Matilda's Imagines

Loved

It started with little things.

The Matildas were used to long training sessions, bad coffee, and inside jokes that went back years. But when 18-year-old Y/N joined the squad as the new junior physio, it didn't take long for the team to notice a shift — not in how they played, but in how they cared.

You were small. Not just in height or build, but in presence. Quiet at first, never quite making eye contact, always fumbling slightly when someone praised your work or offered a casual side hug. But you were brilliant — quick, sharp, and eager to learn. And you didn't stop moving. Ever.

"Sit still, gremlin," Kyra teased you during lunch one day, as you bounced your leg under the table for the hundredth time in five minutes.

"I'm trying," you muttered, stuffing a chip into your mouth. "Brain's got a hamster wheel on turbo."

Kyra snorted, elbowing Macca, who had already noticed the way you needed to be doing something at all times — fiddling with a pen, tapping your fingers, organizing tape by color code.

It wasn't long before the nicknames started. "Baby," "Kid," "Little One." At first, you flinched at them. You didn't understand they weren't mocking you — they were loving you.

"Oi," Caitlin once called across the locker room, holding up your water bottle. "You forgot your bottle again, Y/N. What do we say about staying hydrated, huh?"

You blinked, cheeks heating up. "Sorry. I—yeah. I was rushing."

"She always says sorry," Alana murmured to Macca. "Like she expects us to bite her head off."

"Yeah," Macca agreed softly, eyes narrowing. "I don't like that."

Mini — Katrina Gorry — was the first to really see it.

She caught on to how you never asked for help, even when your bag was clearly too heavy. How you flinched just slightly if someone touched your back unexpectedly. How you froze the first time someone praised you in front of the whole team.

"Good job today, Y/N," Mini said casually, her tone warm but firm.

Your eyes darted down, shoulders tensing. "Thanks... I, um, it wasn't that good—"

"Don't do that," she said gently but sternly, walking beside you. "Don't shrink. You were great."

You swallowed, something foreign tightening in your chest. "Okay."

But the moment you were alone, you buried your face in your hands and tried to breathe through the shaking. You didn't know why kindness felt like it hurt more than cruelty.

⸻

It took time, and the team was patient.

They started leaving little snacks in your locker. Kyra began calling you "kiddo" with such annoying affection you rolled your eyes but secretly waited for it every day. Macca gave you fidget toys and pretend-mocked you for "being more hyper than the entire forward line combined."

Alana made you playlists. Caitlin forced you to take proper breaks, dragging you to sit in the sun, even if your leg bounced the whole time.

And Mini — Mini was the one who sat with you when the panic crept in too fast. Who noticed when your hands were trembling. Who spoke to you like someone who wasn't afraid of the hard stuff.

"You don't need to earn love here," she told you once, quietly, as you sat curled up on the physio room floor after a particularly rough phone call from home. "You already have it."

You didn't respond. You didn't know how.

But you cried that night. Not from fear. Not even from pain.

From confusion.

Because, for the first time, it felt like maybe you weren't alone.

Maybe this was what family was supposed to feel like.