Y/N—"

"Just drop it, Lucy. Please."

But Lucy didn't drop it. She took a step closer, her expression open and worried and everything Y/N couldn't handle right now.

"I care about you," Lucy said softly. "And if something hurt you—if something's still hurting you—I want to know. Not to judge you. Not to think less of you. Just to understand."

"Well maybe I don't want you to understand." Y/N's voice cracked slightly. "Maybe I don't want you to know all the fucked up parts of me. Did you think about that?"

"The fucked up parts of you are part of who you are. And I want to know all of you, not just the parts you think are acceptable."

That was too much. Too real, too vulnerable, too close to feelings Y/N wasn't ready to examine.

"I need—" Y/N backed toward the hallway. "I need some space."

"Y/N, wait—"

"Please. Just give me a minute."

She fled to her bedroom before Lucy could respond, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. Her heart was pounding, her hands shaking, and she felt like she might actually be sick.

This was why she didn't get close to people. This was why she kept everyone at arm's length. Because eventually they'd see the parts of her that were damaged, and then they'd look at her differently, and then they'd leave.

She slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. She could hear Bueno whining on the other side of the door, could picture Lucy standing in the living room trying to figure out what to do.

Y/N should go back out there. Should apologize for shouting. Should explain, or at least try to.

But she couldn't make herself move.

Instead, she just sat there on her bedroom floor, staring at the scars on her arms that she'd spent years trying to hide, and felt the familiar weight of shame settle over her like a blanket.

Lucy stood in the living room, staring at Y/N's closed bedroom door and trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

One minute they'd been cuddling peacefully. The next, Y/N had been shouting at her and fleeing like Lucy had physically hurt her.

Lucy had noticed the scars immediately—she'd been a professional athlete long enough to know what deliberate wounds looked like versus accidental ones. She'd seen self-harm scars before, though never on someone she cared about this much.

She'd wanted to understand. To know what had hurt Y/N so badly that she'd hurt herself. To make sure it wasn't still happening.

But Y/N had shut down completely, gotten defensive and angry, and now she was locked in her bedroom and Lucy didn't know if she was supposed to follow or give her space.

Bueno was scratching at Y/N's door, whining pitifully.

"I know, buddy," Lucy murmured. "I'm worried too."

She gave it five minutes. Then ten. The silence from the bedroom was deafening, and Lucy's concern was rapidly approaching panic.

What if Y/N was in there hurting herself right now? What if Lucy's pushing had triggered something? What if—

Lucy couldn't take it anymore.

She crossed to the bedroom door and knocked softly. "Y/N?"

Silence.

"Y/N, can I come in? Please?"

More silence, then finally: "It's your funeral."

Lucy opened the door slowly. The bedroom was dimly lit, and it took her a moment to spot Y/N sitting on the floor against the far wall, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them.

She looked small. Y/N, who was all sharp edges and dry humor and carefully constructed walls, looked small and vulnerable and like she was trying very hard to disappear into herself.

Lucy's heart broke a little.

"Hey," Lucy said softly, closing the door behind her. Bueno immediately pushed past her legs to get to Y/N, pressing his nose against her arm.

"Hey," Y/N replied. Her voice was flat, emotionless.

"Can I sit?"

"Free country."

Lucy sat down across from her, maintaining some distance. "I'm sorry. For pushing. You clearly didn't want to talk about it, and I pushed anyway."

"You were worried. I get it."

"That doesn't make it okay."

Y/N was quiet for a long moment, her face turned away. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "They're old. Most of them. Haven't done it in over a year."

Lucy felt something cold settle in her stomach. "Okay."

"You asked what they were. That's what they are. Self-harm scars. From when I was younger and significantly more fucked up than I am now."

"You're not fucked up."

"Yes, I am. Just in different ways now."

"Y/N—"

"Don't." Y/N's voice was sharp. "Don't do the thing where you try to convince me I'm not damaged goods. I know what I am."

"You're not damaged goods."

"I literally have scars all over my arms from deliberately hurting myself. That's pretty much the definition of damaged."

Lucy moved closer, slowly, like Y/N was a wild animal that might bolt. When Y/N didn't object, Lucy sat next to her against the wall, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Lucy asked quietly.

"Not particularly."

"Okay."

They sat in silence for a while. Lucy wanted to push, wanted to understand, but she forced herself to be patient. If Y/N wanted to talk, she would. If she didn't, Lucy would respect that.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N spoke.

"My parents used to fight. A lot. Screaming matches that would go on for hours." Her voice was clinical, detached. "My mom would say terrible things, my dad would get physical. Nothing directed at me or my sister initially, but the walls in our house were thin."

Lucy felt her jaw clench but stayed quiet.

"It got worse as I got older. My dad started directing his anger at me. I wasn't good enough, wasn't feminine enough, didn't fit the mold of what he wanted his daughter to be." Y/N's hands tightened around her knees. "He hit me. Not constantly, but enough. Enough that I was always walking on eggshells, always trying to be perfect so he wouldn't."

"Y/N—"

"I'm not done." Y/N's voice was still flat. "My mom knew. My sister knew. No one did anything about it. They just... let it happen. And I hated myself for it. Hated that I couldn't be good enough, couldn't make him happy, couldn't fix whatever was broken in me that made him so angry."

Lucy wanted to say something, wanted to comfort her, but she forced herself to stay quiet and listen.

"I started cutting when I was thirteen," Y/N continued. "It was the only thing I could control. Everything else in my life was chaos, but this—this I could control. Where it hurt, how much it hurt, when it stopped. It became... routine, I guess."

"Did anyone know?"

"Ella figured it out eventually. Made me promise to stop. I tried." Y/N's laugh was bitter. "Didn't always succeed, but I tried. Got better at hiding it, at least."

"And now?"

"Now I don't. Haven't in over a year." Y/N finally looked at Lucy, and her eyes were dry, guarded. "But I think about it sometimes. When things get bad, when I feel out of control. It's always there in the back of my mind, like muscle memory."

Lucy felt tears prickling at her eyes, but she blinked them away. Y/N clearly wasn't crying—was holding herself together with visible effort—and Lucy wouldn't cry when Y/N couldn't.

"Why didn't your mom leave?" Lucy asked quietly. "Why didn't she protect you?"

"Because she was scared. Because my dad controlled the money. Because leaving would mean admitting failure." Y/N shrugged. "I don't know. I stopped trying to understand their relationship years ago."

"Do you still talk to them?"

"Barely. We exchange texts on birthdays and holidays. Surface level stuff. They don't know where I live, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"And your sister?"

"Julie chose them over me. She thinks I'm overreacting, that our childhood wasn't that bad, that I need to forgive and move on." Y/N's voice went hard. "So we don't talk much either."

Lucy processed this, her mind racing. Y/N's work ethic, her reluctance to go home to an empty flat, her need to control everything, her difficulty accepting help or vulnerability—it all made sense now.

"I'm sorry," Lucy said finally. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"I know, but I'm still sorry. You deserved better."

"Maybe. Or maybe I deserved exactly what I got." Before Lucy could protest, Y/N continued. "And before you say anything, I know that's fucked up thinking. Ella's told me a thousand times. But it's hard to shake, you know? That feeling that if you'd just been better, tried harder, been different, maybe none of it would have happened."

"It wasn't your fault, Y/N. None of it."

"I know that intellectually. Emotionally is a different story."

Lucy reached out slowly and took Y/N's hand. Y/N stiffened for a moment but didn't pull away.

"Can I ask you something?" Lucy said.

"You can ask."

"How did I never notice? The scars. I've touched your arms before, I've—" She stopped. "How did I not see them?"

Y/N's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Makeup. Lots of it. Every time I wear short sleeves, I cover them. Takes about twenty minutes if I do it right."

"And in winter?"

"Long sleeves. Always. I've gotten good at layering so it looks intentional instead of like I'm hiding something."

"That's... that's a lot of effort."

"Yeah, well. I'm good at hiding things."

Lucy thought about that—about Y/N spending twenty minutes every morning covering scars, about the constant vigilance, about the energy it must take to maintain that level of concealment.

"You don't have to hide them from me," Lucy said quietly. "If you don't want to."

"I always hide them."

"I know. But you don't have to. Not with me."

Y/N was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know how to not hide them."

"That's okay. You don't have to figure it out right now."

They sat in silence, Lucy holding Y/N's hand and trying to process everything she'd just learned. Y/N was still staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched, her expression carefully neutral.

"You know the worst part?" Y/N said suddenly.

"What?"

"I don't blame them. My parents. I feel sorry for them."

Lucy blinked. "What?"

"I know, it's fucked up. But I do. They were both damaged people who probably shouldn't have had kids, and they did the best they could with what they had. Which wasn't much, but still." Y/N's voice was still flat. "So instead of being angry at them, instead of making them feel bad about what they did, I just... destroyed myself. Took all that anger and hurt and turned it inward."

"Y/N—"

"It made sense at the time. Still kind of makes sense now, if I'm honest. They were already suffering. Why make it worse?"

"Because they hurt you," Lucy said firmly. "Because they were supposed to protect you and they didn't. Because you deserved better than what they gave you."

"Maybe."

"Not maybe. Definitely."

Y/N finally looked at her, and there was something raw in her expression. "You don't think less of me? For this?"

"For what? For surviving an abusive situation in the only way you knew how? No, Y/N. I don't think less of you. If anything, I think more of you."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It does to me. You went through something terrible, and you're still here. You're still functioning, still building a life, still trying. That takes incredible strength."

"I don't feel strong."

"You don't have to feel it for it to be true."

Y/N made a sound that might have been a laugh. "You're very determined to make me accept compliments, aren't you?"

"Someone has to be."

"I hate it."

"I know."

They sat for another moment, and Lucy noticed that Y/N still hadn't cried. Her eyes were dry, her expression controlled. She was holding everything in with visible effort, refusing to let herself break.

"You know you can cry, right?" Lucy said gently. "I'm not going to think you're weak."

"I don't cry."

"Ever?"

"Not really. Learned early on that crying made things worse."

"It won't make things worse here. I promise."

"I know." Y/N's voice was quiet. "But I still can't. It's like... the mechanism is broken. I know I should cry, I can feel that I want to, but nothing comes out."

Lucy's heart ached for her. "Okay. That's okay."

"Is it though? Normal people cry when they're upset."

"Normal is overrated. And you process emotions differently. That's fine."

Y/N finally turned to look at Lucy fully. "Why are you being so nice about this?"

"Because I care about you. And because this doesn't change how I feel about you."

"It should."

"Well, it doesn't." Lucy squeezed her hand. "You're still the same person I—" She caught herself. "The same person I care about. The same person who makes me laugh and challenges me and works way too many hours. These scars are part of your history, but they're not all of who you are."

"You say that now."

"I'll say it tomorrow too. And the day after that."

Y/N studied her for a long moment, like she was trying to figure out if Lucy was being genuine. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision.

"Okay," she said quietly.

"Okay?"

"Okay, I believe you. For now."

"I'll take it."

They sat against the wall for a while longer, Bueno eventually settling across both their laps. Lucy wanted to pull Y/N into her arms, wanted to hold her and promise that everything would be okay, but she sensed that Y/N needed space more than comfort right now.

"Thank you," Y/N said eventually.

"For what?"

"For not running. For not looking at me like I'm broken."

"You're not broken."

"I'm a little broken."

"Then we're both a little broken. I'm definitely not perfect."

"You're pretty close."

"I'm really not. I'm jealous and possessive and I punched someone last week."

"That was hot, though."

"You're changing the subject."

"I'm pivoting to a more comfortable topic."

"That's the same thing."

"Semantics."

Lucy huffed out a laugh despite herself. "You're deflecting with humor again."

"It's my primary coping mechanism. Has been since I was a kid."

"I've noticed. You do it whenever things get too real."

"Because things being real is uncomfortable."

"I know. But sometimes things need to be real."

"I know that too. Doesn't make it easier."

Lucy shifted so she could see Y/N's face better. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Another one?"

"Last one, I promise."

"Fine. Shoot."

"Are you safe now? Like, are you still thinking about..." Lucy gestured to Y/N's arms.

Y/N was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes. When things get really bad, when I feel out of control. But I haven't acted on it in over a year."

"What stops you?"

"Different things. Sometimes Ella. Sometimes work. Sometimes just... stubbornness, I guess. I've made it this far without it, might as well keep going."

"And now?"

"Now what?"

"Now you have another reason not to. If you want it."

Y/N looked at her, understanding dawning. "You?"

"Me. If you're feeling that way, if you're thinking about it, you can call me. Text me. Show up at my house at 3 AM. I don't care. Just don't do it alone."

"That's a big ask."

"I know. But I'm asking anyway."

Y/N's expression softened slightly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. I'll... I'll try. Can't promise I'll always remember or that I won't talk myself out of reaching out, but I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking."

Lucy finally pulled Y/N into her arms, and after a moment of resistance, Y/N let herself be held. She was stiff at first, clearly not used to accepting comfort, but gradually she relaxed.

"This is weird," Y/N mumbled against Lucy's shoulder.

"What is?"

"This. Talking about feelings. Being vulnerable. All of it."

"You'll get used to it."

"Will I though?"

"Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I'm being realistic."

They stayed like that for a while, Lucy holding Y/N while Bueno snored peacefully across their legs. Eventually, Y/N pulled back.

"We should probably get off the floor," she said. "My ass is numb."

"Romantic."

"I'm nothing if not romantic."

They stood, stretching out stiff muscles, and moved to sit on Y/N's bed instead. Lucy immediately pulled Y/N back against her, needing the contact.

"Can I see them?" Lucy asked quietly. "The scars. Properly."

Y/N tensed. "Why?"

"Because you've been hiding them for so long. And I want you to know that I see them and I'm not going anywhere."

"That's very sentimental."

"I have my moments."

Y/N hesitated, then slowly pushed up her sleeves. The scars were more visible now—thin white lines scattered across both forearms, some faded almost to nothing, others more prominent. They told a story Y/N had never wanted to share, marked out in white against her skin.

Lucy took one of Y/N's arms gently and traced her fingers over the scars, careful and reverent.

"Does it bother you?" Y/N asked. "Looking at them?"

"No. They're part of you. They're part of what you survived."

"That's a very generous interpretation."

"It's the truth."

Lucy brought Y/N's wrist to her lips and kissed it gently, right over one of the scars. Then another. And another.

"What are you doing?" Y/N asked, her voice slightly unsteady.

"Kissing every scar. Showing them some love."

"That's incredibly cheesy."

"You like it."

"I really do."

Lucy continued her mission, kissing each visible scar until Y/N's breathing had gone uneven and her walls were crumbling just slightly.

"Okay," Y/N said, her voice rough. "Okay, that's enough."

Lucy looked up. "Too much?"

"Just... a lot. In a good way. But a lot."

"Understood."

They settled back against the headboard, Lucy's arm around Y/N's shoulders and Y/N's head resting against her chest. It was comfortable, safe, and Lucy could feel Y/N gradually relaxing.

"Thank you for telling me," Lucy said quietly. "I know that wasn't easy."

"It wasn't. But I'm glad you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Means I don't have to hide as much. At least not with you."

"You don't have to hide anything with me."

"I'm still going to. Old habits and all that. But maybe... maybe less than before."

"I'll take it."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the earlier tension finally dissipating. Y/N's breathing had evened out, and Lucy thought she might have fallen asleep until Y/N spoke.

"Lucy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we just... not talk about this for a while? I know we probably need to process it or whatever, but right now I just want to exist without thinking about it."

"Of course. We can watch more penguins if you want."

"Penguins sound good."

They moved back to the living room, settling onto the couch with Y/N tucked against Lucy's side. The documentary was still playing—apparently penguins had very complicated mating rituals—and they watched in companionable silence.

About thirty minutes in, Y/N spoke again.

"Hey Lucy?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm really glad you didn't leave."

Lucy kissed the top of her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay. Good."

They stayed like that for the rest of the evening, just existing together, and Lucy made a mental note to learn everything she could about supporting someone with a history of self-harm. She wanted to do this right, wanted to be what Y/N needed, wanted to prove that she wasn't going anywhere.

Because she wasn't. Scars and all, complicated history and all, defensive humor and all—Lucy was in this.

Even if they still hadn't defined what "this" was. Even if there were still secrets between them. Even if the future was uncertain.

Tonight, Y/N had trusted her with something precious and painful, and Lucy wasn't going to take that lightly.

She was going to prove that she was worth that trust.