Matilda's Imagines

And we're not going anywhere

Y/n had always been small.

Not just in height, but in presence. Quiet when she didn't know where she stood, especially off the pitch. A little shy in interviews. A little unsure when the cameras were on her. But she was quick — lightning fast with a ball, faster with a comeback when Kyra teased her — and tougher than she looked.

She had to be.

The Matildas loved her for it. Kyra made it her mission to pester her like an older sister. Macca always kept an eye on her water intake. Caitlin always made sure she ate something on bus rides. And Mini? Mini had become more than a mentor — she'd become home. Someone who didn't just teach, but listened.

But even they didn't notice right away. Not until it started showing.

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It began with skipped meals. A few subtle excuses.

"Not hungry right now."

"I'll eat after training."

"My stomach's weird today."

At first, no one pushed. After all, Y/n was still recovering from an old ankle injury and sometimes players just had off days. But the signs piled up.

She got quieter again.

Lost a little more weight.

The bounce in her step turned sluggish.

Then came the fainting spell — in the middle of drills, under a cloudless sky.

Kyra caught her before she hit the ground.

"Oi—Y/n?!"

Her skin was clammy. Eyes fluttering. Breathing shallow.

Panic spread like wildfire. The physio team rushed in. Macca and Caitlin hovered. Mini pushed through everyone and knelt down, brushing the damp hair off her forehead.

"Sweetheart," Mini whispered, voice shaking, "can you hear me?"

Y/n blinked, confused and scared.

And then she said the words that broke Mini's heart.

"I'm sorry... I just didn't eat today."

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It didn't take long for the full picture to form.

Nutritional tracking showed patterns. Missed meals. Hidden food. An obsession with training harder, being leaner, feeling "enough."

She never admitted it out loud, not at first. But in meetings with the team psychologist, Mini, and later the coach, it came out in pieces.

"I have to be the best. Or they'll send me back."

That's when they all realized — this wasn't about food. It was about control. About trauma. About a foster system that failed her, abusive parents who called her a burden, and a world that had convinced her she had to earn love.

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The team didn't push. Not at first.

They rallied. Quietly, consistently.

Caitlin started making smoothies for the both of them in the morning, always with an extra shot of protein and zero pressure.

Lani walked with her to every team meal. Just walked. Never forced her to eat — just made sure she didn't sit alone.

Kyra made jokes constantly. "I will literally eat your broccoli if you don't want it, but you better be getting the chips, squirt."

Macca started bringing snacks she knew Y/n liked and leaving them in her locker with dumb notes like, "This snack has been approved by the Goalkeeper's Council of Snacks and Sass."

But it was Mini who did the heavy lifting.

Late-night talks.

Boundary setting.

Doctor's appointments.

"You don't have to fix this overnight," she told her gently one evening, when Y/n confessed how guilty she felt for making the team worry. "You just have to try. That's enough."

Y/n cried. A lot. But she nodded.

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Recovery was messy.

There were good days — and bad ones.

Days where she ate, laughed, trained.

Days where she cried in the locker room, panicking over calories.

But she never had to do it alone.

Not anymore.

One day, after a long team meeting, Y/n found a small envelope taped to her locker.

Inside was a photo. A team picture from earlier that year. Someone had drawn stick figure crowns on all their heads, with glitter pen sparkles and big goofy smiles.

On the back, in Mini's neat handwriting, it read:

"Family isn't earned. It's given. And we're not going anywhere."

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And neither was she.

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