Sweet girl

The training pitch fell silent as the final whistle blew. Most of the England women's squad trudged toward the changing rooms, exhausted but satisfied after a gruelling two-hour session. The grass was torn up in patches, testament to the intensity of the drills Coach Wiegman had put them through. Dark clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain, matching the mood that had settled over Agnes Cooper as she stood rooted to the spot, staring at the goal where she had missed three consecutive penalties.

At nineteen years old, Agnes—Aggie to everyone who knew her—was the youngest player called up to the senior England camp. Her rise through the ranks had been meteoric: academy standout at Chelsea by fifteen, professional debut at seventeen, and now, improbably, wearing the Three Lions on her chest. The call-up had come as a shock, even to her. A late-season burst of form—seven goals in five matches—had caught Wiegman's eye, and suddenly she was packing her bags for St. George's Park, trying to contain the bubbling excitement that threatened to overwhelm her.

That had been four days ago. Now, as the rest of the squad disappeared into the distance, Aggie remained on the pitch, her bright orange boots stark against the deepening green of the grass. Her legs felt like lead, and her lungs burned from the sprints she'd been forced to run after her team lost the practice match. But the physical exhaustion was nothing compared to the disappointment crushing her chest.

The first two days had been a dream. Aggie's natural exuberance had quickly endeared her to most of the squad. In the dining hall, she'd had them in stitches with impressions of their former coaches, and during warm-ups, she'd kept a running commentary that left even the most serious veterans fighting smiles. Her roommate, Ella Toone, had taken to her immediately, dubbing her "the squad's personal sunshine."

But today had been different. Coach Wiegman had ramped up the intensity, and Aggie had struggled to keep pace. The senior players moved with a precision and speed that left her scrambling. Passes she would have controlled easily in her club matches skipped away from her. Defensive positioning that had seemed intuitive before now felt foreign, and she'd found herself out of place repeatedly. Then came the penalties—three chances to redeem herself, three clean misses.

"Cooper!" Wiegman had called out after the third ball sailed over the crossbar. "This isn't youth football. Concentrate!"

The words had stung, especially with everyone watching. Aggie had nodded, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay, but the damage was done. For the remainder of the session, she'd felt the weight of every gaze, real or imagined. Her usual playful demeanor had vanished, replaced by a tight-lipped concentration that only seemed to make her performance worse.

Now, alone on the pitch, Aggie finally let go. The first sob bubbled up from somewhere deep, catching her by surprise with its intensity. She tried to move, to at least make it to the relative privacy of the changing rooms, but her legs gave out halfway there. She slumped against the outer wall of the facility, sliding down until she sat in the damp grass. Then the tears came in earnest—hot, angry tears that blurred the world around her.

Her chest heaved with each ragged breath. Snot ran freely down her face, but she couldn't bring herself to care. All the pressure, excitement, and anxiety of the past few days crashed over her at once. In that moment, she felt impossibly small and desperately wanted her mum. The thought only made her cry harder.

"I want to go home," she whispered to no one, her voice cracking. "I'm not ready for this."

Lost in her misery, Aggie didn't notice the approaching footsteps until they stopped right beside her. She looked up through tear-swollen eyes to see the last person she wanted to witness her breakdown: Leah Williamson, England captain, Arsenal stalwart, and the embodiment of composure under pressure. Leah stood tall above her, training bib still perfectly in place despite the intensity of the session, the captain's armband secure around her bicep.

Aggie tried to wipe her face with her sleeve, but it was a futile effort. Another sob escaped her, and she pulled her knees tighter to her chest, wishing she could disappear.

Instead of the stern rebuke Aggie expected, Leah silently lowered herself to the grass and sat beside her, their shoulders almost touching. For several long moments, neither spoke. The only sounds were Aggie's gradually subsiding sobs and the distant calls of birds from the trees surrounding the training complex.

Then, with a gentleness that surprised Aggie, Leah began to rub slow circles on her back.

"Breathe, Aggie," Leah said softly. "Just breathe."

The simple instruction somehow cut through the fog of Aggie's distress. She drew in a shuddering breath, then another. The rhythmic motion of Leah's hand on her back provided an anchor, something to focus on beyond the humiliation and disappointment swirling inside her.

"That's it," Leah continued, her voice low and soothing. "You're doing great."

Under different circumstances, Aggie might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation—the captain of England telling her she was doing great while she sat snotty-nosed and sobbing against a wall. But there was something so genuine in Leah's tone that it reached a part of Aggie that felt very young and very vulnerable.

Gradually, her breathing steadied, though tears still leaked from the corners of her eyes. She couldn't bring herself to look at Leah, instead fixing her gaze on a spot of grass between her cleats.

"I'm sorry," she managed finally, her voice small and watery.

"For what?" Leah asked. "For having a hard day? We all have those."

"But not like this," Aggie whispered, gesturing vaguely at her tear-streaked face. "I'm supposed to be professional."

A soft chuckle escaped Leah. "Professional doesn't mean inhuman, Aggie."

For the first time, Aggie dared to glance up at her captain. Leah's expression wasn't stern or judgmental as she had feared. Instead, there was a warmth in her eyes that Aggie hadn't noticed before. The usual intensity was still there—Leah Williamson was nothing if not focused—but it was tempered by genuine concern.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Leah asked.

Aggie opened her mouth to respond with something mature and composed, but what came out instead was a wavering, "I'm not good enough to be here."

The admission hung in the air between them, and fresh tears welled in Aggie's eyes. She felt stripped bare, all her insecurities laid out for her captain to see. Something inside her seemed to crack, and suddenly she wasn't nineteen-year-old Agnes Cooper, professional footballer with a promising career ahead of her. She was just a little girl, overwhelmed and out of her depth, wanting desperately to be comforted.

"Everyone's so fast," she continued, words tumbling out between hiccuping sobs. "And strong. And they all know where to be. And Coach is angry at me. And I missed all my penalties. And I want my mum."

The last part slipped out unbidden, and Aggie immediately clamped her mouth shut, mortified. But Leah didn't laugh or recoil. Instead, she shifted closer, her arm wrapping more fully around Aggie's shoulders.

"First of all," Leah said firmly, "Sarina isn't angry at you. Frustrated, maybe, but that's because she sees what you're capable of. She wouldn't have called you up otherwise."

Aggie sniffled, unconvinced.

"And yes, international football is fast," Leah continued. "It's a different level. But that's why you're here—to adapt, to learn, to grow. None of us walked onto the senior squad for the first time and dominated. Not even Lucy Bronze."

The mention of England's legendary right-back, widely considered one of the best players in the world, gave Aggie pause. "Really?" she asked, her voice small.

"Really," Leah confirmed with a nod. "Her first few camps, she was all elbows and knees. Nerves got to her, same as they're getting to you. The difference is, she stuck with it."

Aggie wiped her nose with her sleeve again, considering this. The idea that even the great Lucy Bronze had struggled seemed impossible, yet Leah had no reason to lie.

"As for wanting your mum," Leah added, a small smile playing at her lips, "I still call mine after bad matches, and I'm twenty-seven. Some things don't change, no matter how old you get."

This simple admission did what nothing else had managed—it drew a watery smile from Aggie. The thought of the steely England captain seeking comfort from her mother somehow made Leah seem more human, more approachable.

"But," Leah said, her voice growing more serious, "what I'm really concerned about is that you didn't feel you could talk to anyone about this. We're a team, Aggie. That means supporting each other on and off the pitch."

Aggie ducked her head, shame coloring her cheeks. "I didn't want anyone to think I was weak," she admitted. "Everyone else seems so confident."

"Seeming confident and being confident are two very different things," Leah said. "Half the team is terrified before every match. We just hide it better because we've had more practice."

"Even you?" Aggie asked, unable to imagine the composed captain experiencing anything close to the anxiety that had overwhelmed her.

Leah laughed, the sound surprisingly light. "Especially me. Why do you think I'm always the last one out of the changing room? I need those extra minutes to pull myself together."

This revelation stunned Aggie into momentary silence. In her mind, Leah Williamson had always been the epitome of poise under pressure. The idea that she, too, wrestled with nerves seemed impossible.

A fat raindrop landed on Aggie's knee, followed quickly by another. The threatening clouds had finally made good on their promise. Leah glanced up at the darkening sky.

"Come on," she said, standing and extending a hand to Aggie. "Let's get you inside before we both catch cold."

Aggie took the offered hand, allowing Leah to pull her to her feet. Her legs felt shaky, partly from exhaustion and partly from the emotional release of her tears. As they walked toward the facility entrance, another wave of emotion washed over her—not the overwhelming despair of before, but something softer, more vulnerable. She felt oddly disconnected from her usual self, as if the stress and tears had stripped away her grown-up layers, leaving something younger and more fragile exposed.

Without thinking, she slipped her hand into Leah's, seeking the reassurance of physical contact. As soon as she did it, horror flooded her. What was she doing? Leah was her captain, not her mum. But before she could pull away, Leah gave her hand a gentle squeeze, apparently unfazed by the childlike gesture.

The changing room was empty when they entered, the rest of the squad having long since showered and departed. Aggie's training kit was soaked through with sweat and tears, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Yet the simple task of undressing and showering suddenly seemed monumentally difficult. She stood in the middle of the room, unmoving, tears threatening again.

Leah, who had been rummaging in her locker, turned to find Aggie still standing there, looking lost. Understanding flickered across her face.

"Let's get you sorted," she said gently, approaching Aggie. With careful movements, she helped Aggie remove her training bib, then her sodden jersey. Aggie allowed herself to be guided through the motions, grateful for the assistance. When she fumbled with the laces of her boots, Leah knelt and untied them for her, slipping each one off with practiced ease.

"I used to do this for my little brother," Leah explained as she worked. "After his matches, he'd be so tired he could barely stand. Their little bodies aren't built for the intensity yet."

Under normal circumstances, Aggie might have bristled at being compared to a child. Now, though, the words provided comfort. There was no judgment in Leah's tone, only understanding.

Once Aggie was undressed, Leah guided her to the showers, turning on the water and adjusting the temperature. "Take your time," she said. "I'll wait."

The warm water worked magic on Aggie's tight muscles, and the simple routine of washing helped ground her. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she felt more present, though still oddly fragile. Leah was waiting, as promised, a set of England-issued casual clothes—sweatpants and a soft hoodie—laid out on the bench.

"I thought these might be more comfortable than your kit," Leah explained. "You left them in your locker yesterday."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture brought a lump to Aggie's throat. "Thank you," she managed, her voice steadier than before.

Leah turned her back, providing privacy as Aggie dressed. The soft material against her clean skin felt like armor, rebuilding some of the protection that had been stripped away by her emotional outburst.

"Do you feel up to dinner in the canteen?" Leah asked once Aggie was dressed. "Or would you rather go back to your room? I could have something sent up."

The thought of facing the rest of the squad, of their curious gazes and potential questions, made Aggie's chest tighten. "My room, please," she said quietly.

Leah nodded, unsurprised. "I thought so. Come on, then."

They walked in companionable silence through the corridors of St. George's Park, the rain pattering against the windows. Aggie's room was on the second floor, overlooking the training pitches. Toone would be at dinner by now, giving Aggie some much-needed solitude.

At the door, Leah paused. "I'll call down and have them send up some food for you. Anything specific you'd like?"

Aggie shook her head. "Whatever's easy is fine."

"Alright," Leah said, but she didn't move to leave. Instead, she studied Aggie's face with the same intensity she brought to reading the pitch during matches. "Are you going to be okay on your own for a bit?"

The question was gentle, but it cut to the heart of Aggie's vulnerability. Part of her wanted to nod confidently, to assure her captain that she was fine. But the younger part, the part that had been so close to the surface all afternoon, won out.

"Could you stay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just until the food comes. I don't—I don't want to be alone right now."

A soft smile spread across Leah's face. "Of course."

Inside, Aggie's room was neat but lived-in. Her England kitbag was carefully placed in the corner, training schedule pinned to the corkboard above the desk. A framed photo of her family sat on the nightstand, next to a well-worn novel. Leah settled into the desk chair while Aggie curled up on the bed, pulling a blanket around her shoulders despite the room's comfortable temperature.

"I'll just make that call," Leah said, pulling out her phone. She spoke quietly to someone in the kitchen, arranging for dinner to be brought up. When she hung up, she turned back to Aggie with a reassuring smile. "Twenty minutes, they said."

Aggie nodded, grateful. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, embarrassment began to creep in. She had completely fallen apart in front of Leah Williamson, of all people. What must her captain think of her?

As if reading her thoughts, Leah leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You know, what happened today doesn't define you as a player or as a person. Everyone has bad days, especially in their first senior camp."

Aggie picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "I just feel so stupid," she admitted. "Breaking down like that, and then... the way I acted after." She couldn't bring herself to articulate exactly what she meant—how young and needy she had felt, how she had reached for Leah's hand like a child.

"There's nothing stupid about needing support," Leah said firmly. "Football isn't just physical; it's psychological too. Mental resilience is something you build over time, just like muscle memory."

"Is that what you did?" Aggie asked, genuinely curious. "Built resilience?"

Leah considered this, her expression thoughtful. "In a way. But more importantly, I learned who I could lean on when that resilience faltered. That's what a team is for."

The simplicity and truth of the statement settled something in Aggie's chest. She had been so focused on proving herself worthy of the call-up that she had forgotten the most basic principle of team sport: no one succeeded alone.

"I had help too, you know," Leah continued. "When I first came into the senior squad, Steph Houghton took me under her wing. Answered my questions, calmed my nerves, taught me what it meant to be an England player both on and off the pitch."

Aggie had heard stories about Houghton, the former England captain whose leadership had helped shape the current golden generation of Lionesses. "She sounds amazing," she said softly.

"She was," Leah agreed. "Still is. And now it's my turn to pass on what she taught me." She fixed Aggie with a serious look. "That's how it works, Aggie. The older players guide the younger ones. One day, you'll do the same for someone else."

The idea seemed impossibly distant to Aggie, who couldn't imagine ever being in a position to mentor others. Yet there was something empowering about the thought, a reminder that this difficult period was temporary, a necessary step in her journey.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of dinner. Leah rose to answer it, returning with a tray laden with grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, rice, and a small pot of chocolate pudding that wasn't on the usual training diet plan.

"A little comfort food," Leah explained with a wink as she set the tray on Aggie's lap. "Our secret."

Aggie hadn't realized how hungry she was until the aroma of the food hit her. She dug in, suddenly ravenous. Leah watched with approval, checking messages on her phone while Aggie ate.

"The squad's watching a film in the common room after dinner," Leah mentioned casually. "Nothing too exciting, just some comedy Beth picked. You're welcome to join, if you feel up to it. No pressure though."

Aggie considered the offer. Part of her wanted nothing more than to hide away until morning, to lick her wounds in private. But another part recognized the wisdom in Leah's earlier words about team support. Isolating herself would only reinforce the idea that she didn't belong.

"Maybe," she said finally. "I'll see how I feel after I eat."

Leah nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer. "Good idea." She stood, stretching slightly. "I should go get cleaned up myself. Will you be alright now?"

The question was asked without any hint of condescension, just genuine concern. Aggie found herself nodding with more confidence than she had felt all day. "I think so. And... thank you, Leah. For everything."

"No need for thanks," Leah said, her hand briefly resting on Aggie's shoulder. "Just remember what I said. Everyone struggles sometimes. What matters is that you keep showing up."