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mapileonxputellas · 1 year

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Jealousy (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

I think this might have been my favourite one so far! I hope the ending was suitable, I hate writing things in the future, I just feel like I'm pre-empting things so I couldn't include the final. Request can be found here. 4.7k words. Quite a long one!

Leaving Lyon was a tough decision to make. You were captain there for just over three years and more importantly they were your family. But you’d won all there was to win at the club and when Barcelona came with an offer it felt like fate was calling you.

You were billed as the star signing, the one who could fill the void by their own captain’s absence. You never wanted to be labelled as this replacement for Alexia, though you both played in the same position you were very different players. When news of her injury reached you during the Euro’s you couldn’t help but feel gutted you wouldn’t get to play alongside her.

The previous season has been kind to you, finishing the club season with a Champions League medal and going on to win the Euro’s, but as soon as you stepped foot into the Barcelona training centre you couldn’t help but feel different, in some ways complete. Thankfully the players were all very professional and only a few joking comments were made about your goal against Barcelona in the Champions League final.

You weren’t expecting to get the captain’s armband but Alexia’s absence as well as a few niggling injuries left you with the armband and your leadership was undeniable by the coaching staff.

Alexia herself had been a mystery to you, you’d seen her around the facility and at a few games but you never had the chance to speak to her.

But today that would change as today you were informed would be her first day back in group training, she had a long way to go to be back playing but you knew how big a step this was. Just over four years ago you had been subject to those three little letters, three letters which changed your life. You were excited for Alexia, the recovery process was so long and you were determined to make her first session back a good one.

You arrived at the training ground hours before anyone else was meant to be there to add some little changes. You bought a little welcome back sign to hang on her locker, sourced her favourite wine and chocolates for her to take home after and got all the girls to sign a card on their way in.

You watched on as she came in to get changed before training, letting all her friends shower her with congratulations as you got changed with Claudia one side of you and Patri the other.

“Have you met Alexia yet?” Claudia asked as you tied your shoelaces.

“No, well not properly. I don’t think being opposing captains counts.”

“She’s lovely, you’ll both get along.” Patri reassured you. “You’re both very similar.”

“I hope so.”

There was never a better time than the present and you waited back at the end as people flooded out to get the chance to speak to her alone and introduce yourself. Only when you locked eyes on her, instead of waiting for you to finish she made her way out of the dressing room.

You always gave people the benefit of the doubt and presumed maybe she thought you weren’t heading out, instead leaving you running after her. “Hey.” You started once you were level with the Spaniard, a single glance sent your way before she carried on walking. “I don’t think we’ve met before, well properly. I’m Y/N.”

“I know.” Ok you weren’t exactly expecting that, her lack of words was cold but her the tone made it all the colder. But sometimes to your downfall you were a painful optimist and maybe she was just having a bad day.

“Erm, how are you feeling? The team really misses you out there, everyone always talks about you and-“

“Listen OK?” She whisper aggressively, her fingers reaching out to grip your wrist. “I don’t need you to give me a debrief about my own team. I know them more than you ever will and things will change now.”

“Alexia I-“

“Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

It shocked you how much her words hurt. You dealt with anger all the time on the pitch, getting equally angry when defending your team but this felt different. This felt like a personal attack.

You tried to hide the hurt in your face as you reached the rest of the group in the gym, all stood in a circle waiting for their captain.

“I want to say a few words.” Jona said as you stood between Alexia and Ana. “Ale we can’t wait to have you back in the team. You’ve worked so hard up until now, one final push and you’ll be back out there in no time. Let’s finish this season strongly, I want a medal around all our necks at the end of the season.”

“We’ve captured the enemy now, of course we will.” Ana teased wrapping her arm around your shoulder. “The final piece of the puzzle.”

You stole a glance at the woman beside you and almost cowered back at cold eyes watching you and Ana. You tried to give her a reassuring smile as the rest of the group started chanting her name but that didn’t stop the frown on her face. When Jona brought out the presents you had bought on behalf of the group with the signed card you couldn’t help but notice you was the only one she didn’t thank, the only one who didn’t receive a hug. Not even a glance when you heard her asking Sandra about it.

“Oh Y/N sorted it out, she likes organising things like that.” Sandra commented not noticing the anger growing on Alexia’ face.

“Oh really.”

“Yeah that’s why she’s a leader.” The look that comment made could have turned you into stone.

One thing was for sure, this was definitely the biggest hurdle you’d encountered in Barcelona.

…..

The following day was the first time you got to witness the full La Reina effect on the pitch. But from minute one it felt like she was going out of her way to make your day horrible.

When you walked into the canteen that morning and lined up alongside her you hoped maybe yesterday had just been a bad day for her however as you found the frown on her face you knew that was not the case.

But whatever was going on you weren’t going to rise to her level and gave her the smile people often described as charming. “Alexia how are you this morning?”

“Fine.”

Wow the chat was scintillating. “I’m glad there’s one apple left I can’t start my day without one.” You said noticing the one apple left as you firstly got your scrambled eggs on toast. “What about you? Any traditions?”

“No.”

It shouldn’t have really been a surprise to you when you got to the end of the breakfast bar and found the fruit bowl lacking any apples and it really shouldn’t have surprised you when you turned around and found one sat on the tray in front of Alexia, a smirk on her face as she sat down.

“Ale I thought you never had an apple in the morning?” Jana questioned. “You never start the day without an orange.”

“It’s always worth a change.” Of course it was, not at all because of the comment you’d made.

“No apple this morning?” Claudia questioned when you sat down, the smirk only growing on Alexia’s face as she looked up at you.

“No there were none left.”

“Here have mine.” Frido pushed hers down the table, being received with a thankful smile from you. “Can’t have our little superstar without her favourite breakfast.” If looks could kill…..

It didn’t stop there.

During just the warm-up of the training session it felt like she was everywhere. The occasional shoulder barge into your side during the drills, the little nicks under your feet during the rondos, you were half surprised she hadn’t two footed you during the five-a-side match.

“Do you think it will be weird playing against Vicky?” Bruna asked Alexia during the water break referencing the former Barcelona captain now playing for Roma who you’d just been drawn against for the Champions League.

“It will be weird but you should all be confident. There’s no-one left who we shouldn’t believe we can beat. We were unfairly beat in that final but this year is different, none of those players would get anywhere near us when we’re at our best.”

Usually you would assume a comment like that would be made forgetting your link to that team but you knew Alexia’s game and you knew she made that comment directed at you.

“And now with Salma, Lucy, Geyse, Nuria we’re a better team.”

She was being horrible, malicious and it was all directed at you but you had no reason why. You’d been wracking your brains all night trying to find some kind of reasoning for her seemingly hating you. The two of you had never had a run in before, well at least that was memorable enough to have some kind of grudge. The two of you had been up for awards together but she’d always won, including this year’s Ballon d’or but even then on the flight there she must have already had some ill feelings towards you.

“Come on captain.” Vicky came up beside you tugging your arm. “Let’s win this match.”

Football has and probably always will be the out you have for your emotions. Feeling happy: go and pick up a ball. Feeling sad: go and pick up a ball. Right now with the mixture of sadness and anger running through your veins you picked up that ball and gave the small, sided game your all.

You weren’t a malicious player but you got stuck into every tackling, winning most and always being clean and fair.

Maybe that meant it was fair game in her eyes, fair game to give it her all as well. Make sure she left a mark on you, never going so far as to injure you but you knew tomorrow morning you would be covered in bruises from her tight marking on you.

“That was some battle.” Jona wrapped his arms around the pair of you as you walked off the pitch. “I don’t think we can play the both of you at the same time, it just wouldn’t be fair on the opposition.”

“Yeah.” You feigned an agreement knowing how much you wanted to play with Alexia before this all happened, now you weren’t so sure.

“Go and practice your free-kicks.”

The two of you joined Mapi at the far goal posts, Caro and Salma also staying back as the others did some rondos.

It was stupid you’d played in front of millions before, you’d lifted the biggest trophy in club football and yet you’d never felt nerves like practicing free kicks in front of the Queen herself. Thankfully you thrived under pressure and all three balls found their way to the back of the net.

“Way to go princesa.” Mapi found her nickname for you soon after you’d arrived thanks to your healthy addiction to a good beauty treatment. When you weren’t playing football on a Sunday you would more than likely be found in the local spa facilities.

Mapi and Caro made their way over to the corner flag to practice corner kicks leaving the two of you watching Salma line the ball up. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time getting ready you could spend some time on your shooting. Any good goalkeeper would have saved all three of them.” Alexia whispered in your ear.

“They were top bins Alexia.”

“Keep telling yourself that. We don’t settle for mediocracy here, remember that.”

“It’s a good thing the manager doesn’t think that. There’s a reason I’ve been sharing the duties with Mapi.”

“You two good?” Salma asked raising her eyebrows at our hushed voices.

“We’re fine thanks.” You assured the young girl. “I was just asking about the plans for travelling tomorrow.”

“Good.”

If she was going to act like this you could take it, you were big enough to deal with someone not liking you. The problem came with the team dynamics, you weren’t about to let some vendetta affect the rest of the team.

“This won’t work if you can’t even look me in the eye.” You whispered as you made your way inside at the end of training. “Whether you like it or not we’re on the same team, when we’re on the pitch forget about it.”

“Fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

…..

Things didn’t get better, they just got manageable. You grew to ignore the glares, ignore the little comments made, ignore the fact that every morning just in case there was always an apple on her plate and yet it never got touched.

She kept her promise, no matter what she thought of you off the field, which you still hadn’t worked out, it always stopped the moment you stepped foot on the pitch. That didn’t mean you were best friends on the pitch but you could share a few tactical words and miraculously the two of you worked well together.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise to you, you had spent a lot of time reading her game both for Lyon to play against her and for Barcelona to play with her. You knew all the moves she made, the way she liked to push forward and when she held back. So you adapted your game to suit that, you knew if Barcelona had to choose they would pick her and you knew you could play alongside her with a few subtle changes rather than just you or her. When she would push on you stayed back, when she moved into one area you placed yourself where you knew she liked to lay the ball back.

Today you would be pushing those limits even further as Alexia prepared to make her return in the league. Alexia had admitted herself that Chelsea in the Champion’s League wasn’t the right time to return in a match with so much at stake but today you had the chance to win the league and by half time you were already 1-0 up, Jana soon making it two in the second half.

Jona gave you the decision of when you felt it was comfortable enough to get Alexia back on the pitch and when you got that two-goal cushion you knew you would be able to control the game from here so you made the signal and waited for them to make the change. At this point you were beginning to tire having played 90 minutes just three days prior and now another 65 minutes.

When the board came up with your number on it as well as the number 11 you made your way over to the touchline, unstrapping the band from around your forearm and held it out so Alexia could put her arm through it. Without looking her in the eye you made a point of strapping it up for her and then brought her in for the usual interchange hug before making your way to the bench.

You took your seat on the edge of the bench next to Mapi, the player handing you a water bottle and allowing you to catch your breath.

“Was she alright?” You questioned knowing Alexia was in your seat only a few moments prior.

“She’s ready, bit nervous but she wants to be there for this moment.”

The final 20 minutes went by very quickly Assisat scoring the final goal to seal the league title win. On the final whistle you all made your way onto the pitch, one of your biggest ‘superstitions’ if you would call it that was to always go around and shake all the opponents’ hands before you celebrated any cup or trophy win and this came into that category. You shook all the hands of the Huelva players and their coaching staff before joining your teammates.

Ana was the first one to spot you and the Swiss giant opened her arms up for you to jump into as she twirled you around in the air. “We did it.” You shouted down her ear as you felt further arms wrap around you.

“You did it.” She put you down on the floor and put her hands on your shoulders to meet your eye. “Take a bit of credit, you’re an incredible player.”

“Thanks Ana.”

So far you were thankful no-one had noticed, or at least commented, on a rift between you and Alexia and you weren’t about to let them see it now. You joined the rest of the girls in the traditional celebration for a player returning by throwing them up in the air for three cheers before you all made your way over to the front for the trophy presentation.

“Alexia if you could follow me.” An official came down to guide Alexia up into the stands for the trophy collection. You could see the glances that came your way but in your mind Alexia was always the captain and she should have this moment so you watched on, a smile etched on your face as you saw the joy in her face at lifting the trophy.

“Y/N come on.” Before you had the chance to protest Marta grabbed your hand leading you to the front of the pack as Alexia came down with the trophy.

“This is for you two, you’re the captains.” You tried to get through to Marta as you knew Alexia wouldn’t like this.

“You’ve led this team for the past eight months. You deserve this moment as much as we do.”

You could see there was no room for manoeuvre in her tone and in her face, simply staying put where you were. When Alexia clocked you standing amongst Marta you could see the distain on her face hidden by one of the fakest smiles you’d seen in a long time. You allowed yourself this moment, tucking into one side of Alexia and wrapping your hand around the metal trophy to lift it together as one.

“You two deserve this.” Marta whispered wrapping you both in a hug and pressing a kiss to both of your foreheads. “This team wouldn’t work without the both of you.”

“I don’t think-“

“It’s true, everyone thinks it. We all love you both.”

“Thank you.”

……

After the league win it was fair to say both you and Alexia were observers of the main celebrations, both of you knowing that the Champions League was the main aim this season. You both drove the standards in training knowing what a stern task Wolfsburg would be. The games leading up to the final all had major rotation so Alexia and yourself were yet to play more than twenty minutes in the dying embers of the game together, the captaincy always with Alexia.

The day before the final it was decided both you and Alexia would be part of the pre-match press conference in Eindhoven taking your placed behind the podium with Jonaton.

Jonaton of course covered all the tactic and personnel questions before you were both in the spotlight.

“Y/N it’s hard to believe this is still your first season in Barcelona. How much would it mean for you to lift that trophy tomorrow?”

“Yeah the time has definitely flown by. I came from a team of winners and I’ve joined a team of winners and we won’t settle for anything less than perfection tomorrow. I want more than anything to feel that joy I felt last year.”

“How would you assess your first year? Did you expect to be as integral to the side as you have been both in playing and in your captaincy?”

“It’s been a bit of a crazy year. I have high standards for myself and I hope both the club and fans can see that. I came here because I believed I could add something to the team and I hope they can see what I bring to the plate. In terms of the captaincy that is simply a role I have been sharing with many members of the team even if I sometimes have the armband. Alexia may not have been on the pitch for a long time this season but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the leadership in training and before matches.”

“We’ve yet to see much of you two together on the pitch. Does that excite you?”

“Of course, I’ve watched Alexia for a long time now and I hope we can work together on the pitch soon, will that be tomorrow? I guess only Jona knows that.”

“Alexia how much would it mean to you winning the trophy tomorrow after the year you’ve had?”

“Yes it would be very special. I’ve worked hard behind the scenes but more importantly this team has got us to this point and I hope I can be a part of the final push tomorrow.”

“You’ve probably watched a lot of this team over that past 12 months. How have you improved since last year?”

“That final taught us a lot about ourselves and of course the improvements we have to make both in terms of our play but also our mindset. Of course we improved in personnel, Y/N has been a massive part of that and answering a previous question I can’t wait to play with her.”

Wow, you weren’t quite sure if she was being fully truthful or if this was all a show but it had to be worth something, right?

Unbeknownst to the two of you, the rest of the team were watching the interview in the other room. A light murmur of chatter amongst everyone as they watched the two people they considered their captains complimenting each other.

“Have you ever noticed that weird tension between those two? I’ve never really seen them talk but they just work on the pitch, they’re different when they’re playing together.” Ingrid asked Mapi, the two of them sat on one of the beanbags. “Is it just sexual tension that neither of them will give into?”

“How can you miss it? I’ve tried asking Alexia about it but she just dismisses it. Maybe they’re hiding something, I’ve never even seen them interact more than a glare at each other.”

“Ten euros they’re together by next season.”

“Ten euros they’re together by the world cup.”

…..

Alexia didn’t say a word to you after the conference, the both of you separately making your way up to your rooms. Thankfully the club had given you all single rooms so you didn’t have anyone disturbing you as you tried to work out Alexia. She had been nothing but horrible to you since you first met each other and yet she said all that in the press conference. It just wasn’t adding up.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on your door if you weren’t completely silent you probably wouldn’t have heard it but you did. It was only eight o’clock but you were about to try and get an early night.

Presuming it was one of the younger ones who had forgot something you went to answer the door but instead of seeing Bruna or Jana at the door, your heart started racing when you came face to face with Alexia.

“Hi.” Her whispers were barely audible as your mind spiralled as to what she could be here for. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Her voice knocked you out of your daydream as you opened the door wider for Alexia. “Take a seat.”

Alexia sat herself down on the vanity chair as you took a seat on the bed, wondering what was going on with the woman as she started at her hands, picking her fingernails.

“Are you alright?” You questioned breaking the silence.

“I um, I-“ You’d never seen Alexia like this, nervously fumbling over her words and a hesitant look on her face. “I want to apologise before tomorrow.”

You hoped you knew what she was apologising for but you wanted the full clarification. “Apologise about what?”

“When I first found out I’d done my ACL I was worried about how this injury would change me, how I would never be the same after it and how different things would be when I’m gone. When I heard Barcelona were signing you I knew that would jeopardise my place on the squad, I heard everyone talk about what an amazing player you were and of course I knew that myself. Then you got the captaincy armband and it just felt like you were my replacement.”

“Ale-“

“So when I came back I had this almost anger to you that you’d got to be a part of this team, that you’d got to lead them out at Camp Nou and seen those wins. I was jealous, I admit that and I heard someone mention it once that the only way to settle this was for one of us to leave.”

“So you did all this so I would leave?”

“I thought the only way to push you to leave was to be horrible to you. I can’t believe how horrible I was to you when you didn’t deserve any of it. I’m so sorry Y/N, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a few weeks but I can’t go in tomorrow with any tension between us. We’ve got to work together.”

“Thank you, but Ale it was never you or I.” You assured her. “I came on this team to work with you not instead of you. When you came back into training I genuinely just wanted to play with you and then you seemed to be trying to make my life a living hell, it was like you were going out of your way to disrupt my day.”

“I tried to hate you but it’s just impossible, you’ve got this smile that everyone seems to love and you always give everything 100%. Plus the team love you, I’m sick of hearing Jana talk about your dancing or Mapi talking about your tattoos. I want to see that side of you.”

“Hug it out?”

“Come here.” You wrapped your arms around the Spaniard, her own arms coming up around your neck as you settled into the hug.

You could never hate Alexia no matter how much she almost pushed you to it, you could never do it, you knew what injuries could do to people and this was no different. You were sadly just the one who got the rough end of it.

“Do you reckon Jonaton will play us together tomorrow?” You asked separating from the hug, a smile on both of your faces.

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

If it weren’t the night before the final you would have been up till the early hours getting to know Alexia but instead you both went for the early night option, your dedication to the sport the biggest thing you admired about each other.

It wasn’t lost on you the few glances you got the next morning as you both walked into the canteen together laughing and joking about a story Alexia was telling you about Nala. The both of you ignoring them as you sat down, a little comment made about the lack of an apple on Alexia’s plate instead just an orange next to her avocado on toast. “I need you on top form for tonight.” Alexia had commented back.

“You’re seeing that right?” Ingrid whispered to Mapi. “Yesterday they wouldn’t speak two words together and now they’re laughing and joking like this.”

“Loud and clear. Maybe now we can see the true La Reina and Princesa on the pitch together.”

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso imagines #woso #espwnt x reader #espwnt imagine #espwnt #barcelona femeni imagine #barcelona femeni

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upthebluess · 4 months

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Up to Standards (Arsenal Women’s Academy Story) P1

Life at arsenal was hard. Harder than you’d expected.

The trainings were more intense, and the lengths of them were longer. You got water breaks less often, and the fitness tests were more frequent. On top of that, the pressure you felt was suffocating.

You had played for Fulham all your life, it was all you knew, it was all you wanted to know.

At the age of 7, you were scouted for Fulham U9s Girls Academy and effortlessly danced your way through their pathway all the way up to U15s. A contract was eagerly handed to you at the end of every season and you were often presented with the opportunity to play up an age group of two with the older girls.

That’s how you liked and how you wanted it. You would rather be the best player in a smaller academy than the worst at a prestigious one, but that’s not how you become a professional athlete.

You would’ve done anything to stay at Fulham for another year, but Arsenal had other plans.

It was a usual game day for you with the 15s, this weekend you were playing Arsenal Girls Academy away at their ground. As usual, you assumed you would play them, put on a good team performance, go home and then go to recovery again the next day with Fulham. That’s how they always went.

However, this particular game, your performance wasn’t just “good”, it was astonishing.

With the captains armband around your bicep and hair scraped back in a ponytail, you repeatedly and mercilessly took on arsenals centre halves and tested their keeper with tempting shots on goal.

You seemed to be everywhere on the pitch that day. The now-rattled Arsenal midfield weren’t getting even a moment on the ball before you closed them down, and you had ordered your strikers to stay close to their defence to intercept back passes. It was an extremely dominant and promising display from you and the girls.

You seemed the perfect player to any spectator. Confident, calm, collected, and not to mention a menace with the ball at your feet. You were everything a coach wanted in a young player, that’s why Fulham were so desperate not to let you go just yet.

To your mundane expectation, you did go home after the game and return to training the next day, but you were unaware you wouldn’t be at the one after that.

It’s incredibly rare that another academy bids for a youth player, but it can and does happen (if the player is deemed worth the expense).

Fulham’s development team had sat you down after an extensive recovery session, and explained the situation to you straight. They said that Arsenal, along with themselves, had been incredibly impressed with your game on Saturday.

They went on to say that Arsenal had offered them quite a large sum of money, in return for you to sign a scholarship contract with the reds ahead of the upcoming U16s season.

In shock and at a loss for words, you sat with a blank expression on your face. What does a 15 year old say to that? Why would Arsenal, one of Englands best academies, want to pay money for you?

You were confident in your ability, sure, but Arsenal could practically get any midfielder they wanted without offering a penny for them, any midfielder other than you. Fulham was your home, the people there were your home.

But you were soon to find out that the “conversation” they were having with you, wasn’t a conversation at all because you didn’t get to do any talking. The deal was done and the offer was accepted.

Your last game with Fulham would be 28th May against Bristol City and then you were gone. Your Fulham journey was over and your Arsenal one was beginning.

Arsenal had sent you a letter of acceptance and all the details for the new signing day along with it.

Many mixed emotions flooded your head as you read the letter over and over again: dread, excitement, anxiety, curiosity and grief.

You weren’t quite sure how you could go without seeing your teammates friends again, and how you would manage trying to make new ones.

But regardless of your emotions, the date on the paper remained constant.

24th June, 14:00. Scholarship signing day.

A/N

I have no idea if this is awful or if I’ll delete it in the morning. This player will be interacting with first team female players at some point, but I want there to actually be some plot before that. I haven’t written in ages so bare with me!

#womens football #arsenal wfc #alessia russo x reader #woso fanfics

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lukeywritesstuff · 6 months

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this request might be a little confusing to type out but hear me out😭🤣 could u write something ab the reader having a kid and the devils having a event where the players get to train with the kids! the readers kid is one of the kids at the event and luke falls for the reader somehow through that! idk i have this vision in my head but idk how to type it out😭

Little League

Luke Hughes x mom!reader

Note: don’t worry! I totally understand what you’re saying. I read this and kinda had a social media/irl storyline come to my mind so I hope that’s alright! Also I kinda made them slightly know each other, but like acquaintances and they have like mutual friends kinda sorta.

Warnings: a shit ton of fluff. Literally it’s all fluff. Like I don’t even think this has cursing in it. And if so maybe once.

My name is Y/N, and when I was 15 I had a son. He is absolutely everything to me. I was young, and dumb, but if I was given the option to go back and never hook up with some senior at my school, I wouldn’t take the offer. I love my little man too much.

When he was 2 he fell in love with hockey, so at 3 I let him start learning how to skate and grasp the basics of playing hockey, even though for his age it was just floor. Now at 5 he’s playing fully on ice and his team was even invited to practice with the New Jersey Devils, as his team, and we, are based in Newark.

Once we got to Prudential Centre the boys were sent to the main locker room, their names were on tape right under their buddy for the day. I was looking around and right under ‘Luke Hughes’ in full capital letters read ‘Ethan Y/L/N’. I walked my son over to the stall where his name was (obviously avoiding the logo) and I helped him change into his pads, uniform and skates.

After all the kids were settled and ready, coach Ruff started explaining to the kids and the parents how this practice session basically works.

It’s a 4 week training camp, and it’s every Wednesday that the devils are in town. (So 4 Wednesdays, but sometimes there’s a week between the practices without one cuz they’re away) after everything was explained, the Devils were brought into the locker room to meet with their buddies for the program.

The second Ethan saw Luke the smile on his face grew by about 100%. He watched him on Michigan last season as my sister goes there and is friends with some of the older players on the team, and they’ve met before, so he’s excited to see his old friend.

“LUKEY! You’re my buddy! I’m so happy! I missed you! Are we gonna shoot pucks and score on everyone!?” My 5 year old said acting like I just fed him 3 coffees with a side of 10 pounds of sugar.

“Oh yeah we are! We’re gonna be the best group on the ice! With the best cheerleader! Right Y/N?” He said and I smiled at them giving a thumbs up.

After the rest of the kids got to know their buddy a little more the teams were ushered onto the ice, and parents were to stay along the sidelines and not interfere unless there was an emergency.

The team had several smaller nets put up along the boards to practice shooting, cones near centre ice to practice skating, and pucks EVERYWHERE. The kids were all having a blast, and so were the professionals.

By the end of the 2 hours all the kids looked ready to nap, and honestly so did most of the players. Everyone went into the locker room and the players helped the kids with their skates before they talked to the parents.

“So, how was Ethan out there?” I asked the curly headed man smiling at me.

“He’s great. Future NHL superstar I think. The next Gretzky! Forget about bedard!” He said.

“I’m glad my kids THAT GOOD.” I smiled.

“Yeah he is. How are you though? I haven’t seen you since you and Ethan visited Sarah?!” He said bringing up my sister.

“Everything’s great here actually! He’s loving kindergarten now and I got a raise which is why I put him into this. As a little treat for him.” I smiled.

“You’re such a good mom to him. You know, since we’re both in Jersey, I think we should finally exchange numbers, and maybe we can go out for lunch one day Eth’s in school and you’re off and I don’t have practice!” He said smiling.

“You know what, sure Hughes. Pass me your phone and we can text tonight about said lunch date.” I said before taking his phone.

Ynstagram

Had a great time with the @njdevils and @lhughes_06. Eth will never forget this. Thank you so much 🫶🫶

╔═══════════════════╗

The second week was 2 weeks later as the devils had their first road trip of the season. The kids were extra excited because the wait was longer than they expected it to be.

The second Ethan saw Luke he ran to the man and attached himself to him, it didn’t seem weird because quite a few of the kids did the same to their buddies.

Today on the ice they were doing more team oriented practices instead of just one on one. So Luke, Jack, Dawson, and Nico were working together with Ethan and 3 other kids. It wasn't too eventful, just 2 on 2 scrimmage and small drills that 5 year olds can handle.

But this time after helping Ethan change and it was time for Luke and I to talk about his progress, he asks me out for the next evening, I said yes because Ethan was already gonna be at my parents so I'll be home alone anyways, why not spent that evening with Luke!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes fanfic

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cowpants147 · 1 year

Text

I can't sleep so I'm just laid here and I started thinking about the Foxes that go on to play exy professionally and what they'd do after retirement:

Andrew

I know for a fact that this interaction happened during Andrews last press event after his last match.

Reporter: so Andrew, now that you've officially retired, what are you gonna do now?

Andrew: I'm gonna be a stay at home dad.

Obviously the reporters run w it and suddenly everyone's trying to figure out when Andrew had kids and who with all the while he's at home with the cats aka his children all day.

I also think he either starts coaching exy at a school or at a youth centre because he recognises the out that exy gave him and he's great with kids.

Neil

Neil's got too much of a mouth on him to go quietly into retirement so I definitely see him being a commentator and providing some of the highest praise and most iconic insults ever known to the sports channels.

I feel like he'd miss actually playing though so he'd probably become some kind of coach. Maybe even goes back to PSU to help Dan as assistant coach after Wymack retires.

Kevin

That boy was born and bred for his own sports related show. I like the idea of him and Jeremy hosting this exy post show where they go over everything that's happened in the week. Jeremy is ever positive, Kevin is harsher with his commentary but they've both got smiles made for prime time TV.

They have a 3rd on the panel reserved for a different special guest each week. Such special guests at one point include Neil, Wymack, and Andrew who only went on to see if he could get Kevin to crack and break character.

Matt

100% becomes a stay at home dad to his and Dan's actual human kids and their golden retriever. During this retirement press conference he says something about proudly being Dan's trophy husband.

Coach's his kids little league team, even if they're not playing exy. Makes homemade signs with the kids for when they go watch the Foxes play.

Buys Andrew a matching "best dad ever" mug the minute Andrew drops that line in his interview. When Neil teams up with Dan to coach the Foxes these two become random best buds, going out for food and and drinks together, sitting together at games, worldlessly teaming up to make sure Dan and Neil have lunch every day at practise.

+ Jeremy and Jean

The minute Jean retires he's done with exy. Jeremy goes on to do a shit ton of charity work and be on the weekly prime time exy show with Kevin but Jean is more than happy to stay out of the public eye.

They live on a farm or like in a super cute small town where nobody bothers them. Jean spends all day reading books, painting, takes up photography and becomes so good that he's hired by the locals for weddings, newborn pics, etc. He's a regular at the farmers market. Maybe if they live on a farm then he has his own stall selling eggs, jams, and family recipes that Jeremy passed down to him from the Knox family and that Jean has perfected over the years.

And they travel as much as they can! They have a second home in France and use that as their home base while they trav around Europe every chance they can get.

#its 4am and even after using the brain power to think of this and write it im not tired #woop #aftg #tfc #andrew minyard #neil josten #kevin day #jeremy knox #matt boyd #jean moreau #aftg headcanon #tfc headcannon #psu #the foxes #jerejean #andreil

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randombush3 · 1 year

Text

Kicking and Screaming

florence pugh x footballer!reader

summary: your relationship is taking a hit from the release of Don’t Worry Darling

words: 4948

warnings: smut

notes: i tried to keep the football terms to a minimum so don’t be daunted by this. this was requested as well — no way i could have come up with this.

It’s all fucking bullshit.

No one seems to believe in your relationship. Or, rather, they’d like to believe in a different one.

She’s convinced you they’re not true. They aren’t true, because you were with her while she filmed, and on FaceTime when bubbles did not permit physical contact. Like, what the actual fuck? It’s insulting to even think about trying to pretend she slept with him.

Everyone can tell that you’re on edge the moment you walk onto the bus. Maybe you’re frustrated because you’ve avoided your girlfriend for a solid week, save for the occasional small talk that occurs when you catch each other in the same room of your house, maybe it’s because you had to fight your way past the paparazzi at your front door.

Attempting to diffuse their teammate, you are met with a series of ‘hi’s that fizzle out the moment you shove your stuff in the hold above an empty row and sit down on your own. This is a player who does not want to be spoken to. You hear a mumble “relationship problems” and scowl, closing your eyes and choosing to block out the entire world for three and a half hours.

When Leah begins to play her pregame hype music (awful, awful music that you’d hate even in the best of moods), they beg you to join in with the singing, making a game of who can possibly get a smile out of you. You groan loudly, covering your face with your hands, but when Jonas looks at you sternly, you give in and face them all. “You get one song,” you announce, “and if it’s shit, I’m not singing.” There’s a scramble for the phone connected to the speaker, and then some absurd song you chose for karaoke once plays.

They manage to get you to sing three, before the coaches coach and the bus stops. You step off and are quickly taken aside by Aaron. The assistant coach looks at you with concern pulling at his smile. The chatter of the team fades into the distance and he begins to talk.

He starts with a simple question: “how are you?”

“I’m fine.” He isn’t convinced. “No, really. I need to just play. I’ve got to play it out.”

“You could have played it out at training.”

“I need an audience.” You need to show everyone – remind them all – how great you are, with or without your girlfriend. No matter what they say about your personal life, you will make sure they cannot attack your playing. “I’m a professional.”

“It’s going to be a tough match, Y/n. They’re a good side, we’re matched almost evenly. No one needs a loose canon on the pitch.”

“I’m notoriously calm–”

“When your girlfriend isn’t in the centre of Hollywood’s latest scandal.” His remark is cutting. You may well have flinched. Aaron then softens, as if suddenly deciding he’s being too harsh. “I will tell Jonas that you will be focused throughout, but if I feel that it’s not working or you’re not playing well, I’m taking you off. We all go through relationship issues. It’s okay to need a moment.”

You’re about to protest, guns firing up and getting ready to blaze your way through a full ninety minute match, but Beattie grabs your arm and makes fun of you for being slow. “How can we start match prep without Saint Y/n?” she whines dramatically.

Aaron nods in dismissal. You follow her unnecessary tugging.

“She’s here!” Beth shouts over the noise. You glare at them, halfway between it being sincere and joking.

Surprisingly, you manage to chat and jostle and tease, partaking in the standard changing room banter. Every so often, your phone buzzes, its screen lighting up with texts and missed calls from Florence, annoyingly reminding you of the lock screen background (Flo and Billie, teeth bared). Some of your teammates notice the amount of notifications you are getting, but none are intrusive enough to assume anything other than social media or an overactive group chat.

Flo’s latest text reads:

Pick up the fucking phone.

How pleasant.

She did start quite civilly, attempting to make up after a particularly venomous row. You’d stormed out, and then she’d slept on the sofa until you came back. The arguing had resumed when she told you she had been unbelievably worried while you were cooling off, so you had slammed your bedroom door shut and drowned her out by pouring over old match footage to analyse your play. You both could be work-oriented if you wanted to. If that was how it was going to be.

Speaking of work oriented — the cheers in the stadium as both teams walk out of the tunnel are enough to pull your focus in onto the here and now, not some stupid and too-common argument.

Once you’ve warmed up and have been reminded of Aaron’s personal terms and conditions for tonight’s game, it’s Jonas’ team talk (stay calm, play your game, press hard defensively) and then kick off.

The whistle sounds and you are back in a situation you can control. It feels good, this feels good. Florence is but a niggle at the back of your mind as you push and shove and dribble and… Okay, yeah, you foul quite a bit.

You have a lot of pent up everything, and instead of taking it out on the ball itself, it does lead to quite a few incidents where you push the player too hard and they end up on the floor, but so what? The first goal is scored fifteen minutes in thanks to your turn over and cross. You’re playing great. Aggressively, sure, but great.

You think you have a great chance of winning the ball in the next tackle you go for. (In hindsight, you are completely lying to yourself.) Your legs go round and under, and she goes down awkwardly, crying out in a mix of shock and pain. You find that you’re pulled down too, small crescents pressed into your forearm when the player lets go of you.

“What the fuck was that?” hisses one of the Man United players, kneeling down to her teammate. You can feel your own team debating whether to crowd the scene or watch from afar.

You blank out the next five minutes, in which the player is helped off by a medic, the ref waves a yellow card in your face, and Jonas goes absolutely nuts from the sideline.

Katie is a dirty player. Not you.

“You okay?” a player from the other team asks, her face determined but eyes gentle. She extends her hand out to you, pulling you up.

Her words remind you that you are very much in the public eye. (And that you are also very much not okay.)

Aaron is emphatic about how disciplined you usually are at half time. In fact, half the team are scared to talk to you considering the uncharacteristic aggression shown on the pitch. When Mead approaches to ask if you’re alright, you turn around and pretend to be extremely interested in the wall.

Aaron tells you that you need to leave this shit off the pitch now. “Taking it out on everyone else doesn’t seem to be working,” he says, “because they’ve scored an equaliser and one of our best players looks like she’s about to beat the shit out of her own team. Take up fucking boxing at this rate!”

“I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth, setting your jaw as you prepare to go back on for the last ten minutes of the game. “Jonas thinks I’m fine.”

“He thinks you’re playing fine.”

“Are you my coach or my dad?” you snap, fully aware of the camera pointed at the pair of you. “I will deal with my shit in whichever way I choose. Currently, it might be beating the shit out of my assistant coach.”

He pauses, perplexed. You are a composed person. You are neutral, positive at times, yet he finds not an ounce of regret for your tone nor your language. All he can see as he looks in your eyes is pure, unbridled rage.

Aaron is not stupid. He knows how to win games, he knows how to make sure whatever a player brings onto the pitch is milked for every last drop of usefulness in order to garner a victory.

“I want a goal,” he says with a shrug. He points to your chest, “this fire in your heart… put it on the ball and kick hard.” You nod curtly. He smiles, proud of himself: you needed a target to focus your determination. “Okay, now go,” dismisses Aaron.

Jonas gives technical advice, asking you to score a goal more for the team than your own personal well-being, but that's the difference between coach and assistant coach.

When you step back out there, you feel a new hunger for one thing. You play selfishly, ruthlessly, and incredibly well. No one can seem to get the ball off you, so Man United’s focus shifts to keeping it two metres from you in every direction. Overtime will give them a moment to regroup and re-strategise, so that’s what they aim for.

A bad pass in their defence in the last minute of injury time costs them the ball. You pounce on it, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Your own team presses down into the box to crowd the defence, leaving them overwhelmed and panicking, on their toes in preparation for your cross.

But your cross never comes.

The goalie is distracted, you realise. The commotion has stressed her out, cracked the icy hold her eyes had on the ball. She can’t see you position yourself towards her net. You think back to Aaron pointing at your heart, and gauge the distance between you and the goal.

You’re outside the box, but you have a chance.

You put your fire on the ball and kick hard.

It flies through the air swiftly, and the goalie can do nothing but dive too low down for it to not go in.

The whistle blows again, and you’re tackled by your team, whooping and cheering in your ear like there’s no tomorrow. You sink into that feeling of warmth and pride.

Everything feels fine again.

“Hey, L/n, they don’t want to talk to me anymore!” Beth calls you over from where she’s greeting fans. She went straight over to them once she shook hands with the other team. You haul yourself off the floor, patting the women you rolled off your body on the back with a mutter of ‘time to be famous’.

Half the pr stuff you’ve learnt is from Flo.

Little girls grin at you, looking up with admiration and stars in their eyes. They hold their dreams out to you, and you smile right back at them, signing everything that they ask you to, taking every picture possible.

“I think you’re my favourite,” declares a boy who’s shoved his way past everyone to get to the front. “You’re definitely my favourite.” He beams.

“Yeah?” You send him a wink, and then he jumps up to get a better look at you — he can’t really see over the barrier. You’re about to pick him up and bring him over the barrier to take a picture with him for his mum, when you notice a woman who hasn’t yet rushed out of the stands to beat the traffic.

She has short blonde hair and is tanned from summer.

The Cartier watch that you bought for her sits spitefully on her wrist.

Your mood sours.

Beth, who is standing beside you, seems to realise you’re no longer loving the attention, and watching you squirm under piercing green eyes isn’t her most favourite thing to do. She nudges you with her shoulder; approval that it’s okay to go back to the changing room.

“Bye!” you say to the crowd, waving at them all before turning around and focusing entirely on not crying or killing somebody.

An interviewer corners you somewhat, forcing you to answer a few questions. “This was a new side of you that we got to see today,” she begins, “is this a new style of play or a one-off?”

You make sure to have the blank, neutral expression before answering. “We’ll see.” She flashes you a smile and gives you a thumbs up. You’re free to continue marching back to the changing room.

They’ll likely be empty seeing as everyone is still on the pitch.

The door slams behind you as you groan in frustration. It echoes through the room, eerily barren of post-win cheer.

Why the fuck was she here? Couldn’t she let you have your space? In fact, couldn’t she just fuck off forever so that you never have to talk about anything?

You’re so caught up in sulking that you don’t notice the door open and shut and another person slip in.

“A yellow card, huh?” Your eyes fixate on the blonde, glaring. “It was a good game.”

“Why are you here?” you fire back, not wanting to hear her praise you because you might give in and buckle your knees and go crawling back to her with tears in your eyes.

“To watch you play,” she answers calmly.

You clench your fists, squeezing pleasantry out of yourself. “So now you care? Now you pay attention to me?” After all of this, she thinks she can show up once and make everything fine again. Bullshit.

“Don’t act like I’m the one running out of every room you walk into!”

Unbelievable.

“I do not run,” you scoff. “Wouldn’t you rather be on the phone to your boyfriend?”

“Wow, so mature.”

“At least I’m not a cheating liar!” you shout, taking the both of you by surprise. She rolls her shoulders back: okay, if this is how it’s going to be. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else, am I? All I’m doing is avoiding you.”

“So you admit you’re avoiding me!”

“Yeah, and you fucking show up at my game, acting as if you have every right to corner me and tell me to forgive you,” you spit, and she recoils at the thought. “Well I’m not going to forgive you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive me for,” she huffs, throwing her arms up in the air in frustration. “It’s not my fault that the media can’t keep out of my business.”

“I know they’re invasive.” It’s not her fault that they hound her. “But I had to find out from a fucking article, not from my girlfriend.”

“There was nothing to fucking find out!” she snaps, stepping closer to you. You feel the heat of her breath cloud your space, your body fighting with everything it has to not be drawn into her. She’s so close that you can see every detail of her tired face.

You tilt your chin up nonchalantly. “Tell that to the tabloids,” you mutter, but she can hear you easily from her position. “Oh, wait… You’re not going to fucking say anything.”

What comes next is a low blow, but people aren’t their best selves in heated arguments. “I thought you were braver than that, Flo.”

She shakes with anger, taking another step closer. “How have you convinced yourself that you’re supportive?” Her voice stays steady even if her body is not. “You tell me I’m a lying, cheating coward but—”

The door, once again, thuds shut.

“I told you we shouldn’t go in!”

Flo jumps backwards, creating distance for you to both stand awkwardly in front of Beth Mead and Vivianne Miedema.

Beth nudges her girlfriend, who quickly wipes the vindictive smile off her face.

“Everything okay?” Beth looks at you with the same concerned expression she’s been using the whole day. “Hi, Flo. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I,” you grumble.

“It was a last minute decision.” Her reason is left unsaid, thankfully, but it’s safe to say three out of four people in the room know why — Miedema can be a little slow when being updated with whose side she and Beth are on in this ongoing fight.

“Sounded like a great argument,” says Vivianne, earning herself a harder nudge. “Can we shower and change before you carry on? The rest of the team will be coming through soon.”

You want to laugh but Flo’s glare stops you. Even if everything is falling to pieces, you seem to have a connection. She nods twice and you understand. When you get back, she will be waiting and you will be continuing this conversation in private.

She leaves, walking out in a way that makes you shudder ever so slightly (you chalk it down to the breeze the door creates, not the sight of her).

“So… did you call her a lying, cheating coward?” Beth asks as she sits on the bench you’re standing by, swinging her legs like a schoolgirl.

“Are you going to pretend you didn’t hear everything?”

She pauses for a moment, and then concedes. “Okay, yeah, we were outside for a good portion of it, but you guys were really loud. And Viv wanted to listen!”

Your other teammate shakes her head in protest. “Big, fat lie. I was going to have a chat with Katie while you guys shouted at each other.”

“No, if we hadn’t interrupted they so would have fucked,” Beth thinks aloud.

You snort. “Ha! As if—”

Vivianne turns to her girlfriend as if she actually has a point. “I’m surprised they were fully clothed when we walked in.”

- - -

She’s waiting for you in the kitchen when you get back.

You were held back by Jonas for five minutes when he wanted to congratulate you on your playing and tell you he likes the more aggressive side of you, but other than that, you’re true to your ETA. That text was the first you’d sent her in at least a week.

There are two plates on the counter, and quickly they are full of pasta bolognese. The meat is good protein.

“I thought we could eat and talk.”

You say nothing, but grab a fork for the both of you. You don’t sit down for fear of habitually sitting opposite her at the table. If you look at her too long, you’ll forgive her straight away.

After a few mouthfuls of the admittedly delicious food, you gesture with your fork. “Go on. Talk.” Maybe you should really hear her out.

She sighs. “When we first started dating, we talked about my sex scenes. I told you that they’re awkward to film and not at all romantic, and that I’ve never been attracted to any man I’ve had to pretend to be attracted to. It’s off-putting, really, and I thought you understood that.” She waits for your defensive interjection but you stay quiet. “Olivia is marketing this movie in a very horrible way — a way I had no say in. Reducing everything down to sex is harmful in itself, but I will not let it be any more harmful to this relationship than the publicity has already been.

“What you said about me not being brave, it’s true. I didn’t want to prolong a bad situation, but it’s hurting us and I hate that.”

She moves to take your plate to the sink, but your legs bring you with her. When she turns back around, plate no longer in hand, your arms are on either side of her body, pinning her underneath you against the counter.

“So you’re doing an interview,” you finish for her, speaking in a low voice. You don’t break eye contact. “Are you going to tell them that no one fucks you as well as I do?”

Flo blushes, crossing her legs. Her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed.

You lean down slowly, your lips hovering over her ear. “Who’s better, Florence? Me or him?”

Her shoulders tense, skin flushing beneath the worn material of an old concert t-shirt from a decade ago. She wears nothing else, apart from underwear.

Your eyes hold her gaze, daring her to look away. She shifts uncomfortably under your stare, unable to ignore the aching between her legs that comes with how close you are to her. She is not about to kiss you.

No, she’s angry that you would ever believe a stupid article over her. Or was it that you…

Does it matter? What were you even arguing about?

She can’t seem to remember anymore.

“Me… or him?” you repeat. The movement of your lips draws her eyes to them, something that you catch immediately.

“You’re jealous,” she replies, letters tumbling out onto one another as she forgets how to speak. You’ve dropped your hands to her waist. Your grip tightens as she smiles proudly at her clunky declaration. “You’re jealous of him.” Her eyes shut for a moment when you step closer, pressing her between you and the counter.

“You’re turned on.” Your smirk is enough to make her want to kiss you. Solely for the purpose of wiping it off your face, of course.

“I’m so turned on.”

You chuckle quietly at her admission. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Her chest presses against you and you almost forgo holding out on her. “Maybe I’ll have to make a call,” she whispers.

You smooth your palms down her curves, cupping her arse and pushing into her until your knuckles hit the counter. “Really?” Your lips hover just above hers, but she can’t lift up to reach them because you’re holding her down. “Not gonna kiss me?”

She shrugs. “Make me.”

You barely have to move for her lips to touch yours, but once they do it feels like you can’t get close enough. Her hands bunch the fabric of your hoodie, pulling it up and down as if she’s trying to get you out of it but can’t think of how to do so. You lift her up, swiping away the dishes from the counter without hesitation, lips never leaving her body. She moans loudly, unrestrained, as you reach your hand up her shirt, kneading at her breasts.

It doesn’t take long for her clothes to come off.

Blinded by pleasure, she leans back, almost slumping against the wall before knocking against a dirty glass and spilling water. She jumps at the noise, but you’re locked in with the focus you usually reserve for games. You pull her into you, arms wrapped around her thighs, and walk her back to the table. It’s lower, meaning you tower over her. She gasps at the coldness of the wood against her bare skin.

With a wild look in your eyes, you sink to your knees, hands running up her legs before reaching the tops of her thighs. She pants as she watches you intently, opening her legs as you guide her to.

You stop for a moment, taking a second to glance up at her. Florence is almost sprawled out on the table, sitting partially upright in order to see what’s taking you so fucking long. She opens her mouth to gripe or make some snide comment to rile you up, but your tongue flicks her clit and suddenly her sole focus is pushing your head further between her legs.

Her fingers tangle their way through your hair, any hair bobble long gone, giving her enough sturdiness to buck her hips into your mouth. Legs locking around your neck, she throws her head back and gasps loudly. “Fuck, baby, that’s so good,” she says. Her voice slices its way through your focus. Your moan into her. “So good,” she repeats, and then chants over and over as your tongue dives inside her.

Your grip on her thighs tightens, nails pressing into the soft skin. She moans and grinds her hips down, telling you she needs it harder, faster. You nod, and the movement causes her to yank your head back up.

You make the most obscene noise she has ever heard.

“You like that?”

“Not now,” is your short reply. She frowns, but forgets all previous emotions when your tongue is back inside her and your thumb is rubbing her clit.

She doesn’t have to tell you she is going to come.

Her legs tighten and her thighs suffocate you, your hair becoming the only visible part of your head. The hand that isn’t pulling at your hair is clawing at the edge of the table, seeking something to hold onto before she floats away. You use your whole face; nose, mouth, any part that can touch her.

“Don’t…” But the sentence isn’t finished. She cries out, the sound piercing the silence and echoing through the house. “Oh, fuck.”

You feel a pressure building inside of you, the throbbing at your clit becoming incessant. You drop your free hand to your joggers, but your eyes squeeze shut before you even have to touch yourself. You moan into her, the vibrations shooting through her body and splitting her in half. She comes loudly, and you find that you come too.

When you stand, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, examining the mess made. What once was a plate now lies in broken shards on the floor.

“We need to clean this,” you mutter, more to yourself than her.

She seems to pounce on you. “Later. No one fucks me like you do.”

- - -

Both of you fall asleep very quickly after five more rounds of very jealousy-fueled sex. She eggs you on the whole time, meaning you are relentless in your assault on her entire body; a price she will pay in the morning.

You wake to your phone buzzing its way off the bedside table.

Flo’s asleep with a leg between yours, chest pressed against you, face buried into your neck. You don’t move, feeling for your phone with an extended arm as to not wake her up.

Leah’s calling.

You groan.

“Hi, Leah,” you greet, faux chirpiness failing to cover the evident exhaustion in your voice. You did nearly lose it last night.

“Hi. Where the fuck are you?” You glance around at your bedroom, tentatively answering with the truth. She does not sound happy. “It’s half past two. You were supposed to be at training an hour ago.”

“Oh.”

You were asleep.

“Yes, ‘oh’! Jonas is on everyone’s case, get you arse here.” She pauses, you can imagine her lifting her finger off the hang up button. “…Are you alright? You sound dead.”

“I just… used my voice lots last night.” She’ll assume you had a—

“Screaming match?”

“Yeah, you could call it that.”

You bite your lip, waiting for her response. “Oh, okay. Well hurry up. I’ll tell Jonas you had a late night.”

“Thank you,” you say calmly, pretending to care a lot more than you do. It’s hard to care about other things when there’s a naked woman on top of you. “Bye, Leah.”

“Bye.”

The covers rustle slightly. “Our neighbours must hate us,” Flo mumbles, voice muffled by your neck. You run your hand down her back, settling just above her bum.

“Sorry?”

She lifts her head up, hair stuck the side of her cheeks, sex-teased and knotted. “The neighbours. They must hate us.”

You shrug, “fuck the neighbours.”

“Ah, I bet they say ‘the neighbours fuck’ over there.” You laugh at her stupid joke, enjoying her lazy grin. “I think you’re going to make me lose my voice one of these days.”

You both sound pretty hoarse.

“I shouldn’t have avoided you.” She frowns. You press a kiss to the top of her head. “I was angry at everyone; angry about the things people were saying, angry about the way you wouldn’t say anything. It was so frustrating to be cast aside so quickly, seemingly not being an option or a factor in anything to do with your love life. I felt so insulted, and I felt like you weren’t standing up for me.”

She lets you talk.

“I’m sorry for not hearing you out sooner,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to hers. “I love you, but I was so hurt and loving you was making it worse.”

“I get it,” she replies carefully. “The media flips so quickly, always picking sides and making up sources. I’m sorry for not standing up for you.”

You realise it’s not her fault. She doesn’t really get to choose the management of things like this.

You smile. She nudges you. “A screaming match?”

Shit. Training.

“We did!”

“I’m pretty sure screaming matches involving orgasms are just… sex.”

“They’re not going to suspect a thing,” you say slyly. She rolls her eyes and moves off you, allowing you to get dressed.

You leave in the next ten minutes, calling her to say goodbye.

- - -

In the changing rooms at the end of a session you barely made it to, the girls change and shower like they normally do.

Beside you, however, is one very stunned Katie Mccabe. Her mouth agape, she begins to attract a curious few.

“What’s wrong with Katie?” Leah questions suspiciously, eyes following the direction everyone is pointing in.

You stand with a guilty expression. Your sports bra only covers some of the many, many hickeys littering your body. Beth smirks and tells you to turn around.

They gasp at the state of your back.

“That’s gotta be painful,” mutters Raffa, shaking her head. She smiles soon, though. It’s hard to not be proud of you.

“Some screaming match you had,” Leah huffs bitterly. “Can’t believe I explained your relationship issues to Jonas. Twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridleypugh @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch @xsophiesx @slut4milfs69 @sunshadesnrainbowz @wandasbb @karsonromanoff

#florence pugh fanfiction #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh #florence pugh x you #florence pugh one shot #black widow #florence pugh imagine #florence pugh x y/n #fanfiction #marvel #florence pugh smut #florence pugh fluff #florence pugh angst #leah williamson #beth mead #vivianne miedema #arsenal wfc #football

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theroyalweekly · 7 months

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Celebrating the power of inclusivity within Rugby League 💪🏉  Great to learn more about @hullfcofficial’s Centre of Excellence at @UniOfHull, which provides students with a combination of coaching and education to help them progress into professional sport. -- The Prince and Princess of Wales

#catherine elizabeth #princess catherine #princess of wales #princess catherine of wales #catherine the princess of wales #kensington palace

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belmottetower · 11 months

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first, tysm for your guide to britpicking and football!! it helps so much!! can i ask if/when you guys are planning about posting about academies? i've tried googling but i still don't really understand how it works, when kids get paid, etc. so i'd really appreciate your breakdown of the topic <3

Hi! So we were planning to incorporate this into Roy's and Jamie's timeline pages, but there's a lot to catch up on. If you have a specific question PLEASE message me or Hall @scoatneyhall or comment on the primer, but I'm going to run through a quick few basics about Roy and Jamie specifically.

ROY

Roy going to Sunderland is WEIRD. Academies had (and still have) a catchment area, meaning that the players needed to be within 1 hour for training if under a certain age, and then if scouted older, it goes up to 90 minutes. 9 is the youngest you can be scouted and it is definitely in the 1 hour zone. Sunderland is 5 hours away. Scouting a London kid for Sunderland is absolutely bizarre and the club would have had to find a loophole - they likely placed him with a billet or host family and register his address there. (Loopholes like this have been done to get international kids into academies, sometimes paying to relocate the kid's whole family to England and within the catchment zone.) Clubs still very much use host families, but they use them for their professional youth side, from age 15 up, when the catchment area no longer applies. They do not take 9 year old kids away from home.

For Roy to have gone to Sunderland at 9, there has to be a STORY there. Either they were the only club who wanted him - if he wasn't considered good enough for any of the clubs in London like Chelsea, Arsenal, Fulham, QPR, Spurs... Any of the clubs that were regularly in the first division at that time - or he really wanted to get away from London or his family wanted him to get away. It could be that he wanted to sign somewhere as SOON as he got an offer (9 is the youngest you can be scouted) and if he had kept training til 11 or 12 and developed more, there would have been other interest from London clubs. Either way, this is just absolutely unheard of, for a 9 year old to go to an academy 5 hours from home, alone. Clubs don't scout from that far from their catchment area.

The ONLY comparable story we have found of English players from his generation is Michael Carrick. Carrick is from Wallsend (near Sunderland actually) and he was scouted by West Ham. It makes a little more sense for a top London club to look for hidden talent from afar. However, he didn't move to London - he played for an excellent youth club in Wallsend, and stayed at home and trained locally at a Centre of Excellence (an independant training center with top coaches helping kids who have hopes of getting scouted.) West Ham monitored his progress and he came down to London for special occasions to train or play with the West Ham youth side. He was not relocated as a kid. He finally moved down to London into a group house for young players at age 16, which is when they sign the first professional "schoolboy contract" and get some wages.

Again, ROY GOING TO SUNDERLAND IS WEIRD. He would not have been in a dorm full of kids from all over. It would have been all local lads who lived with their parents, and him, who lived with a host family. It's just weird that he went to this club and if writing about it you have to kind of figure out why it happened. The show clearly didn't think it through. It's not normal. He was either not good enough for London clubs and Sunderland was his only offer, or... ???

The Sunderland Academy in Roy's day was called the Charlie Hurley Centre, it was not in great shape, it was replaced after Roy's time by a great new facility called the Academy of Light but then Sunderland got relegated a bunch of times and lost all its money and now they are a club with very top facilities and stadiums both for youth and seniors, but just not doing that well. They're climbing back up but they have TRULY been in the pits, there's a documentary about it called Sunderland Til I Die. We need to dig up more details on what life was like for players back then, when Roy came up with Sunderland. He definitely debuted in the Premier League with them, and was likely sold to Chelsea when Sunderland got relegated in May 2003.

JAMIE

Jamie's youth era is a lot easier to give current info about. His situation would be very close to Man City's present day academy system, and there is a great rundown on that here: Plotting a route through Man City’s academy – from under-4s to the first team

Jamie would have lived at home the whole time he was at academy. It isn't a dorms situation. They DO have dorms in a hotel type thing on site at the Etihad Campus, but it's for special camps and match days and things like that. He would have lived at home with his mum, gone to school, gone to training, came home. He would have only moved out as an adult.

Clubs "court" kids from a young age (4 or 5) and know who they want to sign, they bring them to development days and stuff, but they cannot officially sign someone til they're 9. That's the youngest. Jamie wasn't said to have been signed at 9, no one in the show mentions it like they did about Roy, so it's possible he would have been between 10-13, I suspect around the average age of 11-12. What's for sure is that it's EXTREMELY likely that Jamie was signed by City for a fair while before he knew his dad - it's more likely than not that he was already a City Academy boy when his dad came back into his life. I'm also 99% sure that's what was meant by James showing up when Jamie "got good" - that Jamie had been signed already, hadn't washed out (lots of kids do as they go through the system) had a real chance at going professional, and was at the club James supported. Maybe even his name was appearing on City's website as part of the youth squads. James wanted Jamie for that City clout. But it's important to understand that City were Jamie's boyhood club (and probably the team Georgie supported, she got him into football, remember?) before he even met his father. This is something I'm not sure people always get, but it's what his emotions in "Mom City" are about, when he gets that ovation - Jamie's relationship with City was HIS FIRST. His club to support, his club to get scouted by, his dream come true, with no pressure from his father. City isn't just an entity or a memory or a symbol that Jamie equates with his father. City is something he loved on his own and that his father came in and ruined for him.

From age 12 or year 7, ("7th grade," start of secondary school,) Man City pays for their academy kids to go to a private school they partner with, mostly one called St Bede's, where they work out the teaching/training schedule with them to make sure the boys are keeping up academically but also get time off for training. The school schedule is in the article above. The club requires them to stay in school until a certain age/qualification, and they are encouraged to actually finish school and do their A Levels. The school is mixed girls and boys - he would have been at school with girls even if most of his life was boy-centric football. They also have strict uniforms, so that's a fun image.

One thing that hasn't changed since Roy's time is that the boys finish Academy and sign a "schoolboy contract" at 16, to become paid professional youth players. They can then sign their first true pro contract at age 17, but it isn't always offered that young, sometimes it's a couple years later. So - they're paid from 16 at a youth level wage, paid from 17 or older as an adult pro. Between academy and the first team, the players play in the "EDS" - Elite Development Squad - which is the reserve team, they play in a competition called Premier League 2 , and they're basically a talent pool that can be drawn on at any moment. When you're in EDS, you have signed your pro contract, and you can, at any given moment, called up to play a match for the first team. Jamie having number 51 for City - that's his EDS number and it's how we know he came from the City Academy. At the Academy, they're all assigned a "higher" number that's viable to carry over to the main team, so there isn't a number clash if one day they play EDS and next day they play first team. Some players keep their EDS or Academy number for a long time - Phil Foden still wears his, 47, as opposed to selecting a "higher" number.

Hope some of this tides you over, let us know if you want any specific details!

#jamie tartt #roy kent

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dougthorpe-com · 16 days

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Change and Progress, Are They Twins?

In today’s complex business world, change is hard. Companies venturing through major culture shifts, mergers or other forms of change often struggle to make it to the end. The idea that people hate change is a phenomenon that is taught, coached and wrestled with in many ways, shapes, and forms. Regardless of your mindset about CHANGE, there is one vital aspect you should explore. PROGRESS is…

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thomasschabot · 1 year

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find myself running home to you

thomas chabot x fem!reader

for thomas, big wins don’t always have to be celebrated in flashy ways

word count: 2.5k

warnings: cursing

a/n: first fic in almost five months, what’s good? this is extremely niche content but i simply do not care 😌

⭑⭒⭑

Ottawa offers enveloping anonymity and you love it.

It’s a city with too much going on governmentally for people to care about hockey all that much, but the loyal handfuls still respect the privacy of those in the organization and leave them alone, save for the rare time a child asks to take a picture with their favourite player. You’re thankful this is where your roots are extending, settling into the suburbs and occasionally winding their way down Dalhousie into the heart of the Market for a night out. No one bothers you, even when you’re out with Thomas, and it’s the thing that will keep you from ever leaving. The future of a professional athlete is unpredictable, you know, but you’ll fight your boyfriend tooth and nail if he ever wants to move somewhere else unless they’re offering him millions of more dollars and the same opportunity to live your lives publicly and without incident.

The fact that no one cares who you are allows you to sit in your favourite spot at the Canadian Tire Centre — a seat in the 300s directly across from the home bench so you can see everything Thomas experiences. He’s not particularly skilled at hiding his emotions, but you adore him because of it. Even when the two of you are arguing you know exactly how he feels, and it often leads to quicker resolutions because neither of you are afraid of communicating.

As you slide into your seat far away from the friends and family box, where many other significant others and their families are enjoying the game, the person sitting next to you gives a smile.

“Right choice of jersey there, eh?” the older gentleman laughs, gesturing to his back to show you’re wearing the same jersey.

It’s a Giroux reverse retro, with all the trimmings that made the 2007 cup run so spectacular even if G wasn’t anywhere near Ottawa, and it’s your most prized possession. Thomas had gifted it to you one random Sunday, and simply shrugged when you asked why. The smallest detail on the back is what makes it so special — a signature is on the bottom of the eight, along with a little smiley face.

“I like to think so,” you reply, smiling wide at the fact this man either doesn’t know who you are or doesn’t care. “And I think the boys are going to come out guns-a-blazing.”

You know this, of course, because the energy flowing through your home and the homes of other Senators has been electric through the holiday break, but you aren’t going to spill that secret. The man returns your grin tenfold. “I certainly hope so. I didn’t come all the way across the province in a snowstorm to watch them lose.”

⭒⭑⭒

Lose they do not. The Sens play their hearts out, keeping up with the slightly sloppy hockey Boston played. New teammates are becoming more and more like brothers as the seasons plods along, and it’s beginning to show — every single line has undeniable chemistry that’s palpable everywhere in the arena, including the press box. It’s all the beat reporters can write about, and the public can’t get enough of the content, allowing the guys to focus on playing hockey, which is what they do best.

The game is scoreless through a period and a half, and then the floodgates open. It’s a constant flip-flop of goals being scored, with neither team ever eeking ahead to grab a hold of the lead. Thomas continues to be the playmaker he is, passing when the time is right, connecting on clean hits, and eventually bagging an assist. It’s a relatively quiet third period, with most of the action happening in the neutral zone, but you’re on the edge of your seat as the clock winds down. Regulation ends with a tie, and you bounce your leg up and down rapidly while Thomas gets instructions from the coaching staff on how he should proceed through the first shift of overtime.

“Nervous?”

It’s your seat neighbour, eyes holding a look of fond curiosity. He’s showing no obvious signs of concern of distress, and truly looks like he’s going to enjoy what’s coming. “You look like you might puke.”

A small laugh bubbles from your throat. “I loathe OT,” you explain, “It’s so nerve wracking.”

“If you’re going to hurl, please try not to get it on my shoes. My daughter bought them for me as a Christmas gift with her first pay cheque.”

You don’t get a chance to respond, to assure him you won’t actually be sick despite the clamminess creeping into your skin, because the puck drops and the clock starts counting down. Five minutes is an awfully long time when there’s only three players a side and changes happen less frequently. Thomas is on the ice for nearly two minutes before he’s able to come off — somehow he has the puck more than anyone else, taking the occasional shot but mostly keeping it away from the rapidly tiring Boston forwards. You watch with bated breath, bracing yourself for the overwhelming emotions of elation or despair, depending on which net the puck lands in. To the surprise of almost everyone, Talbot stops every shot that comes his way, and the overtime period yields no results.

Before your friend for the night can even open his mouth you’re firing words out of your mouth so quickly they almost don’t make sense. “I fucking hate shootouts and they better win or lose before Chabby has to go up.”

It’s common knowledge that Thomas isn’t confident in shootout situations, and though he’s actively working on it, they only happen every-so-often. He can’t seem to muster the swagger of Brady or the pure skill of Tim, and opposing goalies can read him from miles away. You hope he doesn’t have to step up to the plate because you know if he’s the reason the team loses Thomas will hold it on his shoulders for weeks.

“Looks like it’ll be DeBrincat, Stütlze, and Batherson.” You barely hear what’s being said to you, ears ringing so loud it’s almost unbearable.

No air leaves your lungs as you watch Alex get ready. It’s only once his puck buries itself in the back of the net do you exhale, and even then it’s shallow — the lead could be nullified in a matter of seconds. Luckily it’s not, and you slowly return to your normal breathing pattern. Tim misses, but so does DeBrusk, and when Batherson narrowly misses victory is so close you can almost taste it. Never in your life have you wanted Patrice Bergeron to fumble so badly, and there’s a prick in your heart for wishing ill on one of Thomas’s friends, but you need the Senators to win. The team needs the confidence boost of beating the team with the best record in the entire league.

The ten seconds of Bergeron’s attempt pass in slow motion, and when Talbot closes his glove around the puck you’re out of your seat, jumping up and down and screaming at the top of your lungs. You can’t believe the team pulled it off, and you cheers the people around you with an empty water bottle you’ve been holding on to since the second intermission. As your boyfriend skates towards centre ice to celebrate with his teammates he raises his stick in your general direction — not knowing exactly where you are but knowing you’ll know who the gesture was for.

People don’t linger for long, wanting to try and beat the traffic, so you wish the man who kept you company safe travels as he sneaks past and watch the crowd disperse. You stay until the stars of the game take to the ice and chuckle when DeBrincat nearly trips over the bench on his way to the dressing room corridor. With a rapidly depopulating section and a clear pathway to the corridor that takes you down to ice level, you gather your jacket and walk at a leisurely pace. No one will bother you anyways if they do recognize your face from the occasional social media post, and you silently thank the late Bryan Murray for drafting Thomas to a city with such a respect for privacy.

Once you’re safely in the hallway outside the dressing room a small group of children swarm you. A couple of seasons ago you became the unofficial team sitter, offering your house up when exhausted parents needed a break, and the baby senators adore you. You pick them up and spin them around one at a time before giving a quick hug and suggesting they find their families so they can go home. There’s no sign of Thomas, but you don’t expect there to be, so you busy yourself by firing off a few texts to those who might want an update on your evening.

Wish you could have come! You send to your grandfather, who was supposed to make the journey up but came down with the flu.

Your mom gets Waiting to say goodnight to Tom before going home and calling it a night. The stress of all that extra time drained me lol!

Friends get some variation of Were you watching??! Holy shit and a few even get gifs that encapsulate your pride.

The shadow of your boyfriend appears from the doorway, and the tired smile that rises on his features at the sight of you makes your heart melt. Fresh out of the shower, Thomas smells like home, and you’re glad you decided to wait him out before travelling across the suburb to the house you’ve shared for nearly half a decade. Your arms find his waist and you hold him close, letting him place a kiss on your temple before pulling back to talk to him for the first time in hours.

“Hell of a game, eh?”

“Yeah,” Thomas smiles, “It was. Where did you sit today?”

“Near the front of 324,” you reply before reaching up to brush a stray hair behind his ear. “I’m beat. All that excitement gave me a few premature greys and zapped all my energy. Just wanted to say goodnight before I left since I can guarantee I’ll be asleep when you get home.”

He laughs, and you know it came from his stomach because it’s loud and strong. “You can’t wait up an extra thirty minutes for me? I just have a short media slot and then I’m out of here.”

Stubbornly you shake your head. “Go out and celebrate with the boys! You all deserve to relish the win and unwind a little. I think I overheard some of the girls say they wanted to make the trip downtown to Earl of Sussex once more before it closes.”

Thomas shakes his head almost feverishly, as if he’s afraid being casual won’t convey his distaste for being anywhere you aren’t. He places a chaste kiss to your lips before beginning to walk away, knowing Brady is going to give him shit for being late to their interview.

“I’ll see you at home sweetheart.”

⭑⭒⭑

You’re tucked away in the upstairs bathroom brushing your teeth when the door unlocks. It’s scary how fast Thomas got home, exactly thirty-five minutes after you left the arena, and you have no doubt speed limits were ignored.

“Tommy?” you call down the dimly lit staircase, “Can you bring me a glass of water when you come up?”

There’s no reply, but you hear the lightswitch in the kitchen flip on and the faucet running. Lights periodically turn on and off as he moves around the first floor, placing things in their proper spots and making sure the rooms remain tidy. If there’s one thing your boyfriend is, it’s someone who needs order and cleanliness. Footsteps finally pad up the stairs, muffled by the socks still on his feet, just as you’re pulling back the covers to slip under. It still takes Thomas a minute or two to enter the bedroom because he stops to use the washroom and hangs his suit with the growing collection in the hall closet that needs to go to the dry cleaners.

Head in a crossword puzzle and the glasses you only wear in the house slipping down the bridge of your nose, you offer a gentle smile when Thomas pulls the pyjama bottoms he’s worn for the past few nights out from under his pillow. Neither of you speak while he settles in beside you, grabbing the crime novel you got him for Christmas from his nightstand and tucking you into his side. Your head rests on his chest, and you hold the pen in your mouth when not filling in spaces so you can keep a chilled hand on his bare stomach because he’s the human embodiment of a furnace and you need to feel your fingers.

The dull hum of the ceiling fan is the only noise in the house beside the pair of you breathing in tandem. Occasionally there’s the sound of a page flipping, but Thomas reads at a slower pace than you and he keeps getting distracted by your grumbling about how the clues don’t make any sense.

“I think it’s agape,” Thomas offers with a shrug. “Nothing else fits.”

You shake your head a few too many times and end up knocking it on his shoulder. “I’ve tried but it doesn’t fit.” To demonstrate your point you ghost the pen over the blank boxes, not leaving a mark.

A laugh erupts from the body propping you up, and you feel it trickle down your spine. “That would be because you’re spelling it wrong.”

“Fuck.”

“You must be really tired.”

Instead of responding you let out a yawn, and it forces Thomas to follow. Without a word, you both put away your respective nighttime activities and turn off the lamps illuminating the room. Bathed in darkness you’re able to bury into the mountain of pillows you sleep with and close your eyes. The soft thumps of your boyfriend fluffing his pillows lets you know he’ll also be in deep slumber soon enough, and you don’t feel guilty about not extending the cuddle session. Sleep is a solo sport, and while you love Thomas to death you don’t want him constricting your movements in the night because his arms are too tight around you — luckily he agrees, and almost every night ends with a sweet kiss before you turn in your respective directions for the night.

As hell settles in for a night of deep rest, with the option to sleep in given a later call time for the travel to Washington, Thomas mumbles into the darkness, “Goodnight, mon chou.”

The term of endearment makes your stomach flutter for a split second before it rests there, blooming like a garden and warming your insides.

“Night, Tom. I love you.”

He’s already dozing off, and you doubt he comprehended what you said. You follow shortly after, a smile on your face as the realization sinks in that no matter how much of a high Thomas is running on with his career, he’d rather spend the downtime quietly with you than with anyone else.

⭒⭑⭒

enjoy this fic? give it a reblog :) <3

#thomas chabot imagine #thomas chabot x reader #thomas chabot fic #ottawa senators imagine #ottawa senators fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #cwrites

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inlocusmads · 11 months

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vigilance and other nice qualities ~ trystan x nora

Nora gets help from one of her old contacts to learn more about her royalty of a client and is faced with some surprising observations.

banner art -> Saint Cathrine Bartolomoe by Vento, ca. 1520

wc: 2.9k, tw for violence and strong language, teen and up audiences

a/n: tagging @choicesbookclub

link to nora x trystan (crimes) masterlist

At the centre of every social circle that the city was built on, Bull was in at least twenty eight of them. He took boxing lessons from a Hollywood stunt director who flew in and out of LA and sold tabloid photographs from gathering more tabloid photographs - a middle man situation. When Nora first met him, they decided not to fight. He wanted a private eye’s influence and knew that she’d need him more than he’d ever need her. But years passed. He evolved from a part-time hairdresser with a terrible boss in 1992 to an information emperor. Nora would be doing him a disservice if she were to compare him with her aunts back at home. At least her aunts didn’t engage in physical violence.

Bull threw her a wad of cotton to stop her bleeding nose. He grabbed an old handkerchief hanging on some metal pole and tied it around his freshly formed wound.

“You fight well, Nora.”

“Yeah, it has been that long, huh?” Nora sniffed, the pain coursing through her nostrils.

“You grew your hair. You were not recognizable at first. Forgive me for instigating action.”

“No -- forgive me.” Nora insisted. “It’s weird that it has happened twice. It’s all on me.”

“Well, I’m glad you are taking blame because this wound is going to need some stitches.”

Nora sighed. She reached into her pocket and grabbed a roll of loose cash, tossing it at him while managing the pain of a nose half-broken, likely.

“You come prepared too!” Bull expressed joy, counting the bills. “Do you want something to drink while we are talking?”

“I’ll get out of your hair in a few. Don’t need all that trouble.”

“Nonsense. You can’t leave without having a drink, at least for old times’ sake.”

“Just one. It’s a work day.”

Bull had found a stable job, Nora was surprised. He’d switched careers so often, she’d once found him married to an up-and-coming designer, dressed in silver fleece back in 2017 and in the same year, he’d gotten divorced and started a taxi business. Clearly he was so well-to-do, he didn’t need a new job as an undercover mechanic. Although the warehouse he worked at was pretty neat and nice; the floors were tiled, a taken-apart car sat on a towing crane and a supposed Go-Kart project he was working on, was at the front - a toolbox sprawled open, with a welding kit connected to a transformer. And they weren’t the stuff you’d find in a parts shop. No, it was all new - prim and polished, with professional gloves.

The drink was nicer too. Single-malt Irish. The glasses weren’t plastic - they were more verdant than the stuff Uncle Tommy kept around. Nora took a sip from her glass, setting it down instantly.

“So- what’s up? What are you doing these days?” Bull asked.

“Oh you know --” Nora shrugged. “Desk job.”

“Not too different from police work, now is it?”

“Sometimes I get to --” she gestured at the air, “-run?”

Bull poured some more whiskey into her glass. “Run around for what, exactly? I mean, I don’t know about the business, but PIs somehow have it worse. Runt of the litter and everything, y’know? Joseph from the 47th Precinct started one and guess what? Shut it down the very next week. Now I think he’s teaching middle school baseball.”

“I can teach middle school baseball.” Nora said, missing the point.

“You’d be a shit coach.”

“Never said I’d be a coach. Just that I’d teach baseball.”

“All right. What you’re here for?”

“You’re familiar with uh— small potatoes royalty?”

“Would never call anyone small potatoes. First mistake anyone makes is undermining them. Why? Finally running around with the big leagues, aren’t you, Nora?”

“The electricity bills aren’t getting any cheaper.” she shrugged. “You know Trystan Thorne?”

Bull paused. “I think so.”

“What’s his uh - deal?”

“Seriously?”

“What? I’m sorry my questions aren’t too specific.”

“No, it isn’t that. I can’t exactly give you a Cliff’s Notes version of everything.”

“Fair point. You do run a business.” Nora wiped the rest of the blood off her nose, grabbing a bandage and plastering it on. It was painful without something to clean with and the constant stench of iron only made her impatient and hasty with dressing it. Oh well, it’s a short walk home. Wasn’t like she had a life to get to, anyway. No rush. She finished her glass of whiskey, a smidge drunk to help with the pain.

“Is he your client?”

Nora nodded.

“Holy shit.”

“Supposed to be good or bad?”

“He’s quite a hit with the paps. He makes you think he’s an open book, y’know, with everything just out in the open.”

“I just want to be able to trust his words, considering he might be a — person of interest. I don’t care for him other than that.”

“Then I’ll be helping you do your job and you know my requirements.”

“Come on, Bull. What’s his character like? Is he after a — specific thing?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I’m not trying to date him to have deep conversations.”

“Not everything’s a simple yes/no answer.” Bull shrugged. “I mean, he is charismatic. He presents a very trustworthy front and it’s good for his image, since he comes from a family of liars and swindlers. And he’s gotten smart, because the paparazzi bothers him less and less when he plays into the ‘black sheep of the family’ persona. They’d have nothing else but to print the same thing over and over again. Oh look, he’s spotted getting a herb tea! How different can he get?. Wears the same thing outside - classic trick to make photographs unusable.”

“So he’s smart.”

“Very smart.” Bull said. “He doesn’t have a press team or anything. It’s just him and his — psh- sister, I think. She runs a luxury business here. Not to mention he’s got some wild contacts. I mean, traditionally, where do you usually find celebrities?”

“I dunno— sex parties?”

“No, you idiot. With whom?”

“I guess other popular people.”

“Trystan here is friends with practically anyone he meets. Comic book authors, critically acclaimed authors, amateur filmmakers, film students, nail artists, pharmaceutical execs, street dealers, Hollywood stars — the list goes on. He puts himself out there, deliberately.”

“Artists.” Nora supplied, making cotton balls out of the bloodied wads.

“All kinds of artists.” Bull tossed the cotton out of her hands. “And he’s quite an academic. Not in your Oxfordian-pretentious-asshole way, but in an actual smart, resourceful way. He probably knows way more about you than you about him.”

“He thought I was a stripper in a detective costume initially.”

“You’re going to let that fool you?”

Nora gave him a nonchalant shrug. “He did hire the Agency after the first two hours of working with me. When I barely knew him. Reckon he’s done some Googling?”

“Googling?” Bull took second-hand offense. “He probably knows your coffee order by now. The place where he’s from - Drakovia, doesn’t skimp on funding intelligence. He’s earned military training in the past. He knows how to — uh — talk, if you get it. Almost a borderline psychic gift. I don’t know how he does it, but you have to play your game just right, like extremely carefully. When you’re talking, count your words. Take note of things he says in throwaway lines, when he’s at the peak of his comfort.”

“Do I tell him anything?”

“Nothing that isn’t relevant to whatever — jewel thief he’s hired you to find out.”

Nora was reluctant on sharing about the case. It’d hit the news stands in about two or three days anyway, Bull would find out eventually.

“Quick n’ easy. You do your job. Get out. Don’t fuck with smart people. You and I - we aren’t that smart, I think you agree.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good talk, Bull. I’ve got to get to work.”

“Stop dicking around, all right, Nora?” Bull gathered up the mess of bloodied tissues and cotton wads.

“What’s he after?”

“Who? Trystan?”

“There’s got to be something these guys want. Like how actors want big breaks and writers want big breaks and uh - you know, something I can —” Nora gestured, “I can really sink my teeth into and use it as a killswitch.”

“Gain his trust. He’ll tell you on his own.”

“How do you know that?”

“I happen to know he enjoys belladi from just being his waiter at a fundraiser once. All I did was ensure his flute of champagne remained full and listened. Really listened. That man has got centuries worth of stories to tell and nobody to listen to. That’s what you do. Listen without making preasumptive opinions.”

“Yeah, okay, don’t fuck with smart people, got that. Ciao.” Nora gave him a quick salute with her fingers, turning on her heel towards the doors.

“I’m afraid you didn’t got it- Nora- argh—”

Nora found him on the sidewalk, patiently waiting. Trystan leaned against his sports car, watching and smiling at the pedestrians who didn’t smile back.

“Oh good, you are here.” Trystan beamed at her. “Your uncle said you had stepped out— what happened to your nose?”

“Kitchen accident.”

“Right.” he narrowed his eyes as if he didn’t believe her. Or maybe he was trying to study her - deduce something out of her microexpressions and body language. Nora suddenly grew aware of Bull’s advice and the hot blood coursing through her veins in panic. She noticed he had his hands tied to his back, as if he were hiding something. It was a brown paper bag.

“It was a kitchen accident.” she insisted. “What do you have there?”

“Oh, just something I picked up.” he handed it over. A brown paper bag with a croissant in it, with some raspberry filling and a paper cup of coffee with the order written on the side. She took a closer look at what the barista had scribbled in blue ink: dark roast coffee, two pumps of cream, one sugar. Bull was not joking. Her hands grew stiff, as she continued reading the list of ingredients, before Trystan interrupted.

“I figured we would not have time for breakfast.”

Nora’s first thought went to poison. She dealt with the idea for two seconds before rejecting it, considering Trystan needed her more than she needed him. He was going to have to keep her alive. Unless there was some sort of truth serum that made her run loose with her words, there was no reason to suspect anything could be spiked. Could just be a peace offering. A thank-you of some kind, grateful she accepted Sonja’s case when none of the cops were willing to take it forward and no other agency barely credible or within a half hour’s drive from Trystan’s penthouse. Still, it wasn’t like someone could Google Nora’s coffee order.

It tasted good per usual. She saved the croissant for later in her left jacket pocket using her left hand, just to throw Trystan off, in case he had some ideas of gifting her a can opener next time meant for right-handers. Considering the kitchen accident was the only excuse she had for suspicious injuries, it wouldn’t be too thickheaded to assume he’d give her a can opener sometime later.

“Are you going to say goodbye to your uncle?” Trystan asked, as he got into the driver’s seat in his car. Nora strapped in her seatbelt with her left hand, adjusting it to make sure the croissant in her pocket didn’t disintegrate.

“I’ll call him. We’re on a time crunch here. Ruby’s got a copy of the toxicology report. It should help us analyse some injury patterns and compare it what we know about the kind of weaponry or poison we can track down. To put it simplistically.”

“Right.”

Liar. Nora thought to herself. He’d have pored over Forensic Science For Dummies last night. Heck, he would have even arranged an intimate dinner with one of the leading forensic scientists in the country, discussing precisely this. He was pretending to be this unassuming ‘foreign diplomat’ or whatever he called himself, and very good at it too.

Trystan drove down the street, meeting a chunk of 10AM traffic in the middle of the high road.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. You must be devastated after yesterday.”

“I actually got a good night of sleep.”

“That’s — good.” Is that good? Good for Trystan? Someone who definitely sleeps with one eye open at all times?

“Yes, I am very reassured that we will find Sonja’s murderer and bring him to justice however means necessary. A lot more hopeful than I usually allow myself to, but I have got a very good feeling about this, actually. Today, I woke up with this — interesting — can I say lust? Lust for hope and it is an interesting feeling. Perhaps we might obtain a —break through, so to speak in the evidence present.”

“Of course, of course, hope is just — y’know how I’m all about the hope.” Nora attempted to make conversation. “Did you get a good look at Sonja’s other paintings?”

“Nothing different apart from the eldritch horror-looking work.” he chuckled dryly.

So he did look at her paintings later. Nora realised Bull wasn’t just right. He was prophetic. Was that good? She’d seen her fair share of amateur detectives who’d seen an episode of Elementary or CSI and assumed they could do the same, but Trystan didn’t seem like those pop culture fanatics. He was invested in the case, and not just acting out of emotion due to the grief his friend’s passing had caused. He was actively taking charge and Nora wasn’t sure if this was the right idea. Bull did tell her to keep him talking, to underline his throwaway lines and go from there, but how? When he seldom talked in full sentences and only used his extensive vocabulary to flirt with people? Or maybe that’s another guerilla tactic too. This was difficult. She couldn’t be vigilant all the damn time.

“You must know a lot about art history, then.”

“Not entirely.”

The car stopped at a stoplight junction.

“I absolutely loathe the traffic sometimes. It just forces these unnaturally long mundane conversations, do you think? Which is why I always carry some downloaded music with me-” he punched some keys on the GPS screen that doubled down as an entertainment system. “- do you happen to enjoy some classic pop?” - he set the volume to three, probably to not let the music overpower the constant horn sounds, playing ABBA’s I Still Have Faith In You. “- Queen, John Lennon, King Crimson, Bowie- they were some of my first Western artists I listened to when I came to America. Queen has a special place in my heart. It was a gateway to learning more- collloquial English, if I can say that. Diplomatic-speak can get very boring and sometimes off-putting. You would not want your date complimenting your good handshake and your choice in dress suits and ties. Who does that? Anyway, I have grown a lot. Companionship was so much easier back at home. People had so much trust to spare. Or at least, I had so much of that to pass around.”

“Well, your faith is in the right place.”

“You think so?”

“I’m fairly good at my job. I don’t think you would have anything to worry about.”

“I am not worrying about anything. Rather I am more than happy to know I have placed my faith well.”

“Strong sense of judgement, yes.”

“That I am still yet to learn how to do that.” he grinned. “So what are we now? Partners? Considering we are working this together?”

“That’s uh — fast— but sure. Partners work.”

“Wonderful! I can finally place the order for the matching shirts.”

“You got us matching shirts?”

“Yes, the ones with ‘I am his’ and ‘I am hers’ but with partners in brackets. I am sorry, but it is a Drakovian tradition for good luck and I have some requirements as a client and a partner. Maybe I should have run it by your boss first-”

Nora stared at him, eyes widened. Trystan hid back a smile for approximately a second before erupting into laughter. “You would really believe me, just like that? It is such fun messing with you!”

“No I don’t, but I do have some complicated feelings about merchandizing.” Nora’s cheeks flushed red.

“Ooh complicated feelings. I love some complicated feelings. Tell me some more.”

“For starters, I don’t like texts on shirts. It makes it hard to read.”

“So you just —stare at people’s chests? My, my Detective, how juvenile of you, tch tch-”

Nora sighed. “There is no winning with you, is it?”

“Nope. There is no losing either, because it is time well spent, right?”

The car rolled into the parking lot of Astoria Forensics, Ruby’s place of work. Nora didn’t even have to supply him an address.

“Let us get this case a-rolling, shall we?” Trystan pressed a button to open the door for her.

_______

A/N:

I hope you enjoyed reading this! The one pet peeve I had with the book is that we never got to see the initial scepticism besides it being fodder for the banter. I really wish we could've experienced the doubt and the stress MC was going through, while trying to learn to trust Trystan and his story.

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