you were the nurse for the barcelona team, and the one that every player trusted.

but no one seemed to trust you more than lamine.

he somehow always ended up in your office, whining about how he’d gotten a new injury while playing. hell, even during training he’d be there and say he was hurt. he’d pout, bat his eyelashes and ask you to fix him up.

you found it quite amusing, honestly. he was dramatic about even the tiniest scratches. but now you were beginning to wonder if he was faking them, or if he was getting hurt on purpose.

no one got injured so often in every game and every practice session, right?

“i hurt my ankle,” he said with a pout as he stumbled into your office, walking with a limp that looked a little too fake.

“fix it for me?” he asked with a boyish grin.