Across the Atlantic

Seen

London — November 2023

Leah Williamson hated rehab music.

Every physio in the world seemed obsessed with upbeat playlists, like Dua Lipa could somehow magically repair an ACL.

The Arsenal recovery gym smelled faintly of deep heat and rubber flooring. Rain hammered against the high windows above London Colney while Leah sat on a treatment table with resistance bands looped around her boots, trying not to lose her mind.

"Again," the physio said.

Leah stared at him blankly. "You've already said that word too many times today."

He laughed. "Again."

Leah groaned dramatically but lifted her leg anyway, slow controlled movement, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her knee still felt strange. Not painful exactly. Just... unfamiliar. Like her own body had become something she no longer fully trusted.

Everyone kept saying she was close.

Close to returning.

Close to training fully.

Close to getting herself back.

But nobody talked about how terrifying "close" was.

Close meant expectations returned.

Close meant everyone stopped treating her gently.

Close meant if she failed now, it would really hurt.

"Good," the physio nodded. "That's enough today."

Leah pulled the band off immediately. "Finally."

"You're in a bad mood."

"I'm in rehab."

"Same thing."

Leah rolled her eyes and reached for her phone the second he left the room.

Two notifications.

One from Beth Mead.

One from Instagram.

Normally she ignored most message requests because ninety percent of them were weird. Or creepy. Or people telling her to leave Arsenal and join Chelsea which, frankly, felt offensive.

But something about this one caught her attention.

Leah clicked it absentmindedly.

The story itself was nothing exciting — just a blurry photo of the empty recovery gym captioned:

If I see another resistance band I'm retiring.

The reply underneath read:

As someone with absolutely zero athletic ability, this looks like torture.

Leah smirked slightly.

The girl's profile picture was tiny, but pretty. Dark curls piled on top of her head. Gold hoops. Sharp cheekbones.

Her username rang a faint bell.

Elle Smith.

Leah clicked the profile.

Verified.

Model. New York.

The first photo was from a magazine shoot — expensive coat, city lights behind her, looking effortlessly beautiful in the irritating way only models seemed capable of.

Leah nearly clicked off.

Then she noticed the next post.

A stack of books on an unmade bed.

Caption:

Buying books and emotionally recovering from books are two separate hobbies.

Leah snorted quietly.

Okay.

That was funny.

She scrolled further.

Another shoot. Another book post. Coffee. New York rooftops. A blurry mirror selfie with the caption:

Main personality trait: cancelling plans to read.

Leah smiled despite herself.

Then, before she could think too hard about it, she replied.

Trust me, it is torture.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

You're answering surprisingly fast for an international football captain.

Leah laughed quietly under her breath.

Slow rehab day.

Ah. So I've caught you at your weakest.

Unfortunately yes.

Another typing bubble.

Devastating news. I was hoping England captains spent their afternoons dramatically staring out windows.

Leah looked out at the rain covered training pitches.

That comes later.

Elle reacted with a laughing emoji.

And weirdly, Leah found herself waiting for the next message.

Which was ridiculous.

Because she didn't know this girl.

Didn't know her voice or laugh or how she looked when she was tired.

Just curated photos and sharp captions and a profile that somehow felt more honest than most people she met in real life.

Her phone buzzed again.

So what does rehab actually involve?

Leah sent a picture of resistance bands.

Elle replied instantly.

That looks made up.

Professional opinion?

Obviously.

Leah smiled again.

Dangerous.

That was what this was.

Dangerous in a very specific way.

Not because Elle was a model — Leah had met hundreds of beautiful people before.

It was because she seemed normal.

And normal felt rare these days.

Most conversations Leah had lately revolved around football. Injury updates. Recovery timelines. Whether she'd make it back in time for England camps.

Nobody asked about her.

Not really.

But twenty minutes later somehow she was explaining ACL rehab to a woman in Manhattan while rain battered London and the physios switched the gym lights off around her.

"You heading home, Leah?" one called.

"Yeah," she answered automatically, still looking at her phone.

Wait, Elle messaged suddenly.

You're English. So do you actually say "cheers" in real life?

Leah laughed out loud.

Constantly.

That's adorable.

Leah paused.

Then typed:

Adorable is a strong word.

You're right.

The typing bubble appeared again.

Hot, actually.

Leah stared at the screen.

A slow grin spread across her face before she could stop it.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered to herself.

Because there it was.

Flirting.

Actual flirting.

And somehow it felt embarrassingly easy. Like they'd skipped past awkwardness entirely.

Her phone buzzed again before she could think of a reply.

Sorry. Was that too much? Americans flirt aggressively. It's cultural.

Leah shook her head, smiling to herself as she grabbed her bag.

Think I can handle it.

Outside, London rain poured silver beneath floodlights.

Inside her chest, something unfamiliar sparked quietly to life.

And six hours behind her, in a Manhattan apartment full of books and city noise, Elle Smith was smiling at her phone too.