"Fleur, it's good to see you." Emma stands as I enter her office at Cobham. It hasn't changed since the day I terminated my contract, though there is an extra frame hanging on the wall: a picture from the day they won the WSL this year.

I reach over her desk to shake her extended hand, but she retracts it with a good-natured smirk and steps around the mahogany, pulling me into a fierce hug. I sink into the feeling.

Emma and I have not always seen eye-to-eye. She picked me up from a soul-destroying season at Lyon, but she was not going to let her new star player wallow in pity for herself, and so she showed me a form of tough love that knocked me down only to build me back up. Greater, stronger, and one of the best in the world. She told me she'd keep her word if I kept mine, and every time I turned around to back out, she'd be there to instruct me to try again.

There were times in which I hated her. Hated how hard she pushed, hated the severity of her cutting words or the truth in the lectures she always had to give. Her callousness reminded me of my father's – unforgiving, unaccepting, and unwavering – but the softness in her touch, or the hug she'd envelope me in if the tears spilled down my cheeks and the world caved in was as helpful as the insightful advice and the harsh instructions she administered. And, I guess, she watched me blossom. She planted me in her garden, and it fucking worked.

When we part, there are tears in my eyes.

"Sit down." The chair is comfortable and welcoming, congratulating me on my return, and the contract on her table shines in the sunlight pouring in through the large windows behind her. There are small figures on the training pitches her office overlooks. Preseason has started at Chelsea Women.

Emma leans back in her chair.

"You're not signing this."

"I was never going to." Then, I add, "Barcelona would never let me."

"You would never let yourself. We don't want you back, and you know that." Everything she says is true. The offer on the table is not there, not really. The print is wrong, and the words are phoney. "Which begs the question: why are you here?"

"Why did you ask for me to come if you knew I was going to say no?"

"Because you have something to tell me, and I'd like to find out what it is."

━━━━━━━

London. 20th December 2022.

Our bedroom is a mess when I walk in, and Scarlett sits among the piles of clothes strewn across our floor with her head in her hands. I kick an old Tar Heels hoodie to the side, clearing a path for myself. The movement causes her to look up.

"Don't even start," she says quietly, voice wobbling, threatening to tip her just over the edge that I have seen coming. There is nothing beneath her if she slips off the cliff. We will fall to our deaths.

"Packing is hard," I tell her with a small smile. Her eyes, starry and lost, follow me as I perch on the edge of the bed, and when I settle on the ruffled sheets, she lets her neck droop once more. "It's only two days though, schatje. We're not moving."

"We aren't."

It stings.

My agent has just called me. Barcelona is getting impatient, and there is not much time left. I either go now, or I don't go at all.

I swallow the cutting remark I could reply with, noticing her wince as she reaches out to fold a training top. My suitcase was packed earlier, but she has opened it up, presumably to see what I am bringing and to copy it. "Your head hurts," I state, intending it to be a question but well aware of what the answer is. "Scar, let me do this. Go get yourself a glass of water."

She shakes her head, shoulders hunching over her body. "I feel sick."

"What did the doctor say?"

I get up from the bed and move between the clothes, picking up what should be in her suitcase and placing them in there. I do it quicker, and I finish only to see her squeezing her eyes shut, weakly shaking her head once more.

"You didn't go?" I question, frustration bubbling underneath my composure. I zip both suitcases up hard enough for the sound to pierce through the still air and make her press her palms over her ears. "Why didn't you go?"

She doesn't reply. I wrap my arms around her, kissing her cheek softly, trying to coax something out of her. But Scarlett, though her body feels like jelly, is firm and stubborn about it.

"Schatje, you should've gone," I whisper in her ear. I pull her up, sitting her on the mattress. "You really should've gone."

"I'll go later."

Stupidly, I believe her.

There is not much left of us, and I cannot find it in me to start another argument.

She is fine on the flight that same day, though she avoids me and sits next to Lauren throughout the journey. I watch her from afar, carefully monitoring how much water she is drinking and whether she is on her phone, but, if Sam notices, she says nothing.

My agent texts me as we make our way to Barcelona. I accept the club's offer. I'm going to leave Chelsea in January.

"Are you still fighting?" Magda asks me when Scarlett leaves recovery early. She had paled, and walked out after a quick conversation with one of the physios. "She's upset."

"She's..." Not upset. "I'm going to check on her before dinner."

Magda places her hand on my shoulder with a soft, authoritative smile. I have made the right decision, and she approves. "Just remember how much you love her," she advises. "Don't get swept up in it." Then, she presses a room-key into my palm and mutters the number into my ear. "We need you both at your best if we're going to beat Barcelona tomorrow."

I nod.

Scarlett is lying in her hotel bed, legs curled up to her chest. She makes no effort to prove that she is alright, and I climb under the sheets beside her, running my fingers through her dark curls.

"Stop," she mumbles, "you'll make 'em frizzy."

"You lied."

I saw the starting line-up, and if Scarlett had gone to see the doctor, she would not have been included in it.

"You accepted their offer."

She moves her hand from where I try to hold it, drawing it into her body and shuffling away. I let her put the distance between us. It's been there for a while now.

A tear falls, rolling towards my chin. I wipe it away with my knuckles, and breathe in deeply. "I'm sorry."

"You're not," she replies, knowing that the accusation will slice through my sternum, cracking my ribs with the force, piercing through my heart as though I am no longer of it. With unsteady legs, she stands up, leaving me on the bed. "They won't let me play if I'm concussed."

She grabs the headboard as though she is afraid she will fall, and I look up at her. She is crying too. "That's the whole point," I say. "You lied to me."

"It's fine. It'll be nothing."

Her dismissal – her disregard for her health – jolts my system, and I am standing before I can even acknowledge it. The bed separates us as my fists clench by my sides, and the anger that has been building up in me for the past week sits in one huge blow at the tip of my tongue.

I'm already emotional, because we both know that I am leaving her.

"I get not saying anything when it happened in training, and I get wanting to play," I grit out, "but this is ridiculous. You're actually concussed, Scarlett. It would be dangerous for you to go on the pitch! What if someone knocked you over, and you hit your head again?"

"What? Would me getting knocked out stop you from packing your bags and fucking off to Barcelona?" My mouth opens, but I withhold my response, terrified that it won't be retractable. "Exactly. So forgive me for wanting to play with you for one last fucking time!"

"You didn't even know if you were starting." I flex my fingers, trying to calm myself down. "Hell, I could've been on the bench for all you knew. Don't use me as an excuse – don't pretend you aren't contributing to the shit we're in."

"Yeah, well there wouldn't be any shit if you weren't leaving, but here we are."

"You could come with me!" I shout, because there is only one volume I know how to express this phrase in, and it is with the force that makes my throat sore.

Her hand slaps the headboard and she pushes herself upright, rigid as she cries. "I don't want to go with you!" Her voice cracks. Then, softer, she says, "I just want you to stay."

And there are so many reasons why I can't, but she won't listen to me. I ignore how loud I start to shout.

━━━━━━━

Present day.

I swipe my tongue along my lips, wondering if it will halt the drying of my throat as I tap the arm of the chair I am sitting in.

Emma waits expectantly, aware that she has hit the nail on the head.

She folds her arms over her chest, eyebrows raising as I stew in the patient silence for a moment.

"Scarlett was concussed and I didn't say anything because I wanted her to play badly," I say. "We were arguing. I was... punishing her. If I had said something, she would've been on the bench, and she would–"

"No."

I stare at my feet, guilt rising inside me though I have tried to ignore it. "Emma, I'm so sorry."

"No," repeats Emma, with a firmer interruption. Her coarse accent cuts through the thrum of my heart sounding in my ears, and it is somewhat comforting to hear her disagree. She takes in a deep, pained breath. "You watched her go, Fleur. Do not torture yourself with the blame, too."

"But I could have..."

"So could we. I could've asked her to see me after she left recovery. Our doctor could have been firmer with her, and instructed her to come in. Magda could've seen, or a physio could've figured, but they didn't." She clicks her tongue. "We had the investigation. It's over now, and one could argue that we did not have the resources to protect her. They've increased our budget, and it is not going to happen again."

She looks out onto the pitches. I follow her gaze. "Fleur, these girls are safer now, because of what happened, because of her passing. That night, as a manager, was the worst of my life. We've all had sessions with the psychologist – I've mandated it. Me, the staff, and the players. But, look. You are too talented to let it hold you back. Why do you think I agreed to release you? It's not like that would've helped Chelsea."

"I don't know," I mutter, shrugging. A whistle sounds and the training session ends. The girls group together to stretch and cool down. Bored of the sight (and missing it, slightly), I turn back to her desk, eyes landing on the contract once more. "Whose contract is that?"

"Natalia Segura's."

"She's interested?"

Emma laughs. "Not at all. I was hoping you could put in a good word."

"If Laia Codina signs for Arsenal, Talia will go there," I tell her with certainty. "Plus, she doesn't like playing in blue."

"She's a Real Madrid fan, isn't she?" I nod, and Emma whistles with amusement. "Bet that pisses off her cousin."

Part of me wonders how Emma knows, seeing as the secret was well-kept enough for Talia to have only found out in late-April. "More than ever."

We talk about my life for a while, because Emma does not want me to leave her office crying. She asks me more about Talia; what she's like, the potential the world sees in her, whether she can speak English (and whether or not they need a translator at any future meetings). The topic strays into Jaimie's achievements when there is nothing left to say, until Emma thanks me for my visit and wishes me luck for the next season at Barça.

"But not too much," she says with her hand on her heart, covering the wound we left from the semi-finals. "Go speak to the girls, yeah? I'm sure they'd love to see you. Especially Erin."

━━━━━━━

The next day, after spending another night at Sam's empty apartment, I take a train to Birmingham.

Graciously, the Australian has fucked off to the USA to spend her off-season with Kristie Mewis (whom she is planning on proposing to soon), meaning I don't have to pay for a hotel in this country while I get my shit in order.

I have a list of things to do, actually. The therapist at Barcelona helped me curate it over the phone during my layover in Singapore when I flew back to Europe.

During the one and a half hours I spend on the train, I call Alexia. She's tipsy and enjoying her victory holiday in Ibiza. Half the pictures she sends me and of her and Jenni, and the other half are ones that make me flush red on a very public vehicle. It's not fair, and I wish I could have joined her – Ana has.

"How is London?" she asks with a giggle. There's a splosh in the background, and I assume someone has bombed into the ocean from the yacht they are currently partying on. "Boring? Do you wish you were here with me?"

I ignore the provocative nature of her questions. "It's alright. The weather is nice."

"Has Emma Hayes convinced you to go back to Chelsea?"

"That's not why I'm here."

She pauses. "Why are you in London, Fleur? If not to sign a contract for your old club, where you can play where you want to play and speak English all the time and fall in love with another Eng–"

"Are you jealous?"

But I don't get an answer, because the phone has been scrambled from her grip and Misa Rodriguez's loud, drunk voice shoots through the speakers. "Stop stealing Ale from us!" she slurs with an audible smirk. There's a murmur in the background. "Y... go back to Chelsea!"

"No! I said to say 'DON'T go back to Chelsea', Misa."

The train hits one of the many patches of the English countryside that is devoid of signal, and the line cuts out before I can reply.

I'm in Birmingham before I know it. 

notes: 

oh my lord let me tell you that halloween was interesting. i got into a little fight w some annoying guy and thought he broke my finger (he didn't but it hurt like fuck)! i won tho x

this chap is honestly just me tying up some loose ends 

AND IT'S THE FIFTIETH CHAPTER WOOHOOO

i'm also planning to update never leave again sometime soon so dw 

thanks for reading and onto bonfire night!