Stay Away

(can't) stay away

It feels like it's her first day of school, and I couldn't be prouder. She has obviously had an eye-opening conversation with Papa, because today is the day Fleur will return to her normal, everyday life, even if her emotions are still catching up.

Fleur taps her foot impatiently, wondering why I have told her to wait by the door before she leaves to go to training. She realises what is happening when I tell her to smile.

Pushing my phone away from her face, she grumbles something unintelligible and heads out of her apartment. I inhale deeply. I am glad to be left alone, happy that she has pulled herself up just a little bit. Barcelona, paying her too much money to mope at home, have hired Twente's old psychologist, who will be made available to Fleur and Frenkie (from the men's team) if they wish to use her. And, while it hasn't been formally mandated, she has been advised to pay her a visit.

"Have fun!" I call as she makes her way down the stairs, blowing her a kiss.

"Shut up," she shouts back. Laughing, I toe off my trainers and settle on the sofa beside Oli, Fleur's new cat. There is a personal trainer nearby whose star client is Alexia Putellas, and he reached out to me with an offer to give me a session for free. And then more, if I liked it. I'm sweaty from the gym, but the cat doesn't seem to mind.

With nothing other than tennis to worry about, I spread my aching limbs over the entirety of the plush cushions of the sofa, breathing out a sigh of existential relief.

Leah is fine.

Fleur will be fine.

What more could I want?

In three days, I am going to fly to London, wanting to support Fleur through both legs of her Champions League semi-final. Hopefully, the initial shock of playing Chelsea will wear off in the first match, lessening the effects of the second leg in Camp Nou. That match will mirror the night Scarlett died, and, despite being an important game for her own Champions League success, Leah will not be watching. She has psyched herself up for my visit, though.

It fucking sucks when Leah goes down the next day.

A non-contact knee injury.

Everyone waits with bated breath for an update from Arsenal that they already know the contents of.

She doesn't want to speak to me that evening, but it's alright. I understand.

I give her time. And patience. And a bouquet of roses that I buy on the way to her house in St. Albans.

Alex answers the door, having insisted on moving in after the doctors had confirmed it as a ruptured ACL. My lack of communication with my girlfriend means that I have no idea whether Leah is pleased about it, but I can assume she isn't by the weary look on Alex's face. My arrival alleviates the pressure weighing on her to cling onto Leah before she withdraws so far into herself that she is gone forever. I offer her a smile as I walk inside. She takes the bouquet from me to put the flowers in a vase, and says she will leave my suitcase by the stairs.

"She's in the living room," Alex says, voice soft, similar to one used in a hospital ward. I cringe, but it's not her fault. That is exactly what this feels like.

The last time we were in this situation, Scarlett had just died. When I got to the house, I had sprinted to her, my haste filled with worry but also the fear that I was going to lose her. That she wasn't actually mine to have.

Things have changed.

"Leah," I breathe, standing in the doorway, watching as she mindlessly scrolls through her phone. She sees me, absent, grey eyes locking with mine, and pushes herself to get up, wincing in the process. I rush towards her, quickly sitting in the space on the sofa that I think may have become Alex's temporary fussing seat. She laughs; a weak, wet ghost of what normally brings a smile to my face. I notice how carelessly her crutches have been thrown on the floor.