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The locker room after a match always carried the same mix of sounds—the hiss of showers, the scrape of boots against tile, low voices trading comments about missed passes or goals that should’ve been. Tonight, though, the noise felt distant to João Félix. His vision swam, and though he sat slumped on the bench with his jersey sticking damply to his skin, he barely registered the others around him.
“João.” The voice was low, careful. Gavi crouched in front of him, frowning. His dark curls were still damp, cheeks flushed from the match. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“I’m fine,” João muttered, but his throat caught. He kept his eyes on the floor.
Fermín came to stand next to Gavi, gently placing a hand on João’s shoulder. “No, you’re not fine. You need to rest.”
João tried to stand, to walk away from the stares and worry, but his legs wobbled, betraying him. Gavi quickly slid an arm around his waist, steadying him, while Fermín lifted a small bag from the bench. “Come on, we’re taking you to the room. Just a little drive.”
The hotel corridor stretched long and quiet, their footsteps echoing lightly. Fermín pulled a granola bar from the bag, peeling back the wrapper. “Here,” he said softly. “Just a little bite. For energy. That’s it.”
João shook his head, lips pressed tight. “I… I can’t.”
Gavi crouched beside him, guiding his hand to the bar. “You’re exhausted. You need it. Just a bite.”
Tears pricked João’s eyes, but with Fermín and Gavi holding him steady, he gave a trembling nod and took a tiny piece, chewing with difficulty. His body sagged, leaning against them, trembling with fatigue and the shame he always felt when eating.
Back in the room, the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the space. They helped him onto the bed, pillows stacked around him to support his shaking form. Fermín pulled the container of pasta from the bag, the smell of tomato and olive oil warming the air.
“I’m not hungry,” João mumbled, looking away.
“You have to eat,” Fermín said softly, lifting a fork. “Just a little. We’ll stay with you.”
Gavi nodded, brushing João’s damp hair back from his forehead. “We’re right here. Nothing bad will happen.”
João’s hands trembled as he tried to push the fork away, and tears ran freely down his cheeks. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.
Fermín shook his head, his voice calm but firm. “You played while sick. You pushed through the match. You deserve to eat, to rest. You’re safe.”
Gavi held him close, arms around his back, keeping him steady when he tried to push away. “Shh, calma. Just a bite. That’s it.”
With slow, shaky movements, João allowed the pasta to touch his lips. A whimper escaped him, guilt and shame crashing over him, but the warmth of Gavi and Fermín’s arms around him kept the panic from spiraling. He chewed, small bites, sobs easing just slightly.
“Good job,” Fermín murmured, setting the fork down to brush João’s hair back. “You’re doing so well.”
João went limp against them, breathing uneven, exhausted. Gavi rubbed his back gently. “See? You’re okay. You’re safe. That’s enough for now.”
Pedri appeared quietly in the doorway with a small water bottle. He handed it to Fermín, offering a reassuring nod before leaving them to their quiet space. João sipped, letting the cool water soothe his raw throat, while Gavi’s arms stayed securely around him.
Lewandowski peeked in briefly, laying a hand lightly on João’s shoulder. “He’s in good hands,” he said to Gavi and Fermín. “You’re doing right by him.”
The room stayed quiet, the soft sounds of breathing and gentle murmurs filling the air. Fermín kept an arm around João, rubbing his back and whispering words of reassurance, while Gavi held him close, rocking slightly as João’s body relaxed into their support.
“You’re not alone,” Fermín whispered. “We’re right here with you.”
Over the next few days, João remained mostly out of it. His world was a haze of dim light, soft voices, and the steady, grounding presence of Gavi and Fermín. Sometimes he murmured fragments of words that made no sense, sometimes he resisted food, sometimes he whimpered quietly in his sleep. Each time he tried to sit up or push away, Gavi’s hands were there to gently hold him, and Fermín’s calm voice coaxed him back to rest.
They rotated care, taking shifts so that one was always near, while the other brought water, fruit, or small bites of toast. The smells of warm bread, soft fruits, and familiar meals became markers in his foggy mind, though he couldn’t always remember them consciously. The constant reassurance—“You’re safe, João. You’re doing fine”—became a lullaby that grounded him even when he couldn’t see it.
Pedri checked in daily, offering little snacks and a soft smile. Lewandowski measured his temperature and adjusted blankets, his steady presence a silent promise that João was being cared for. Even Ter Stegen stopped by briefly, giving Gavi and Fermín a nod before leaving quietly, a silent guardian from the periphery.
João’s reactions were inconsistent. Sometimes he would reach for food, confused and hesitant. Sometimes he recoiled, shaking his head and hiding in the pillows. Gavi and Fermín responded patiently, never pushing, always coaxing, sometimes holding him still when he tried to resist the smallest bites. Each victory was small—a sip of water, a bite of toast—but it added up, and slowly, João began to show signs of awareness, of recognition.
On the fourth day, he blinked open his eyes and focused on Gavi’s face. “I… I don’t really remember,” he admitted, voice hoarse and fragile.
Fermín gave a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay. You were sick. We were here. That’s what matters.”
João’s fingers brushed against a fork of pasta, and he managed to eat a few small bites, the warmth and taste grounding him. Gavi’s hands rested lightly on his back, and Fermín stayed close, ready to react if João faltered, but for the first time in days, he was steady.
“You’re doing so well,” Gavi said softly. “Look at you, eating. You’re okay.”
João leaned back against the pillows, exhausted but calmer, the fog in his mind slowly lifting. He didn’t need to remember every detail, just that he had been held, cared for, and supported. That was enough.
And in the quiet presence of Gavi and Fermín, with occasional check-ins from others, João finally let himself rest fully, nourished by more than just food—the patience, the warmth, and the unwavering care that had surrounded him through his sickness and exhaustion.