Chapter Text
‘Consciousness is a blight.
Reality is a curse.
My body, the ultimate traitor.
Life is just continuous misery until you die, can someone at least speed up that process?’
Alex is perfectly aware that this train of thought seems a little extreme, and maybe it can all be attributed to the sharp pain currently shooting up his left thigh, but it’s not like he hasn’t had these thoughts before.
Alex finds himself flayed out on the pitch, producing a frankly humiliating screech that he was not even aware could come out of a human body. His fingers find the on-field medic’s emergency kit and grip it like a lifeline.
“I’m gonna need you to tell me where it hurts.”
“My leg, obviously! Are you fucking dense?!”
Alex isn't being very fair right now. Hunter is one of the more tolerable medics and he hopes he will choose to forgive Alex later, considering he’s either dying or facing the end of his career. Or both.
He throws his arm over his face as he tries desperately to stop the tears before they start. It’s a lost cause. Even without seeing him, Alex knows Hunter is looking at him with that face he’s seen him give other players about a dozen times. The one that’s so empathetic, it’s almost patronizing. He pictures it behind his eyelids and already feels guilty for snapping at him.
“Is it your calf, thigh, or knee?”
He’s running three fingers along Alex’s leg now, gently applying pressure, trying to catch what spot makes him wince the hardest. Alex has been through this enough times to know Hunter is just following protocol for this type of thing, but it feels like an entirely pointless and very painful task considering Alex is already wincing and sobbing hysterically. All of the spots hurt. Everything hurts.
“My thigh, I think. Fuck, like the back of my thigh.”
“Okay, not your knee. That’s good, at least.” He applies the familiar, but ultimately useless cold spray to Alex’s leg. It doesn’t feel any better.
“I know that’s good.” Alex is rapidly losing patience with him. Any football player can tell you that a knee injury is the ultimate death knell. Contact injuries? Amazing. Bring on all the cuts and scrapes in the world. But the worst injuries happen when you’re nowhere near anyone. You’re running and then…suddenly, you're not. That’s the difference between a muscle issue and something you can just put a bandaid on. That’s what happened to him. That’s why he’s a nervous wreck.
Alex makes a conscious decision to go back to being pissed off with Hunter again. He should never become an actual doctor. His bedside manner is awful.
“We’re gonna get you fixed up!” He looks so genuinely hopeful as he says it.
Alex chooses to not point out that he heard him say that exact phrase to McWright on February 13th, 2024, and McWright never played again. It doesn’t instill a lot of confidence in Alex.
He suspects it’s a hamstring injury, the most common injury in football and yet the only one he’s been able to miraculously avoid for almost twenty years. Being generally familiar with this type of injury brings him no comfort. Hamstring injuries can mean sitting out one or two games. It can mean surgery and six months off the pitch, or even retiring all together. He suddenly can’t seem to catch his breath.
A crowd begins to form around him. Liam is asking if he’s alright. The referee is doing that obnoxious referee thing where he’s trying to act like he believes Alex is really injured, even though he definitely doesn’t believe it. The only upside is that he’s blocking the sun that’s been scorching Alex’s eyes for the last hour.
Well, it feels like it’s been an hour. It’s probably been closer to forty-five seconds since his leg decided to just give up on him, but he’s already started to envision an entire post-football life. His heart feels like it’s beating out my chest and he can suddenly feel every drop of sweat on his skin.
“Liam, you wanna help me out here?” Hunter has to raise his voice to be heard over the hum of the crowd. Liam nods and shoots Alex a sympathetic smile before leaning over and scooping his right arm up over his own shoulders. It’s difficult for Alex to conflate Liam’s gentleness with the terror that is walking off the pitch in the middle of the game.
Obviously, he knew somewhere in his subconscious that he was in no condition to finish the match, but being dragged off now feels like the nail in the coffin. This may be his last time on the pitch in a professional capacity. His heart falls, his eyes close, and his hysterical sobbing starts up all over again.
Hunter joins Alex on his left, keeping him steady, an arm wrapped around his back and an eye on his injured thigh. Liam’s on the right, politely holding his palm in front of Alex’s face, trying to ensure the cameras get as little view of his runny nose as possible. There’s a reason he’s the only teammate Alex actually likes.
Liam leans in and whispers, “You’re okay.”
“You don’t know that, Liam.” Alex barely gets the sentence out through the breathy hiccups his sobs have faded into.
“I know it hurts, but it’s a surface injury, darling. You’re leg’s fine.” The ‘darling’ pours out of his mouth syrupy slow. It shocked Alex the first time; Now he’s so used to the term of endearment, the real shock would be to hear him call Alex anything else. He briefly wonders if Hunter caught it.
Alex doesn’t believe Liam, but manages a barely audible “okay” right as they reach the white line. This is the part where Liam has to leave, and go win a football match. More accurately, this is the part where Alex leaves Liam. He can’t place his finger on why it feels so devastating. The minute Liam’s warmth leaves his side and he’s forced to place the majority of his weight on Hunter, he almost forgets about the injury. Liam’s absence feels like a bigger weight on his back right now.
“You got this!” Liam says and shoots him a few finger guns before turning around and sprinting back onto the pitch. Shouldn’t he be saying that to Liam? God, he’s such an idiot.
Despite it all, Alex has a small smile forming as Hunter leads them hobbling down the tunnel into the stadium.
*~~*~~*~~*
Four months pass of agonizingly boring surgery recovery. The days all feel painfully monotonous and Alex feels his depression fighting for a comeback. Coffee, video games, more coffee, itching to get back out on the pitch, calling his mom only to immediately realize he should not have called his mom because he only made her more worried and he can’t get off the phone now, because she has a million questions and he can’t make any excuse to hang up because she knows he has no responsibilities outside of recovery. More coffee.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, half-paying attention to whatever Star Wars movie is on cable right now, when he hears it. He digs around the couch cushions till he finds his phone. Exactly what he hoped for. Coach is calling.
He answers with far too much excitement in his voice.
“Coach!”
“Diaz, how are you holding up?”
“Claremont-Diaz,” He corrects, “and badly. When can I come back?”
“Well, that’s what I needed to talk to you about. I heard your check-up with the team doctors went well yesterday.”
“So, I’m cleared to come back?” He wishes she’d just spit it out, tell him he can get out of this stupidly nice flat that’s become his prison.
“I love your enthusiasm, but the situation is a bit more complex than that.”
He really doesn’t like the sound of that.
Zahra has been a lot of things in the four years Alex has known her. She’s been tough, ruthless, determined, but he’s never heard her as unsure as she sounds right now. It’s making him nervous.
“I know you’re anxious to get back on the field, but I also know we’re not gonna be able to give you as much play time as you’d like. I’ve been ruminating on it for a few months even before your injury, but now it’s going to be even harder to have you play consistently.”
“You’ve been ruminating on what, exactly?”
“Well, we’re putting you back out on the field, but not with us, not at Stamford Bridge.” She takes a deep breath. “Starting next week, you're on loan to Arsenal.”
Alex is racking his brain to find a reasonable response to this. It’s the last thing he’s been expecting. Yes, Zarha hasn't been playing him much the past year, and even before his injury he had been a tad off his game, but he loves this team. He doesn’t understand how Zahra could make this decision without consulting him first.
“Are you being serious?! Were you not even gonna ask me if I was okay with that?! I’ve been here four years and suddenly I mean nothing to you?!” He makes no effort to disguise the betrayal in his voice.
“We both know you would have said no, and Arsenal is in need of a winger right now.”
Alex did hear about that on the news. Joseph Ramsey was a moderately good right-winger, up until his kneecap was shattered during a mugging. That’s the type of thing you don’t come back from. Arsenal may not be Alex’s team, but he’s not heartless.
Zahra continues, “Besides, it’s not like you have to pack up and move to a whole new city. Your new stadium is barely across London. You’ll just have to learn how to take the tube like everyone else, you entitled asshole. Now, keep an eye on your email, we’ll be sending you some information in writing, and then I’ll see you in the office on Thursday to finish up some of the paperwork. Got it? Great. Bye.”
“Zahra, wait I-” He lowers the phone to see she's already hung up. His head is reeling.