DESPERATE & DIVINE

10. Something's Got To Give

The first month of the season was nothing short of abysmal for me. I couldn't find my rhythm, constantly making poorly timed decisions, my usual fire nowhere to be found. Jonas, ever the optimist, kept encouraging me, saying it was just a matter of time, that everything would eventually click. But each game that passed without improvement only deepened my frustration.

I had to distance myself from social media—every performance dissected, every mistake magnified. I was subbed off more times than I could count, and even the rare moments of brilliance felt hollow, never amounting to anything because the team wasn't clicking. Or, more accurately, I wasn't clicking.

I'd talk to Dr. Kent about the irony of it all—how, as soon as I started opening up to my teammates, forging actual friendships, my performance seemed to crumble. She'd just smile, that knowing look in her eyes, and tell me to be patient, to stick with it. But what I didn't tell her—the part I couldn't bring myself to admit—was that everything had gone downhill since the team party. Since Leah had started avoiding me like I didn't even exist.

We were civil in the most surface-level way, but everything between us felt distant, cold. Whatever had happened that night, whatever unspoken thing had driven her away, it had sent me into a tailspin. I tried to act like it didn't affect me, keeping my distance in training, avoiding her in any way that I could. I'd even stopped going to team hangouts if I knew she'd be there. But the truth was, it was tearing me apart.

I knew deep down that where I was headed wasn't good. I'd come home from training and pour myself a drink, hoping to numb the edge. I'd scroll through Tinder, matching with people I had no intention of meeting, just trying to fill the emptiness with something—anything—that might distract me. But it never did. I'd only feel worse afterward, like I was slipping further away from who I used to be.

I was exhausted. Tired of the struggle, tired of the game, tired of pretending like I wasn't unravelling. And a part of me was scared—scared that maybe I'd never get back to who I was before. The thought that I might be irreparably broken lingered in my mind, a thought I couldn't shake. The fire that had once driven me felt like it was flickering out, and I didn't know how to reignite it. Or if I even could.

~

The pressure was suffocating in November when we faced Manchester City at Meadow Park. My parents and older sister had made the trip down to watch, a small comfort in what was shaping up to be one of the hardest matches of my career. For the first time ever, I stepped onto the pitch to a chorus of boos from the visiting fans—the same people who once cheered for me, supported me when I wore their jersey. Now, they looked at me like a traitor.

Arsenal's support was unwavering, though. The girls rallied around me, their voices louder, more encouraging than usual, trying to drown out the hostile reception. There had been discussions all week about whether I should even start, given the atmosphere. But after a long talk with the coaches, I made the decision to face it head-on. No running from it.

As we lined up for the pre-match handshake, the City players made it clear where they stood. Their stares were hard, their glances full of hurt and betrayal. Only Bunny Shaw greeted me like an old friend, her smile genuine as ever. The rest barely made eye contact, tapping my hand quickly and moving past like I wasn't there.

From the moment the whistle blew, City had me cornered. They marked me relentlessly, doubling, sometimes tripling up on me. Every touch I got was immediately snatched away by the likes of Greenwood and Kennedy, who seemed to read my moves before I even made them. I tried to break free, to change my runs, but I wasn't in sync with my teammates. Every decision felt wrong—second-guessing myself, hesitating when I should've acted. I didn't call for the ball when I should have, and when I did, it was too late.