hide your feathers - ødegaard x calafiori

prologue - why

"Grade 2 medial collateral ligament tear."

Martin's world stopped. He froze.
The white room, that was already cold, was now freezing, to the point it gave him shivers.

He had no idea what exactly those words meant, but it didn't sound good.

His mind went blank.

Then his thoughts were all about the fact that, considering the complexity of the term, he wouldn't be playing again in a while.

Unimaginable.

The doctor had turned his back to him, picking up a pen, papers and more he couldn't see. The older man sat down in front of the computer.

Ødegaard was left on the stretcher, sitting there and thinking over and over about the exact moment everything went downhill. Yesterday, during the match against Tottenham, Micky van de Ven aggressively pushed him and strongly hit his knee, causing him to fall down in pain and leave the game in the middle of the second half.

Arsenal lost that match.

Martin was close to the penalty area. Close to the goal. There was an open space. He was sure he would score, until whatever that was occurred.

The memories are kind of vague. He can only remember the impact and the tension, and wouldn't really know what exactly happened if it wasn't for the match videos.

He barely slept last night.

As he zoned out, immersed in his thoughts, the doctor's voice sounded far.

"Did you hear what I said?"

He was brought back to the present.

"Yeah." He nodded.

"You can work out lightly, walk normally and run a little, but won't be able to play for quite a while. Two months, maybe. It'll hurt only on the first days, though. You'll be taking anti-inflammatories, using ice and doing some physiotherapy. I'll write it all down, Arteta will know all the details, too."

At this point Ødegaard was hypnotized by the smallest dust spot on the white wall.

He stayed silent.

How did he not pay attention to his surroundings?! To who was around, to the defense, to the angle his leg was at.

The team was counting on him. They always are, as they should. He's the captain.

The Norwegian noticed that the doctor was staring at him, waiting for him to react somehow, while he looked down to see his own feet swinging. So he did. Turned his face to him, with a soft smile, and nodded, once.

He had just finished cold therapy, which was, ironically, named after one of his teammates. RICE method — Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation.

Martin stood up, feeling a painful but tolerable discomfort on his knee.

He approached the doctor's table, limping slightly, and the bald man handed him the papers he was picking up before. All that was written on it were medicine names, cold therapy steps and exercise examples. Also something handwritten, impossible to read, just like the usual doctor hand writing.

As Martin turned to the door, the doctor called his name.

"Wouldn't you like a walking stick?"

It would be helpful. But he couldn't imagine himself walking around being supported by a stick. And it wasn't impossible to take steps without it.

"No. Thanks."

He exited the room, seeing Saka and Martinelli, both sitting on the chairs opposite the room he just left. They were talking as Bukayo showed something on his phone to the Brazilian, who squinted his eyes to look at whatever it was.