Red Card
☾ Pairing: Soccer Player Rhea Ripley x Female Reader
✮⋆˙ Summary: You are a Colombian professional soccer player, heading towards every player's dream: the World Cup. Along the way, there's your nightmare: the captain of the Australian team, Rhea Ripley.
⚠︎ Warning: (for now) cursing; a lot of spanish but it's translated.
Words: 5.1k
✮⋆˙ Notes: Spanish is becoming my third language and I had an epiphany when I saw Rhea on that shirt. A big hug to my Colombian loves.
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The humidity in Sydney clings to your skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive in a way that Bogotá's cool mountain air never prepared you for. You press your forehead against the bus window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white, and try to focus on anything other than the knot tightening in your stomach.
Anything.
"¿Estás bien?" ("Are you okay?") Mari's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, her hand finding your shoulder with the easy familiarity of someone who's known you since you were both twelve and terrible at keeping the ball. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, making her big brown eyes even bigger on her round and sweet face. "Te ves pálida." ("You look pale.").
You manage a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Estoy bien. Solo... el calor." ("I'm fine. Just... the heat.")
She doesn't believe you. You can see it in the way her dark eyes narrow, the slight purse of her lips. It's not a complete lie. The flight from Colombia to Australia had been brutal — hours folded into an airplane seat, your legs cramping, your mind racing with strategies and plays and the weight of expectation that comes with wearing your national colors. But exhaustion isn't what's making your pulse hammer against your throat right now.
"Es por la australiana, ¿verdad?" ("It's because of the Australian girl, right?") Mari asks, dropping her voice to a whisper even though half the bus is asleep and the other half is listening to music too loud through their headphones. "La capitana. Rhea." ("The captain. Rhea.")
The name alone makes something uncomfortable twist beneath your ribs. It lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples through your composure.
You don't answer. You don't need to.
Mari's dark eyes narrow slightly, that knowing look she gets when she can see straight through your bullshit. She's been your best friend since you were both gangly teenagers fighting for a spot on the youth team, all scraped knees and impossible dreams. She knows you better than anyone.
You don't want to think about her. You've spent months trying not to think about her. But Mari's words have already unlocked the memory, and it floods back with vivid, unwelcome clarity.
(...)
Six months ago. A friendly match that was supposed to be just that — friendly. Preparation for the tournament, a chance to test yourselves against a strong team, nothing more.
You remember the field, the grass still wet from morning rain, the way your cleats had gripped the earth as you'd moved. You'd been playing well that day, one of your best performances. The ball had felt like an extension of your body, responsive and eager. You'd danced past two defenders, your mind already three moves ahead, seeing the opening, the perfect angle for a shot —
And then she'd come out of nowhere.
You hadn't even seen her. One moment you were running, the next you were airborne, the world tilting sideways as Rhea Ripley's tackle connected with your legs - not the fucking ball obviously. The impact had been too precise, the kind of hit that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with sharp, electric pain. You'd gone down hard, the wet grass unforgiving against your side, your vision swimming with white spots.
The whistle had blown immediately. Red card. But the damage was already done.
You remember lying there, clutching your knee, trying to breathe through the agony that radiated up your leg. You remember your teammates rushing over, their worried faces hovering above you. And you remember her.
Rhea had stood over you for a moment before offering her hand. Even in your haze of pain, you'd registered the details with startling clarity — the way her dark hair was pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame her face. The blue of her eyes, bright and unapologetic. The tattoos that crawled up her arms, visible beneath her pushed-up sleeves. She was taller than you by at least ten centimeters, broader in the shoulders, all lean muscle and strength
"Sorry about that, darl," she'd said, her accent thick and somehow both apologetic and not apologetic at all. That smirk had played at the corner of her mouth, like she was fighting not to smile. "I thought you could take that."
“Hija de puta.” (“Mother fucker”)Your Spanish had come out rapid and furious, words you'd later be grateful the referees hadn't understood. You'd ignored her hand, pushed yourself up on your own, limped off the field with your ankle throbbing and your pride in tatters. But Rhea had just chuckled, low and rough, before walking away to accept her red card with infuriating tranquility.
You'd wanted to hit her. Or possibly cry. Or possibly —
No. You'd refused to examine that particular impulse.
The doctors said you were lucky. The tackle hadn't been dirty enough to cause lasting damage, but you'd spent two weeks in physical therapy anyway, working the deep bruising out of your muscles. Two weeks where every step reminded you of her. Two weeks where you'd lain awake at night, replaying the moment over and over, unable to decide if you were angrier at her for the tackle or at yourself for the way your heart had kicked up when she'd looked down at you with those impossibly blue eyes.
(...)
"Oye." ("Hey.") Mari snaps her fingers in front of your face, pulling you back to the present. You're in the elevator now, though you don't remember pressing the button. "No me ignores."("Don’t you ignore me.")
"No te estoy ignorando," ("I’m not ignoring you.") you protest, but it's weak. You absolutely were ignoring her.
Mari crosses her arms, leaning against the elevator wall with that expression that means she's about to say something you won't want to hear. "Todavía estás enojada con ella." ("You're still angry with her.")
"Por supuesto que sí." ("Of course.") Of course you're still angry. She'd nearly crippled you. She'd been reckless and arrogant and —
"Y también te gusta." ("And you’re into her.")
Your head snaps toward Mari so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. "¿Qué? No. Absolutely not. That's — no."
But Mari is grinning now, that evil little smile that means she's going to be insufferable about this. "Ajá. Por eso estaba tan nerviosa por alojarse en este hotel." ("Aha. That's why you were so nervous about staying at this hotel.")
You want to argue. You want to tell her she's completely wrong, that the tight feeling in your chest has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with justified anger and the very reasonable fear of being tackled again. But the words stick in your throat, and Mari's grin only widens.
The elevator chimes, announcing your floor. You grab your bag and step out quickly, needing space, needing air, needing to not be having this conversation.
"It doesn't matter," You say firmly, switching to English because it feels safer, less yours. "Ella es una bruta. Y vamos a destrozarlas en los cuartos de final." ("She's a brute. And we're going to destroy them in the quarterfinals.")
Mari follows you down the hallway, her bag bouncing against her hip. "Claro que sí. ("Of course, yes.") But you might want to work on the whole face-turning-red thing before we see them."
You flip her off without looking back, earning a delighted laugh.
The room you'll be sharing with Mariana is at the end of the hall, and you unlock it with hands that are steadier than you expect. The space is nice — clean lines, two large beds with crisp white sheets, a window that overlooks the Sydney skyline. It should feel exciting. This is the World Cup. You're living your dream.
But all you can think about is that you're going to see her again. Soon. Maybe even tonight. Because, apparently, Sydney has two hotels, or the organizers had a warped sense of humor when they put two teams in the same hotel.
You drop your bag on the bed and move to the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass. The city sprawls below, glittering in the late afternoon sun. Somewhere down there, or maybe already in this very building, Rhea Ripley is probably doing the same thing — settling in, preparing, thinking about the tournament ahead.
Is she thinking about you? Does she even remember that match?
The thought makes something hot and uncomfortable twist in your stomach. Of course she doesn't remember. You're probably just another player she's tackled, another name on an endless list. The fact that you've spent six months unable to forget the feeling of her eyes on you, the low rasp of her voice, the way her presence had felt like gravity itself —
That's your problem. Not hers.
You close your eyes and try to center yourself. You're here to play soccer. To represent your country. To chase the dream you've held since you were a little girl kicking a ball around dusty streets, imagining yourself in exactly this moment.
Rhea Ripley is just another opponent. Another obstacle between you and glory.
You almost believe it.
(...)
The hotel restaurant is exactly the kind of upscale establishment you'd expect for a World Cup venue — all soft lighting and elegant place settings, the kind of space that makes you hyper-aware of your posture. Your team has claimed a long table near the windows, and the familiar cadence of Spanish conversation wraps around you like a warm blanket. It’s good to have home even when you’re on the other side of the world.
You're picking at your food, not really tasting it, when Mari elbows you sharply in the ribs.
"No mires ahora," ("Don't look now,") she hisses, which of course makes you immediately look up.
Your heart drops straight through the floor.
The Australian team has just entered the restaurant. And leading them, impossible to miss, is Rhea Ripley.
She's wearing casual clothes — dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the breadth of her shoulders or the lean strength of her frame. Her hair is down tonight, falling in dark waves around her face, and even from across the room, you can see the sharp line of her jaw, the confidence in the way she moves.
She's laughing at something one of her teammates said, her head tilted back, and the sound carries across the space — low and genuine and completely unfair.
"Mierda," ("Shit,")you breathe, and Mari makes a choking sound that might be a suppressed laugh.
"Yo te dije," ("I told you so,") she whispers gleefully. "Te gusta." ( "You’re into her.")
"Shut up," you hiss back, but it's too late. Because Rhea has finished laughing, and now she's scanning the restaurant with those sharp blue eyes, and you know — you know — the exact moment she sees you.
Her gaze locks onto yours across the crowded space, and everything else falls away. The chatter of your teammates, the clink of silverware, the soft background music — it all becomes white noise. There's only her, and the way she's looking at you, and the slow smile that curves her lips.
Recognition. And something else, something that makes your pulse spike and your skin flush hot.
She says something to her teammates without looking away from you, then starts walking. Toward your table. Toward you.
"Ay Dios mío," ("Oh my God,") Mari mutters beside you. "Viene para acá." ("She's coming this way.")
Your teammates have noticed now too, their conversation faltering as they clock the Australian captain approaching. The energy at the table shifts — curiosity, wariness, the competitive edge that never quite goes away even in casual settings.
Rhea stops at the edge of your table, close enough that you can smell her perfume — something dark and woody with an underlying sweetness, completely at odds with her dangerous exterior. She rests one hand on the back of an empty chair, casual as anything, but you can see the careful control in the gesture, the measured way she holds herself.
"Evening, ladies," she says, her accent wrapping around the words. Her eyes haven't left yours. "Hope we're not intruding."
Your captain, Daniela, is the one who answers, her English crisp and professional. "Of course not. Congratulations on making it to the tournament."
"Cheers. You too." Rhea's smile is all sharp edges and charm. "Been looking forward to some proper competition."
There's a beat of silence, charged and expectant. You know you should say something — you're not going to let her think you're intimidated, that you've spent six months thinking about her, that the sight of her standing this close is making it genuinely difficult to remember how to form coherent sentences.
But then Rhea's attention shifts fully to you, and your carefully prepared words evaporate.
"Good to see you up and walking, darl," she says, and there's something in her tone — amusement? Challenge? — that makes your spine stiffen. "Was worried I might've done some lasting damage with that tackle."
Several of your teammates bristle at the casual mention, but you force yourself to stay calm. To meet her gaze steadily even though your heart is trying to break out of your chest.
"I'm fine," you say, and you're proud of how level your voice sounds. "Takes more than one reckless tackle to keep me down."
Rhea's smile widens, like you've said exactly what she was hoping you'd say. "Reckless, yeah? Here I thought it was good defense."
"Es que eres una bruta," ("That’s because you’re a brute,") Mari mutters beside you, just loud enough to be heard.
You don't need to translate for Rhea to get the gist. Her laugh is rough, delighted. "Your friend's got opinions, I see."
"My friend is right," you say before you can think better of it. "That tackle was excessive and you know it."
Something flickers in Rhea's eyes — respect, maybe, or intrigue. She leans forward slightly, and the movement brings her closer, makes you tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. You hate that some traitorous part of you finds it... affecting.
"Tell you what," Rhea says, her voice dropping lower, meant just for you even though the whole table is listening. "You manage to get past me in the quarters, I'll admit it was excessive. Deal?"
It's a challenge. An invitation. A promise of something that has nothing to do with soccer and everything to do with the tension crackling between you like static electricity.
You should decline. Should tell her to fuck off. Should do literally anything other than what you're about to do.
"Deal," you hear yourself say.
Rhea's smile is slow and devastating. "Good. Been thinking about facing you again, actually. That move you pulled before I tackled you — it was fucking brilliant. Almost felt bad for stopping it."
Almost, she says. Not quite. Never quite.
"Don't worry," you say, leaning back in your chair with a confidence you don't entirely feel. "You'll see it again. And this time, you won't get to me in time."
"Looking forward to it, darl."
The endearment should annoy you. It does annoy you. But it also does something else, something you refuse to name, something that pools low in your stomach and makes your skin feel too tight.
Rhea straightens up, that dangerous smile still playing at her lips. "Enjoy your dinner, ladies. See you on the field."
She walks away, back to her teammates who have claimed a table on the other side of the restaurant, and you feel like you can finally breathe again. The air rushes back into your lungs, and you realize you've been holding your breath.
"Bueno," ("Well,") Mari says slowly, drawing out the word. "Eso fue intenso."("That was intense.")
Intense doesn't even begin to cover it.
You risk a glance across the restaurant and immediately regret it, because Rhea is looking back. She catches you watching and has the audacity to wink before turning her attention to her meal.
"Te dije," ("I told you so,") Mari sings under her breath.
This time, you don't argue.
Because the worst part — the absolutely terrible, no-good, very bad part — is that Mari might actually be right. And you're going to have to play against Rhea in a few days, knowing that every tackle, every moment of contact, is going to feel like this: electric and dangerous.
Your food has gone cold on your plate. Your hands are trembling slightly, and you press them flat against your thighs beneath the table where no one can see.
The World Cup was supposed to be your dream. Your moment. Your chance to prove yourself on the biggest stage imaginable.
You just hadn't counted on Rhea Ripley being part of the dream too — or possibly the nightmare.
As you force yourself to take another bite of your dinner, you can still feel her watching you from across the room. And god help you, you want to look back.
(...)
The hotel is different at 3 AM.
Quieter, obviously, but there's more to it than that. The silence feels almost sacred, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning and the soft pad of your bare feet against the carpet. You probably should have put on shoes, but Mari's desperate whisper of "Por favor, me muero de sed" ("Please, I'm dying of thirst") had sent you stumbling out of bed before your brain fully engaged. You’re too good of a friend.
So now you're padding through the hallways in your pajamas — soft silk shorts that barely reach mid-thigh and a loose tank top, the kind of thing that's perfectly reasonable for sleeping but feels suddenly, acutely vulnerable outside the safety of your room. Your hair is loose, probably a mess, and you're not wearing a bra. Because why would you be? You were supposed to grab a bottle of water from the lobby and be back in three minutes.
The universe, apparently, has other plans.
You round the corner into the lobby, and your feet stop moving entirely.
The space is dimly lit, most of the overhead lights turned off for the night. Only a few scattered lamps cast pools of warm, amber light across the plush furniture. It should be empty. It's supposed to be empty. But there, on one of the large leather couches near the floor-to-ceiling windows, is a tangle of limbs and dark hair and —
Mierda. (Shit.)
Rhea.
She's unmistakable even in the low light. Her back is to you, her broad shoulders blocking most of your view of whoever she's with, but you can see enough. The way her hand is cupped around the back of someone's neck. The angle of her head as she kisses them — her, it's definitely a woman, blonde hair spilling over Rhea's arm. There's a girl in her lap — blonde, wearing an Australia jersey that's riding up her back. The other woman's hands are fisted in Rhea's shirt, pulling her closer, and there's something desperate about it, something hungry.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's hungry, intense, the kind of kiss that makes heat crawl up your spine even though you're just watching, even though you shouldn't be watching, even though you need to turn around right now.
Your stomach does something complicated and unpleasant.
You should leave. Immediately. Just back away slowly and pretend you never saw this, never witnessed Rhea Ripley mid-makeout session with what is most likely an overeager fan who somehow gained access to the hotel. This is none of your business. This has nothing to do with you.
But your feet won't move. You're frozen there like an idiot, heat crawling up your neck, your heart doing that stupid hammering thing it's been doing since dinner. Because even from behind, even in the middle of kissing someone else, Rhea is —
Devastadora.
The word rises unbidden in your mind, and you hate how accurate it is. Devastating. That's what she is. All that height and curves, all those muscles shifting beneath her shirt as she moves. You can see the tattoos on her arms even in the dim light, intricate and dark, winding around her forearms like vines. She's wearing black jeans — does she own anything that isn't black? — and her hair falls loose down her back in waves that look unfairly soft.
You're staring. You're absolutely staring, cataloging details you have no business noticing. The curve of her jaw. The way her shoulders taper to a narrow waist. The confidence in every line of her body, like she's never doubted her effect on people for a single second of her life.
She's hermosa. Beautiful in a way that feels almost aggressive, like she's daring you to look away.
And you can't.
No. No. No. You start to spin around. Leave, just leave before —
Rhea's eyes open.
Even in the dim light, even across the space between you, you see the exact moment she registers your presence. Her eyes — those impossibly blue eyes — lock onto yours, and she doesn't stop. She doesn't pull away from the girl in her lap. She just keeps kissing her, keeps watching you, and there's something in her gaze that feels deliberate. Purposeful.
Like she wants you to see this.
Ay Dios. (Oh God.)
You’re just standing there in your pajamas like a complete idiot, one hand still gripping a pillar for support.
When she finally pulls away from the girl that slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face.
No. No no no no —
"Well," Rhea says, her voice carrying easily across the quiet space. "Look who's up past bedtime."
The blonde woman makes a confused sound, trying to pull Rhea back to her, but Rhea is already moving. She pats the woman's thigh — actually pats it, casual and dismissive — and stands up in one fluid motion. The blonde scrambles up after her, her expression shifting from confusion to annoyance.
"Babe, where are you — "
"Gotta cut this short, love," Rhea says, not unkindly but with finality. She's not even looking at the woman anymore. Her eyes are fixed on you, bright and predatory even in the low light. "Early training tomorrow and all that."
It's a lie. You know it's a lie. She knows you know it's a lie. But the blonde woman doesn't seem to realize she's been dismissed until Rhea starts walking toward you, leaving her standing alone by the couch.
"Are you serious right now?" The blonde's voice rises, sharp with indignation. "You're just going to — "
"Yeah, I am," Rhea says without turning around. "You can see yourself out, yeah?"
The woman makes a sound of pure frustration, grabbing her purse from the couch. She storms past you toward the exit, close enough that you catch a whiff of her perfume — something cloying and too sweet — and the fury radiating off her in waves. She shoots you a glare like this is somehow your fault, then shoves through the lobby doors with enough force to make them bang against the walls.
And then it's just you and Rhea.
In the quiet lobby.
At 3 AM.
With you in your pajamas and her looking at you like you're the most interesting thing she's seen all night.
Mierda mierda mierda — (Fuck fuck fuck)
"So," Rhea says, still walking toward you with that unhurried, confident stride. "Can't sleep, darl? Or did you just miss me so much you had to come find me?"
Your brain finally catches up with your body. You need to move. Now. Before she gets any closer, before you do something phenomenally stupid like notice how her lips are still slightly red from kissing that woman, or how the top few buttons of her shirt are undone, or how there's a flush high on her cheekbones that makes her eyes look even bluer.
You spin toward the small convenience area near the lobby desk, making a beeline for the refrigerated case with water bottles. "No te hagas ilusiones," you mutter, then remember she probably doesn't speak Spanish. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just getting water."
"In your pajamas?" There's amusement in her voice, warm and rich like honey. She's following you. Of course she's following you. "Cute shorts, by the way. You always wander around hotels in the middle of the night?" she asks, her accent wrapping around the words like honey. "Or just when you're hoping to run into someone?"
Heat floods your face, and you yank open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The cold air hits your overheated skin, providing exactly zero relief from the awareness prickling down your spine. "I wasn't—" You cut yourself off, furious at the implication. Furious at this ridiculous brute of a woman. "My friend needed water."
"Right. Your friend." Rhea's smile widens, like she doesn't believe you for a second. "That the same friend who called me a brute earlier?"
You grab two water bottles — one for you, one for Mari — and slam the fridge closed. When you turn around, Rhea is right there.
Too close.
Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at her, and god, you'd forgotten how much the height difference affects you. She's got at least ten centimeters on you, maybe more, and she knows exactly what it does. You can see it in the way she's standing, one hip cocked, arms crossed loosely over her chest, drawing attention to the lean muscles of her forearms and the dark ink that covers them.
"She wasn't wrong." Up close, you can see more piercings — a small hoop through the nostril of her nose, two on the other one. Her eyeliner is smudged slightly at the corners, giving her a dangerous, lived-in look that should be illegal. And her lips —
"Maybe not." Rhea takes a step closer, and you instinctively take a step back, your spine hitting the refrigerated section. The cold glass against your back is a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from her proximity. "But I don't think that's why you're so worked up about it." You suddenly realize you can see her cleavage now and...Mierda.
You force your eyes back to hers. Safer. Except no, that's not safer at all, because she's watching you with this knowing expression, like she can read every thought crossing your mind. Your heart is trying to break through your ribs. "I'm not worked up."
"No?" She's close enough now that you can see the faint freckles scattered across her nose, the multiple piercings in her ears catching the fluorescent light. Close enough that if you breathed too deeply, you'd brush against her. "Because you look pretty worked up to me, darl. Been looking worked up since the restaurant."
"That's—" You're fumbling for words, for any response that doesn't involve admitting she's right. "You're so fucking arrogant."
Rhea laughs, and the sound vibrates through the small space between your bodies. "Yeah, I am. But I'm also observant." Her hand comes up, bracing against the glass beside your head, caging you in without touching you. "And I've been observing you."
Dios mío. This is bad. This is very bad. Because she's so close you can count her eyelashes, can see the faint scar above her eyebrow, can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. And she's hermosa—devastatingly, impossibly beautiful in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. All sharp angles and dangerous curves, gothic and gorgeous with her dark hair and pale skin and those piercing blue eyes that see too much.
It would be easy.
No. Absolutely not.
"I need to go," you manage, but you don't move. Can't move. You're pinned by her gaze and by her, literally, the intoxicating pull of her presence.
"Yeah?" Rhea's voice has dropped lower, rougher. "Sure about that?"
You're not sure about anything anymore. Your thoughts are a mess of words you should say and pure sensation—the cold at your back, the heat in front of you, the way your body is betraying you by leaning slightly forward instead of pulling away.
"Rhea—" Her name on your lips feels dangerous.
"Say it again." It's not a request. Her eyes have darkened, fixed on your mouth, and there's something almost hungry in her expression. "Like that. With your accent."
This is insane. You're in the middle of a hotel shop at 3 AM, barely dressed, being cornered by the captain of the team you're supposed to destroy in a few days. The same woman who nearly crippled you six months ago. The same woman who was just kissing someone else. The same woman who's looking at you now like she wants to devour you whole.
And the worst part—the absolutely unforgivable part—is that you want to let her.
It doesn't seem like it would be bad at all.
"I have to go," you say again, but it comes out breathless, unconvincing.
Rhea hums, a low sound in her chest. Her free hand comes up, and for one heart-stopping moment you think she's going to touch you. Your entire body tenses in anticipation.
But she doesn't. Her fingers hover just a breath away from your jaw, close enough that you can feel the heat of her skin but not close enough to actually make contact.
"Move," you say, and you're proud of how steady you sound despite the chaos in your chest.
For a moment, Rhea doesn't. She just looks at you, something complicated crossing her face—want and restraint warring for a moment. Then she pushes off the glass and steps back, giving you space.
Rhea doesn't try to stop you, but she does turn as you pass, tracking your movement. As you move past her, clutching your water bottle like armor, her voice follows you. "See you at breakfast, darl?"
"Maybe."
"I'll save you a seat."
"Don't bother."
Her laugh follows you across the lobby, low and rich and far too satisfied. "Already bothering, love. Can't seem to help it."
You don't respond. You just keep walking, clutching your water bottles like lifelines, your heart beating so hard you're surprised it doesn't echo off the walls. You can feel her watching you the entire way to the elevators, the weight of her gaze like a physical touch between your shoulder blades.
The elevator doors slide shut, blocking her from view, and you finally let yourself breathe.
"Mierda," ("Shit,") you whisper to your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes too bright. You look exactly like someone who just got flustered by their rival looking devastatingly hot while dismissing a hookup to talk to them instead.
Which is insane. Because you don't want to be that girl. You don't want to be another conquest for Rhea Ripley, another person she can make fall apart with just a smile and that low, accented voice.
You want to beat her on the field. To prove that you're better. To wipe that confident smirk off her face with a goal so beautiful it makes her eat her words and her stupid attitude.
That's what you want.
Definitely.
The elevator reaches your floor, and you practically sprint back to your room. Mari is still awake, propped up against the headboard scrolling through her phone. She takes one look at your face and sits up straighter.
"¿Qué pasó?" ("What happened?") she demands. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or — " Her eyes narrow. "La viste a ella, ¿verdad?" ("You saw her, didn't you?")
You wordlessly hand her a water bottle and collapse face-first onto your bed.
"Ay, no," Mari says, but she's laughing. "¿Qué hizo esta vez?" ("What did she do this time?")
"Nothing," you mumble into your pillow. "Todo. She did everything."
"That makes no sense."
"Lo sé." ("I know.")
Mari is quiet for a moment, then: "¿Todavía piensas que no te gusta?" ("Do you still think you’re not into her?")
The question hangs in the air, damning and impossible to answer honestly.
Because the truth is, you're starting to suspect that "into her" isn't strong enough for whatever this is. This pull. This magnetic, inevitable thing that makes you notice the way her lips curve when she smiles, the rasp in her voice when she calls you "darl," the casual strength in every movement.
But admitting that — even to yourself — feels like losing.
"No me gusta,"("I’m not into her,") you say firmly. "She's arrogant and reckless and — "
"Hermosa," ("Beautiful,") Mari supplies helpfully.
" — and I'm going to destroy her in the quarterfinals."
"Ajá. Sure you will." You throw a pillow at her. She catches it easily, still grinning like she knows every secret you're trying to hide.
Maybe she does. Maybe it's written all over your face — the want and the frustration, the way your skin still feels hot where Rhea's gaze had lingered. Maybe you're that transparent, that easy to read.
You pull the blanket over your head and try not to think about blue eyes and dangerous smiles and the way your name sounds in that accent.
You fail spectacularly.
Outside your window, Sydney sleeps. But you're wide awake, your mind replaying every second of that lobby encounter, and you know — you absolutely know — that when you finally drift off, you're going to dream of her.
Again.
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