𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨

Chapter 28 - The end

11th November 2024
Chloé pov - present
The roar of the crowd surges through my veins like an electric current. Camp Nou is buzzing with anticipation, the stadium lights casting their glow across every corner of the field. It’s an ocean of red and blue, flags waving like restless seas, the Barcelona crest painted on the faces of kids and adults alike. All of them are looking down at us. All of them are looking at me. This could be my last game here. My final night in these colors, surrounded by fans who have been with me since day one. The thought is bittersweet, heavy with pride and a touch of sadness, but I push it to the back of my mind. There's a game to play.

I shake out my shoulders and exhale, focusing. The game’s moving fast tonight. Real Madrid is fighting harder than ever. It’s like they can feel it too. Every tackle is a test of strength, every pass is a battle of wills. We’re locked in a dead heat, the score at 1-1, and with only ten minutes left on the clock, tension hums in the air like a taut string ready to snap. Mapi’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and urgent. "Chloé, to your left!" I break into a sprint, trusting her instincts without a second thought. My legs burn with every step, but it’s the kind of burn I love.

The thrill of the chase, the power of every muscle working in perfect sync. Mapi’s pass is perfect, sailing right into my path, and I trap the ball with a single touch before driving forward. All that stands between me and the goal now is Madrid’s center-back, and I see her shift, ready to close me down. But I’m faster. I feel the rush of victory already, like I’m on the edge of something. And then, everything stops.

The impact is sudden, brutal. I feel my foot caught beneath me, my body twisting in a way it’s never meant to. A sharp, searing pain explodes through my leg, stealing the breath from my lungs. I’m on the ground before I even register the scream that's tearing its way out of me. The stadium fades, the cheers dimming into a hollow silence. I can’t hear the crowd anymore, can’t even see the field. I’m just aware of this all-consuming, excruciating pain. "Chloé!" It’s Mapi’s voice again, urgent, scared, so close.

I can barely make her out, her face blurring in my vision as she drops to her knees beside me. Her hand wraps around mine, strong and warm, grounding me even as pain pulses through my leg in relentless waves. "Don't move her!" The medic’s voice comes from somewhere above me, his face a shadow against the stadium lights as he assesses the injury. I hear words: fracture, immediate transport, ligament but they slip through my mind like sand, lost in the fog of pain. I feel Mapi’s grip tightening, her fingers lacing through mine, anchoring me, and it’s all I can do to hold on.

They lift me onto the stretcher, every movement a fresh surge of agony, and all I can see as they carry me off the field is the green of the pitch, the players frozen in place, their faces drawn with shock. This is how it ends, I think bitterly, on a stretcher, with the game still raging behind me. The crowd fades as we leave the pitch, replaced by the sterile white walls of the tunnel, and I fight to stay conscious, focusing on the one constant. Mapi, her hand never leaving mine.

The next few hours blur together in fragments. Bright hospital lights. The sterile smell of antiseptic. A haze of painkillers, numbing the worst of it but leaving me hollow and exhausted. I’m vaguely aware of the doctor’s words, of him explaining the break, the recovery time, the months of rehab that lie ahead. But none of it feels real. Not yet. It isn’t until much later, when the room finally quiets down, that it starts to sink in. I look over at Mapi, slouched in the chair by my bed, her hand still wrapped around mine, her head resting against the edge of the mattress. She’s been here the whole time, her eyes never leaving me.

And when I squeeze her hand, the look she gives me is so full of love and concern that it nearly breaks me. "Are you okay?" she asks softly, brushing a stray piece of hair off my forehead. I try to laugh, but it comes out weak, a shadow of my usual self. "I think I should be asking you that." Her lips twist into a sad smile. "It’s your leg that’s broken, Chloé. Not mine." I take a deep breath, looking down at the cast on my leg, the immobilizing weight of it a constant reminder of everything that’s changed. Everything I’m about to lose. The reality of it is like a punch to the gut. Months without the game, maybe even an end to my career.

And here, in this sterile room with Mapi’s hand holding mine, the weight of it crashes over me. "I don’t know if I can come back from this," I whisper, barely able to get the words out. It’s a fear I’ve kept buried, but here, with her, I can finally say it. Mapi’s expression softens, and she reaches up to gently cup my face, her thumb brushing over my cheek. "You’re the strongest person I know, Chloé. And whatever happens, whether you come back or… take a different path. I’ll be here. We’ll get through this together."

Her words settle around me, warm and reassuring, and for the first time since the injury, I feel a flicker of hope. It’s fragile, a tiny spark in the darkness, but it’s enough. I close my eyes, leaning into her touch, and let myself drift, feeling her steady heartbeat through the press of her hand. The pain is still there, lingering at the edge of consciousness, but now, with Mapi beside me, it’s something I can bear.

Word count: 1021