Chapter Text
The YouTube Allstars changing room buzzed with loud, energetic chatter and the thumb of boots against concrete, half laced and scuffed from warmups. The colour red filled the room bright and unforgiving, making everything all that bit more real for Chris.
He sat in the corner, shoulders hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees as he watched the world move around him. His boots were tied and his jersey clung to him a little too tightly to his back.
He wasn’t nervous exactly. Or maybe he was. But it wasn’t just the nerves that made his chest feel tight. It was excitement.
It was Wembley.
It was 90,000 people sitting and watching them play a football game. Real people who bought tickets, tickets that sold out within in an hour, just to watch them play a football match at Wembley.
90,000 people is a lot. They were basically doing an Eras tour performance. And let’s not forget the 2 million more watching from their screens.
From playing in an empty stadium in 2015 with only themselves to having it completely full was insane, and Chris felt slightly overwhelmed. He was 19 when he played in the first match and now, he’s 28. That’s nearly 10 years.
So yeah. Chris was feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.
The nerves mainly stemming from the fact that he should have had a low thumping ache that had been snaking under his skin since he woke up that morning. An ache that has since dulled since he took a couple of ibuprofen before he got here, yet it was still there. Silent and intruding.
Chris couldn’t let his shoulder ruin this for him. He hasn’t had any issues the previous years so why would this one be any different. Like yeah, maybe he has never woken up the morning of a match with his shoulder aching but it’s fine. Everything will be fine.
There was a sudden loud commotion and Chris looked up to see everyone huddled in a semi-circle with Chip in the front. With a quick breath in, Chris stood up next to will and bought a quick hand to his shoulder, rubbing it absentmindedly. He ignored the first little bit, only tuning in at one point to hear chip yell, “I wanna go out there and make sure they go off fucking crying.”
Which yeah, Chris wants that too. Kinda. Not really. He would be devasted to see George crying. He’s too pretty to be crying.
…
Anyway…
Chris just wants to win. It’s been a couple years now and honestly, he just wants to prove to himself if anything that despite his… issues, he can still do what he loves. Pain or not.
He tried not to let his feelings take over. There was a lot of things racing through his mind, but the most prominent thing was the cameras. There were people recording everywhere. Literally.
So, he couldn’t be caught lacking.
Will was wearing his go-pro, Chip had a camera man for his channel. Theo and Ginge also had their phones recording. It just goes on.
Which Chris isn’t surprised. They are youtubers after all.
Shaking himself out of the trance he had himself, Chris had a look at the board and then the people surrounding him.
They had a strong-ish team this year. Theo, Ginge, and himself were the backbone of their team. The plan was simple. Ginge would lay the ball off to him, he’d slip it through to Theo, and Theo would slot it into an open net. …Sorry xqc.
The huddle eventually broke, and everyone went back to their pre-match ritual, forming little groups.
Chris didn’t have it in himself to really socialise with anyone, instead he lingered behind for a moment, still standing in the middle of the room as people shuffled around him, laughter and noise echoing all around him.
His fingers twitched against his thigh, and his shoulder pulsed lightly deep within him. It hadn’t faded but it seemed quieter.
Chris blinked slowly, letting his nerves and anxiety curl in his gut. He should be talking to the others. Making plans and just hanging out with them in general.
But instead, his feet began to move. Automatic and just anywhere but here.
No one asked where he was going. No sideway glances or questioning looks. Just let him leave the room, his boots clinking lightly against the floor as he moved.
One hallway blurred into another as he wandered through the winding back halls of Wembley. The ones not meant for fans or cameras. The buzz of noise and energy from both teams dulled the further he walked and was replaced by the hum of fluorescent lighting and hustling staff.
Chris didn’t no where he was going. Just going somewhere.
He just wanted a moment of quiet to himself before facing everything out there. Out there where he couldn’t hide away from the spotlight and attention. Where everyone was watching and scrutinising every action and movement and emotion you dared to show.
He was thinking to much. Chris knew that. About nothing and everything. About his shoulder. The cameras. Fans. The team. Winning. George…
…He always thought about George. Always there in the back of his mind. Loud and ridiculous and somehow the only person who made Chris laugh when he wanted to cry.
Chris wandered further down the corridor, boots heavy, footsteps echoing against the walls. He spotted a bathroom sign point towards the hall on his right and he rounded, thoughts swirling loud.
And then he collided softly with someone turning the other way.
“Shit, sorry-” Chris blinked.
It was George.
Dressed in the black sidemen jersey, a bottle of water in his hand, hair slightly messed up. He looked at Chris a smile gracing his face instantly.
“Chris! Mate this is fucking crazy! Well maybe not for you since you have played in this before cause your old as fuck but how cool! 90,000 people!” George ranted, the quick remark making Chris scoff.
“Yes, yes very old aren’t I,” Chris said dismissively, biting the inside of his cheek. It was cute seeing George like this. All excited and bubbly. It was so pure and… cute.
Chris. No.
He must have zoned out because George was suddenly waving in his face catching his attention.
“Sorry did you say something?” Chris blinked.
“Yeah, I asked how you were feeling and then when you decided to just dock yourself, I asked if you were okay.” George replied, concern painting his features.
Chris brought a hand up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I- Yeah. A little nervous I suppose. 90,000 people is a lot.”
“Honestly insane, how they managed to pull this off.” A pause. “You sure you’re, okay? Your shoulder isn’t acting up, is it?” George asked, his head tilting and his eyes fixated on Chris.
Something within Chris flickered, and he felt his fingers twitch at his side. Something about what George said twisted deeply within him. Frustration. Anger almost. Just Something dark and completely unwelcome.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” His tone was cold and flat, making Georges face twist in confusion.
George stood there for a second, his mouth opening and closing like a fish before he finally said something. Hesitant and careful. Almost like he was scared to say something.
“I’m not going to try and make it a thing… I just want to look out for you. Make sure you don’t do something stupid.”
Chris knew it came from a place of care. The gentle smile and careful choice of words usually made him smile but today – right now? It was the complete opposite.
The implication that he would do something stupid. That he couldn’t be trusted to know his own limits. Chris knew that sometimes he doesn’t do the best when it comes to knowing when to stop and give himself a moment. But to have it said out loud or implied made something bubble up from within him.
He knew, Chris knew.
George was only trying to look out for him, but he really couldn’t stand to be coddled right now. He wasn’t fragile – a small kid needing to be watched every second. He was 28 for fucks sake. He should be able to deal with a little pain on his own.
But what if George was right? What if he couldn’t handle this, not really? That whispering fear made his skin crawl, and he hated that George saw it before he did.
Everything Chris had been feeling before suddenly doubled, the pressure mounting until it threatened to spill over. An invisible simmer rising in his chest, bubbling to the surface faster than he could contain it.
“I don’t need you breathing down my neck every two seconds like I’m going to drop dead on the pitch, you know.” Chris snapped, the words coming out harsher than he wanted.
George blinked. His lips parted, like he was about to say something, then pressed back into a line. His fingers tightened around the bottle in his hand.
“I am so tired of the hovering and second-guessing every fucking move I make. I’m a grown man, and I don’t need you telling me I need to be careful. I can manage on my own, thanks.”
That silenced everything. Even Chris’s own thoughts.
The words hung between them, sharp and electric, laced with frustration that George didn’t deserve.
George looked stunned. His eyes widened slightly, blinking like he hadn’t quite registered what had just been said. But then it hit. The flicker of hurt passed across his face so quickly, so subtly, Chris might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been looking right at him. No matter how fast George tried to school his expression into something neutral, the damage was already done.
And Chris felt it. Felt the weight of his own tone, the bite behind the words. His chest sank, stomach twisting, guilt already crawling up his throat like bile, bitter and thick. He hadn’t meant it like that. Not really. But that didn’t matter. He’d still said it.
George took a step back. A small stutter of movement that could have been nothing, but to Chris, it was everything.
“Oh,” George said quietly, voice flat, and a little calm. His gaze dropped for a second before flickering back up, not quite meeting Chris’s eyes. “Right. Got it.”
He nodded and turned on his heel without another word.
Chris opened his mouth, heart racing with the urge to call him back, to apologies, to say something, but nothing came out. His jaw locked and his throat burned. His own voice stunned him into silence and now George was walking away. Away from him.
Fuck.
Something in Chris lurched, like a rope had yanked at his chest, and before he even realised it, he was moving — first a few hesitant steps, then quicker, more urgent.
“No- George, wait-”
“Chris!”
The sharp call of his name sliced through the air, making him flinch mid-step. He turned instinctively, heart still racing, to see Will jogging toward him. He looked slightly breathless, his brows drawn tight in confusion and concern.
“There you are,” Will said out of breath. “Mate, where’ve you been? We need to go over some last-minute stuff. Chip’s been telling everyone you fell into a drain or something.”
He gave a half-laugh, nudging Chris lightly in the ribs, oblivious to the way Chris’s jaw tightened and his eyes flicked toward the space where George had just disappeared.
“O-oh. Hah. Yeah, I was just looking for the um… bathroom.” Chris’s voice stumbled out, the lie clumsy on his tongue. His chest was too tight to breathe properly, like the panic had settled beneath his ribs and was now spreading, uncoiling with every frantic heartbeat.
Will frowned slightly. “That bathroom is like right next to the changing rooms. How’d you end up here, mate?”
Chris didn’t answer. The question barely reached him. He stood frozen, thoughts crashing too loud to make space for anything else. Will’s voice seemed to fade into the background as he stared past him, the weight of what had just happened anchoring him to the spot.
The corner of Will’s mouth twitched as his brow creased. The lightness dropped from his expression. “You good?” he asked, voice lower now, slower. Careful. “You look kinda… off.”
Chris forced a smile, one he hoped looked more convincing than it felt. “Yeah. Yeah. Just nerves. Wembley and all that…”
Will didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. “Right. Well, come on then. Chip’s talking about subbing Theo off right away. So we kind of need you back to stop him.
Chris let out a breathy laugh, following will back toward the changing rooms, his pace making him lag a bit behind. His chest felt tighter and his thumped hard against his ribs. His shoulder ached faintly beneath the fabric of his jersey, a constant, dull reminder.
His steps faltered for a moment, but Will didn’t notice. He just kept walking, talking about tactics and formation, but Chris didn’t hear any of it.
All he could hear was George’s voice echoing in his head.
“I just want to look out for you.”
And then the sound of his own voice, sharp and defensive and unnecessarily cruel.
Chris swallowed hard.
He had messed up. Bad.
The guilt sat heavy in his stomach, a slow-burning ache that rivalled the throb in his shoulder. He could still see George’s face. Eyes wide, expression crumpling in real time before he masked it with that painfully neutral look. Chris knew it by heart. Knew it meant George was hurt. Knew it meant George wasn’t going to push. To fight back. To just… leave.
Which he had.
Chris clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to dig his fingers into his shoulder. It was already burning enough. The ibuprofen he had taken earlier had barely taken the edge off, and the tension coursing through him now only made it worse.
And on top of that – on top of the pain, and the regret, and the absolute embarrassment, there were the cameras. The mics. The GoPros and phones, and content pieces are being filmed from every corner of the stadium. They were all constantly being watched. He was constantly being watched, whether by a friend’s or teammates' lens or by one of the thousands sitting in the stands.
There wasn’t enough space to fall apart here. Not when every frame could be clipped, analysed, and replayed.
He has managed for over 10 years now to not let anything like that slip. Let anything get past him. He relied heavily on himself to stay in check.
But right now, Chris felt anything but reliable.
His shoulder was screaming, George had walked away from him, and he couldn’t even remember what Chipp had said just before he walked out about the game. His head wasn’t in this. Not really. And if he kept going like this… Well, Chris would rather it didn’t get to that.
By the time his thoughts came to a slow, fragging halt, they were stepping back in the changing rooms. Chris blinked, disoriented. For a second, he’d forgotten where he was.
“-Chris, you listening?”
His head snapped up.
Chip was standing across the room, pointing at the small whiteboard behind him, a dry-erase marker clutched in his hand.
Chris blinked again, caught. “Sorry—what?”
Chip raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, just repeated, “I said, if we press high from the start, Theo and Ginge can stay forward, and you can hang back to switch play across the midfield. That alright?”
Chris nodded slowly, not trusting his voice just yet.
“Good,” Chip said, moving on like nothing was wrong.
Chris sat down on the bench without even realising he’d done it, shoulders hunched again, elbows resting on his knees.
The room around him was buzzing. Boots thudding against tiles, final shouts between teammates, the distant echo of the crowd already growing louder through the concrete walls. They were minutes away now. Just minutes.
Somehow, that made it worse.
He rubbed at his palm, fingers twitching with restless energy. Not the good kind. Not the adrenaline kind. Just nerves. Stress. Guilt.
A knock at the door came, followed by a call from the staff telling them to line up.
Everyone around him began to move, shuffling into formation, grabbing water bottles, giving rushed shoulder claps and half-hearted jokes. Chris rose slowly, still feeling that burn in his shoulder. Still feeling the weight of what he’d said.
They filed out, one by one, onto the long tunnel that led to the pitch. Chris walked somewhere near the front of the YouTube Allstars line, eyes focused ahead, posture controlled. Cameras lined the walls, catching every face, every reaction. GoPros on chests and phones in hand. He kept his expression calm and relaxed or at least he hoped he did.
Then, as they reached the mouth of the tunnel, he caught sight of the Sidemen FC line forming just beside them.
Black kits. Familiar faces.
Chris’s eyes scanned the line automatically, not quite knowing what he was searching for until he found it—him.
George stood near the back of the Sidemen line, just in front of Lazerbeam and beside Mark Rober. He wasn’t really talking. Just kind of… standing. Silent. Small in a way Chris hadn’t seen in a long time. Shoulders drawn in slightly. Head down. His mouth twisted like he was trying to smile at something Mark said, but it didn’t land.
He looked miserable.
And Chris knew it was because of him.
His throat went dry, and for a second, he forgot about the shoulder pain, forgot about the match, the tactics, the plan. All he could think of was how he had made George—bright, loud, confident George—look like that. Look small. Look alone.
But he couldn’t show it. Not now. Not here.
Not with the cameras rolling.
So, Chris forced his eyes away, blinked twice, and clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. He straightened his posture, bounced a little on his heels, did the usual shoulder roll to make it seem like he was getting ready. Normal. Collected. Chill. Looked to see who was standing next to him and just started small talk with whoever it was. Just something to make him forget about that and think about the match.
The stadium ahead opened wide, the roar of the crowd crashing over them like a wave, and suddenly the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, calling out names, welcoming players.
Chris stepped forward when it was his turn, barely registering the cheers.
All he could think about was how he could fix this.
But for now, he had a game to play.