WOSO Imagines

Proud of You pt. 2 (Lucy Bronze)

"Luce, what if it's a full rupture? What if I don't make it to the world cup? What if I can't ever play again?" I rant, my leg keeping pace with my racing thoughts.

"Babe, breathe. Everything is gonna be fine. The physio told you a total tear would only take a few months to come back from. You won't miss out on the world cup, and your career is far from over," she reassures me.

I sigh. "I wish you were here."

"I told you I would book a flight, but noooooo," she teases, trying to lighten my mood. "Someone told me to stay in Barcelona."

"Someone may have been wrong," I mumble.

"What was that?"

"I know you heard me, and I will not feed your ego by repeating myself."

She laughs and despite my anxieties, the corners of my mouth pull up. "My ego is perfectly solid, thank you."

"Aren't you meant to be at training right now?" I ask, wanting to keep the conversation going, but not wanting to hold her up if she had somewhere to be.

"I'm on my way to the grounds right now."

"Please tell me you're not on the phone while you're driving, babe! That's dangerous. You could get into an accident."

"Beauty of bluetooth, love."

"I'm hanging up now. I'll text you an update once I talk to the doctor."

"You better. Don't make me call your mum."

I roll my eyes. "Bye, Luce."

"Bye, love."

I put my phone away, opting to just stare at the wall as I await the results of my scans. Injury isn't foreign to me; I broke my arm during the last world cup and sat out of a chunk of the 2021 season due to a hamstring injury. This is the first time I am actually worried I won't be able to bounce back. Lucy spent the morning trying to soothe me using almost the same words I told her after her knee surgery. I appreciate her efforts, but I can't believe that everything is fine until I hear it from the doctor.

A knock on the door shakes me out of my thoughts and my heartbeat goes double time. "Come in," I say, trying to keep my tone even.

The doctor holds a file in her hand, her expression neutral which frustrates me because I can't tell from her face if I should be worried. "I have the results of your scans. The good news is that it's not a full rupture of the achilles tendon."

The knot in my stomach unravels a bit and I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"However..." It tightens. "You did sustain a second-degree tear. It will heal on its own as long as you rest it. I've prescribed you some pills for the pain and I would recommend some kind of brace or taping to take the pressure off."

I swallow, pushing back the tears that are threatening to spill. "How long will I be out?"

"I'd say you could be back to training in about ten weeks. When you'll be back playing a full ninety is a little harder to predict, but if you take it easy and don't push too hard, I predict you can make the World Cup."

Hearing that should make me feel better, but instead, I feel like curling into a ball and disappearing. I have never missed more than a few weeks of soccer since I started at age 5.

The next day, I fly home to Montreal, ready to spend a few days with my mom and distract myself from missing out on the rest of the international break. The first thing we do when I arrive at my childhood home is tape my ankle.