JUST A SPARK... PROLOGUE - leah williamson
it's never quite as it seems
warnings: death, grief, this is pretty angst tbh
master list / next chapter
It rained again. Ever since you had moved to England, the weather seemed to taunt you for leaving the country you actually considered to be your home. Your nonna, your mamma, and even your Dad stayed behind in Italy, and just like that, every dream of what England should’ve been was crushed between your tight fists. It rained. Every single day that you had lived in England, it rained. Today was the tiniest bit better than what yesterday’s clouds had provided. Instead of furious down-pouring that almost silenced your every thought and made the pitches impossible to train on, the water was splashing from the sky rhythmically, staining your windows as it peacefully dropped.
You were sitting on your couch, a mug of tea in your hand that you found oddly comically typically English, watching as the weather let you down once again. You missed Italy then, more than you usually did. Dreams of your summers spent in Tuscany, sitting on the terrace with your friends, sipping on a pearly white wine as the birds breezed past you cascaded in your mind as you stared out of the large, rain-stained window of your living room. Reaching for your phone, you huffed, realizing the closest you could come to being back home was a phone call. Although it wouldn’t be enough, it would certainly have to do.
The first sign that something was wrong was the way the ringing of your phone wouldn’t stop for far too long. There was very little time difference from England to Italy, and if it was an hour earlier, you would have believed your parents would’ve laid down for their daily nap, but it was almost six in the evening and there was no way they weren’t awake right now. When the call was finally picked up, the second sign hit you like a truck. Instead of your mamma’s sweet voice, you could hear a total mess unfolding, a sob ringing through the line, a dish being thrown to the floor.
“Mamma? Mamma, cosa non va?” (What’s wrong?), you asked, panic striking your tone as you sat up, gently disposing the mug of tea to the very edge 0f your couch table.
“Mamma?”, you repeated as any clue of what was going on was still withheld from you.
“Morto. É morto” (Dead. He’s dead), your mother cried, and at once, the oddly comically typically empty English mug fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
The flight back to Italy was painfully silent. You didn’t allow yourself to listen to music, too scared to listen to anything just in case you forgot your father’s voice. Your train of thoughts was absolute nonsense, to put it into harsher words, but it didn’t matter to you.
After speaking to both Emma Hayes and other officials of the club, most of whom you had never met, you had voiced the will of your mother to be buried in Italy rather than in London, where he had been born, and had taken the next flight out to your home country, ignoring the protests of men who had never truly known your father, claiming they wanted to come with you. You knew, however, that your father wished for more. The legacy he held at Chelsea wasn’t unknown, but you knew that none of the men in suits had ever mattered to him, and that none of them would have known him truly. It was quite ironic- the fact that you were defaming the very club that had raised not only you but your father as well, and that he had only left behind once you had been old enough to live on your own, and watched as your family moved back into the country you so desperately longed for.
Being back, now, felt like a slap to the face. Your mamma was still inconsolable, although your nonna tried her best to pick the broken pieces from the floor and hold them together just to take another weight off your shoulders. No twenty-three year old should watch as their father was buried, but life was not fair and you had no way to deal with it other than to just deal with it. Silent tears crept down your cheeks as you listened to Father Marcus tell anecdotes of your father’s life, and of his career, and you wondered whether he would’ve liked to be buried nearer to his own home. Italy had always been your mamma’s, but after witnessing the agonizing love between your parents for a time that felt far too short now, you figured that he would want to be wherever she was. The cemetery was only a five-minute walk from your parents’ casa, but it was a three hour flight from your flat.
Still, the walk felt painfully long as you followed most of your parents’ friends to your childhood home, and rain began to softly splatter from the sky as you trotted among the crowd. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t fight it, rather grateful that anyone was unable to tell whether your cheeks were wet with the rain or stained by your tears. You wondered whether this was your Dad telling you to get your act together. It certainly seemed like something he would do, and the thought put the faintest of smiles on your lips. Afraid to seem like a mad woman to the rest of the grieving crowd, you slipped past Father Marcus, away from the procession, as you fiddled your phone out of the pocket of your coat, watching as rain wet the screen.
Another smile crept up on your face at the multiple messages you had received over just the past few hours you had neglected your phone.
Most of your Chelsea teammates were sending you their wishes, along with Emma, but what interested you most was a missed call from an unknown number. An unknown English number.
Silently, you glanced towards the front of the procession, seeing they had almost reached their destination as you found your mamma at the very front, weeping in your nonna’s arms. You should be there, right now, with her, but you simply couldn’t.
Instead, you reached to call the number back. The other line picked up surprisingly fast.
“Hello, Y/N. I was hoping you would call me back. I hope it’s an okay time for you”, a woman on the other line spoke. Furrowing your eyebrows, you nodded, forgetting that whoever it was couldn’t see your movements.
“Oh, sí. Yes, it’s a perfect time, actually?”
“Really? Because I was informed by your club that you were… back in Italy. For…”, the woman trailed away, and you exhaled shakily.
“No, no, it’s okay. I just saw your call, so…”, you tapped your foot against the wet pavement rhythmically, eager to know who you were speaking to.
“Well, it’s Sarina Wiegman here, I’m sorry. I should’ve started with that. Anyways, I was wondering whether you would be interested to join the Lionesses for the Arnold Clark Cup, this year. I know of your circumstances right now, so I don’t need an answer right away.”
You let out a shaky exhale at her words. You had always thought about playing for England, as you had joined both their youth teams as well as Italy’s, while you had still played in the country. They had offered you a place in their senior team far earlier than England had, and although you couldn’t have been sure whether England would ever offer, you had always held out for something. For what, you didn’t know. Although now, it suddenly seemed to make sense.
Your father had played for England, had even captained his country for a short while, and although you had always dreamed of playing for Italy when you were younger, infatuated with their men’s team’s success, much to your father’s dismay, you had not agreed yet. The reason only came to you now. And suddenly, it was so painfully clear.
“Yes, yes. I would really like that”, you smiled to yourself, glancing up at the cloudy sky to clear your teary vision. It didn’t help in the slightest.
“Great! The call-up will be published tomorrow, we’ll send you all the details in an email. I look forward to seeing you in camp!”, your manager cheered, and although it tasted bitter-sweetly in your mouth, you voiced your excitement as well before hanging up the call.
You would play for your father’s country, if all went to plan. You would finally step into his footsteps. You would continue his legacy, whether you really wanted to or not.
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you open yours
pt 2 of when every door closes
pairing: leah williamson x reader
notes: mentions of ed, j*rge vilda, lots of angst
Settling into Arsenal again was difficult, but it couldn’t have been more difficult than leaving, once more, for international break. The World Cup qualifiers were coming up quickly, and despite the fact that it felt as though you still hadn’t dealt with your early out in the Euros, there was no time to dwell on the past as Jorge Vilda made sure every player knew the gravity of the next few matches. With more and more players from Barcelona filling into the squad, you were subconsciously worried for your position. It was no secret that Barça was dominating European football, but somehow, for the qualifiers, you kept your head and spent every last second of every match on the pitch, even when the physios concluded you were very close to tearing your hamstring, much to the dismay of your teammates. It wasn’t that they didn’t want you to play- you had quickly proven to be a valuable part of the team, not quite the brick wall Mapi was, but an agile defender that solidified every win with perfectly-timed tackles and a good oversight of the play.
It was rather the fact that you so desperately needed a break, and everyone saw it but you. Every step you took on the pitch hurt, and if it wasn’t for María telling you to cut back on the painkillers, you possibly wouldn’t have even noticed if you’d torn your hamstring fully. You had, in addition, settled back into your club well enough to rely on nutritional energy yet again, with the help of your girlfriend, your teammates and the club’s psychologist, but all of that went to waste the second you saw Jorge Vilda before boarding the bus towards the team’s camp.
You weren’t done yet- Leah had told you as much after the Euros. You weren’t where you wanted to be, not with the Spanish national team, at least. A World Cup was the least you could achieve to compensate for everything you were going through, but during the camp, you and many other girls realized that there was a lot more you should, or well, a lot more you had to reach for.
So, to you, it wasn’t surprising when you came home with an open letter to the RFEF and a vision of how maybe, one day, playing for your country wouldn’t be your nightmare.
“Are you sure, love? I mean, aren't there like, really bad consequences?”, Leah asked confusedly, her hands around yours as you sat on the couch, you still wearing the same sweats you had worn on the plane.
You nodded, wandering back to the monologue Mapi had held about all of the possible outcomes of what you were about to do. Her voice had been hushed as she explained the ban you could face, which would affect all of your teammates, except Ona and Lucía, more than you. Not playing in the Spanish league wouldn’t hurt you as much, so long as Arsenal stayed your home, which you intended it to. Not playing for the Spanish national team- well, you trusted Alexia when she said that no one would face a ban, and you didn’t particularly want to think about what would happen if she was wrong. You were possibly throwing your national career away, and your stomach turned at the thought. But either way, you knew that playing in the environment that had been created recently, you would rot away anyways.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But what can be worse than this?”, you chuckled bitterly. Knowing well how dangerous it had been, truthfully, to play all those minutes, you knew that you would stay on the bench for a significant amount of time to recover, but you also knew that no matter what you, or your hamstring did, you would be called up for the next camp.
You couldn’t risk your career, not while you were this young. And if everything went according to Irene’s, Mapi’s and Alexia’s plan, you wouldn’t have to.
“If you’re sure, I am, too. And no matter what happens, I will support you. You know that, right?”, Leah asked, almost desperate to reassure you, but all you could do was nod absent-mindedly.
You were different, this time. Different from how you’d been after the Euros, but your girlfriend didn’t dare to ask what had happened for you to be this- reserved, almost. As if you still didn’t dare to speak, guarding your tongue harshly as if your manager was just around the corner, ready to jump at you for whatever it was you couldn’t say.
The night you spent tossing and turning didn't guarantee much sleep, but you were still surprised that your absence had woken Leah up, as she slung her arms around your shoulders slowly in her dark flat, the only light illuminating the kitchen from the little nightlight near the coffee pot.
“Come back to bed”, your girlfriend mumbled, voice still thick with sleep, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Your stomach warmed slightly at the gesture, but you were too encapsulated in your phone to really react to her presence, not letting her pull you back into false comfort. Nothing of what was about to happen, in merely four hours, would be comfortable.
“Can’t sleep”, you gave back, your fingers tapping away on your screen as you replied to Ona’s message, who seemed to sleep as little as you did.
You knew that Leah didn’t know Spanish, and you knew that she was still staring at your screen, noticing how your phone lit up once more with a text that even you could barely detangle. Taking a deep breath, you clicked the call button right next to Ona’s contact, barely noticing how Leah detached herself from you to start a pot of coffee.
Ona’s words were messy, and you were barely able to understand anything besides the gut-wrenching fear that filled your apartment, all of a sudden. Her Catalonian accent was thick, and you knew that her emotion was taking over her, more so than it was affecting you. You had, sort of, gone numb.
“Ona, va a estar bien. No te preocupes”, you tried to calm your friend, who you could tell was biting back tears.
“Ale said it’ll be okay. Do you trust her?”, you asked as you didn’t receive an answer.
“Sí”, Ona mumbled, to which you nodded, forgetting the fact that she couldn’t see you.
“Then it’ll be okay. What are they going to do? Ban sixteen of their best players?”
“No sé. Maybe they are going to ban just me”, she huffed.
“No, Ona. That won’t happen”, you calmed her yet again, and stupidly enough, you actually believed yourself.
The open letter went online while you were at training, which you were quite grateful for. None of your teammates had a clue, except for Leah, of what was about to happen, although they could all tell something needed to happen.
In the short twelve days the team hadn’t seen each other, you had lost a noticeable amount of weight, and hadn’t touched your breakfast, blaming your lack of appetite on the lack of sleep you had gotten. You stuck to Leah’s side like glue, more so than you usually did. And by the time the team was ready to step onto the field for the first training session of the year, you mumbled an excuse to leave the changing room into the wrong direction, and headed to the physio room without looking back.
After sending Jonas a text in the early morning, somewhere between your phone call with Ona and Leah dragging you back into bed, the physios were very well aware of your hamstring issue, and spent a lot of time analyzing your muscles and how bad exactly your injury was. It seemed as though it was quite bad, as most of the treatment was silent, and none of the physios reacted to how you flinched every time any of them even reached out to touch you, but you hoped they wrote it off as a mere reaction of you being in pain. You didn’t know if they could handle the truth. Didn’t know if you could handle the truth.
Still, the events of the day couldn’t take your mind off the fact that your phone was likely exploding with notifications as the public and the RFEF reacted to your protest. Sixteen players were withdrawing. Sixteen. You didn’t believe Alexia, although she had promised there would be no serious, no negative
consequences.
And you were right not to do so.
Leah picked you up from the medical room, in which you remained long after the treatment, scrolling through twitter and multiple Spanish news outlets in hopes to absorb every single comment, every single word in reaction to your letter.
“Hey, you”, she smiled softly as she found you lying on the bench, phone in your hands as it always seemed to be, allowing for it to drop onto your chest as you smiled back at her.
“Hey”, you mumbled back.
“How bad is it?”, she asked, and you didn’t know whether it was her calf or everything else she was responding to.
“Grade two tear. Eight weeks, at least. They don’t want to risk anything.”
The fact that your hamstring actually was a grade two tear should’ve surprised you more than it had, but at this point, you didn’t put it past the Spanish medical team to actually hide the information of your injury from you. You didn’t put it past Jorge to let you play on an injury that potentially worsened with every step you took.
“I’m sorry, love”, Leah sighed, gently moving closer to you.
“It’s okay. Home?”, you asked, hesitant to accept any kind of gentleness from your girlfriend. At this point, you weren’t sure whether you deserved it or not. That’s how far Jorge had gotten into your head.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go”, Leah smiled as she stuck out her hand for you to take, and you reluctantly accepted it, the warmth being unfamiliar to you.
It took a few days for the RFEF to formally respond to your protest, and in the meantime, you drove your girlfriend insane. She had no way of reaching you, although she tried her hardest. Holding you as she slept, only for you to slip out of her arms once you knew she was lulled in sleep. Getting up in the morning without you just to find you in the kitchen, drinking coffee and being glued to your phone as you over analyzed every detail that was revealed to the public. By the time Arsenal’s first match after the
international break came around, she was truly at her wit’s end.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. She won’t talk to me, won’t tell me what’s going on, it’s just- I really don’t know”, she tried explaining to Kim, who had, in the past few days, begun catching a glimpse of just how bad of a situation you were in. It was clear as day to the whole team that you were struggling again, but the others quickly grew used to your reserved nature, though it was so unlike you.
“What can we do to help?”, Wally asked, gently crouching down in front of your girlfriend and rubbing a circle over her knee comfortingly, her face as somber as Kim’s.
“I don’t know. I tried giving her space, but I’m not really sure it’s helping. It’s like she’s just drifting away”, Leah cried, gently wiping a tear from her cheek. She needed to be strong, now. For you. Crying would be no use.
“She’ll come back to you. Wait for the RFEF’s response, and see how she is afterwards. Maybe she just needs to reach a breaking point”, Kim tried to reassure her vice-captain, but the only reason Leah nodded was because she didn’t have a better idea, although she didn’t like the idea of waiting for you to crumble completely and being there to pick up the broken pieces. It proved, though, that this was exactly what you needed.
The official response of the RFEF came while you were sitting in the cafeteria, slowly picking apart the food Leah had gotten for you as an ice-wrap around your thigh forbade you from walking too much. Your phone lit up with a message from Alexia, and at once, you dropped your fork, instead focusing on the little device in front of you.
¿Has visto?
No, you hadn’t seen. Not yet, anyways, but at the notification, you reached for your phone, quickly opening the internet to search for an article reporting on the matter. It didn’t take long to find, and your stomach turned at the sight your eyes met.
El futbolista Y/N Y/L/N le prohíbe jugar al fútbol por España.
Your breath caught in your throat as you read the words over and over again, your vision blurring until the letters tumbled in front of your eyes, spinning in circles as you drowned out the world around you. You weren’t aware of how Leah, Kim and Wally were glancing up at you, didn’t register how Leah’s hand
caressed your knee as she noticed your breath quickening, didn’t hear the words of your teammates surrounding you, asking what was going on, as you kept skimming the article, desperate to know more.
You were the only player out of the sixteen to be banned. It was because you had just begun playing, had been cared for during your injury and were disrespecting your country for diminishing their efforts. If you’d had any air to, you would’ve laughed. But you didn’t have any. Leah’s eyebrows furrowed as she caught a glimpse of your screen, moments before you rose from your seat, clenching your teeth in pain as you got up and left the cafeteria, leaving behind a group of confused women, none of whom dared to find you, right now. None except for Leah. She was on her feet within seconds, calling after you to slow down as she could barely keep up with your strides. You didn’t care about the fact that you bumped into Jonas, almost making him tumble over as you were focused on your phone, didn’t hear how he called after you, didn’t hear how he called after Leah. You simply kept walking and walking until you found the media room, which you knew would be empty right now, and slipped through the door, letting yourself slide down the wall.
“Love? Hey, talk to me! What’s going on?”, your girlfriend’s voice rang through from what felt like a thousand miles away. You felt as though you were under water, waves washing over you and trapping you in your head. You couldn’t answer, couldn’t force any words out of your mouth as you, instead, choked on a sob.
Within seconds, you felt arms around you, pulling you into your girlfriend’s chest as you sobbed, struggling to breathe.
“I’m out. Leah, they banned me”, you cried out, gripping fists of her shirt as you desperately tried to fight the way your head seemed to spin.
Leah’s soothing words fell on deaf ears as the noise around you was quickly becoming far too much, and you fell into your own little word, sobbing into her shoulder as she held you tightly. It felt like hours until you calmed down, but slowly, your breaths began to even and as you drew away from your girlfriend, your lips twitched upwards at the realization that she was still there.
“Hey, baby. You’re back with me?”
You nodded at that, slowly letting go of her shirt as you leaned your head back against the wall. It was pounding, as though knives were flying through your scalp, but you didn’t have the energy to complain.
“This isn’t forever, love. We’re gonna keep pressuring them, Alexia is gonna keep pressuring them, and one day they’ll fire Vilda and you’ll be back. Okay? I promise, it’s going to be okay”, she spoke, hands landing on your cheeks as she tugged your face towards hers.
“And no matter what happens, I’ll be with you, for every step of the way. I won’t leave you, okay?”
“I can’t do this on my own”, you mumbled, the weight of the situation hitting you, though less quickly, more deeply now that you knew you’d need to face it.
“You don’t have to. I’m behind you, and so is everyone else. You don’t have to do anything on your own, my love”, Leah promised, bringing your head into the crook of her neck once again as she closed her arms around your fragile frame.
Leah’s words quickly came true, as you realized that each and every one of your teammates, whether it was from Arsenal or Spain, voiced their support for you. Whether it was Jonas in a press conference, Alexia via an Instagram post or Ona via countless text messages and insisting on coming to London to see you. Slowly but surely, you recovered from your injury and found your footing again, suddenly enjoying the time you got to spend with your or Leah’s family whenever she was gone for international duty. The World Cup was a totally different story, as you flew to Australia with Leah to watch every one of the Lionesses matches, but none of your own nation. You skipped the final as well, not able to let yourself daydream about being on the pitch again. Though you were happy for Ona, Alexia and your other friends, you couldn’t help the anxiety over the fact that Spain was just as good of a team without you, Mapi, Pina and Patri.
And although you were still anxious, you reluctantly accepted when the RFEF lifted their ban after Jorge’s sacking, proposing for you to wear your nation’s colors another time.
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