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Games against England were never fun.
Granted, Argentina never really played against England anyways, being on two different continents, but during another unneseccary international break, it was decided that they would play a friendly in Brazil.
Why Brazil? Well, Julián didn't know.
It was unbearably hot, even during the night, the screams of the fans blaring throughout the stadium, the yells of his teammates, of Scaloni on the sidelines, of the English players across the pitch.
They had a strange advantage, with more of the Argentinians speaking English than Englishmen being able to speak Spanish.
During halftime, Alexis and Lisandro had spilled what the other team had been shouting at each other, and Julián had smiled, knowing that the other team couldn't do the same for them.
"They're annoyed at Walker for conceding," Alexis reasoned. "If we manage to get another one past him specifically, they'll start falling apart."
The second half was going well, with Argentina up 4-1. An early goal from Palmer had shocked them into playing so in form that Julián was sure Aimar was crying from joy on the sidelines.
It was one thing to lose against England. It was another thing to lose in Brazil.
Julián sprinted across the box, making quick eye contact with Enzo before slotting into the side of the net, the roars of the travelling fans increasing tenfold as he felt his teammates jump at him.
He laughed, running with Rodri’s arms around his shoulders, with Cuti’s lips pressed against his flushed cheeks.
Julián didn't notice that the screams from the fans seemed to turn from overjoyed to panicked, didn't understand why he was pulled back by someone he couldn't see.
And then he felt it.
Unimaginable pain.
Julián gasped, clutching his stomach as he collapsed to the ground. He curled up on himself, the ache travelling through his arms and legs, adrenaline all but leaving his body as he writhed on the grass.
He felt someone kneel down next to him, rolling him over gently.
"Juli!" Lautaro gasped, eyes wide with fear. Julián could only wheeze out a sob, the pain so intense that tears were beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes.
His eyelids began to flutter, the alluring call of sleep winning him over, before someone shook him harshly, and his eyes snapped back open.
"Hell no," Enzo said from his place kneeling next to Lautaro. "You need to stay awake, you fool!"
Julián whimpered, a part of him sighing in relief when Lautaro grabbed one of his hands, holding it tightly. He looked up slightly, seeing how players from both teams were crowded around him, shielding him from the cameras and the prying eyes of the fans.
"Where's the fucking medical team?" He heard someone from the English team muttering, and he internally agreed. It had felt like an eternity since he had hit the ground.
Julián didn't even know what happened to him. He opened his mouth to try ask the two sitting next to him, yet no words came out. Lautaro and Enzo looked at each other, worried, before looking back at him.
"W-what..." Julián tried. "What happe..."
He couldn't finish his sentence, his tongue heavy in his dry mouth.
"A Brazilian fan ran onto the pitch after you scored," Julián heard another voice say. He looked up to see Alexis sitting next to Enzo, his expression unreadable. "He had a knife, we didn't notice until he had already gotten to you."
Julián shook, fighting the urge to look down at his abdomen, where his shirt was soaked in what he knew was blood.
"I," he sniffed, "I did good, right?"
Enzo nodded furiously, grabbing Julián's other hand. "You were amazing. You were perfect."
"This was probably your best international goal that I've seen," Lautaro added, and Alexis hummed in agreement, his hand running through Julián's hair.
Julián smiled softly, and he closed his eyes again. It hurt less when he closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the way his teammates were yelling at him to wake up.
They didn't understand, he just needed to sleep and then he'd feel better.
-
Jude doesn't think he'd ever witnessed something so horrifying during a football match, and he'd seen a lot.
The tunnel was filled with a nervous kind of energy. No team had the heart to continue playing after Álvarez was stretchered off, his blue and white shirt covered with blood.
The Argentinian team had straight up walked off the pitch, with England following suite. Nobody could guarantee the safety of the rest of them, all of them were at risk of this happening again.
The Argentinians had filed into their locker room, and Jude's heart ached seeing the sheer looks of hopelessness on their faces. He could only imagine if something like this had happened to Phil, or Jack, or Bukayo.
He would've spiraled. He was shocked that the other team hadn't yet.
"What's happening right now?" Jude heard Trent speaking to someone behind him. He whipped around, only to see his teammate speaking to Mac Allister, who was pale and looked mildly horrified.
"They are taking him to the hospital, the medical team could not do much on the pitch," the Argentinian said, his voice quiet and monotone. "They said that there is a 50/50 chance of him making it through the night."
"Oh, God," Trent whispered out, and he pulled Mac Allister into a hug. Jude watched as they stayed in their embrace for a few seconds, before pulling apart. Just as Trent opened his mouth to say something else, the door to the Argentinian's locker room opened, and Dybala stuck his head out, calling something out to Mac Allister in Spanish.
Jude had thought he had a good grip on the language, playing for Madrid for over a year now, but the Argentinian accent was crazy, the words flying right over his head.
Mac Allister nodded at him, saying something quietly to Trent, before walking into the locker room. Dybala stood to the side, and was about to close the door as the younger player walked inside. The Roma player looked up, making eye contact with Jude and offering him a weak smile before closing the door firmly behind him.
Jude let out a breath, ambling into his own locker room as Trent followed him, the room eerily quiet despite the whole team being there.
"It's horrible what happened to the kid," he heard Jordan say, an arm wrapped around John's shoulders. The defender looked mortified, biting his lip as he leant his head against the keeper's.
"He's just a kid," John choked out. "He's literally just a kid. He did nothing to deserve this."
Jude felt horrible for the City players. Álvarez might not be on their team anymore, but he was for nearly four years. He could remember international breaks where Phil would show him photos of Álvarez with Ronnie, or Jack would talk about showing Álvarez around the city during time off, or Rico telling him how he had helped with English lessons.
He walked to where Phil was sitting, the City player's expression blank as Bukayo gently rubbed his back.
Jude sat next to him, a hand on his shoulder.
"He'll be okay," he said, ignoring what he overheard Mac Allister say to Trent earlier. He felt Trent staring holes into his head, and he chose not to look at his friend for the sake of Phil.
"I just feel so bad for him," Phil sighed. "And I feel bad for his team, and for Emilia, and his family. It's just-"
"I know," Jude interrupted, trying to stop Phil from wallowing in pity. "But he'll be okay, trust me, yeah?"
Phil nodded emptily, and Jude finally looked up to Trent, who was sitting across the room.
They made eye contact, and they knew that there was a low chance of Álvarez making it back from this. But for the sake of their teammates, they stayed silent, lying through their teeth as they offered their consolations.