Nosocomephobia || LS

I just wanted to let you know that English is not my first language. So if you find any mistakes while reading I would be grateful if you could point them out to me in the comments so that I can correct all of them.

I just want to thank Josie for her help,
I hope you'll enjoy this story.
All the love xx

🌸

"Louis, come here. We need to talk." Coach beckoned him with a hand gesture, shaking his head in a resigned manner.

We need to talk.

Come on! How was it still possible to use that phrase in England without risking at least a week in jail? Hadn't it been banned for like, forever? As it was a leading cause of early heart attacks for anyone with a guilty conscience?

If there was anything that made Louis more anxious than leading an important Champions League match, it was the phrase: we need to talk.

Short, concise, and bloody terrifying.

And yeah, he was probably overreacting a bit, maybe with a slight touch of melodrama added in, but was there really anyone who didn't see their whole life flash before their eyes and feel compelled to repent for every wrong choice they'd ever made after hearing those four words?

No, he was sure of that, and he would never accept being contradicted on this point. Neither on this point, nor on the three or four thousand other things, but those weren't relevant now. No, the only thing that mattered at the moment was the threatening feeling that could overtake him at any moment.

At Coach's second call, he gave the ball a quick kick and ran in his direction. A run that quickly slowed as soon as he saw the man waving a small booklet in the air.

A small booklet, which he could recognize from about 20 meters away, and one that made the blood in his veins freeze.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair in frustration. A moment ago, he had described those four words as indicators of an ominous omen, now he could proudly affirm that he never missed a beat.

Because Louis knew. Of course he knew what was contained in those damned pages, just as he knew that this time he wouldn't be able to wriggle out of that commitment, even if he were to be suddenly sucked into a black hole and spat out somewhere else on the globe. Or in a parallel universe, for that matter.

This time fanciful excuses, non-existent family commitments, and urgent trips to the vet for imaginary dogs wouldn't cut it. No. This time, unfortunately, and with extreme regret, he had to resign himself to the awareness that he was completely and irreversibly screwed.

"From your face, I gather you already know what I need to talk to you about, so I'll keep it brief," Coach began. "If you don't show up this time because your dog suddenly had a brain stroke, or because your mother needs to be taken to some strange and unknown part of the globe, I swear, I'll not only replace you with Maguire for the entire season, but I'll also keep you on the bench until your famous fat ass becomes completely flat."

And Louis really wanted to stomp his feet and scream and cry and tear his hair out like a petulant five-year-old, but he couldn't. Not this time. Not when the stakes were so high.

There was only one captain at Manchester United, the one wearing the number 28 on his shirt. Louis and no one else.

And apparently, to hold on tightly to that coveted captaincy spot, earned through years and years of sacrifice and bitter tears, he had to respect only a tiny, minuscule, insignificant commitment... to show up for that damned appointment and subject himself to those routine medical check-ups.