𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 [𝐓𝐀𝟔𝟔] 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓
Pairing: Trent Alexander-Arnold x Fem!Reader
Summary: Arne, in hopes to focus on his team’s mental health as much as their physical, recruits a younger but just as educated psychologist to work one-to-one with the more reserved players. Trent is one of them.
A/N: guyssss!!!! ur support means the world, the sun, the moon, the solar system to me like everything!!! some of the comments u leave got me feeling like Y/N fr, big mwahs for u all! I made this part a little longer as an apology for making you wait for so long!
Warnings: more fluff, Trent slowly starting to open up methinks, angst, pressure, high-stress environment, very slow burn
Word Count: 3.1k words (11 mins reading avg)
You were seated at your desk, carefully closing the backs of the picture frame. You smiled as you secured the last clip, the image now safely enclosed behind the glass. It was a small comfort, one you could look at during the demanding days.
Before you had the chance to prop it up on your new cabinet, Lee entered with a folder in hand. You left your frame face-down as you stood up, and rounded your desk to greet him.
"Saw your email. Everything okay?"
Lee gave you a quick, apologetic smile as he handed you the folder. "Yeah. Won't be able to make the Man United game this weekend."
He handed you a folder emblazoned with the Man United logo, stuffed with the players' reports.
You raised an eyebrow, more concerned than curious. "That's unlike you. What's come up?"
He leaned against the edge of your desk, folding his arms. "Got to attend a family thing, non-negotiable. But that's not the only reason I'm here."
His tone shifted, more serious now. "I need you to step in and travel with the squad as the on-hand psychologist."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Me? But... I mean, I usually handle things from here. Are you sure?"
Lee nodded, his expression firm. "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't. You've been great with some of the boys so far, and they trust you. This game is going to be intense, and they'll need your support. Plus, it's good for them to have some consistency, especially with me out."
It all made sense, but the reality of it hit hard. You’d only been here for two months, barely building trust through a handful of sessions a week. Now, being thrown into the deep end at Old Trafford for an away game just felt like career suicide.
You bit your lip, the weight of the responsibility starting to settle in. The thought of traveling with the team, being there in the thick of it, was both exciting and daunting.
"I don't know, Lee. What if-" Your voice wavered, playing with the corners of the folder in your hand.
"You'll be fine," he interrupted, his tone reassuring. "You're more than capable. And look, I'll only be a phone call away if you need anything."
You hesitated for a moment, the nerves swirling in your stomach. But deep down, you knew this was a chance you couldn't pass up. Lee believed in you and it was inevitable at one point.
"Okay," you finally said, taking a deep breath. "Sure."
Lee's face broke into a wide grin. "Good. I'll let the gaffer know and I'll make sure everything's arranged for you."
You nodded, watching as he left. The thrill of the weekend was tempered by the gnawing anxiety that you weren't ready, that you were diving headfirst into something you couldn't fully control. Sure, some of the boys had warmed up to you but others were still keeping you at arm's length.
You scoffed to yourself, more like just the one. You were walking a fine line with him and the last thing you wanted was to make things worse. In the heat of the moment, a sentence, an expression, a word could tick someone off.
You couldn't continue your train of thoughts, the folder staring up at you, waiting to be opened. With a steadying breath, you took a seat at your desk again and finally opened it, beginning to read through the reports.
The squad and staff gathered at the training ground, the usual pre-match energy heightened by the knowledge that today’s destination was Old Trafford.
You stood off to the side, watching the players mill around as they waited for the coaches to arrive, the hum of conversation and laughter blending with the distant noise of fans outside the gates.
You were trying to keep your own nerves in check, running through mental notes on the players, when Curtis sauntered over, a relaxed smile on his face.
“Bit of a madhouse out there." He said, nodding toward the entrance where the sound of chanting fans was growing louder.
“Just a bit,” you replied with a smile, honestly grateful for the distraction.
He chuckled, giving you a once-over. “You look a little tense. First time heading into enemy territory got you rattled?”
You gave him a mock glare, though the truth behind his teasing made you sigh. “Maybe a little. It’s just.. a lot. Big game, and I’m still getting used to being around everyone, let alone on a match day.”
Curtis leaned against the wall beside you, his expression softening. “I get it. But you’ve been solid with us. We’re glad you’re here, even if some of us” - he raised an eyebrow - “aren’t great at showing it.”
You smirked, knowing exactly who he was referring to.
He grinned. “Nah, Wataru." You nudged his shoulder with your hand, and Curtis pushed himself off of the wall. His attention was directed back to the team as Arne brought everyone together.
"You're gonna smash it, see you in Manny." He flashed you a smile before jogging back over.
You adjusted your backpack currently slung over your shoulder, glancing up but accidentally catching Trent's eye across the large entryway.
He was standing a little apart from the others, his posture relaxed but with an air of deliberate composure. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets, and his usual stoic expression was softened by a hint of curiosity.
His gaze lingered on you longer than usual, more intent and thoughtful.
You offered him a shy smile, unsure of what to expect in return. Almost immediately, his eyes darted away, his expression tightening as he turned his attention back to the team.
A tinge of disappointment settled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to linger on it as the coach pulled into the parking space out front.
“You’ve got this. You’ve got this,” you whispered to yourself, as if it were a mantra, following the backroom staff out of the training ground.
The first half had been tightly contested, with neither team managing to score, leaving the game deadlocked at 0-0.
The only real highlight was Trent’s free kick from just outside the box - a powerful shot that flew high, curling away from the goal before soaring over the bar. The away fans held their breath in anticipation, only to exhale in disappointment as the ball missed its mark.
From the sidelines, you watched as Trent’s frustration grew more evident, his usual composure giving way to visible agitation.
Each missed opportunity seemed to fuel his irritation, and it was clear his emotions were beginning to take over.
You sighed as the referee jogged over after a hard tackle. The yellow card was raised high, and Trent’s reaction was a sharp scoff as he walked away, shooting a disdainful side-eye at the player he had just fouled.
The rival fans seized the moment, erupting in cheers and taunts that grew louder and more fervent.
Old Trafford lit up as the referees became hyper-aware of Trent, ready to penalise any further outbursts. Arne’s nervousness was palpable, and the backroom staff were on their feet, counting down to the halfway mark.
Trent was no longer just reacting to the game; he was actively seeking confrontations with the Man United players. His tackles were sharper, his verbal exchanges more heated.
The tension was building to a breaking point, but the halftime whistle blew just in time, bringing a collective sigh of relief from every member of Liverpool’s staff, whether at the training ground or in the stadium.
As you left your seat to head down the tunnel, Trent’s shoulder brushed against yours, his head lowered and skin glistening with sweat.
You noticed Arne watching him closely, his face a mask of concentration and concern, fully aware of how vital Trent was to the team’s strategy - and how disastrous a second yellow card could be.
As the halftime break drew to a near close, the tension in the dressing room was palpable. The players sat on the benches, catching their breath and nursing the aches of the first half.
Arne stood at the front, his arms crossed as he delivered his instructions, his tone firm but calm. You could see the focus in their eyes, the determination to turn the game around in the second half.
Just as he'd finished his tactical breakdown, he turned to you, walking over.
"I want you to say a few words," he said, his voice low.
"About?" You asked quietly, unaware of the boys' wandering eyes glancing between the two of you.
"Keeping their heads in the game. Any insights that might help them stay focused and.. you know, ease off the aggression."
You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah, okay."
The players' attention turned to you as you moved to the centre of the room, a mix of curiosity and expectation in their gazes. It was almost comical - this was the first time many of them were hearing you speak in a professional setting.
You cleared your throat, giving a quick glance to the clock hung on the wall.
You took a deep breath and began. “I know we don’t have much time, so I’ll be brief. We need to ease off on the aggressiveness." Trent, who had been staring at the floor, lifted his head slightly, his eyes now locked on you.
"We’re here to play our best football, to get the result we want and then move on. Allowing anger is only gonna distract you and hurt our performance. When you feel it bubbling up, just walk away and refocus yourself." You made an effort to connect with each player as you spoke, though deep down, you hoped your words would resonate with one in particular.
"Focus on what you can control - your passing, your tackles, your game.” A smirk tugged at Trent's lips before his head dipped again.
You scanned the room, noticing nods of understanding. “If you see a teammate getting heated, help them out."
Another breath, "push them away from the fight, back off, and concentrate on our tactics, not on the referee’s decisions or the United players. Don’t sulk on what went wrong. Learn from it and move on, yeah?"
Arne gave you a nod of appreciation as you wrapped up your little speech. "Alright, let’s make this second half count," you finished, your voice carrying a tinge of determination.
Virgil clapped twice, rallying the team as they stood and prepared to exit the dressing room. “Let’s go!” As they began filing out, you moved to the side to let them pass.
Trent was among the last to leave.
"Write me up next time," he muttered as he walked by, leaning in just enough for you to hear.
Your eyes involuntarily dropped to his lips before darting back up to meet his gaze. Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly composed yourself and responded.
"It was meant for everyone." You lied through your teeth.
He hummed in response, a subtle hint of amusement in his voice. "Sure," he said, not even glancing back as he walked out, leaving you with the undeniable sense that he knew exactly who your speech had been aimed at.
In the second half, Trent seemed lighter on his feet, more focused on the tactical aspects of the game and less caught up in the aggression that had marked his earlier play.
Liverpool had eventually secured a hard-fought 0-1 victory, with Salah scoring the winner from a beautifully timed assist by Trent. The away crowds erupted as the ball hit the back of the net, and the energy from that moment carried through until the final whistle.
As you watched him on the pitch, his frustration giving way to calm determination, you couldn’t help but wonder if your halftime words had played a part in that change.
Even a small part, that was more than enough to make you feel like you were on the right track.
The journey back to the training ground was a short one, the adrenaline from the win still buzzing among the team.
But by the time you arrived, the place had already started to empty out, with most of the team and staff having headed home to celebrate or rest.
The win had been sweet, but the quietness that greeted you at the training ground felt like a peaceful end to a very intense day.
You hadn’t intended to stay at the training ground as late as you did after returning, but with Kaia staying over at a friend’s house and the stack of unwritten reports waiting for your attention, you found yourself at your desk again.
The evening had unfolded into an unexpected work spell as you prepared for the upcoming sessions and tackled the never-ending paperwork.
The soft glow from your new office lamp created a cozy pool of light, the only sounds in the quiet room being the occasional rustle of papers and the gentle hum of the air conditioning.
Starting to nurse a headache, you rubbed your eyes carefully as to not smudge your makeup.
The words of practising what you preached echoed in your mind, working for hours on end without a break was hardly the advice you’d give to anybody.
So, you eventually pushed away from your desk and decided to step outside your office for a walk.
The halls were quiet and mostly vacant as you strolled, letting your mind drift and find a moment of peace.
You made your way to the large glass windows that stretched across both the first and second floors, providing a panoramic view of the training grounds below.
The evening sky was transitioning into deep blues, with the last hints of daylight fading.
Yet your gaze was drawn to a solitary figure on the pitch, illuminated by the few remaining lights.
Even from this distance, his form was unmistakable as he set up a line of balls and readied himself for another round of free kicks. Instantly, you were reminded of earlier - his powerful shot that had soared over the bar.
Seeing him out there, still working hard, your shoulders slumped in realisation.
The scene was almost surreal, marked by the quiet dedication of a player refusing to call it a day.
You stood there in complete silence, taking in the sight as if it were a scene from a film - each deliberate movement and focused effort holding your rapt attention.
It was a side of him you hadn’t seen before. Alone and immersed in his own world, completely absorbed in his craft without a care for the outside distractions.
Deciding to join him, you headed out of the building and towards the pitch. The evening air was crisp, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of nearby trees.
You crossed your arms over your chest, maintaining a respectful distance as you approached. You hoped your presence would neither startle him nor prompt him to leave.
"Mind if I watch?" You asked, keeping your tone light and casual.
Trent glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned back to the pitch. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but no trace of annoyance.
"Suit yourself, psychologist," he replied, his voice steady. You nodded - guess that was good enough for you.
You watched as he rolled the first ball to his feet, his focus razor-sharp as he stopped it and took a few steps back.
The ball sailed through the air, curving beautifully into the top corner of the net. You couldn’t help but be impressed.
"That was perfect," you said, genuinely admiring his skill.
Trent shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. "Just another shot."
"Give yourself more credit than that. It’s not easy," you countered. "I admire the dedication."
He glanced back at you. “Guess you’d know.”
“Sorry?” you asked, slightly confused.
“The picture in your office. You played once,” he remarked, a hint of a challenge in his tone.
You found yourself wondering when he had been in your office to notice the picture, then it clicked. He'd helped you assemble the cabinet where you later placed the picture. He must've spotted it in one of the boxes.
You watched as he set up another ball, and somehow, in a way that only Trent could manage, that shot was even better than the last.
You scoffed lightly, dismissing the comparison. “Nowhere near your level, obviously. But you’re right, I guess I can imagine the passion. The pressure.”
You hoped your words were reaching him, echoing the sentiments he'd talked about in so many of his interviews.
He breathed out slowly. "So why psychology?" He asked, bending over to position the next ball.
"Because mental strength is just as important as physical ability," you explained. "I've seen talented players crumble under pressure, and others rise above it. The difference often comes down to how well they manage their minds."
Trent didn’t respond immediately. He set up another shot, this time, it hit the post with a loud thud.
You picked up the ball as it bounced near you, letting it roll between your hands before walking over to him. Once there, you dropped it to the ground, letting it settle by the side of your foot.
When he looked at you, his gaze was softer than you’d ever seen it.
You felt a flutter in your chest, the kind that made your stomach dip slightly. Your fingers curled into your palms, a subconscious effort to ground yourself as the moment stretched on.
“I know I’m just a stranger,” you began gently, your tone careful and steady.
“But I’m not here to push you and you don’t have to share anything with me. I just want you to know that if you ever feel like talking, we can - no titles, just two people who might understand each other.”
You added with a slight smile. “You’ll never know unless you give it a shot.”
For a moment, he seemed to consider something. You would’ve traded anything in to know what was going through his mind at that moment.
But he shook his head, glancing out over the pitch. “I’m good for now.”
“Okay,” you replied, giving the ball a gentle nudge, just enough to pass it to him. With a nod, you stepped back and turned towards the building, heading inside.
Before entering, you turned around, surprised to find him already watching you. “Thanks for hearing me out, yeah?”
You offered him a final smile before disappearing inside.
Trent’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure for a moment longer before he returned to his practice, a slight shift in his expression as he continued his routine.
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