Word Count : 1213
Requested by myriamohh2006
Frenkie de Jong
💙 FC Barcelona ❤️
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫
You stare at yourself in the mirror, wearing your matching white and black basketball shorts and tank top. You tie your hair up in a ponytail in the back of your head, before putting on your headband, inhaling deeply.
One of your teammates puts her hand on your shoulder, saying, "Ready, Y/n?"
"It's going to be pretty tough out there on that court tonight," you point out with a sigh.
"Sure, but we both know that isn't going to stop you," she grins, which makes you smile slightly.
Your teammates are always encouraging to you, but every day, it gets harder. Six months ago, you started dating the man of your dreams, only to never be able to see him. Your teammates know the toll it has been on you.
"Hey, Y/n, chin up," smiles your teammate, nudging your shoulder with hers. "Go out there and do it for him."
You try to blink the tears away from your eyes. "I know... I always do..."
Six months ago, you went to Qatar for the World Cup and met him.
He was so much more logical about it.
You watched every single match.
And in between, you went out with him.
And quite honestly, it was love at first sight.
Both of you were interested right away. There was no denying it.
But now you can visualize it, feel it, and be sent to that moment about six months ago.
You sit in the hotel lobby. Staring into each other's eyes. The Netherlands just got out of the World Cup because if their loss to Argentina. There was disappointment in his eyes, and over the table, you held his hand. Squeezing it.
You knew how loosing feels. You both play sports professionally. You knew how devastating it can feel.
To make it to the Quarter-Finals and all.
He smiled at you, because he is like that. He is so good at keeping his emotions in check. Thinking about it rationally. Logically. Something you have always loved and admired, but never been good at yourself.
Maybe that's why you like him so much.
He's so different from you.
He's so logical, so he told you that day, "Y/n... It's obvious we really like each other... But there is an elephant in the room that I think we have both been avoiding like the plague, but it has got to be mentioned."
You swallowed, shifting, knowing what he was going to say.
"This is it. Me playing here is over. And life has got to move on now. I've got to go back to Barcelona to play football and you've got to go back to London to play basketball. I just... I honestly don't know how we can do... do this, Y/n."
And you shook your head, determined. "No, Frenkie. Don't even say that."
"But Y/n, we can't pretend."
You wiped my eyes, suddenly emotion hitting you at the reality your boyfriend was pointing out to you.
He said quickly, "Oh, Y/n, no. Please don't cry..." He hugged you. Wrapped his arms around you.
"Frenkie, why does it have to be like this? They say the World Cup is something that brings everyone together. People from all different countries... All different places. All different teams and clubs and languages and races. And it does. And it's amazing, Frenkie. It really is. I love it. But... then it all ends."
"What do you mean?"
"It's all good and nice," you sniff. "But then everyone goes home. Everyone continues on with life, and it all becomes wonderful, fun, amazing memories, Frenkie. Memories."
"I know what you mean," he muttered into your scalp, rubbing your back.
"And Frenkie," you sniffed once again, tears running down you cheeks. "I don't want us to become memories..."
And that's when his heart was moved, and I told me, "I know it is going to be hard, living so far apart, Y/n, but I want to do this. I like you too much now. I want to date you. Be your boyfriend. Long-term. It is worth it, isn't it?"
Suddenly, you're snapped into reality and present time again when you teammate gives you one more slap on the back and another word of encouragement before moving it.
Is this worth it? Should you have just left the relationship there in Qatar?
Because this...
This feels like it might just be too hard...
Sure, you call, and face time, but you can't feel him. His voice isn't the same over the phone than it is in real life. His nice voice with his nice accent.
He can't hug you here, while you're in England and he is in Catalonia.
Your phone rings, and you pounce on it when you see it is Frenkie, answering, "Hey, Frenkie," you say quickly.
"Hey, Y/n." He sounds happy. "You've got a game tonight, huh?"
"Yeah, I do," you smile, feeling brighter.
"Okay! Well, you watched our game on Saturday, right?"
You laugh. "Of course I did. I always do. You should know that. You played amazing. And looked freaking fine as always, of course, too."
"So your game starts shortly? I shouldn't keep you then."
"Yeah... Well, you're going to watch it on television, right?"
"Yeah, of course I'll watch it. I always do," he says, mimicking the way I responded to him. "Anyway, bye. I love you."
"Bye, Frenkie," you smile.
There is something beautiful about the way that despite you're so far apart, you can still manage to love each other. Be loyal. Be loyal to loving each other.
Then the game starts, and with your team, you go out onto the court. At first, things go bad, and by half time, you're fifteen points behind Newcastle, who you are playing.
And then the comeback comes. All through the second half, you inch your way up.
Until you're two points behind Newcastle. The adrenaline is pumping in you, and there is less than a minute left.
You fight to leap up, get the rebound, and sprint to the other side of the court, stop before the line, and shoot a three-pointer.
You watch, in slow motion, as it goes in the net. The whole stadium goes silent just for a few, for you to hear the swish as it goes in.
BUZZ.
All of your teammates hop onto you, hugging you.
And then it hits you.
That you just won the game.
You laugh so hard, you cry, and then finally stumble away from their hugs and cheers.
And suddenly, you freeze.
There, running right at you.
Are you imagining...?
You blink in confusion.
But the arms of Frenkie de Jong around you prove it true.
You laugh into his shoulder, crying, and wrap your arms around him. "Frenkie..." you breathe in awe. "You're... actually here...?"
"No, I'm a ghost," he teases. "Yes, Y/n, I am here!"
"Frenkie!" you laugh. "Thank you so much for coming." Neither of you care how sweaty you are.
"It is the least I could do," he smiles. "And look at this! My star, my hero, won the game!" He leans back, his hands on your shoulders, looking you in the eyes, before suddenly taking your cheeks in his hands and pressing his lips onto yours.
This gets almost a louder cheer from the fans in the stands than actually winning the game with your three-pointer did.
And you don't mind at all, because not even the biggest win in any sports game is better than this.