A Bet That Changed Us ︱Pablo Gavi

122: Unwelcome storm

The plane landed back in Barcelona, and I was relieved to be home. Pablo and I had managed to get some rest on the flight, but the stress of the past few days had left me feeling worn out. As we disembarked and headed to our apartment, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled over me.

When we finally arrived at the apartment, Pablo headed straight for the shower, eager to freshen up after the long journey. I took a moment to unwind, collapsing onto the couch with a sigh. I reached for my phone to check the latest updates and messages.

What greeted me was a flood of notifications—tweets, Instagram posts, and comments. My heart sank as I scrolled through the barrage of negativity directed at me.

"Isabella only got her position because she's Pablo's girlfriend."

"it was just luck that they won, isabella had nothing to do with it"

"FC Barcelona must be poor and desperate to hire a young, inexperienced physiotherapist."

"Another lucky break for someone who doesn't deserve it."

The comments were harsh and unrelenting, each one adding to the weight on my chest. I tried to ignore them, but they seemed to be everywhere. I felt like I was suffocating under the pressure of the criticism. It wasn't just about the game or my performance; it was personal. People were attacking my worth and my place in the team, and it hurt deeply.

I tried to focus on something else, but the negativity kept seeping into my thoughts. The anxiety grew, and I could feel the onset of a panic attack. My breathing became shallow, and my heart raced uncontrollably. My hands trembled, and I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me.

I was on the brink of losing control when Pablo emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel. He quickly noticed the distress on my face and the tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Isabella, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

I couldn't respond. The panic was overwhelming, and the words seemed to get lost in the whirlwind of anxiety. My phone lay open on the coffee table, the screen still displaying the hurtful comments. Pablo's gaze followed mine, and he quickly pieced together what was happening.

"Hey, look at me," he said, crouching down in front of me. "Breathe, okay? Focus on my voice."

I tried to follow his instructions, but the breathless panic made it difficult. Pablo's presence was a comfort, but I still felt trapped in the storm of negativity. He gently placed his hands on my shoulders, attempting to ground me.

"Tell me what happened," he urged softly.

I shook my head, unable to articulate the full extent of my fear. My breathing remained erratic, and I could see the frustration and concern in Pablo's eyes as he tried to help me.

"It's—it's the internet," he finally realized, glancing at my phone. "It's all this hate. They're attacking you because of your job and because of me."

He stood up, his face set with determination. "I'm going to fix this. I'm going to talk to my PR team and get this sorted out."

Pablo's words were meant to reassure me, and though I still struggled to calm down, his resolve gave me a small sense of relief. I clung to him, seeking comfort in his steady presence. His touch, his warmth, and his unwavering support were the only things that seemed to anchor me in that moment.

As the panic attack slowly subsided, I was left feeling emotionally drained but grateful for Pablo's patience and understanding. He wrapped me in a tight embrace, his hands soothing my back.