Soccer/Football Imagines (Part 2)

Olivier Giroud [~] Not Over You

You sighed and closed your eyes as cheers erupted around the stadium. The dejection on the faces of everyone on the bench matched your own as you stared out at the field as the Blues celebrated. Biting your lip, you stared at Olivier as he sat on his knees, his fingers pointed at the sky. Despite the loud celebrations around him, the Frenchman looked conflicted. You sighed again and looked away, pretending to look through your medical bag again.

Your history with Olivier was complicated at best. You had been a physio at Arsenal for a couple years now and were relatively close with the team. You were often the one to run out onto the pitch when one of them were down as the youngest and fastest physio out of the group. It wasn't really a surprise to anyone that you would develop some close friendships with members of the team, but Olivier was different.

He was a notorious lady's man and well, he had the swagger for one as well. You were not surprised when early in his Arsenal career he would show up to events with a different girl every time. And hell, you weren't particularly interested in him, being in a long distance relationship at the time. But then things changed. He had injured his thigh and you were responsible for helping him recover and your long-term, long distance relationship ended with a text from your ex-boyfriend at two in the morning London time.

If anyone had asked you, you weren't looking for a relationship after that one. Your ex-boyfriend had been in your life for nearly a decade, half of which you had been dating, before the both of you moved to different cities for work. And after that disaster of a breakup, you weren't interested in more than a casual hook up. Enter Olivier Giroud.

You had conducted some of the physical therapy sessions at his home in London, which inevitably led to the two of you becoming closer without anyone else around. Even after he returned to play, your relationship remained relatively close to the point where several guys had asked you quietly if you and Olivier were seeing each other. You had vehemently denied it, as had he apparently, but then the fateful day had come.

Arsenal was having a charity ball to raise money for the Arsenal Foundation and as an employee of the club, you were invited. Showing up in an old dress that honestly didn't even fit you right, you were slightly apprehensive to going. However, two glasses of champagne had a way of muddling your decision making skills and you relaxed slightly. You had been in a conversation with Laurent when Olivier had sauntered over, looking stylish as ever in his suit.

You had a few more glasses of champagne and suddenly found yourself talking exclusively to Olivier for the night. Then, he had offered you a place to stay at his place, given that your apartment was quite far from the event space and you were clearly intoxicated. You had agreed, which was a bad idea. You were intoxicated and so was he. There was clearly sexual tension between the two of you and plenty of unresolved feelings.

He had offered you the guest room downstairs, but yet you somehow woke up in his bed the next morning, dress flung over a chair with your legs intertwined with his own. You would have bolted if he hadn't woken up before you had. You both agreed that it was a one time mistake, and that it wouldn't happen again. Except it happened again. And again. And again. And at least twelve times more after that.

You didn't want to put a label on your relationship, because that somehow made it all the more real and scary and Olivier hadn't objected. It didn't help that there was growing tension in the dressing room. Olivier was seeing less and less playing time and missed several games with a hamstring injury. You could sense he was antsy with everything going on at Arsenal, and perhaps sleeping with a coworker of sorts wasn't exactly the best idea if he was trying to get his mind off things.

You had thought that your and Olivier's relationship was purely friends with benefits. You worked together and occasionally slept together. Not complicated. But then feelings had to get involved because life just couldn't be simple. You didn't discuss them with anyone, especially not Olivier, which you immediately regretted the second he told you he was moving to Chelsea. You remembered the moment clearly.

You had been cleaning up the medical station in the Emirates and setting everything up for the next game when Olivier walked in. It was long after most of the players and other people had left, but as the youngest member of the physio staff, you were left to deal with the more menial tasks after a match. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. He looked troubled.

"Do you have a second?" he had asked quietly, his gaze burning into you.

"Yeah, what's up?" you replied, tucking away some extra tape into a cupboard.

"How would you feel . . . if I left?" he breathed out, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. You not-so-subtly dropping a box did not help the tension in the room.

"You're transferring?" you questioned, your breath leaving your lungs. You blinked several times as you stared up at the Frenchman. Sure, there were always rumors and you knew Olivier wasn't as happy as he had been in the past. "To where?"

"Maybe, it's not settled yet," he sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "But . . . if it goes through, I'll be at Chelsea."

"Chelsea?" you repeated, blinking rapidly again. "The London Chelsea?" you asked lamely, already knowing the answer. Olivier nodded, and waited for a further response. "That's great!" you exclaimed, smiling through the pain.

"Really?" he asked, sitting on one of the tables. "You're . . . okay with it?"

"It's your life, Olivier. If you want to go, that's up to you," you replied, turning around to clean up more supplies so he wouldn't have to see your hurt expression.

"You're not okay with it," he sighed, standing up and moving to leave.

"I want you to be happy. And if it isn't here . . ." you trailed off, standing up and facing up. With me, you thought. ". . . then you should go somewhere that will make you happy."

You hadn't spoken to him after that day and it was still somehow still so fresh of a wound. Chelsea cheered as the final whistle blew and you busied yourself with cleaning up the benches of Arsenal medical equipment. After cleaning everything up and checking in with your boss, you made your way back out to the pitch to do a last look over. As you headed out, you passed by the Chelsea squad, who paid you no attention. Except for him.

"(Y/N)?" he quietly asked, stopping you cold in your boots. Turning around, you stared up at him. He had regrown the thick beard, but otherwise he looked exactly the same as he had since you last saw him. He looked nervous as he walked towards you.

"Olivier . . . how are you?" you replied, a small smile on your face.

"I'm good," he responded awkwardly, rubbing his arm sheepishly. "How are you?"

"Same as usual," you stated, biting your lip. He opened his mouth to say something when his teammates called for him to join them. "You should probably go with them," you sighed, turning to leave when he grabbed your arm.

"(Y/N), . . . I . . ." he sighed, shaking his head. "I—"

"—It's ok," you smiled, looking up at him with emotion clear on your face. "It was nice seeing you, Oli," you nearly whispered out. You slipped away from him and walked away as a Chelsea player ran to collect him. He watched you walk away with a heavy heart, before turning and slowly walking into the Chelsea dressing room, missing the tear you wiped from your eye.