Matilda's Imagines

Ours

From the moment little Y/N arrived, she changed everything.

Barely two years old, with big round eyes, a head full of soft curls, and one and a half legs. Born with a birth defect that had taken her right leg just below the knee and left her body fragile, Y/N had already spent more time in hospitals than some of the players had in stadiums.

She wasn't strong enough for a prosthetic yet, but she had a tiny blue wheelchair she liked to call "Zoomie." When she wasn't in it, someone was carrying her — usually Kyra or Macca, who had unofficially turned "Team Lifter Duty" into a game.

Her past was darker than any toddler should have known, a string of neglect and silence the Matildas refused to let define her future.

Now, she had them.

All of them.

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Mornings with Mini

Mini — Katrina Gorry — had stepped into the mum role like she'd been born for it. She dressed Y/N each morning, usually in team colors or whatever hoodie Caitlin had picked out the day before. Tiny sneakers were mostly for show — Y/N didn't walk much — but she liked how they looked.

Mini braided her hair gently, singing softly, always letting Y/N pick between "one braid or two?" Even on the hard mornings, when Y/N clung to her shirt and refused to let go, Mini never rushed.

"Take your time, little roo," she'd whisper. "We've got nowhere to be but here."

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Chaos with the Big Sisters

Macca was the chaos bringer. Loud, dramatic, and completely in love with her baby physio.

"Zoomie's faster than you, Mac-Mac," Y/N had whispered once in a rare burst of confidence. Macca had immediately pretended to be devastated and lost a race across the gym on purpose.

Kyra was the teasing older sister, poking Y/N's cheek until the toddler gave her an exhausted little giggle. "She only laughs when she's judging me," Kyra said proudly. "This kid has taste."

Alana was soft chaos — she snuck snacks into Y/N's wheelchair pouch and made her little cards that said things like "You are the strongest bean I know" with sparkly stickers and googly eyes.

And Caitlin... Caitlin was gentle and patient. She sat with Y/N for hours, just reading or humming or letting the little girl trace the tattoos on her arm with one tiny finger.

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The Day-to-Day

Y/N had a place beside the pitch — a shaded spot with her favorite blanket and a view of her family running drills. Sometimes she napped there, wrapped in Mini's hoodie. Other times, she watched with intense, wide-eyed focus, clutching the mini soccer ball Kyra had drawn a wonky smiley face on.

She didn't talk much. The trauma had made words hard. But she looked. And when one of the girls came over after a goal, high-fived her tiny hand, or kissed her forehead, she'd give them the softest smile, as if to say: I see you. I love you too.

She flinched at loud noises. She never asked for hugs. But she let them give her love — in small doses, on her terms.

Macca once tried to get her to wear a flower crown. Y/N stared at it like it had personally offended her.

"Too much?" Macca asked.

Y/N nodded once. But then, she reached out and gently placed one flower into Macca's curls instead.

It was her way of saying, thank you. I love you. But maybe just one flower.

⸻

Bedtime

The day always ended in the team lounge — low lights, soft voices, Y/N in her fuzzy pajamas with one foot poking out. She usually curled up on Mini's lap with her head tucked under her chin, holding tight to a stuffed koala Sam Kerr had won for her at a charity event.

"I can't believe how tiny she is," Alana whispered one night. "How can someone so small take up this much space in our hearts?"

Mini just smiled, brushing Y/N's curls back. "Because she's ours."

And in her sleep, just the faintest whisper slipped from Y/N's lips — not a word, exactly, but a sound, a breath of safety and peace.

A soft: mmama.

Mini froze. Her eyes welled. The team went completely still.

Y/N slept on, unaware.

But she didn't wake up from nightmares that night.

Because for once, she didn't have to be afraid.