Chapter Text
Argentina plays dirty. Jude knew this, everyone on the team knew it, especially after the team analyzed the games they played against Cabo Verde and Egypt. They shove, they tackle rough, and they commit fouls left and right without fear of getting carded, because they have the stupid refs in their pockets.
The unfairness of it all claws at Jude’s chest, but now isn’t the time to get distracted by FIFA’s blatant corruption. No. That’s something far out of his control, as much as it affects him and his team mates.
What he can control is his own performance, and to do his best, he thinks as he pulls his jersey over his head. And doing his best means not getting distracted, especially not by any assholish moves the Argentina players may try to pull on him.
He plops down on the bench, staring blankly down at his phone. He’s not dumb. He watched how they would target the star players, kicking and grabbing at them, out of jealousy or spite maybe, but Jude knows he’s the England team’s crowning jewel. He knows he has a huge target on his back for the game. Again, not something he can control.
But still, the thought of them purposefully trying to injure him, it makes him shiver. The broken leg Ismael Kone suffered near the start of the tourney has been stuck in the back of his mind like an omen ever since he was made to watch the replay.
His phone buzzes and lights up, pulling him from his spiral. He refocuses his eyes on it, and smiles at the name that pops up.
Erling texted him. Just like he always does before every match he plays. Even the before the previous match, when he sent a picture of a horse on a beach with some text that just said soccer (Jude is online, but not nearly as chronically as Erling is. This one confused him a bit) even though they were going to see each other in a few minutes anyways.
And what a delight it was to see his friend after nearly a month apart. Sure they texted, a lot, but texting isn’t quite the same as being able to talk to him face to face and see the way his face lights up as he talks about whatever subject had caught his interest lately.
This time it isn’t a meme. It’s a bad selfie of Erling giving him a thumbs up with some bad editing to give him bunny ears and a fake pink blush, sent alongside a ‘goodluck today’ text.
The bubble pops up again, and this time it’s a photo of the TV in Erling’s parent’s house. ‘We’re all rooting for you’
‘I’ll make sure to beat Argentina just for you’ he sends back. The typing bubble pops up right away, and Jude has to fight down a cheesy smile.
‘If u could defeat us u can defeat arg too no problem’ and
‘Wish I was there’ immediately after.
‘You’ll just have to come watch us in the final’
‘Cocky’ The typing bubble shows up again, but an arm slings around Jude’s shoulder, pulling his attention away from the screen.
“Texting your boyfriend?” Saka says as he as he sidles up next to Jude. Jude rolls his eyes. God forbid a guy have a close friend in the football world, lest they be shipped to hell and back by fans and players alike.
He almost wishes he did like Erling. He’s sweet, caring, and his green eyes are so expressive Jude finds himself getting lost in them sometimes. Not to mention, if Jude is how he treats his friends, then he must treat his significant other like royalty.
But Jude definitely doesn’t have a crush on him. He only wishes he did.
“Fuck off,” he says, but the effect is ruined by the smile still pulling at his lips. Saka peeks at the edited photo of Erling and snorts too.
“How have you two been doing, by the way? I know it can be hard, being separated like this for so long.”
“We saw each other after our match last week?”
“Yeah but it’s not the same,” Saka says, dragging out the a in same and wiggling his brows at Jude.
“It’s not like we’re—“
“Shit, are you alright, mate?” He gets cut off by a shout from Gordon across the locker room.
When Jude looks over everyone’s looking at Rice, and Jude doesn’t understand why everyone is freaking out, until he spots the trail of blood coming from his nose.
Then everyone’s crowding Rice, asking him if he’s alright and handing him fistfuls of tissues, but all the noise washes right over Jude. It’s like his entire universe has honed in into that line of blood.
He feels the blood drain out of his face, but he can’t look away from the bright red streak.
“—ude, are you alright? Jude?” He tears his eyes away as Rice finally stems the bleeding with something, and finds Saka staring at him with blatant concern all over his face.
He forgot that no one here knows about the accident. And he’d like to keep it that way, so he steels himself and gives Saka the largest smile he can manage.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing. Nothing to worry about.” From the skepticism on Saka’s face, he wasn’t very convincing.
“If you’re sure…” Fortunately for Jude and his abysmal lying skills, a FIFA official comes in at that moment to tell them it’s time, and Saka’s piercing gaze is pulled away from him.
Jude takes a deep breath. Shakes his head to get rid of the image of the bright red trail of blood from his head. It doesn’t work, and he shivers again, but then Saka is there to pull him up off the bench.
It’s as they’re walking through the tunnel that he realizes he didn’t get to read whatever Erling sent him.
Argentina plays dirty. Everyone on the team all knew it. But knowing something and experiencing it are two completely different things.
By the first hydration break, Jude is beyond frustrated. He’s been pushed, grabbed, ganged up on, and even knocked down at one point, and they’re barely twenty minutes into the match.
But he can take it. All he needs to focus on is the ball.
And his teammates apparently, as he watches as Saka get shoved down by Fernandez during a play, only for the ref to do absolutely nothing about what should be at least a yellow. Jude finally snaps when he sees Fernandez shove against Saka’s chest with an infuriating smirk on his face, nearly knocking him over for a second time.
“Motherf—“ Jude runs over and puts himself between the two, pulling Saka behind him. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“Football is a rough game, if you don’t like it then you can go home.” Jude sees red.
“Listen, asshole,” he spits, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Just because you have the refs in your pocket doesn’t mean you can get away with your bullshit. Do you really think this shit is going to carry you through to the finals? Knock it off.” Fernandez swats his hand away and steps up to Jude’s face.
“Or what? What are you going to do about it?” Jude seethes, but before he can respond they’re being pulled away from each other by a crowd of the ref and their teammates. Fernandez is still glaring at him with a strange glint in his eyes that sets Jude on edge, but he still glares right back. He won’t give the bastard the satisfaction.
“—He’s not worth it, mate.” And Saka is right, unfortunately. As much as Jude would love to knock him on his ass in front of the whole world, he can’t afford to get carded right before the final.
He tears his gaze away from Fernandez and takes a few more breaths to focus himself. He can’t let his anger flare like this. If he does, that means they win, and seeing those assholes crying after losing will be much sweeter revenge than laying Fernandez out.
As tempting as it sounds.
They start play again, and for a while, it’s the same hard fought fight. And it certainly is a fight with the way he’s getting knocked around.
It’s infuriating, but then Rice passes him the ball and he sprints for it, zeroing in on the ball and the many strategies they’ve worked on in practice, which one will be best for this situation?
But he never gets to find out. Fernandez rams him, and Jude is in the air for a few breathless seconds, spinning, the crowd, grass, and sky all blurring together into one, and then he hits the ground-
-leg first, bent at far too awkward of an angle to mean anything good. He hears a strange snapping noise, then his head bounces off the ground, and he finally comes to a rest. His vision didn’t get the memo, however, as it’s still swirling around, and he’s sure if this was a cartoon there’s be stars floating around his head.
He blinks a few times and his vision slowly focuses again. There’s a crowd around him of teammates and… medics?
“This is going to hurt.” Wait, what? Either his brain needs to speed up or everything else needs to slow down and someone needs to explain to him why there’s medics on the field—
Then his leg is on fire. A pain like he’s never known before laces up his leg, and it takes everything he has not to throw up right then and there, because the medics are there for him.
He doesn’t look down. He refuses to look down. If he looks down and sees what he think he’ll see, then that means this is real, and oh fuck this cannot be happening, not to him.
“We need you to breathe, kid,” one of the medics says, but doesn’t say how he’s supposed to breathe when it feels like his chest is caught in a vice.
Time must be sped up for everyone but him, because before he knows it he’s being lifted onto a stretcher and rushed off the field. His breaths are coming in short bursts and now there’s more medics crowding him, and he watches as one of the original medics peels off a bloody glove, bloodied with his blood, and everything starts fading.
And he must really be losing it, because the last thing he sees before he passes out is the worried face of Erling hovering over him.