For lola: Marc Bartra

When you had first met Marc Bartra, you didn't like him, not even a little. There was just something about him, which you couldn't pick out, that you didn't like about him. He was just . . . unlikeable to you. Sure, he had girls swooning for him left and right with those bright blue eyes that looked like crystals. Then, there were his cheek bones and chin, which were both so sharp they could probably cut you.

He was tall, athletic, and there was really no flaws to his appearance that you could point out, which further confused and infuriated you. Marc didn't seem to understand your dislike for him because he constantly came over to you and chatted up a storm, always calling you beautiful and other flattering names. You wanted to just be able to get him to leave you alone. However, your jobs prevented such things from happening unless you quit and/or he transferred. Neither looked likely, so you were literally stuck with him.

Walking into work that morning, you were so lucky as to walk in at the same time as a certain Marc Bartra. Seeing him get out of his car, you quickened your pace. Of course, his long legs and speed were greater than your own and he caught up to you within two seconds. "How are you this morning?" Marc asked, as the two of you walked side by side into the training ground.

"Peachy."

"Why is that?"

'Because you're pissing me off with just your presence currently' is what you wanted to say. Deciding to take the higher road and not be bitchy this early in the morning you simply said, "I'm tired."

"Oh," was all he replied. The two of you walked in silence for a moment before Marc restarted the conversation. "So, are you coming to the game tomorrow?"

"Kind of have to," you shot back. "It's my job to make sure you guys don't get hurt."

"Right . . ." The two of you entered the building and went your separate ways. Walking into the trainer/medic room, you immediately set your stuff down. Your coworker, a woman by the name of Cristiana, came up to you.

"Hey," she pipped, always being the peppy one out of all of you.

"Hey," you sighed, pulling your hair back into a pony tail.

"So how was little Mr. Bartra? I saw the two of you walk in together," she smirked.

"You sound like a giddy teenage girl," you commented.

"Oh please. You two obviously have a connection."

"Sure," you rolled your eyes.

"What? The two of you do. The way he looks at you, there's obviously something there," she smirked.

"There is nothing there. Our relationship is purely work-based and platonic. Besides, I can barely stand the sight of him," you muttered.

"Because you like him," she cooed, pinching your cheek. Slapping away her hand, you grabbed your work stuff and walked out to the training ground. "Fine. Walk away you little sour puss, but mark my words, the two of you were meant to be!" she shouted.

"If we get together, I'll pay you $1000 dollars," you called over your shoulder, confident that money would stay in your pocket. Walking out into the training ground, you saw the guys start to exit the locker room. You walked over to your station, where you would just watch the guys for however long the practice would go for and make sure they were all okay.

"Hey, (Y/N)," Marc waved, jogging over to you.

"Can I help you?" you raised an eyebrow. Marc, ignoring the tone in your voice that clearly said 'back away before I throw the medical kit at you,' instead continued the conversation.

"Where are you going to be at the game?"

"Where I usually am. You know, right in between your bench and the opponents," you stated.

"Can you see the goals from there?" Marc asked.

"Yeah, we have to have complete vision of the field," you shrugged.

"If I score a goal . . . will you go on a date with me?" They were playing a good team the next day (not as good as Barcelona of course), which made you think there was no way he'd be able to score.

"Sure. You score a goal and I'll go on a date with you, Marc. I'll even let you pick when and where and throw in a kiss for good measure," you said dead panned.

"Great! See you later, then," Marc smiled, before jogging over to his teammates. You rolled your eyes at him. There was no way that he was going to score a goal tomorrow. Practice had ended early and the next day, you arrived at Camp Nou. Getting your stuff set up, like usual, you walked out of the tunnel and set up the medic station. You watched the boys warm up from a far. Marc, amongst them, smiled at you before Gerard yelled at him to focus, which made you laugh.

The players entered the tunnel, walking out proudly with the referees leading the way. You stood, arms crossed, as the game started. Marc was starting, to your surprise, and maintained his position as a center back. You watched the game, sensing it was going to be a rough one. There was a lot of diving and yelling at each other, nothing like an El Clasico, but still bad.

The game had gone on for eighty minutes when Barcelona had been awarded a corner kick. Marc was up in the box, waiting for the cross to come in. He had been playing great, and you smiled, despite your established annoyance of the Spaniard. Cristiana stood by your side as the ball was crossed into the box. It sailed over Barcelona players and defenders alike.

Marc jumped up, along with a defender on the opponent's team. Marc's forehead connected with the ball as the defender behind him crashed into his back. The ball sailed past the keeper and into the goal. Unfortunately, Marc followed a similar path. You watched in horror as Marc, pushed forward by the defender who had crashed into him, tumbled forwards, sliding straight into the post.

Your eyes widened. The frantic arm movements of the Barcelona boys caused your body to go on auto pilot. You didn't think, you just moved. You ran out to Marc, kit firmly grasped in your hand. You couldn't hear anything except for the pounding in your heart. "Marc," you gasped, kneeling by his side. Rolling him onto his back, you looked fearfully into his eyes. He had a large gash on his forehead and his eyes started to droop. "Marc, don't you close your eyes! Don't you dare close your eyes on me!" you cried frantically, trying to stop the bleeding.

"I scored a goal," he mumbled.

"You sure did," you rushed, making motions to send out a stretcher. Marc's eyes started to close again. "Marc! Marc! Stay with me here!" you stated, slapping his cheek lightly. "Keep your eyes on me!" Cristiano kneeled down next to you and finished patching up his forehead. "I need an oxygen mask!" You were handed one. Placing it on Marc, you watched them load him into the stretcher.

You ran alongside them. Cristiana jogged besides you. "I'm going to get the ambulance ready," she said, before sprinting ahead.

"Marc, stay with me. Keep your eyes open!" you commanded, your throat starting to close. You suppressed the emotions for now, instead focusing on Marc.

"I scored a goal," Marc repeated.

"Yes you did."

"You have to go on a date with me now," Marc smiled painfully.

"I sure do, now stay with me okay. Keep talking, just don't close your eyes," you soothed, stepping into the ambulance as they loaded him in. Seeing his eyes start to drop again, you lightly pinched him. "Hey, eyes on me. Don't you dare close your eyes on me, Marc Bartra. Don't even think about it," you warned.

"Yes, ma'am," Marc smiled. Grabbing his hand, you wiped the hair that had stuck to his forehead away from the makeshift bandage.

"You owe me $1000," Cristiano whispered to you. Shooting her a look, she shrugged. "Bad time?"

"Bad time to ask for that kiss?" Marc winked. You shot both of them an exasperated look.

A.N. Kay, I have three imagines requests (Bastian S, Jordan H, and Marcelo V) If I didn't see your request let me know or feel free to just request one. Thanks for all the support too throughout the series!