Best Mistake ︱Pedri González

33

Pedri's POV

I wake up with a heavy weight on my chest, the argument with Luciana playing on a loop in my head. Her voice, sharp and pained, keeps echoing in my ears, mixing with my own words that were too harsh, too loud. I've never felt this angry, this guilty. As I get ready, my eyes keep drifting back to my phone on the bedside table. I've checked it a dozen times already this morning, hoping for a message from her—a sign that maybe we can fix this. But there's nothing. Not even a missed call.

I splash water on my face, trying to wake myself up from this fog. I want to apologize, to explain, to do something, but I can't shake the hurt I feel every time she pushes me away. If she doesn't want this, why did she start it? And why does it feel like she's tearing us apart just when we might've had a chance?

Training is supposed to be my escape. The pitch is usually the only place where everything else disappears. But today, my mind is elsewhere. I fumble passes I'd usually make with my eyes closed. I miss a tackle and then another, and the frustration builds. Every mistake is a reminder of how off I am, how nothing's right. Gavi notices first.

"You good, bro?" he asks, jogging up beside me after I mess up another pass.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lie, my voice tight as I kick the ball away in frustration. I don't want to talk about it, not here.

But Gavi isn't convinced, and neither is Frenkie, who comes over with a knowing look. During a break, we sit on the grass, and they both keep glancing at me, waiting for me to say something.

Gavi breaks the silence, nudging me with his shoulder. "You sure? You've been off all day."

I look at the ground, tracing lines in the dirt with my boot. "Just... had a fight with Luciana."

Frenkie raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Gavi, though, is all curiosity. "What happened? I thought things were getting better."

I shrug, trying to keep my voice steady. "She wants space, I guess. I don't know... I feel like I'm losing her."

Frenkie nods thoughtfully. "Maybe you should give her the space she needs. Pushing won't help, you know?"

I know he's right, but it's not what I want to hear. I can't help but feel like if I step back now, I'll lose her completely. "Yeah... I just don't know what to do."

Training ends, and instead of joining the guys for our usual meal, I head straight home. The silence of my apartment feels suffocating. I try turning on the TV, flipping through channels mindlessly, but nothing holds my attention. I grab my phone and scroll through old messages, looking at the texts that used to make me smile. Now, they just feel like reminders of how far we've fallen.

I find myself staring at photos of us—moments that were simple and happy. I pause on one from a night out, her smile bright as she leans into me. It feels like another lifetime. The anger I felt earlier melts into something sadder, something that makes my chest tighten.

I need to clear my head. I throw on my running shoes and head out, pushing myself hard down familiar streets until I end up at the spot where Luciana and I used to meet, hidden from everyone else. It's quiet here, just the distant sounds of the city, and the memories come rushing back. I feel overwhelmed, my emotions crashing over me like waves.

I punch the wall next to me, pain shooting up my hand, but it's nothing compared to the frustration boiling inside. "Fuck!" I shout, my voice echoing around me. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I'm losing her, and I don't know how to fix it.

I sink down onto the ground, my breath heavy, feeling more lost than I ever have. For the first time, I let the tears come, wiping them away roughly with the back of my hand. I hate this. I hate feeling this powerless.

Back home, I sit on the edge of my bed, my phone in my hand. I draft a message to Luciana, then delete it. I try again, pouring out everything I want to say—how sorry I am, how much I want to make things right. But every time I get to the end, I stop. I can't send it. I can't push her further away.

Instead, I drop my phone on the bed and bury my head in my hands, the room too quiet, too empty. For once, I'm trying to do what she asked—giving her space—but it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, feeling utterly defeated. This silence between us is suffocating, but I'm stuck. And as I drift into a restless sleep, the only thing I can think about is how to hold on when everything feels like it's slipping away.

I walked into the training ground, feeling like I hadn't slept in days. I tried to keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone as I made my way to the locker room. My hand throbbed under the bandage—a stupid reminder of how I lost it yesterday.

I barely got changed when Xavi called me over. I knew he'd notice; he always did.

"What happened to your hand?" Xavi asked, his voice low but stern. I looked up, meeting his eyes for just a second before looking away.

"It's nothing," I mumbled, trying to act like it was no big deal. But Xavi wasn't letting it go that easily. His eyes scanned the poorly wrapped bandage, and I could tell he wasn't buying my act.

"That doesn't look like nothing, Pedri. How did it happen?" he pressed, his tone firm.

I hesitated, swallowing hard. "I... hit something."

Xavi raised an eyebrow. "Something? Or someone?"

I sighed, the frustration boiling just beneath the surface. "A wall," I admitted quietly. "I lost my temper."

Xavi let out a long breath, his gaze not leaving me. "You're not the type to lose your temper over nothing. What's really going on?"

I felt trapped, like every word was a step closer to admitting how messed up things were. "It's personal stuff," I said, my voice tight. "I messed up, and now I'm paying for it."

Xavi nodded slowly, his expression softening just a little. "I don't need to know the details, but you can't let this eat you up. Hurting yourself doesn't fix anything. And right now, we need you fully focused."

"I know," I said, feeling the weight of his disappointment. "I'm sorry."

Xavi put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You don't need to be sorry. Just take care of yourself. Whatever's going on, you can't let it take over."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I wanted to spill everything, to just tell him how messed up I felt, but the words were stuck. "I'll sort it out," I managed to say.

"Good. Now let's get back to work," Xavi said, giving me a final pat before heading back to the group. I took a deep breath, following him onto the pitch. But my head was somewhere else, far from the drills and the tactics.

During training, I could feel my hand aching with every movement. I pushed through, trying to drown out the pain and the noise in my head. But it was like the harder I tried, the more everything felt off. I was making mistakes I never made—misjudging passes, losing focus. I knew my teammates could see it too.