LOVE ON THE PITCH || Woso oneshots

Scars [Jill and Ingrid]

INGRID'S POV

Fridolina has been telling me that I need a break from football and from the club for a long time, since I have been playing and training non-stop for the past four months, and has convinced me to join her on a trip to the Netherlands, where she will meet one of her best friends from her days at Bayern.

I am not exactly eager to meet her friend. Not because I don't like the idea of having her around – since I don't even know who she is – I just generally don't like the idea of having strangers around me all the time. I like to be with my comfort people, chilling out, not with a random girl I have just met and in whose home I am gonna have to spend the rest of my week.

«Okay then, Jill is waiting for us at the gate» Frido smiles, putting her phone back in her pocket.
«Jill Roord? The Dutch midfielder?» I ask, immediately realizing why I remember the name so well.
«Yeah. We played together when we were younger.»

I roll my eyes, but inevitably follow her through the airport, until we finally see Jill.

I've got to admit, she's pretty cute and she's got a nice sense of fashion, but at the same time I remind myself to not fall for her charm and... prettiness after what has happened.

«HEY!» she shouts, giving Frido the biggest, warmest hug.
«Jilldo! I have missed you, sötnos!» she smiles back. (English: cutie.)

After a bit of small talk, they both turn to me, and I can see Jill's smile disappearing, as she realizes who I am.

«Jill, this is my friend Ingrid» an unaware Fridolina introduces us. «Ing, this is Jill.»

She then notices something weird in our handshake, which is a little stiff, but luckily doesn't act on it and instead we both follow the Dutch footballer out of the airport.

2019, Netherlands.

We step on the pitch and meet our opponents. They are wearing bright orange, while we are proudly standing in our white jerseys.

The game looks way more official than it should, at least for a friendly: the stadium is packed, there is tension in the air, both of the captains are intensely singing the national anthems, standing proudly to represent their countries.

After a few minutes, I shake hands with the other squad. I don't usually look at the opponents directly in the eyes, but I have to make an exception for her. She is shorter than me, but looks somehow tougher – which is unusual because I am the one with the game-face in the team. She stares at me with a grin, then I move on to the next person. I spot her when she moves to the bench to pose for the team photo, and I memorize the number written on the back of her jersey very well, already knowing that she is going to be a lot of trouble.

We start playing, and it's a tougher game than expected, from both sides. I finally get the ball and try to make my way up the midfield, when someone tackles me. I don't get hurt, but it is definitely a bad timed intervention. I immediately get up, and there she is, with her hideous grin, staring at me.

«Er du jævla tuller meg?» I shout, getting face to face with her. (English: Are you fucking kidding me?)
«Hou je mond, prinses, je bent niet gewond.» (English: Shut it, princess, you didn't get hurt.)

She still has that horrible, devious smile on her face, and the referee has to break us apart before we start throwing hands at each other. Maren Mjelde tells me to move on and ignore her, and the game goes on, even if I wish to slap that grin off her face.