Chapter Text
Matchday 22 of 38 in La Liga. Real Madrid against Rayo Vallecano, nothing to worry about. Just a regular matchday, which everyone expected them to win, given the roster of top players like Mbappé, Vini, and even himself, on the team. Just going into the dressing room, getting his brain in match mode, and disconnecting himself from everything else. Walking into the pitch, hearing the loud cheers of the fans —his fans. Okay. Breathe. This is a friendly game that probably no one cares about. He still must win it, but no pressure.
Right.
The next thing he knew, he was already standing in his place, and he heard the referee's whistle signalling the start of the match.
Good.
They started strong, with two corner kicks in their favour by the second minute. Then, the other team failed a shot by a matter of nothing.
Time to get going.
Someone kicked the ball away from their team´s side. He ran behind it, getting close to their rival´s area, but when he was close enough to the ball to gain possession, a sharp pain shot through his leg. The brain fog he usually got during a match cleared up, leaving only the loud crowd, the voice of one of his teammates yelling something at him, and the worst pain he had felt since his shoulder injury a few months ago. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. He jumped with his good leg to get himself away from the play and then threw himself on the ground, grabbing the back of his thigh and growling out of pain. Fuck, how many minutes in were they? Ten, at most?
“Please, not again,” he thought to himself as people came to check on him. Probably the medics or some of his teammates. He was too overwhelmed to make out whatever was happening around him. There was only one thing stuck in his mind: the long string of upcoming games. Of course, this could only happen to him. Getting injured again right in the middle of La Liga and before the Champions League’s play-offs. Fucking wonderful.
He sat up, just nodding to whatever people were telling him. People were already criticizing his recent performance, and now he wouldn’t be able to prove himself once again. Fuck, he at least hopes it was just a mild sprain so he could be back in a couple of weeks.
Someone helped him to get up, so he started walking away. He was off the pitch at the tenth minute. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes, so he grabbed his shirt and wiped them with it before they could fall. He knew people would compare him to Pedri, again. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t check his phone for a while.
After getting him out of the pitch and into the club’s doctor, Jude still couldn’t register his surroundings. He was looking at his feet when a sudden voice startled him out of it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bellingham. I heard you were injured on the pitch just now?” Dr. García asked with his usual cheerful smile, despite knowing that anyone who visited him was far from being happy.
“Yes, it’s my left leg, I think it’s the hamstring,” he replied, pain coming back to his senses as if his words reminded his leg that it was supposed to hurt.
“Okay, then we will have to check that. When did you feel the pain?” the doctor asked as he got up from his chair to get closer to Jude.
“I was chasing the ball, it was a long one, so I ran as fast as I could, and when I tried to lower my speed, I felt something pop in the back of my leg,” he explained, signaling the spot where the pain came from to the doctor.
“Hm, it looks like it is your hamstring that got injured. I will lift your leg and feel around a little to see where the pain is. Tell me if it hurts, okay?” Dr. García said as he kneeled in front of the exam table and grabbed my leg.
“Okay.”
He started touching different points of his leg that hurt very slightly, until he got to the exact spot that made him hiss out in pain and jerk his leg away.
“It certainly looks like a hamstring injury, but to be sure of the severity and specific damage, I will recommend to perform an MRI as soon as possible. I do think it might be a grade 2 tear, so you will likely need approximately six to eight weeks to get completely back on track. After the MRI results, please come back for further treatment. We will check your rehab options and rule out other possible damage. For now, please don’t put weight on your leg…”
It felt like someone dumped a bucket of cold water over him. Six to eight weeks? That’s almost two whole months out of the pitch. He knew his team was very capable, but if they got eliminated in the round of 16, then he would be completely out of playing in the Champions League this year. Which was, without being dramatic, fucking catastrophic.
Minutes of nodding whenever he thought it was necessary passed, and eventually his brain registered the words ‘See you in…’ and took it as a cue to eventually get up, grab his crutches, and take himself out of there and into the tranquility of his home as fast as he could.
Back at home, he answered a few messages from some of his teammates, worried about his well-being, and many texts from his mother, as well as a ‘Hope you recover soon mate’ from his brother. He was sitting on his couch with some ice wrapped in a towel under his injured leg, and with the second half of the Real Madrid match playing on the living room’s TV. It was almost ending, and they were tied 1-1. It had gotten heated with multiple yellow cards in a short amount of time. Everyone was on edge. And he would be too if his muscles hadn’t decided to give up ten minutes into it.
His sorrow was interrupted by a notification on his phone, which he opened automatically, and he would later regret doing so.
His screen now was a picture of him lying on the ground, captioned: “Se lesiona Jude Bellingham, jugador ‘estrella’ del Real Madrid”. The post’s caption explained the situation further, but his eyes just slid past the text and into the comments.
“Hasta las lesiones le copia a Pedri 🤣🤣”
“Is he really trying to copy Pedri in everything? 😂😂😂😂”
“Most overrated midfielder in the game.”
“Nadie lo va a extrañar, que no es ni la mitad de indispensable que Pedri en el Barca”
The words started to blur together in a string of worsening opinions about him, occasionally interrupted by people wishing him a speedy recovery. Was he really that hated? He knew he wasn’t as good as Mbappé, but calling him the ‘most overrated’ was surely a stretch, wasn’t it?
Of course, he wanted his team to perform well at the Champions, but a part of him wished they would lose every game he wasn’t playing in to prove his absence meant something. Anything. Something other than proving he wasn’t the generational talent they promised he would be in 2022.
Another notification interrupted his lately very consuming silence. This time, he read it first before tapping on it.
Erling Haaland
Hey, how are you doing? I saw what happened on the news.
Are you ok?
do i look like im okay to you?
Well, you walked out of the pitch
That’s something
if a window of 6 to 8 weeks of recovery
seem like ok to you
then yes
i am ok
Shit, that long?
yeah, hamstring injury
guess we wont see each other on the pitch
this season
lmfao
Holy shit Jude, are you ok?
Like, mentally, I mean
It can be hard
ik
and yes, im fine
i guess
i’ll rest for a bit
good luck in your game
Thanks Jude
I’ll text you after the match
Jude turned off his phone completely, threw it to his side, and turned off the match. He grabbed his crutches and got up slowly, grabbed the half-melted bag of ice from its wet spot on the couch, and left it on the kitchen table before going up the stairs —he felt quite stupid trying to figure out his crutches before realizing he could just jump with his good leg all the way up. He got to his room, threw himself on his king-sized bed, and fell asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow.
These would be the longest two months of his life.