Chapter Text
The tackle was ugly—bone-crunching and deliberate. Pedro saw the jagged impact, heard the sickening thud, and then he saw the smile. Marc Cucurella was actually laughing while Kiernan rolled on the turf in agony.
Something snapped. Pedro was in Marc’s face before the referee could even reach for his whistle.
“What was that?” Pedro snarled, his voice vibrating with a protective rage he couldn't quite label. “There was no need for it.”
Marc didn’t even blink. He wiped a smudge of dirt from his kit. “It’s called a tackle, hombre. Why are you so bothered? He’s on the other team now.”
“He’s—” Pedro started, but the words caught. Before he could lash out, a wave of Everton shirts swarmed him, shoving and shouting. Pedro didn't fight back; his eyes were already drifting toward the medics huddled over Kiernan. Marc wasn't worth the energy.
“Why are you walking away?” Cole’s voice drifted over, casual as ever.
“Why aren't you helping?” Pedro shot back, gesturing to the scuffle.
Cole smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You know me. I like to watch and observe. Just like I know exactly where you’re going—and why.” He gave Pedro a playful nudge toward the sidelines.
As the referee’s whistle shrilled through the stadium air, Pedro broke into a jog toward the medical team. The closer he got, the more the anger faded into a cold, hollow knot in his stomach. Kiernan’s face was twisted, his breath coming in sharp, ragged hitches.
“Hey,” Pedro whispered, kneeling beside him. “How bad is it?”
“Netty?” Kiernan gasped, squinting through the pain. A faint, surprised smile ghosted his lips. “What are you doing over here?”
Pedro felt a heat crawl up his neck at the nickname, but he stayed focused. “Wanted to check on you. Marc was out of order—I told him as much.” He reached across Kiernan to grab a water bottle from the medic’s bag, his fingers intentionally brushing against Kiernan’s hand. The brief contact sent a jolt through him, and for a second, the pain in Kiernan's eyes softened.
“They think it’s superficial,” Kiernan managed a weak chuckle, “but they’re talking about the hospital to be safe. Exactly what I need on a night in London.”
“See? If you're laughing, you’ll survive,” Pedro teased, though his heart wasn't in it.
The match ended in a blur. Pedro played like a man possessed, haunting the right wing and slotting home two goals. He was Man of the Match, but the trophy felt like lead in his hands.
The dressing room was a tomb. Despite the win, the air was thick with the manager's fury. Once the berating finished and the door slammed shut, the silence didn't last long.
"What was with the attitude earlier?" Marc’s voice cut through the room as he charged over to Pedro’s locker.
Pedro didn't even look up from his laces. "Drop it, Marc. It’s done." He says standing up his back now to Marc as he went into his locker.
"No," Marc pushed, his voice rising. "You're on my team. You don't go at me in front of the cameras for some guy who jumped ship." He shoved Pedro in the back, forcing him to spin around.
Pedro stood his ground, eyes flashing. "I had an attitude because, as usual, you went all in on a stupid tackle to get yourself sent off. The rest of us had to run ourselves into the ground to cover for you. And for what? To hurt one of our own?"
"He ain't one of us anymore!" Marc grunted, stepping into Pedro's space. "He's the enemy on the pitch. I took the challenge like anyone else would."
"He didn't 'jump ship,' Marc," Cole interrupted, leaning against the lockers with a cold, lazy stare. "He left because he wanted to actually play football. And that tackle? You weren't going for the ball. You just wanted an early shower and some more time off."
"Shut your face, Cole," Marc snapped, turning on him. "You can't talk. You'd stub your toe just to get a week off. Why are you even involved?"
"Because we're meant to be a team, you idiot!" Enzo shouted, storming over to break them up. "Marc, go back to your locker. Pedro, leave it."
"Thanks, Cap," Pedro muttered, grabbing his bag. He didn't wait for a response. He needed air.
Later that night, the silence of his living room felt heavy. Pedro scrolled through social media—his first mistake. He stopped on Kiernan’s latest post: a sterile hospital room and a caption mentioning a suspected fracture.
He leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes. Suddenly, he wasn't in London anymore. He was back in the cold, salt-tinged air of Copenhagen.
March 2025: Copenhagen
The Danish air had been biting, a damp cold that seemed to seep through the brickwork of the team hotel. Pedro hadn't played, and the new rooming assignments meant he was sharing with Kiernan—someone he barely knew.
When Pedro finally entered their darkened hotel room that night, the air was thick with the scent of peppermint soap. The bathroom door swung open, and Pedro collided straight into a damp, warm chest. His hands instinctively flew out to steady himself, landing firmly on Kiernan’s bare, wet waist.
“Sorry,” Kiernan breathed, his skin still misted from the shower. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
Pedro couldn’t move. In the amber glow of the bedside lamp, Kiernan looked vulnerable. As he turned to reach for his shirt, the light hit his back. Pedro froze. Against the pale skin of Kiernan’s shoulder blade, a purple-black mark in the unmistakable shape of a hand was pressed deep into the muscle.
"Kiernan," Pedro’s voice was a low hum, thick with realization. "That didn't happen on a pitch. That's a grip. Someone held you down."
Kiernan scrambled to pull his shirt on, his movements jerky and panicked. "I tripped, Pedro. Hit the corner of a table. Drop it. Please." He wouldn't look Pedro in the eye. "If the gaffer thinks I'm bringing drama into the camp, I’m finished here."
The silence that followed was heavy. They climbed into their separate beds, but Pedro didn't play any music in his headphones. He listened to the rhythm of Kiernan’s breathing—until it broke into a jagged, lonely sob.
"Hey," Pedro whispered, sitting on the edge of Kiernan’s mattress. "Talk to me. I’m not the gaffer. I’m just... I'm here."
Kiernan turned over, his face wet. "You’re so perfect, Neto. You walk out there and you’re untouchable. You don't know what it’s like to feel like you’re constantly failing—at home, on the pitch, everywhere."
"I'm not untouchable," Pedro countered softly. "I just hide it better. But I won't let anyone put their hands on you like that again. Not while I'm in the squad."
Later, when a nightmare hit, Kiernan let out a strangled plea in his sleep. Pedro didn't think. He slid under the duvet, pulling Kiernan’s back against his chest. The transformation was instant. As soon as Pedro’s arm wrapped around him, the thrashing stopped. They fell asleep like that—tangled together, a perfect fit.
The next morning was awkward but tender. Kiernan had teased him about being "very awake" in the middle of the night, their laughter breaking the tension. But the pull—that deep, aching yearning—had remained.
Present Day
The glow of his phone screen snapped Pedro back to the present. He looked at his messages.
Kiernan: Netty!! On lots of drugs. Come see me please.
Pedro didn't hesitate. The memory of that handprint on Kiernan's back fueled a new kind of urgency. He grabbed his keys, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Pedro: On my way.
He walked out to his car, knowing that seeing Kiernan now, when he was broken and vulnerable again, might change everything.