Sweet girl

The nightmare began as they always did for Aggie—with a crowd. Thousands of faces in the stands, their features blurred but their expectations palpable. The weight of the England jersey seemed to increase with each passing second, the Three Lions emblem growing heavier until it threatened to pull her to the ground. She stood in the center circle of Wembley Stadium, the vastness of it making her feel impossibly small.

In the dream, she was alone on the pitch. No teammates, no opposition, just Aggie and a ball at her feet. The referee's whistle pierced the air, signaling for her to begin, though begin what exactly, she wasn't sure.

She tried to move, to dribble forward, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. They felt leaden, disconnected from her body. The ball, when she managed to touch it, skittered away from her as if magnetized to repel her touch. The crowd's murmurs grew louder, transforming into a rumble of disappointment.

"Not good enough," they chanted, the sound swelling until it filled the stadium. "Not good enough."

From the stands, faces began to clarify. Her parents, looking worried and embarrassed. Her club coach, shaking his head in disappointment. And there in the front row, Sarina Wiegman, clipboard in hand, making a decisive X through Aggie's name.

The pitch began to expand beneath her feet, the distance to the goal growing impossibly far. She tried to call out for help, but her voice emerged as a childish whimper, barely audible even to her own ears. The stadium lights seemed to focus on her with increasing intensity, spotlighting her failure for all to see.

And then the ground gave way entirely. Aggie was falling, tumbling through darkness, the chant still ringing in her ears: "Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough..."

She jolted awake with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs. For a disorienting moment, she didn't recognize her surroundings—the unfamiliar shadows, the bed that wasn't her own. Panic clawed at her throat until memory slowly reassembled itself: the team dinner, the walk back, Leah's room.

Leah's room. The realization should have been comforting, but in her post-nightmare state, it only heightened her distress. She was in her captain's personal space, having already imposed on her generosity, and now she was awake in the middle of the night, shaking like a leaf.

A soft sound escaped her—not quite a sob, but something close to it. She pressed her hands against her mouth, desperate not to wake Leah, but it was too late. There was movement from the other bed, the rustle of sheets, and then Leah's voice, husky with sleep but alert.

"Aggie? You alright?"

The simple question was her undoing. Words failed her completely, replaced by a strangled whimper as the lingering terror of the nightmare collided with her embarrassment at being heard.

The bedside lamp clicked on, casting a soft glow across the room. Leah was sitting up, hair slightly mussed from sleep, concern etched across her features. She took one look at Aggie—trembling, eyes wide and tear-filled—and was on her feet in an instant.

"Hey, hey," she said softly, approaching carefully as one might a frightened animal. "What happened? Bad dream?"

Aggie tried to nod, to give some adult response, but her body felt disconnected from her conscious mind. She was aware, in some distant part of herself, that something was happening—something beyond ordinary post-nightmare distress. It was the same feeling that had overtaken her after that terrible training session, but deeper somehow, more consuming.

"I—I—" she tried, but the words wouldn't form properly. Instead, tears began to track down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable.

Leah sat on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. "It's okay," she said, her voice gentle. "You're safe. It was just a dream."

The reassurance only made Aggie cry harder. She curled into herself, knees drawn to her chest, making herself as small as possible. Through her tears, she saw Leah's expression shift from concern to understanding, as if pieces of a puzzle were falling into place.

"Aggie," Leah said, even more gently than before, "can you tell me how old you feel right now?"

The question was so unexpected, so precisely aimed at the heart of what was happening, that it momentarily cut through Aggie's distress. How did Leah know to ask that? How could she possibly understand the strange, frightening regression that sometimes overtook Aggie in moments of extreme stress or exhaustion?

"I—" Aggie started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "Little," she whispered finally, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside her. "Feel really little."

Leah nodded, as if this confirmed something she had suspected. "That's okay," she said, her voice steady and reassuring. "Sometimes our minds do that when we're overwhelmed. Is it alright if I sit closer? Would that help?"

Aggie nodded, unable to articulate how desperately she needed the comfort of another person right now. Leah moved beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. With careful movements, she wrapped an arm around Aggie's shoulders, drawing her gently against her side.

"I used to get nightmares before big matches," Leah said conversationally, as if they were simply having a late-night chat. "Still do, sometimes. World Cup qualifier last year—dreamt I showed up without boots. Naked from the ankles down, trying to play on studs made of my bare toes."

Despite her distress, a tiny giggle escaped Aggie. The image was so absurd, so at odds with Leah's usual composure.

"There we go," Leah said, giving Aggie's shoulder a small squeeze. "That's better."

For a few minutes, they sat in silence, Leah's steady presence gradually calming Aggie's racing heart. The tears slowed, then stopped entirely. But the feeling of vulnerability, of smallness, remained. Aggie found herself leaning more heavily against Leah, drawing comfort from her solid warmth.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Leah asked eventually. "The dream?"

Aggie considered the question. Part of her—the part still capable of adult reasoning—knew that discussing the nightmare might help dispel its power. But the younger part, the part currently in control, shrank from the idea of reliving those terrifying moments.

"Was at Wembley," she managed, her voice smaller and higher than usual. "All alone. Couldn't play properly. Everyone watching."

"Ah," Leah said with a nod of recognition. "The classic 'not good enough' dream. I know that one well."

"You do?" Aggie asked, genuine surprise momentarily overriding her distress.

"Course I do. Everyone does." Leah shifted slightly, adjusting her position to better support Aggie's weight against her. "Mine usually involves forgetting how to pass. Basic skill I've done thousands of times, and suddenly in the dream, I can't remember which foot to use or how hard to kick. Wake up in a cold sweat every time."

There was something deeply comforting about knowing that even Leah Williamson, England captain and Arsenal stalwart, experienced the same insecurities that plagued Aggie's dreams.

"S'normal then?" Aggie asked, her pronunciation slightly slurred, childlike.

If Leah noticed the change in her speech, she gave no indication. "Completely normal," she confirmed. "Part of being an athlete. The day you stop having those dreams is probably the day you stop caring enough."

Aggie nodded against Leah's shoulder, processing this. The validation helped, but it didn't fully dispel the lingering vulnerability of her regressed state. She still felt small, fragile in a way that was both frightening and oddly comforting.

"Think you might be able to get back to sleep?" Leah asked, her voice soft.

The question sent a spike of anxiety through Aggie. Sleep meant the possibility of more nightmares, more feelings of inadequacy and failure. She shook her head vigorously.

"No sleep," she said, her voice unmistakably childish now. "Scary."

Leah studied her for a long moment, her expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "Alright," she said finally. "How about some water first? Might help."

Aggie nodded, suddenly aware of how dry her throat felt from crying. Leah disentangled herself gently and went to the minifridge in the corner of the room, returning with a bottle of water. She unscrewed the cap before handing it to Aggie, a small gesture that spoke volumes about her understanding of Aggie's current state.

Aggie took the bottle with both hands, drinking carefully but greedily. Some water dribbled down her chin, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand in a distinctly childlike gesture.

"Better?" Leah asked when she had finished.

"Little bit," Aggie admitted.

Leah sat beside her again, her presence a steady anchor. "You know," she said after a moment, "when I was around ten, I went to my first residential football camp. Was so excited I barely slept for days beforehand. Brought my favorite stuffed animal—this ratty old lion my granddad had given me. Named him Lionel, very original."

Despite her distress, Aggie found herself drawn into the story. "What happened?" she asked softly.

"First night there, I had a terrible nightmare. Dreamt I'd missed an open goal and let my team down. Woke up crying, clutching Lionel for dear life." Leah smiled at the memory. "One of the coaches found me. Older woman, former national team player. Instead of telling me to toughen up or go back to sleep, you know what she did?"

Aggie shook her head, genuinely curious.

"She sat with me, just like this. Told me about her own fears when she was young. Then she asked if she could meet Lionel."

"Did you let her?" Aggie asked, completely absorbed in the story now.

"I did," Leah confirmed. "And she treated him with complete seriousness. Shook his paw, told him he was doing a good job looking after me. Made me feel like it was the most natural thing in the world to need that comfort, even as a footballer."

The story settled something in Aggie's chest, a quiet recognition of being seen and understood. Without thinking, she leaned more fully against Leah, suddenly overwhelmingly tired but still resistant to the idea of sleep.

"Cold," she murmured, though the room was perfectly comfortable.

Understanding immediately, Leah reached for the extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed and wrapped it around Aggie's shoulders. "Better?"

Aggie nodded, snuggling into the added warmth. "Tell more stories?" she asked, her voice small but hopeful.

Leah's expression softened with a gentle smile. "Of course. Let me think..." She was quiet for a moment, then began, "Did I ever tell you about my first senior cap? I was so nervous I put my shorts on backwards and didn't realize until I was already on the pitch..."

As Leah spoke, weaving tales of her early days with England, Aggie felt herself gradually relaxing. The nightmare's grip loosened, replaced by the comfort of Leah's steady voice and presence. She wasn't fully aware of shifting closer, of her head coming to rest against Leah's shoulder, of Leah's arm wrapping more securely around her.

The stories continued, Leah's voice growing softer as she sensed Aggie's increasing drowsiness. She transitioned from football anecdotes to gentler tales—memories of childhood summers, descriptions of favorite places, quiet moments of triumph that had nothing to do with sports.

"My mum used to say that nightmares lose their power when you're not alone," Leah murmured, her hand gently stroking Aggie's hair. "That's why monster checks were so important before bed. Not to confirm there weren't monsters, but to show that someone cared enough to look."

"Monster check?" Aggie asked sleepily, the concept resonating with the young part of her that was currently dominant.

"Mmm-hmm," Leah confirmed. "Very important procedure. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the curtains. Has to be thorough or it doesn't count."

"Did here?" Aggie asked, barely awake now but needing the reassurance.

Without hesitation, Leah nodded solemnly. "First thing I did after you fell asleep earlier. Standard captain's duty. No monsters allowed in camp."

This simple assurance, offered without a hint of condescension, was exactly what Aggie needed. She sighed deeply, her body growing heavier against Leah's side as sleep began to reclaim her.

"Don't go," she whispered, one hand gripping the fabric of Leah's sleep shirt with surprising strength.

"I won't," Leah promised, her voice soft but certain. "I'll stay right here."

Secure in that promise, Aggie finally surrendered to sleep, her breathing deepening and evening out. This time, no nightmares came to disturb her rest. Instead, there was only warmth and safety, a protected space created by the unexpected kindness of someone she had once viewed only with awe and intimidation.

Leah remained still, supporting Aggie's weight, her mind processing what she had just witnessed. She had recognized the signs earlier in the week, after that difficult training session—the regression to a younger emotional state under extreme stress. But tonight had revealed something deeper, a level of vulnerability that Aggie likely rarely showed to anyone.

Aggie's response—this retreat to a younger, simpler state—was less common but not unheard of. Leah had seen glimpses of similar behavior in other young players over the years, though rarely so pronounced. There was a rawness to Aggie's regression, a lack of self-consciousness that suggested this wasn't something she could control or had much experience managing in public settings.

Carefully, moving with deliberate slowness to avoid waking Aggie, Leah adjusted their position until they were both more comfortably arranged against the headboard. Aggie stirred slightly but didn't wake, her hand still clutching Leah's shirt, her face peaceful in sleep.

Looking down at the youngest member of her squad, Leah felt a fierce protectiveness rise within her. Aggie Beaver-Jones was a remarkable talent, with the potential to become one of England's greatest players. But right now, she wasn't just a footballer. She was a young woman far from home, carrying expectations that would crush many twice her age, trying her best to be strong when everything was new and overwhelming.

"Sleep well, sweet girl," Leah whispered. "I've got you."

The hours passed slowly. Leah dozed intermittently but remained mostly awake, unwilling to break her promise by moving away. She watched the digital clock on the nightstand mark the passage of time: 2:47, 3:22, 4:09. Outside, the world was silent, the training complex wrapped in the peculiar stillness of deep night.

Around half past four, Aggie stirred, her breathing changing rhythm as she shifted against Leah's side. For a moment, it seemed she might wake, and Leah prepared herself for another round of comfort and reassurance. But instead, Aggie mumbled something incoherent and settled back down, her grip on Leah's shirt finally relaxing as she slipped into deeper sleep.

With careful movements, Leah eased herself away, gently lowering Aggie's head to the pillow and tucking the blankets around her. Aggie frowned slightly at the loss of contact but didn't wake. Freed from her vigil, Leah stretched, her muscles stiff from hours in one position. She moved quietly to the window, drawing the curtain aside just enough to peer out at the training grounds below.

The pitches were ghostly in the pre-dawn light, dew glistening on the grass. In a few hours, they would be packing up, saying goodbyes, dispersing back to their clubs and lives. The next camp was months away, the next major tournament even further. Leah couldn't help but wonder how Aggie would process all of this—the highs and lows of her first senior call-up, the vulnerabilities she had revealed, the connections she had formed.

A soft sound from the bed drew Leah's attention back to her charge. Aggie had curled onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek in a posture that emphasized her youth. In sleep, the weight of expectations temporarily lifted, she looked even younger than her nineteen years.

Making a decision, Leah picked up her phone from the nightstand and composed a quick text to the team's welfare officer, asking for a private meeting after breakfast. She wouldn't betray Aggie's confidence by sharing specifics, but she could ensure that systems were in place to support the young player in future camps. A mentorship program, perhaps, or simply a more gradual integration into the demands of senior football.

With that task completed, Leah returned to her own bed, though she didn't immediately lie down. Instead, she sat cross-legged, watching over Aggie's sleeping form with a mixture of concern and pride. She had seen so much potential in the young forward during this camp—not just technical ability, but the kind of mental resilience that couldn't be taught. To face your fears, to fall apart and put yourself back together, to be vulnerable and still show up the next day—these were the qualities that separated good players from great ones.

Eventually, fatigue won out, and Leah settled back against her own pillows. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes was Aggie's face, peaceful in sleep, the burdens of the day temporarily set aside. Whatever challenges tomorrow brought, Leah would make sure her sweet girl knew she wasn't facing them alone.

Morning arrived with tentative sunlight filtering through the gaps in the curtains. Leah woke first, automatically checking the time—just past seven, early enough that they weren't rushed but late enough to have gotten decent rest. She lay still for a moment, taking stock of her body (slightly stiff neck, nothing serious) and mentally reviewing the day ahead (breakfast, final team meeting, departures staggered throughout the afternoon).

Then she turned her attention to the other bed, where Aggie was still soundly asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The vulnerability of the night before was still evident in her posture, in the slight furrow between her brows, but there was a peacefulness to her expression that hadn't been there during her distress.

Leah debated whether to wake her. On one hand, they didn't need to be at breakfast for another hour. On the other, Aggie might need time to process what had happened, to transition back to her usual self before facing the rest of the squad. After a moment's consideration, Leah decided on a middle path—she would shower and get ready first, giving Aggie a few more minutes of needed rest.

As quietly as possible, Leah gathered her things and slipped into the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, she allowed herself to fully consider the implications of the night's events. Aggie's regression wasn't just a momentary response to stress; it seemed to be a deeper pattern, perhaps a subconscious coping mechanism for a young woman thrust into the high-pressure world of elite sports.

It wasn't Leah's place to psychoanalyze her teammate, but as captain, it was her responsibility to ensure that every player had the support they needed. Mental health was just as important as physical conditioning, something the England setup had increasingly recognized in recent years. The question was how to provide that support without making Aggie feel singled out or different.

By the time Leah emerged from the bathroom, dressed in her England tracksuit with her hair wrapped in a towel, she had formulated a rough plan. She would speak with the welfare officer, as planned, but frame it as a general concern about supporting young players transitioning to the senior squad. She would also make a point of checking in with Aggie personally between camps, establishing a relationship that went beyond their brief interaction here.

To her surprise, Aggie was awake, sitting up in bed with the blankets pulled around her shoulders. She looked younger than her nineteen years, hair mussed from sleep, Leah's borrowed Arsenal t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. But her eyes, when they met Leah's, were clear and alert—adult eyes, fully present in the moment.

"Morning," Leah said gently, hanging her towel on the bathroom door. "Sleep okay? After, you know..."

A blush crept up Aggie's cheeks, but she nodded. "Yeah. Thanks to you." She hesitated, fingers twisting in the edge of the blanket. "About last night—"

"You don't need to explain," Leah interrupted, sensing Aggie's discomfort. "Or apologize. We all have our ways of coping with stress."

"But that's—that's not normal," Aggie said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The way I get sometimes. Little, I mean. It's weird."

Leah moved to sit on the edge of her own bed, facing Aggie directly. "Says who? There's no 'normal' way to handle the pressure you're under. Some people compartmentalize. Some people have elaborate pre-match rituals. Some people picture the crowd in their underwear." That drew a small smile from Aggie. "Your mind found a way to protect itself when things get overwhelming. That's not weird; it's adaptive."

Aggie looked unconvinced, but some of the tension left her shoulders. "You're not... freaked out?"

"Not even slightly," Leah assured her.

There was a small silence, before Aggie looked down at her hands, then back up, her expression vulnerable but determined.

"No one else knows. About how I get sometimes. Well, my mum does, but that's it. It doesn't happen often, just when I'm really stressed or tired or..." She trailed off, seemingly at a loss for how to explain.

"You don't owe me an explanation," Leah said gently. "But I'm here if you ever want to talk about it. And in the meantime, know that it doesn't change how I see you as a player or a teammate. If anything, I'm more impressed knowing what you're managing behind the scenes."

Tears welled in Aggie's eyes, but they were different from the tears of the night before—tears of relief, of being seen and accepted. "Thanks," she managed, wiping at her eyes with the hem of the borrowed t-shirt. "That means a lot. Especially coming from you."

Leah smiled, then stood, sensing that Aggie needed a moment to compose herself. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to get ready. We've got about forty-five minutes before breakfast."

Aggie nodded, gathering herself visibly. "I should probably go back to my room first. Change clothes, pack up. Ella's probably wondering where I disappeared to."

"I'll walk with you," Leah offered. "Tell her you were helping me with some captain's paperwork if she asks. Not a lie, technically—I do have a stack of player feedback forms to go through."

Gratitude flashed across Aggie's face. "That would be great, actually." She slid out of bed, still wrapped in Leah's too-large clothes, looking simultaneously very young and very determined. "And Leah? Last night, when you asked how old I felt... how did you know to ask that?"

Leah considered her answer carefully. "I've been in football a long time," she said finally. "Seen a lot of different responses to pressure. The important thing is finding what works for you, what helps you manage the stress without it managing you."

Aggie nodded thoughtfully. "I'm working on it. This camp has been... a lot. Good, mostly, but intense."

"First caps always are," Leah agreed. "But you've handled it well. Better than most, actually. Whether you believe it yet or not, you belong here, Aggs."

The words seemed to land exactly as intended, settling something in Aggie's expression. She straightened her shoulders, standing a bit taller despite the oversized clothes hanging from her frame. "I'm starting to believe it," she said, her voice stronger than before. "Especially when my captain says so."

"Good," Leah said with a nod of approval. "Now go get dressed. Captain's orders."