#me looking into the mirror: you are taking a break. do not write a rhaenicent football fic. do not write a rhaenicent football fic.

[floodonthefloor]

can i interest you with a rhaenicent au where rhaenyra is a football player who injured her ankle post season and had to see a therapist which turned out be alicent... AS A SUCKER OF SPORTS AU AND RHAENYRA IN CLOTHING APPAREL

ok i wrote a one shot for u rated T

~

It's one thing to get injured mid-game; there's a sense of nobility to it, a sense of look at me, limping off the field, brave and unbothered, cheers from the crowd for Rhaenyra simply hobbling away. It's another thing entirely to twist your fucking ankle during a fucking friendly.

She should have known, really, that it would end up like this. The pitch is damp, there are patches of mud from cleats trampling the grass, and Coach Tyrell is running them to the bone, and Rhaenyra’s in a foul fucking mood.

Still, she plays like winning will erase every mess she's ever made off the field, which — yeah — talk about setting yourself up for failure, considering she's made a lot of fucking mistakes, and the defenders are closing in, and Laena's in the center with her hand raised signalling for a pass, but Rhaenyra gets distracted, thinks about how Viserys is probably at Aegon's training right now, because Aegon plays men's football, and it's just much higher stakes, you see, my dear—

And Rhaenyra shifts her weight to the left to feint one of the defenders, but then her cleat slips on the fucking mud and she feels her knee twist awkwardly, and feels the pain shooting up her leg before she goes down hard.

Rhaenyra tries to get up immediately — pride, stubbornness, embarrassment, whatever — but the pain lances sharp, she grimaces before she can stop it. Laena sprints towards her.

“You alright?” Laena extends a hand that Rhaenyra reaches for.

“My knee,” she grits out. “I — fuck —” she hisses when she rises. “I think I’ve fucked it up.”

“Okay. Alright.”

Coach Tyrell does a half-jog over to them. 

“Targaryen?” she asks, frowning. “No need to play for a foul here, just a friendly —”

“Yeah, no,” Rhaenyra grumbles, putting an arm around Laena as Laena guides her off the field. “No, it’s real.”

“Take it slow,” Laena murmurs. 

They get into the changing rooms, where Laena calls over one of the first aid attendants.

“Think she’s fucked up her knee,” Laena says as the attendant gets Rhaenyra to extend her leg, which hurts like fucking hell. 

“Could be a sprain,” the attendant says, her face a little concerned. “Maybe worse. We’ll need to get it checked, but you should stay off it for now? I’ll get you some ice?”

Rhaenyra nods, leans back against the wall, huffing. “Fucking great. Just great.”

“Cool down, Targaryen,” Laena says, sitting beside her as the attendant goes into the office. “Not the end of the world.”

“Terrible timing,” Rhaenyra says, referring to the fact that post-season is over in, like, two months, and sprains take forever to heal.

“It’s always terrible timing,” Laena says. “You’ll be fine. Stubborn streak, and all.”

Rhaenyra lets out a frustrated breath, staring at the opposite row of lockers. “Just feels like another thing I’ve fucked up,” she says quietly.

“Rhaenyra.” Laena’s voice is quiet, serious, bereft of the playfulness from before. “You didn’t fuck it up. It’s just shitty luck.”

The attendant returns, handing Rhaenyra an ice pack. 

“Fifteen minutes,” she instructs, “I’m going to go contact the physiotherapist -”

“I don’t need physio —”

The attendant gives Rhaenyra a look, then turns to Laena. “Would you mind spotting our dear friend here while she tries to stand on it?”

Fine. Fuck you. 

Rhaenyra glares at the attendant, pushes herself off of the bench, only to immediately have to grab onto Laena as the pain flares hot and sharp, her knee almost buckling underneath her. 

“Yeah, you seem fine,” Laena deadpans as the attendant just quirks her brow and goes back into the office. “Let’s get back out there.”

Rhaenyra groans, feels pain and defeat — she can already see the look on Viserys’ face when she tells him.

Oh, that’s just fine, my sweet— injuries happen, rest is good, while if Aegon ended up with a similar injury, Viserys would be flying in physiotherapists from all over the globe in order to find the perfect one, since Aegon is the one who plays professional men’s soccer and is paid millions a year —

The attendant returns, holding a piece of paper. “Alicent Hightower is fantastic at her job,” she says, passing it to Rhaenyra. “If anyone will have you in tip-top shape before your first match, it’ll be her.”

Rhaenyra takes the paper, folds it, twists her mouth.

Horseshit. This is all such fucking horseshit.

*****

PAIN IS TEMPORARY. GREATNESS LASTS FOREVER.

Rhaenyra glares at the cheesy fucking poster— it’s of a determined-looking athlete mid-stride, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. She’s been here a handful of times already for smaller injuries, and this won’t be any different, it won’t— she’ll be back tomorrow, if she can help it, and it doesn’t matter what this physiotherapist has to say, because —

“— Rhaenyra Targaryen?”

She looks from the poster to see who she can only presume is Alicent Hightower, waiting for Rhaenyra. Her dark red hair is pulled up into a ponytail, arms crossed, sharp eyes, really fucking fit, what in the fucking shit —

(Their last physiotherapist was a lovely old man named Mellos who always smelled a little bit like mothballs and loved to rubber-stamp them.)

Rhaenyra rises slowly, her knee still smarting, but she doesn’t show it, because she doesn’t have to, she’s fine.

“...That’s me.”

“Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot,” Alicent says, though not quite warm, like she’s not someone who’s impressed by things like reputation or fame. She gestures with her chin for Rhaenyra to follow.

“Good things?”

Alicent doesn’t turn around as they walk down the hall. “Things.”

The fuck —

“Oh. Good.” 

Alicent shuts the door behind her as Rhaenyra takes a seat, drops onto the table. 

“I’m sure this will be quick,” Rhaenyra says casually. “Just need you to give me a few exercises to get me back on track.”

This doesn’t get her a response; Alicent’s scrolling through something on her iPad before she sets it down, grabs a clipboard and pulls up a chair to sit directly in front of Rhaenyra.

“When does the pain flare up the most?”

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw. All the time.

“Just when I put weight on it.”

“Any swelling or bruising?”

“Some swelling. Bruising’s mostly gone, though -”

“- And the pain? How would you rate it, on a scale of one to ten?”

“…Depends,” Rhaenyra replies, nonchalant. “Walking— a three. Running, more like a six. But I can handle it -”

“Any pain at rest? Or only during activity?”

Rapid-fire.

“Sometimes at rest. When I wake up in the mornings.  But, again— it goes away, it doesn’t last that long.”

Alicent just looks at Rhaenyra like she doesn’t believe her. “…Right.”

She asks a few more questions— enough that it almost feels like she repeats a few, which Rhaenyra realizes a little too late that she’s doing to try and get the truth out of Rhaenyra.

Fucking physiotherapists. 

"Okay— I'm going to take a look at it— okay if I touch?"

Beyond fucking okay —

"Yep. Sure. Mhm."

Rhaenyra is only a human being with eyes who is being touched by literally the most beautiful woman she's seen in ages, and Rhaenyra feel the warmth of Alicent’s skin through the thin fabric of her shorts, can’t help but notice how the light catches the few loose strands of auburn hair framing her face —

This is ridiculous, you’re being sodding ridiculous, you just need to get laid because it’s been forever —

She tries to focus on literally anything else, but the room feels suddenly smaller, the air charged, and it’s hard to pretend like she’s not hyper-aware of every inch of space between them.

But Alicent is focused, her gaze steady as she lifts Rhaenyra’s calf, guiding it carefully to the right angle. 

“Tell me when it starts to hurt,” she says, her voice calm, professional.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, willing her brain to cooperate. 

“Uh, yeah, yep. It’s… fine right now.”

Alicent’s hands linger for a moment longer, adjusting Rhaenyra’s position. Her touch is deliberate, almost impersonal, but something about it sends a small jolt up Rhaenyra’s spine, and she can’t help the hitch in her breath — fuck —

Please tell me she didn’t hear that —

Alicent glances up, frowning slightly.

“...Everything okay?”

Shit, fuck —

“—Fine,” Rhaenyra replies too quickly, voice tight. “Totally fine.”

Alicent arches an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead, she presses gently on Rhaenyra’s thigh, testing the range of motion. “Let me know if it gets too uncomfortable.”

Rhaenyra tries to steady her breathing.

This is physio, not whatever the fuck you think it is, Alicent Hightower is your physiotherapist, and Alicent Hightower is in close proximity, and her brows are furrowed in concentration, and I think I smell citrus in her shampoo —

“You’re tense,” Alicent observes suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. “Relax, please.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh comes out strangled. 

“Hard to relax when—” She stops herself, the words almost slipping out — when you’re touching me like that or looking at me like that while looking like that —

What the fuck is wrong with me—

Alicent looks up, curious. “When…?”

Rhaenyra swallows, her mouth dry. “...When I’m thinking about how long this is going to take.

Alicent’s eyes narrow, as if she’s not quite buying the deflection. But she only nods, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Well. That depends on how well you listen.”

“Right,” Rhaenyra mutters, feeling slightly relieved that the moment passes without further comment. “I’ll try to be a better student, then.”

“Good,” Alicent says, but there’s a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she shifts her grip and continues the stretch.

“…It’s looking like a ligament tear, and not a sprain,” Alicent murmurs finally, setting Rhaenyra’s leg down and writing notes down.

Oh, fuck.

Rhaenyra shrugs. “I mean— probably not, those are bad, and this doesn’t feel bad— it’s temporary, it’ll be fine —”

“Just because it’s temporary doesn’t mean it won’t impact you long-term,” Alicent says, looking up at Rhaenyra with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah,” Rhaenyra mutters, “Got that from the posters.”

Alicent’s lips press together, as though keeping herself from laughing, and she shrugs, looks back down at her clipboard. “…Those are pretty terrible, yes.”

It’s a nice moment of levity that Rhaenyra tries to take advantage of. 

"A woman with taste."

Alicent snorts. "Bar seems low, if that's your idea of good taste."

"...My bar is quite high, actually."

Alicent looks up, eyebrow quirked, and Rhaenyra decides to be bold and meets her eyes, knows that sometimes, if she flirts just enough, people will generally be a bit more lenient.

"That so?" Alicent murmurs, looking back down at her clipboard, though Rhaenyra doesn't miss the slight pink that appears in her cheeks.

"That's so. I'd say you clear it, though."

Alicent's pen stops writing for a satisfying moment, and Rhaenyra waits for her rebuttal, but she just clears her throat and keeps writing, doesn't respond.

Rhaenyra continues, a little flustered. "Okay, but— long story short, it’s fine. I just need you to tell me how to stretch it and I can go, you don’t have to —”

“— Are you any good at football, Rhaenyra?” Alicent asks, not looking up from her clipboard.

“…I’m sorry?”

Alicent finishes writing whatever notes she was jotting down and sets her pen on top of the clipboard, giving Rhaenyra a hard glare. 

“Are you good at football.”

“I mean — captain of the national women’s team, so— I’d say I’m pretty good, yes -?”

“— Mhm, right. You’d say you earned it, though, yes? Years of training, practice, et cetera.”

Okay— she’s fit and rude —

Which is an unfortunate combo, really, because Rhaenyra's always had a tendency to try and impress women who are fit and rude —

“…Yes?”

Alicent nods, resolute. “I’m a physiotherapist on retainer for three premiere leagues — ones even bigger than yours, mind you —”

“— Oh, I doubt any are bigger than mine,” Rhaenyra quips back, only to turn bright red immediately because what the fuck are you doing making dick size jokes in front of this physiotherapist, what the fuck are you doing —

“…Anyway,” Alicent says, clearing her throat, and Rhaenyra does notice her ears turn a little red, which is interesting, to say the least — “I’ve earned my keep. Same as you. If you want to get back on the pitch, you need to listen to me.”

Rhaenyra’s still trying to push down the flush in her cheeks, trying to focus on anything but the fact that she just made an accidental dick joke to a woman who is both fit and determined to put Rhaenyra in her place. 

“...Fine,” Rhaenyra mutters, half a grumble. “What do I have to do.”

Alicent leans back slightly, crossing her arms, clearly not swayed by Rhaenyra’s attempt at compliance. “First, you’re going to stop thinking you know better than me. You may know how to play football, but I know how to fix you so you that can play it. Understood?”

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw again, nods once.

“And second,” Alicent continues, casual, “You need to accept that you might not make it back in time for the season opener.”

No.

Rhaenyra feels the air rush out of her chest.

“Excuse me -?”

“- If the damage is as bad as I think it is," Alicent says, and holds Rhaenyra’s gaze, unflinching. "Rushing recovery isn’t just dangerous—it’s reckless. You push too hard, too soon, and you risk re-injury. Maybe even worse.”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightens, her whole body going rigid. 

Not the fucking season opener, not after a fucking injury from a friendly, no no no no—

“You don’t— you don’t know that for sure.”

Alicent doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. “No, I don’t. But I know enough to recognize the risk. You have to let this heal properly, or you’re gambling with your entire career.”

Rhaenyra can feel her temper rising, hot and volatile. “You think I don’t know that?” Her voice is raw, a mix of anger and desperation. “You think I’m not aware of what’s at stake- ?”

“I think you’re scared,” Alicent says quietly, with an unwavering certainty. “And I think you’re letting that fear make decisions for you.”

Rhaenyra glares at her, eyes blazing. “You don’t know me -"

“No,” Alicent concedes, her voice low but still firm. “I don’t. But I know this injury. I know what it’s done to players who didn’t listen, who thought they could just push through it.”

She pauses, her gaze still locked on Rhaenyra, something different there, something like —

Enough, she's telling you bad fucking news —

“And... I don’t want that to be you.”

And Alicent sounds so sincere, so gentle that it cuts right through Rhaenyra’s anger and leaves just a raw and exposed wound —

I can’t miss the season opener, I can’t, Viserys was going to come and he never goes to my matches, ever —

“I can’t miss it, Alicent -”

“- I get it,” Alicent says, leaning forward, placing a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra’s knee, and it’s not clinical this time, it’s not practiced, it’s soft with a thumb rubbing along her knee and Rhaenyra might either cry or explode. “I really do. But sometimes— missing one game means you can play the rest, yeah?”

“I can’t just miss it -”

“— You have to see the bigger picture, here.” Alicent gestures towards Rhaenyra’s knee. 

“I can’t.”

Alicent leans forward, slowly, deliberately, and okay, there’s absolutely something here, Rhaenyra can’t be crazy— her heart is hammering a little too loudly, the air feels a little too thick. “Then let me see it for you, Rhaenyra. Let me help you get better.”

Rhaenyra remembers a similar conversation she’d had with Mellos, years ago— he’d told her she would have to miss semi-finals, and she’d yelled at him until he had to call Coach Tyrell to put Rhaenyra in her place, and even then Rhaenyra had refused, until Tyrell threatened to kick her off the team.

But Alicent Hightower looks up at Rhaenyra now like I’ll help you, just let me help you, and Rhaenyra came in here ready for a fucking fight, ready to tell whoever the fuck it is that tells her she needs rest to fucking fuck right off, but Rhaenyra looks at Alicent and thinks —

Yeah. Okay. 

She swallows, hard.

“Yeah,” she says, voice a little hoarse. “Okay.”