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Leo didn't feel it until Stones tried to walk away.
"Oi, let go of my leg, man," Stones complained, glaring at him. The Englishman frowned in annoyance when Leo didn't respond, just looking down at his thigh.
"Did you hear me? I said let go," John repeated, frustration seeping into his tone before he looked down at Leo's thigh as well, and his face paled.
It wasn't like any situation he'd been in before, yet John felt sick to his stomach.
His boot was embedded into Leo's thigh, studs grinding against layers of flesh and muscle, blood dripping down the Arsenal player's leg.
"Holy shit!" John yelped, trying to manoeuvre himself in a way that didn't aggravate the wound anymore. "Holy shit, someone call the meds!"
Phil jogged over to his side as Erling yelled for the medical team, but stopped a metre away from them, hands slamming over his mouth.
"Oh my fucking God," Phil whispered, and John couldn't help but share his sentiments. "How did you manage to do that?"
"I don't know!" John said, exasperated, before realising that a very important third party was being left out of the conversation. "Hey, Trossard. You good?"
The Arsenal player looked up at him, dark circles under his eyes only accentuating the panic in his expression.
"Um," Leo started, not entirely sure what to say, "I can't really move my leg."
Before John could say anything else, Martin arrived at his shoulder with Declan in tow, both of them looking mildly horrified.
"Oh my God," the Arsenal captain breathed out. "How... how?"
"I don't know," John repeated, turning to face Martin but freezing as soon as Leo let out a pained groan.
"Where's the medical team?" Declan murmured as Martin rushed to Leo's side, holding him upright. Soon enough, most of the players on the pitch were crowded around the two of them, John's leg beginning to cramp up as the medical team still hadn't shown up.
Saliba and Gabriel were speaking to Trossard in frantic French, the Belge whispering out responses as the blood steadily flowed without any sign of stopping.
"Hey," Martin called out, grabbing John's attention. "Is it okay if I take your shoe off so you can put your foot down?"
John nodded gratefully, sighing as his laces were untied and he could lower his leg. It was still a bizarre sight, seeing one of his boots firmly lodged into another places thigh, blood staining the patterned sides.
"That doesn't look good," Jack muttered, and Rodri nudged him, shutting him up.
"Where is the medical team?" John heard someone ask for maybe the hundredth time that evening, and he couldn't agree more. The fans had quietened down significantly, nothing more than a quiet, nervous hush echoing around the stadium.
"Should we try pulling it out?" Erling suggested, but Phil shook his head. "I thought the one thing we're not supposed to do in situations like this is pull the thing out."
"But he's bleeding," Erling protested. "And the medical team isn't around. Maybe if we pull it out and block it up, the bleeding will kinda stop."
Martin looked between the two of them, biting his lip in stress before nodding. "Let's try."
Leo, who hadn't been following the conversation, widened his eyes as Martin and Erling zeroed in on him.
"Uh... what are you guys doing?"
"Pulling it out," Erling said nonchalantly, as if explaining what he bought from the grocery store.
Leo paled, jaw dropping. "No? Let's not?"
"It's so we can stop the bleeding," Martin reasoned, kneeling down and holding John's boot in one hand, the other pressing down on Leo's thigh.
"Wait!" Leo cried, trying to pull back only to be held by Erling. "Chill man, it's for your own good."
Before Leo could respond, Martin pulled the boot out with an audible squelch, half of the players turning around to gag.
"Verdomme, oh mijn verdomde God, jij zoon van een teef, verdomde teef!" Leo hissed, and Martin frantically looked around, as if only now realising that they hadn't planned this out properly.
"I need something to press against it!" He said, and John pulled his shirt off instantly, handing it to the Norwegian. Martin smiled at him thankfully, before balling the blue shirt up and pressing it against his teammates thigh, red slowly soaking into the fabric.
If Trossard had already taken his shoe, what harm was there in taking his shirt as well?
"Fuck, it's not stopping," Phil hissed from beside John, and before anyone could do anything, the medical team made their way into the circle, pushing players from both teams to the side.
John couldn't really follow what happened after that, not after they were all shooed away and pushed towards the sidelines, large white sheets placed around Trossard as the meds worked on him.
The stadium was eerily silent, most of the fans just observing the situation, not sure what to do.
"There was so much blood!" He heard Bukayo exclaiming to Arteta, who looked generously concerned. "Like, it was really bad."
"It's okay," Arteta muttered, raising a hand to cover both of their mouths so the cameras couldn't catch what they were saying. "Don't think about it, he will be fine."
Bukayo nodded, and he let Martinelli gently guide him towards the bench, the two sitting down. John watched as Arteta sighed, and for a second, the two of them made eye contact, a shared belief of dread passing between them.
Arteta nodded at him, gesturing towards John's naked torso and mouthing a 'thank you', before John just smiled weakly back at him.
The game had come to an ubrupt end it seemed, fans being herded out of the stadium as the players were led back into their locker rooms.
"This is so crazy," Ruben murmured, and John sighed, leaning against him, bare back against the cold lockers.
"I feel so bad," he said. "I don't even know how I managed to get my boot stuck in there anyways."
"It wasn't your fault," the Portuguese said gently, and John just nodded, staring into space.
"They managed to stop the bleeding," Erling announced suddenly, the whole locker room stopping to look at him. "He's on his way to the ER now, shouldn't be that bad, might take a while to heal."
"How do you know?" Phil questioned, relief undoubtably surging into his voice.
"Martin."
"Oh, yeah, right, makes sense."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Glad he's good though."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."