Oneshot WOSO

Beyond the field (Patri x fem!reader)

Summary: Just weeks before the Euros, Y/N, a talented and determined player, sees her world collapse on the training pitch. A severe knee injury shatters her dreams of competing and plunges her into the depths of a profound depression: a loss of identity, relentless self-doubt, and dark thoughts that sometimes drive her to contemplate ending it all.
Amidst this storm, Patri Guijarro emerges as an unexpected light. Gentle, patient, and deeply compassionate, she is the first to visit, showing up every day at the hospital and later at the rehabilitation center. Day after day, she offers a calming presence, thoughtful gestures, sincere words, and quiet tenderness. What begins as support between teammates slowly evolves into a much deeper bond, one forged through whispered confidences, interlaced fingers, shy kisses, and a connection that transcends mere friendship.
For Y/N, it is a heart-wrenching internal battle: torn between the fear of never returning to the elite level, the guilt of being a burden to Patri, and the terrifying urge to give up.
For Patri, it is a love growing with infinite gentleness, a fierce determination to stand by the woman she loves as she rebuilds her life, never rushing her.

Words: 5,3 k

Warnings: a little bit of smut

The late-afternoon sun filtered through Barcelona's low-hanging clouds, casting a golden, almost ironic light over the Barça Femení training pitch.
The air was heavy with humidity, the grass still damp from the morning dew.
You were running, the ball glued to your foot, your heart pounding in time with the coach's instructions.
It was a normal session, almost routine.
Just a few weeks before the Euros.
The tournament where you were finally meant to shine, to prove you deserved your starting spot.
Then, everything changed.
A mistimed tackle from a teammate.
A sudden, violent twisting motion.
The snap.
That sharp, sickening sound that reverberated through your body like a gunshot.
You collapsed onto the turf, pain exploding in your right knee like a grenade.
A scream escaped your lips.
The world blurred.
Your teammates' worried faces appeared above you, their voices merging into a distant, chaotic hum.
-Y/N! Shit, call the doctor!
You gritted your teeth, tears streaming down your face despite yourself. The pain was unbearable, throbbing, as if your ligaments were being torn apart one by one.
One thought played on a loop in your mind:
« Not now. Not this. Not the Euros. »
The minutes that followed were a chaotic blur.
A stretcher, a painkiller injection, the staff's averted gazes.
Patri was there, somewhere on the periphery.
You caught a brief glimpse of her, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock. She tried to step closer, but the coach held her back.
You closed your eyes.
You didn't want her to see you like this.
Broken.

At the hospital, the diagnosis came down like a guillotine.
Torn anterior cruciate ligament (ACL), meniscus damage, possible cartilage injury.
Surgery within forty-eight hours.
At least six to nine months out of action.
The Euros? A dream.
Your season? Over.
Your career? The doctors were cautious, but the message was clear: it would take a miracle and a Herculean rehabilitation effort to return to the top level.
Lying in the cold bed of the sterile room, you stared at the white ceiling.
The painkillers left you dazed, but not enough to silence the voice in your head.
« All that work... for nothing. You're finished. They'll forget you. You're nothing without football. »
Tears streamed silently down your cheeks. You didn't even have the strength to wipe them away.
The first visits were painful.
Your teammates stopped by, full of good intentions bringing flowers, stuffed animals, and words of encouragement.
-You'll come back stronger!
-We'll be waiting for you!
Every sentence pierced you like a knife.
You smiled weakly, but inside, you were screaming.
You wanted them to leave.
You wanted to be alone with your pain.

On the third day, the door opened gently, almost timidly. Three soft knocks. You turned your head, ready to say you weren't in the mood.
It was Patri.
She was wearing an oversized club sweatshirt, worn-out denim shorts, and white sneakers. Her brown hair hung loose, cascading over her shoulders. In her hands, she held a small bunch of wildflowers, daisies, poppies, and cornflowers picked in a rush. Her brown eyes, usually sparkling on the pitch, were filled with genuine concern, devoid of any forced pity.
-Hey there... she whispered, closing the door behind her. Can I come in?
You shrugged, unable to speak.
She walked over slowly, placed the bouquet on the nightstand, and pulled the plastic chair up beside the bed.
She said nothing for a long while.
Just her presence.
Calm.
Warm.
Like a ray of sunshine in that freezing room.
-I spoke to the doctors, she finally said softly. The surgery went well, they're confident about what comes next. That's a pretty good sign.
You turned your head toward the window, avoiding her gaze.
-Confident... Yeah. Except I'm still going to miss the Euros. My first major tournament as a starter. It's all ruined, Patri.
She didn't offer any platitudes in response.
She simply placed her hand a few centimeters from yours, palm open, a silent invitation.
-I know how you feel. When I got injured last season, I thought it was the end of the world. I spent whole nights crying in bed, wondering, «Why me?»
Her voice was a soothing whisper, almost a caress.
You closed your eyes.
Tears welled up again, but this time, you didn't hold them back completely. One trickled down your cheek.
Patri said nothing.
She simply stayed there, present.
She stayed for two hours that day.
She talked to you about lighthearted things: silly jokes in the locker room, the opposing team's latest defeat, a new song she'd discovered and thought you'd like.
And before leaving, while you had drifted off to sleep, she scribbled a short note on a page torn from a notebook: