𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞 .

the sun hung low over joan gamper, casting long shadows across the pitch as the final whistle blew. you wiped sweat from your forehead, chest still heaving from the last set of drills. eight months with lena had settled into a strange rhythm- comforting on the good days, exhausting on most others. she lived outside this world of constant travel and pressure, and lately the space between seeing her had stretched wider than ever.

“buen trabajo, chicas,” good work, girls alexia called, voice steady under the captain’s armband. on the pitch she stayed precise and focused, corrections sharp but fair, pushing everyone without unnecessary softness. but when her eyes found you across the grass, something shifted. the edges softened.

you jogged over as she reviewed notes with the staff. “knee holding up after that last sequence?”

she looked up, offering the small smile reserved only for you. “si, estoy bien. just thinking about the next one.” her hand brushed your arm, lingering a second longer than necessary- a quiet anchor.

the two of you had been inseparable since you joined barca in 2021. best friends first, always. late night talks, shared rides home, her quietly taking you under her wing when your spanish was still shaky and everything felt overwhelming. the tension underneath it all had grown over the years, but neither of you ever named it.

the girls clustered near the tunnel, peeling off training vests. ingrid fell into step beside you, mapi on your other side. “plans tonight?” ingrid asked, casual but with that careful edge.

you checked your phone. another text from lena- short, delayed. sorry babe, work ran over again. we can always reschedule? third time this month. “lena’s stuck late again. so thats a no from me.”

mapi made a small noise. “shame. thought we were your first pick.”

“come with us instead,” ingrid added, rubbing your back. “proper meal after today. that assist in the small-sided game was nice.”

frido slung an arm around your shoulders from behind. “that little spot near the harbor. good patatas. and it’ll take your mind off of things. lena seems busy a lot lately, huh?”

you laughed it off, used to the gentle nudges. “big project at her job.”

alexia slowed until she matched your stride. “you should come,” she said quietly, just for you. “my place is closer anyway. you can stay after.”

the offer felt warm, familiar. most nights when lena canceled, you ended up at alexia’s. her couch had slowly become more yours than not.

“alright, i’m in.”

⸻

dinner with the team was loud and easy, the kind of night that reminded you why this squad felt like family. you sat between alexia and frido, knee occasionally brushing hers under the table. she didn’t pull away. her hand rested near yours on the bench, close enough for heat to radiate.

“you looked good today,” alexia murmured during a lull, voice low. “that pass that split the defense- classic.”

“thanks, capi.” you used the nickname lightly, knowing it made her roll her eyes in private but smile anyway.

around the others she stayed composed, but with you the walls dropped. the girls kept conversation light, but the undercurrent lingered. ingrid mentioned how relationships were hard with your schedule, how the right person showed up anyway. mapi hummed in agreement. no names. no direct shots at lena. just enough to plant the seed.

later, in alexia’s car, the city lights blurred past. “thanks for letting me tag along again,” you said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“you never have to thank me.” she started the engine, radio low. “you spend more time at mine than i do anyway.” a pause. “lena canceled again?”

“yeah.”

she didn’t push, but the silence felt heavier lately, charged with everything unsaid. she had waited since 2021, watching you date people who never quite saw you the way she did. holding you through breakups without crossing the line. it had worn on her quietly, especially these last eight months.

at her apartment you kicked off your shoes by the door. the familiar scent of lavender wrapped around you. you had your own drawer in the guest room now. alexia moved to the kitchen, pulling ingredients for your recovery shake without asking-  heavy on strawberries, light on banana.

“you don’t have to do that every time,” you said, leaning on the counter.

“i want to. besides, it’s good recovery for your body.” her voice softened, captain mask gone. just alexia- attentive, warm, crumbling in the way she only did for you.

you took the glass, fingers lingering against hers. “what would i do without you, ale?”

her eyes held yours a beat too long. “you’d be fine. but i’m glad you’ll never have to find out.”

⸻

the next few days blurred between training and recovery. on the pitch alexia directed with quiet authority, voice carrying without shouting. “keep the press higher,” she called during set pieces. the squad responded instinctively.

off the pitch her glances toward you carried everything. she pulled you aside after one tough sequence, hand on your waist to steady you. “breathe, amor. we do it together, okay?”

the touch lingered. around the team she kept it professional, but everyone who paid attention noticed the way she softened for you.

evenings at her place became routine. shared meals, deep conversations, her arm around you on the couch while movies played mostly ignored. one night you vented lightly about lena’s latest cancellation.

“it’s fine. she’s got her thing.”

alexia listened, jaw set but voice gentle. “it doesn’t sound fine.” she passed you tea made exactly how you liked it. “you deserve someone who shows up, mi vida.”

you lifted your head from her shoulder. the spanish phrase made your stomach flip, even if you didn’t catch every word.

she pulled you closer, thumb tracing circles on your arm. the tension hummed stronger lately-years of almosts building between best friends who had always been more.

⸻

two days before the champions league fixture, you decided to surprise lena. flowers in hand, you let yourself into her place with the spare key. voices drifted from the bedroom, door slightly ajar. you pushed it open.

lena in bed with someone else. sheets tangled. laughter cutting off sharply.

“what the fuck?” the flowers slipped from your hand.

lena scrambled up, face flushing. “y/n, wait. this isn’t- she’s just a friend. things got carried away.”

“carried away?” anger flared hot. “i’ve been making excuses for you for eight months. missed games, rescheduled dinners- everything. and now this?”

the other woman grabbed clothes and slipped out. lena pulled on a shirt, tone shifting to accusation. “you’re never here anyway! always with the team, always with alexia. what am i supposed to do?”

“she’s my best friend,” you yelled. “you’re the one i was with. don’t turn this on me.”

the fight escalated- voices overlapping, blame flying. lena threw your closeness with alexia in your face, claiming it justified everything. you grabbed your things and slammed the door, chest tight with rage and betrayal. eight months ending in screams. strangely, relief mixed with the hurt.

you drove straight to alexia’s without thinking.

⸻

she opened the door in recovery clothes, face shifting from surprise to deep concern the second she saw you. “what happened?”

“lena cheated. i walked in on it.” the words broke. “we yelled. she blamed it on how much time i spend with you. said it justified everything.”

alexia pulled you inside immediately. “ven aqui.”

she wrapped you in strong arms, one hand stroking your back, the other cradling your head. you let the tears fall as she guided you to the couch, rocking you gently.

“breathe, mi vida. i’ve got you.” she kissed your temple, then your forehead, catching tears with soft lips. “lo siento.” i’m sorry.

every press was tender, focused only on you. you curled closer, the safety of her arms muting the sharpness of the breakup. minutes stretched while she whispered reassurances, fingers threading through your hair.

when you finally looked up, eyes red but clearer, she cupped your face. the kiss landed tentative at first- years of restraint breaking. then deeper, full of everything she’d held back. when you pulled away just enough to breathe, she rested her forehead against yours.

“te quiero,” she whispered, voice thick. “i have for so long.”

tears slipped again but you smiled. “i love you too, ale. i think i have for a while.”

she kissed you once more, slower, pouring in every quiet night, every protective glance, every time she waited. “stay. we’ll figure everything else later.”

⸻

the rest of the evening passed in quiet closeness. she made tea exactly how you liked it and listened as you vented more about the fight. no jealousy, just steady support. “she never saw you right. but i do.”

conversations flowed genuine and deep, the years of tension finally releasing into something real. kisses came easy between words- soft, reassuring. the girls sent casual texts in the group chat, keeping things light. frido asked about a playlist. mapi shared a meme that made you laugh despite everything. no prying. just family.

that night you slept in her bed, wrapped in alexia’s arms, her lips pressed to your hair. “te quiero,” she murmured again. the sadness lingered but felt manageable here.

⸻

the next morning training brought new lightness. jonatan gave you a knowing nod during warmups, keeping an extra eye but not hovering. on the pitch alexia directed with her usual quiet authority- cool and precise. “tighter on the left.” but her glances toward you carried soft promise.

water breaks brought small touches, her hand brushing yours behind the bottles. the girls kept conversation natural, chatting about match prep and silly stories. ingrid pulled you into talk about a new series. it felt right.

after training you ended up back at alexia’s, tangled on the couch exchanging more i love yous between kisses. the path ahead felt open, built on years of genuine care finally named.

and if alexia knew one thing for certain, it’s that she could love you better. better than any other woman ever could try.

⸻

the camp nou floodlights always felt brighter after a win. tonight they burned gold against the dark barcelona sky as the team filtered back into the tunnel, adrenaline still crackling between shoulders and laughter echoing off the concrete. you jogged beside alexia, her captain’s arm slung loose around your waist like it belonged there. no one blinked anymore. not really. the squad had learned to read the space between you two the way they read the pitch- instinctivly, protectively.

“otra vez, eh?” she murmured, voice low enough for only you. her fingers pressed once against your ribs, a silent good game. you’d assisted her second goal. she’d celebrated like it was the only one that mattered.

“couldn’t let you do it all yourself, capi.”

her smile curved against the edge of your vision, tired and fond and something sharper underneath. lately that sharper thing had been showing up more. contracts. agents. whispers from spain and abroad. you tried not to think about it.

in the changing room the mood stayed high- mapi blasting reggaeton, ingrid attempting (and failing) to confiscate the speaker, esmee already half-asleep on the bench with her boots still on. alexia sat beside you, thigh warm against yours, untying her laces with the same focused precision she brought to free-kicks. when her knee brushed yours again, deliberate this time, heat climbed your neck.

later, in the quiet of her apartment overlooking the city, she pulled you down onto the couch without turning on the lights. barcelona glittered below like scattered stars. her mouth found yours slow and certain, the kind of kiss that said stay here, stay real. you tasted salt and victory on her tongue.

“you were incredible tonight, amor” she whispered between breaths, hands sliding under your shirt to map the bruises already blooming along your hips.

“so were you.” you nipped at her jaw. “two goals, one assist, and still managed to yell at the ref in three languages.”

she laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. for a moment everything felt simple. teammates. lovers. home.

but the offers kept coming.

⸻

the first one had arrived quietly three weeks earlier. a polite email from a wsl club. then psg. then a record-breaking proposal from german club that made even alexia’s agent raise an eyebrow. she didn’t hide them from you. that wasn’t her way. instead she left her laptop open on the kitchen island one morning while you made coffee, the subject lines glowing like accusations.

you read them while she watched you, arms crossed, wearing nothing but one of your old training tops.

“big numbers,” you said, keeping your voice neutral.

“big pressure.” she came up behind you, chin on your shoulder. “they want an answer by the end of the month.”

your stomach twisted. “and what do you want, ale?”

she turned you in her arms, eyes searching. “i want to wake up next to you after home games. i want to fight for the same badge every weekend. i want… i want this. us. here.”

you kissed her then, fierce and a little desperate, because wanting wasn’t always enough in football. contracts had expiration dates. ambition had teeth.

⸻

training the next day was brutal. double sessions under the relentless sun. you watched alexia move through it all- captain voice sharp during drills, body language protective when younger players struggled. she still covered more ground than anyone, still demanded perfection, but there was a new tension in her shoulders. you caught her staring across the pitch at you more than once, expression unreadable.

after the final whistle she pulled you aside near the medical room.

“come to my place tonight. no team dinner. just us.”

you nodded as if you werent there 6 nights of your week. when you arrived she had cooked- simple grilled fish, salad, a bottle of rioja already breathing. candles, even. alexia wasn’t usually this intentional. it made your heart race in a way that wasn’t entirely pleasant.

halfway through dinner she set her fork down.

“i turned down psg today.”

you blinked. “ale-”

“they offered ridiculous money. champions league final guarantees. but i told them no.” she reached across the table, lacing your fingers. her thumb stroked over your knuckles like she was memorizing the feel. “i’m not finished here. not with this team. not with you.”

relief crashed through you so hard your eyes stung. you stood, rounded the table, and climbed into her lap. she welcomed you instantly, arms wrapping tight around your back.

“i’m scared of losing you,” you admitted against her neck.

“i know.” her hand rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades. “i’m scared too. every time another offer comes in i think… what if staying means i’m holding you back? or holding myself back?”

you pulled back to look at her. “you’re notholding me back. us isn’t holding anyone back. it’s the reason we keep pushing.”

she kissed you like she believed it. deep, searching, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you as she stood. you wrapped your legs around her waist, laughing breathlessly as she carried you toward the bedroom, lips never leaving yours.

in the soft glow of the bedside lamp she laid you down gently, eyes never leaving your face. her hands moved with reverence, peeling away your clothes like she was unwrapping something sacred. you did the same, fingers tracing the familiar lines of her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the faint scars that told stories of battles won.

“ale,” you whispered as she settled between your legs, skin warm and flushed against yours.

“shh, mi amor. let me love you.” her mouth found your collarbone, then lower, pressing open kisses along the path her hands had taken. every touch was slow, deliberate, like she wanted to memorize the way your breath hitched when she grazed a sensitive spot.

you arched into her when her fingers slipped between your thighs, gentle circles that built heat in waves. she watched you the whole time, eyes dark and full of adoration, murmuring soft praises in catalan and spanish that you couldnt understand but that made your chest ache. when you came undone the first time it was with her name on your lips, quiet and trembling.

she didn’t stop. instead she shifted, pulling you on top so you could move together, bodies rocking in a rhythm that felt like breathing. your hands explored her freely- cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples until she gasped. you kissed down her neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point that always made her hips stutter.

“i love you,” she breathed as your fingers found her center, slick and ready. you moved in sync, slow and deep, foreheads pressed together, sharing every moan and sigh. the world narrowed to just this: the slide of skin, the warmth of her breath on your lips, the way her thighs trembled around you when she finally fell over the edge, pulling you with her in a soft, shuddering release.

afterward you stayed tangled together, sweat cooling, hearts slowing. she held you close, one leg draped over yours, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

“stay with me,” she murmured, half-asleep. “always.”

“i’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

the rumors intensified anyway.

tabloids loved a story: alexia putellas tempted by mega-offer. barcelona’s queen considering her throne. teammates started giving you both careful looks in the dressing room. mapi cornered you after gym one afternoon, blunt as ever.

“if she leaves, you tell her she’s an idiot. but if she stays for you and regrets it later…” mapi shrugged, eyes serious. “that’s worse.”

“whatever she does i know she wont regret it. she’s not the type to look back. you of all people should know that.”

mapi studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “good. because she looks at you like you hung the moon, and in my years of knowing her, i’ve never seen her look at anyone else like that. not even the game.”

the words lodged in your chest.

⸻

international break arrived like a pressure valve. most of the squad scatteredin spain however some scatted- norway, sweden, england. you and alexia stayed in barcelona. she had a minor strain in her calf that the physios wanted monitored, and you simply refused to leave her side.

you spent lazy mornings in bed, tangled sheets and soft kisses. afternoons walking the quiet streets of sarria, caps pulled low, fingers brushing but never fully holding. evenings on her balcony with music playing low, her head in your lap while you ran fingers through her hair.

one night she was quieter than usual. you’d cooked together- burnt the edges of the tortilla because she kept distracting you with hands on your hips and kisses to your neck. now you sat on the couch, her back against your chest, your arms around her.

“another one came today,” she said eventually. “from chelsea. they want me for the project. new era, all that.”

your arms tightened instinctively. “what did you say?”

“i haven’t answered.” she turned her head, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “but it’s… tempting. the football they want to play. it’s admirable. but something about playing against barca- i don’t know if i could bring myself to.”

you swallowed. “you should consider it. properly. not just… us.”

she sat up, facing you fully. the city hummed behind her. “that’s the thing. every time i sit down to consider it, i picture next season without you on the left wing. without your stupid celebrations when i score. without coming home with you after losses and knowing you get it. you get me.” her voice cracked slightly. “how do i walk away from that?”

tears pricked your eyes. “ale…”

“i love you,” she said simply. like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “not just as my teammate. not just as the person who makes the pitch feel like magic. i love you. the way you steal my hoodies. the way you argue with the coaches when they’re too hard on the kids. the way you look at me like i’m still just alexia, even when the whole world sees me as la reina.”

you pulled her in, kissing her hard. salt from tears mixed with the taste of her. when you broke apart you rested your forehead against hers.

“i love you too. so much it scares me. but i don’t want to be the reason you turn down something huge. i’d follow you. if you went to london or paris or wherever. we’d make it work.”

her hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears. “i know you would. but this is our home. this club, this city, this team. i built something here. we built something here.” she smiled, small and fierce. “maybe i’ll stay.”

⸻

the weeks blurred after that. more offers. more conversations. more nights where you held each other like anchors. the team sensed the shift- extra hugs from ingrid, knowing smirks from mapi, quiet solidarity from everyone. barcelona kept winning. you and alexia kept finding each other on the pitch in perfect sync, like the universe itself approved.

one evening after a particularly grueling champions league match- 2-1 away against lyon- you both collapsed into her bed still half in kit, too exhausted to shower immediately. her head rested on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

“i signed the new contract today,” she whispered.

you froze. “you… what?”

“two more years. with an option for longer.” she lifted her head, eyes bright even in the low light. “i told them i’m staying. the club, the fans, you… this is where i belong.”

joy exploded in your chest. you rolled her beneath you, kissing her until you were both laughing and breathless. “you’re sure?”

“i’ve never been more sure of anything.” her legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. “being here with you… it’s heaven. why would i ever leave heaven?”

you revelved in eachothers prescence, savoring every touch, every sigh, every whispered promise. no more uncertainty. just the two of you, teammates and lovers, choosing each other again and again.

⸻

the final match of the season arrived under perfect barcelona skies. the crowd sang louder than usual, banners waving for alexia, for the team, for the future. you found her in the tunnel before kickoff, nerves and excitement buzzing between you.

she caught your hand, squeezed once. “whatever happens today, we do it together.”

“always.”

you scored in the 28th minute. she scored the winner in the 67th. when the final whistle blew the entire squad piled on top of you both in celebration. cameras flashed. fans roared. in the chaos alexia found your eyes across the pile of bodies and smiled like the rest of the world disappeared.

later, on the pitch during the trophy lift, she pulled you aside for a quiet moment while confetti rained down. the noise was deafening but somehow it felt private.

“thank you,” she said, voice rough with emotion. “for reminding me what matters.”

you leaned in, foreheads touching. “we remind each other.”

she kissed you softly- quick, but full of everything unsaid. the cameras probably caught it. neither of you cared anymore.

as the night stretched long with celebrations, music thumping through the streets, alexia kept you close. her hand in yours, her laugh in your ear, her future woven with yours.

and when the fireworks painted the sky and the team sang old songs until their voices gave out, she leaned close one last time and murmured the words against your temple like a secret and a vow all at once.

heaven can wait.

⸻

୨ৎ alexia putellas

waiting room - phoebe bridgers wc: 9.6k+ | slightlytoxic!alexia x slightlytoxicfem!reader, relationship/breakup au, angst — 01  who am I to ask for more, more, more ?    🫧 💌   — 02 know it’s for the better    🫧 💌  

sex on fire - kings of leon wc: 7.0k+ | rival!alexia x rivalfem!reader, enemies to lovers au, angst (?), smut — 01 your sex is on fire    🫧 ☕   — 02 consumed (with what’s to transpire)    🫧 ☕  

heaven can wait - michael jackson 🥐 💌 wc: 2.3k+ | girlfriend!alexia x girlfriendfem!reader, teammates/lovers au, heaps of fluff, smut

i can love you - mary j blige 🫧 🥐 wc: 1.7k+ | bestfriend!alexia x bestfriendfem!reader, best friends/teammates/lovers au, cheating, angst (?), fluff

the national team hotel feels like a pressure cooker wearing the same old lights.

two weeks of nothing. absolutely nothing. more nothing than nothing. two weeks of silence so loud it drowned out everything else. two weeks pretending the supply closet never happened.

⸻

you spot her the second you walk into the lobby.

alexia stands near the elevators in a spain tracksuit, hair tied back, talking quietly with mapi like the world is perfectly ordinary. when her gaze lands on you, it slides right past- cool, detached, barely a flicker of recognition.

“hola,” she says. flat. indifferent. the same tone she’d use for any random teammate.

your stomach twists hard. you nod once, acknowledging her acknowledge, jaw clenched, and continuing to walk.

the whole day is hell wrapped in professionalism.

on the pitch she marks you cleanly but without fire- no extra shoulder, no low taunts, no lingering eye contact that once set your skin alight (not that she was the type to do so, but with radio silence your brain definitely had started coming to conclusions). during tactical meetings she sits on the opposite side of the room. at dinner she laughs at something aitana says and doesn’t look your way once. every polite, distant interaction feels like a deliberate blade twisting deeper.

by the time curfew hits, you’re vibrating with rage and something sharper underneath it. something that feels dangerously like hurt. like longing wearing a cruel mask.

you hate her for it.

you hate her more because you know exactly why she’s doing it.

and still- you walk straight to room 412 anyway.

why? why not.

three sharp knocks.

the door opens almost immediately. alexia stands there in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders. she doesn’t look surprised. she just steps aside silently, letting you in.

the second the door clicks shut behind you, the air thickens.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you demand, voice low but sharp enough to cut.

she leans against the desk, arms crossed, face carefully blank. “nothing.”

“bullshit.” you step closer, fists clenched at your sides. “two weeks of radio silence after you fucked me in that closet and whispered ‘next time’ like it meant something. then today you look at me like i’m a stranger. like touching me was some kind of mistake you’d rather forget.”

alexia’s jaw tightens. her eyes flash for the first time all day- that familiar mix of anger and heat you’ve come to crave.

“you think this is easy for me?” she says quietly, dangerously. “you think i can just walk around camp eye-fucking you while twenty teammates are watching our every move? im a private person, y/n. one wrong look and this whole thing explodes.”

“so instead you chose to make me feel like shit?” your laugh is bitter, edged with pain. “you ignored me like i was nothing. after you had me against that shelf, after you said my name like it belonged to you. congratulations, putellas. you succeeded in making me hate you even more.”

she pushes off the desk, closing the distance until only inches separate you. you can smell her shampoo, feel the heat rolling off her body, see the slight tremble in her fingers where she’s fighting for control.

“you think i enjoyed it?” her voice drops, rougher now, cracking at the edges. “you think i liked pretending you don’t exist when all i could think about for two weeks was how you tasted? how you clenched around my fingers? how you bit my shoulder so no one would hear you come?”

the words hit low and hard. heat floods your body even as anger burns hotter in your chest.

“then why?” you whisper, voice shaking. “why act like you hate me?”

alexia’s hand shoots out, grabbing the front of your hoodie. she yanks you forward until your foreheads almost touch, breath mingling.

“because i do hate you,” she breathes against your mouth, eyes anything but the familiar brown and gold you’ve come to hate loving. “i hate how badly i want you. i hate that i can’t stop thinking about you. i hate that you’re the only person who makes me lose control like this. i hate how much control you have over me.”

then she kisses you.

it’s not soft. it’s angry and desperate and honest in a way that scares you both. teeth clash. lips bruise. her hands shove your hoodie up and off in one rough motion. you rip her t-shirt over her head in return, nails dragging down her bare back hard enough to leave marks.

“say it again,” you demand, biting her bottom lip until she hisses.

“i hate you,” she growls, walking you backward toward the bed. her hands are already pushing your shorts down. “i hate how wet you already are for me. i hate that your body reacts like this even when you’re pissed.”

you shove her down onto the mattress and climb on top, straddling her hips. both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving, skin already flushed.

“good,” you whisper, grinding down against her, leaving a slick trail on her thigh. “because i hate you too. i hate how much i need this. how much i need you even when you treat me like i’m disposable.”

alexia’s hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise as she flips you underneath her in one smooth motion. her mouth finds your neck, sucking a dark mark just below your jaw where your collar might hide it- or might not.

“then let me show you how much i hate you, princesa.”

⸻

clothes vanish fast after that, scattered across the floor like casualties.

she strips you like she’s angry at every layer keeping her from your skin. when you’re both finally naked she pins your wrists above your head with one hand and kisses down your body with biting, open-mouthed drags of her lips and teeth- collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the dip of your stomach. when she reaches between your legs she groans low in her throat.

“fuck… look at you.” two fingers slide through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance. “soaked. all because i ignored you today?”

“shut up,” you hiss, hips jerking up desperately.

she doesn’t. instead she sinks two fingers deep inside you and curls them perfectly, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. your back arches off the bed with a broken moan that echoes in the quiet room.

“that’s it,” she whispers, watching your face like she’s memorizing every flicker of pleasure and pain. “hate me while you fuck yourself on my hand. show me how much you’ve been thinking about this.”

you do. you roll your hips desperately while she fucks you deep and steady, adding a third finger that stretches you beautifully. the anger and the pleasure twist together until you can’t tell which is driving you higher.

“i hate you,” you gasp as the orgasm builds fast and vicious.

“i know,” she says, voice wrecked. she leans down and bites your collarbone, sucking hard. “come anyway. let me feel it.”

you shatter- hard, clenching around her fingers, her name tearing from your throat like a curse and a confession. she works you through it, slower now but not stopping, whispering filthy, conflicted things against your neck.

“i hate how perfect you feel. i hate how much i missed this. i hate that i’d risk everything just to hear you moan like that again.”

you flip her the second your limbs cooperate.

this time you take control, kissing down her body with the same biting hunger. you spread her thighs wide and drag your tongue up her center slowly, savoring the way she shudders.

“say it,” you demand against her soaked pussy.

alexia’s hand fists tightly in your hair. “i hate you,” she moans as you suck hard on her clit. “i hate how good you are at this. i hate that no one else makes me feel like this.”

her words cut off in a sharp cry as you slide three fingers inside her and curl them relentlessly. you eat her out like you’re trying to ruin her for anyone else- relentless, deep, every stroke laced with weeks of frustration and unspoken longing. she comes hard, thighs shaking around your head, moaning your name like it hurts her. you don’t stop. you keep going, gentler but still insistent, until she’s coming again, quieter this time, almost sobbing with overstimulation and relief.

you crawl back up her body and kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on your tongue. for a moment the kiss softens- still desperate, but heavier with everything neither of you wants to name out loud.

alexia pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“i wasn’t indifferent,” she admits, voice hoarse. “i was fucking terrified. still am. terrified of how much i want you. of what this is becoming.”

you rest your forehead against hers, both of you breathing the same charged air.

“good. be terrified. it means you feel it too- this stupid, messy, burning thing between us.”

she kisses you again- slower, deeper, almost tender for a heartbeat- before the fire catches once more. her hands slide down your body, gripping your ass as she pulls you closer, grinding up against you.

the night is far from over.

you ride her thigh while she grips your hips and tells you exactly how much she hates how badly she needs you. she fucks you from behind with deep, punishing strokes of her fingers while biting your shoulder and admitting she’s replayed that supply closet every single night for two weeks.

the hate and the want keep bleeding into each other, feeding the flames higher.

you’re both slick with sweat, chests heaving, when alexia suddenly stills beneath you. her hands tighten on your waist, holding you in place as you grind down on her.

“wait,” she murmurs, voice rough like gravel.

you freeze, breathing hard, looking down at her. her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but there’s something else there too- a flicker of decision.

“what?” you ask, half-challenging, half-curious.

she sits up slowly, bringing your bodies flush together. her lips brush your ear.

“i want more tonight.” a pause. her fingers trace your spine. “i brought something.”

your stomach flips. heat coils tighter between your legs.

“show me.”

alexia kisses you once- hard, claiming- then gently shifts you off her lap. she leans over the side of the bed, reaching into her suitcase. when she straightens, she’s holding a harness and a thick, long silicone, dark shades of blue and garnet stripes, almost humorous if it wasn’t intimidating

she watches your reaction carefully, almost vulnerably.

“why is it barca themed?”, you ask with an eye roll.

“callete. only if you want it,” she says her tone of voice going from snappy to shy. the arrogance from earlier is gone. this is raw alexia- the one who pretends to hate how much she feels.

you reach out, wrapping your hand around the toy, then around her tattooed wrist.

“i want it,” you tell her. “i want you to fuck me with it. hard.”

her eyes flash with fresh hunger. “get on your back, princesa.”

you obey, spreading your legs for her as she steps into the harness, tightening the straps around her hips. the sight of her- toned abs, strong biteable thighs, the strap jutting out heavy and ready- makes you ache.

alexia crawls over you, kissing you slow and deep while she teases the head of the toy through your folds. you’re so wet it glides easily.

“still hate me?” she whispers against your lips, nudging the tip just inside you.

“yes,” you breathe, rolling your hips up, trying to take more. “i hate how much i need you to fill me.”

she pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open. the burn is perfect. you moan loudly, nails digging into her shoulders. when she bottoms out, hips flush against yours, she stays there, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“fuck, you feel so good,” she groans. “so tight around me.”

“move, alexia,” you demand, voice breaking. “fuck me like you mean all that hate.”

she does.

the first thrust is deep and measured. the second harder. soon she’s fucking you with long, powerful strokes that hit every spot inside you. the sound of skin meeting skin, your shared moans, and the wet slide of the strap fills the room.

you wrap your legs around her waist, pulling her deeper.

“harder,” you gasp. “please amor.”

alexia growls, shifting her angle and driving into you faster. the harness presses against her clit with every thrust, making her breath hitch. she pins your hands above your head again, eyes locked on yours.

“i hate how much i love fucking you,” she admits between thrusts. “but i love how your face looks when you take me like this.”

you’re close already, the emotional weight and physical intensity pushing you toward the edge. she senses it, grinding deep and circling her hips.

“come for me,” she commands softly. “let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”

you shatter with a cry, clenching haard around the strap, body shaking beneath her. alexia fucks you through it, slower but no less deep, kissing you through the aftershocks.

but she doesn’t pull out.

instead she flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so you’re on all fours. she re-enters you in one smooth thrust, hand fisting your hair gently.

“again,” she says. “i’m not done hating you yet.”

the new angle is devastating. she fucks you deep and relentless, one hand reaching around to rub your clit. you push back against her, meeting every thrust, moaning into the pillow.

“tell me,” she demands, voice strained. “tell me you hate me while i’m inside you.”

“i hate you,” you moan, pushing back harder. “i hate how full you make me feel. i hate how much i want this every day.”

her rhythm falters for a second, then she doubles down, pounding into you. the slap of her hips against your ass is loud, obscene. you come again, harder this time, nearly collapsing forward. alexia holds you up, fucking you through it until her own orgasm hits from the friction against her clit. she grinds deep, moaning your name against your back as she trembles.

⸻

you barely have time to catch your breath before she’s pulling out gently, removing the harness and setting it aside. but she’s not finished.

she lies back and pulls you on top of her again, guiding your hand between her legs.

“your turn,” she whispers. “fuck me with your fingers while i still feel you.”

you do - sliding three fingers into her soaked pussy, curling them exactly how she likes. she rides your hand desperately, kissing you messily, whispering broken confessions between moans.

“i hate wanting you this much… i hate needing you… i hate that you’re ruining me for anyone else…”

“the word hate tends lose its meaning after you overuse it, you know.” you retort, a smirk growing on your face as you add a fourth finger, stretching her, and after song moments she comes with a sharp cry, clenching around you, thighs shaking.

the night blurs into a long, consuming haze.

you take turns. she fucks you with the strap again on the edge of the bed, your legs over her shoulders, hitting so deep you see stars. you ride her face while she still wears the harness, grinding against her tongue until you’re shaking. she bends you over the edge of the bed, fucking you from behind while whispering how much she hates how perfect you are.

every round is laced with conversation that cuts deeper than the physical pleasure.

between orgasms you argue and confess in the same breath.

“you ignored me all day like i was nothing,” you say while slowly riding the strap, hands braced on her chest.

“because if i looked at you too long i would’ve pulled you into the bathroom and fucked you right there,” she answers, thrusting up to meet you. “i hate how stupid you make me.”

“good,” you gasp, leaning down to bite her lip. “stay stupid for me.”

later, tangled and slow, she fucks you missionary again with the strap- deep, rolling thrusts that feel less like fucking and more like making love wearing hate’s clothing.

“i hate you,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours, sweat dripping from her brow.

“i hate you too,” you reply, cupping her face. the words feel like the truth and the biggest lie at the same time.

you lose count of how many times you come. how many times she does. the room smells like sex and sweat and both of you. the sheets are ruined. your bodies are covered in marks- bites, fingerprints, hickeys that will need careful hiding tomorrow.

⸻

hours later, the sky outside is beginning to lighten toward dawn.

you’re both utterly spent.

alexia lies on her back, breathing slow and deep. you’re curled into her side, head on her chest, one leg thrown over hers. her arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles on your bare hip.

the strap and harness are discarded somewhere on the floor. the only sound is your heartbeats and the distant hum of the hotel aircon.

no more words for a while. the anger has burned out, leaving only raw tenderness in its place.

alexia presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“i wasn’t lying,” she murmurs, voice hoarse from hours of use. “i’m terrified of this. of us.”

you tilt your head up to look at her. her face is soft in the dim lamplight- lips swollen, eyes heavy with exhaustion and something much deeper.

“me too,” you admit. “but i don’t want to stop.”

she pulls you closer, tucking your head under her chin.

“then we don’t stop. we figure it out. quietly. messily.”

you smile against her skin, pressing a gentle kiss to her collarbone.

“deal.”

her fingers keep stroking your back, slow and rhythmic. your eyelids grow heavier. the ache in your body feels earned, almost sacred.

“you think anyone heard us?” you asked softly, forcing yourself to glance at her.

“probably. but that’s a problem for later. stay until we have to get up,” she whispers.

you nod, already drifting.

alexia reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp. the room falls into soft darkness.

she holds you tighter, like she’s afraid the morning light will steal this moment.

you fall asleep like that- tangled together, skin against skin, hearts still racing even as exhaustion finally wins.

two rivals. two fools. completely consumed.

and for tonight, at least, that’s enough.

⸻

2009.

the first time you meet her, it doesn’t feel like anything is about to change.

it’s just another youth training camp. another pitch. another group of girls trying to prove they deserve to be there before anyone’s decided they do.

but you notice her anyway.

not because she’s loud.

because she isn’t.

she moves like she’s already seen everything that’s going to happen before it does.

alexia putellas.

barça academy midfielder. same position as you. same age group. same quiet reputation that follows her around like a warning.

you clock her in seconds and decide you don’t like her.

not for anything she’s done.

for the way she looks like she belongs here more than you do.

⸻

the first drill is a rondo.

tight space. quick touches. no time to think.

you step in early, instinct before instruction, scanning the shape before the ball even reaches you. you don’t wait for rhythm- you set it.

that’s your first mistake.

because she’s already there.

not marking you. not chasing you.

just arriving half a second before every space opens, like she’s been waiting for you to overcommit.

you lose the ball.

once.

then again.

the second time, you hear her before you see her properly.

not loud. not perforrmative.

just calm.

“you’re rushing.”

you turn your head slightly.

she isn’t looking at you. she’s watching the ball like it personally disappointed her.

you pass it again immediately after, sharper than you need to.

“i’m fine.”

now she looks at you.

just for a second.

“sure.”

like she doesn’t believe you, but also doesn’t care enough to argue.

and somehow that’s worse.

⸻

by the third rotation, you’re opposite her.

it isn’t assigned. it just happens like the drill is correcting itself around both of you.

she wins a loose ball cleanly, pivots out of pressure in one motion, and releases it forward like it costs her nothing.

you step in late anyway.

clip her shoulder just enough to break her next pass.

clean. within rules.

deliberate.

she stumbles half a step, recovers instantly, and still doesn’t look at you until the ball is gone again.

when she does, it’s brief.

measuring.

“you always do that?”

you don’t hesitate. “do what.”

“make it personal.”

that hits somewhere it shouldn’t.

your jaw tightens.

“it’s a drill, putellas.”

her head tilts slightly at your use of her surname, like she’s testing how far away you’re trying to sound.

“right.”

she says it like she’s already decided something about you.

then she turns away.

⸻

training ends the way it always does.

water bottles. tired shoulders. scattered groups pretending they aren’t exhausted.

you’re tying your boots when you feel her before you see her.

alexia stops in front of you.

too close to be accidental.

“you’re from madrid.”

not a question.

you look up slowly. “yeah.”

her eyes flick over you like she’s putting pieces together she doesn’t need explained.

then-

“princesa.”

the word lands light. almost casual.

but not kind.

“you don’t play like you’re from madrid.”

your expression shifts immediately.

not offended.

focused.

dangerously still.

“don’t call me that.”

she doesn’t react like she’s been told off.

just studies you a second longer, like your reaction is the interesting part.

“why?”

you stand properly now, matching her presence instead of avoiding it.

“because i’m not yours.”

a beat.

her mouth twitches like she almost smiles but stops herself.

“didn’t say you were.”

silence stretches.

someone calls time in the distance. boots start moving again.

neither of you does.

you break it first.

“move, putellas.”

it’s flat. clean. final.

distance as a weapon.

she steps aside.

but her eyes stay on you a second too long as you walk past.

like she’s not letting you go- just letting you think she is.

⸻

that night, it should mean nothing.

just training.

just another midfielder.

just another name.

but later, alone, you catch yourself replaying the way she said it.

princesa.

not soft enough to be affectionate.

not harsh enough to be hate.

something stuck in between.

like she’s already decided you don’t belong where you’re trying to stand.

and worse-

like she wants to see if you’ll prove her right.

present day.

you step onto the pitch and it feels wrong immediately.

not the stadium. not the match.

her.

alexia putellas is already there in your space before the whistle even goes.

you hate that your body notices first.

not your mind. your body.

like it remembers something you never agreed to learn.

⸻

kickoff hits and it’s instant chaos.

real madrid try to settle shape, barça don’t let them breathe.

but none of that matters in the middle of the pitch, because the first time you and her meet properly it isn’t a duel- it’s a collision that feels rehearsed.

shoulder to shoulder. ball bouncing loose. both of you refusing to blink.

she wins it.

of course she does.

you recover anyway.

of course you do.

neither of you look at each other after.

but you both feel it stick.

⸻

somewhere on the barca bench, mapi león leans slightly forward like she’s watching a live experiment instead of a football match.

“they’re insane,” she mutters.

vicky doesn’t even look up from the pitch.

“who.”

mapi tilts her head.

“those two.”

a pause.

another duel upfield. you press alexia, she turns out of it like she already knew you’d be there.

mapi exhales like she’s entertained and annoyed at the same time.

“that’s not rivalry. that’s… whatever the opposite of professional is.”

vicky finally glances over.

“focus on the match.”

mapi smiles like she’s not going to.

“i am. this is the match.”

⸻

back on the pitch, you win your first real duel properly.

clean interception. immediate transition.

you drive forward through midfield space like it owes you something.

you feel her behind you before you see her.

you always do.

alexia closes the gap in seconds.

no panic. no sprinting like she’s chasing.

just inevitability.

she steps in and kills your momentum so cleanly it almost feels personal.

you stumble half a step.

she doesn’t celebrate it.

doesn’t even look satisfied.

just looks at you like you were always going to end up here.

⸻

“still rushing,” she says as she releases the ball away.

you don’t slow down.

“still talking, putellas.”

that makes her glance at you properly.

quick.

sharp.

something almost amused in it, but it never fully forms.

because there’s no space for it to exist.

not here.

not with you.

⸻

by minute twenty, the match stops feeling like football.

passes still happen. runs still exist.

but everything funnels through one constant:

if she moves, you respond.

if you move, she answers.

it’s not tactical anymore.

it’s reactive.

like the game is watching both of you instead of the other way around.

⸻

on the madrid bench, one of your teammates glances up at the pitch and mutters something under her breath.

you don’t hear it. but you feel it anyway.

because it’s the same thing everyone is starting to realise.

this isn’t normal.

not the fouls. not the pressure. not the way barça are controlling space.

it’s the way you keep finding her inside it all.

like the pitch is smaller when you’re near each other.

⸻

midfield duel again.

she turns under pressure.

you clip her path - not dirty, just enough.

she stumbles a fraction.

you expect frustration.

you get none.

she just looks at you.

longer this time.

like she’s waiting for you to do something more interesting than football.

you hate that it feels like a challenge you didn’t agree to accept.

⸻

“princesa.”

it slips out of her again.

not loud.

not aimed like a weapon this time.

more like habit breaking through discipline.

you freeze for a split second before you force yourself forward again.

but your timing is off immediately after.

just slightly.

enough.

she notices.

of course she does.

⸻

on the sideline, vicky finally says it quietly, almost to herself:

“ellas van a perder el control de esto.”

they’re going to lose control of this.

mapi hears it and smiles wider.

“tia, they already have.”

⸻

late first half, barca build through you again.

alexia receives under pressure.

you step in.

she turns anyway.

you’re both in each other’s space before either of you should be.

shoulder contact. breath distance. ball somewhere irrelevant.

for a second, neither of you move for it.

just for each other.

then she plays out of it.

and as she passes you-

so quiet you almost miss it:

“you always come in too late.”

you don’t answer.

because if you do, it stops being football.

and you’re not ready for that yet.

even if it already is.

⸻

the whistle comes later, but nothing feels resolved.

not score. not momentum.

definitely not you.

you walk off knowing exactly where she is without looking.

and she walks off knowing the same.

neither of you turn around.

but both of you are already replaying it.

not the goals.

each other.

⸻

it happens fast.

that’s the first lie of it.

because later, everyone will replay it in slow motion, in angles, in freeze frames, trying to decide where it turned.

but you feel it instantly.

alexia doesn’t miss tackles.

she times them.

that’s the problem.

⸻

you’re in transition again.

midfield open for half a second, madrid pushing up, space finally yours in a way that feels rare and dangerous.

you take it.

you always take it.

you don’t see her step in fully.

you just feel the contact.

not shoulder.

not controlled.

low.

late.

your leg gets taken out clean in the worst possible way- perfect enough to be legal-looking from a distance, ugly enough to make everything inside you go white for a second.

you go down harder than you expect.

grass, breath, sound collapsing around you.

and for a second, nothing registers except the fact that the ball is gone.

and she is still standing.

⸻

the whistle comes sharp.

foul.

obviously.

but it doesn’t fix anything.

because you’re still on the ground for a beat too long, not from pain alone- but from the shock of it.

alexia is already there.

not hovering. not apologising.

just standing close enough that you have to look at her if you want to get up.

you do.

slowly.

you push yourself up and she doesn’t move away.

that’s the worst part.

she stays exactly where she is.

like she wants to see what you become after it.

⸻

“you’re fine,” she says.

not a question.

not concern.

assessment.

you laugh once, sharp and disbelieving, still half bent.

“was that meant to be a question or an apology, putellas?”

her eyes flicker.

just slightly.

not guilt.

something tighter.

“it was a tackle.”

“late.”

“you were exposed.”

you finally straighten properly now.

too close.

too loud in your own head.

“you went through me.”

a pause.

for the first time all match, she doesn’t answer immediately.

because she knows you’re right.

but she also doesn’t step back.

⸻

somewhere nearby, patri and kika are watching without meaning to be obvious about it.

kika whistles low under her breath.

“oh my god.”

patri doesn’t look away from the scene.

“that’s not tactical anymore.”

kika smirks.

“no shit.”

⸻

back on the pitch, the game restarts like nothing happened.

that’s the disrespect of football.

it moves on.

you don’t.

⸻

you feel it immediately.

your touch is off for the next minute.

just slightly.

she notices.

of course she does.

alexia starts pressing you harder now- not aggressively, just precisely.

like she’s testing if you’re still stable.

you hate her for that.

and you hate more that she’s right to test it.

⸻

you intercept again anyway.

you always do.

you drive forward, ignore the ache building in your leg, ignore everything except space.

she tracks you instantly.

always her.

always her.

she closes you down and this time there’s no hesitation from either of you.

you collide again.

clean duel.

ball between you.

breath too close.

she wins it by inches.

you don’t even get time to be angry before she’s already gone with it.

⸻

“still playing like that after getting hit?” she calls back without looking.

you answer immediately.

“still hiding behind tackles, putellas?”

that makes her glance at you properly this time.

and for a second- just a second - the match drops away.

not in intensity.

in focus.

because whatever this is, it’s no longer about possession.

⸻

barça score again later.

then again.

and again.

6 - 3 starts forming on the scoreboard like inevitability.

but you don’t remember most of the goals properly.

you remember her.

every time you try to reset, she’s already there.

every time she resets, it’s because of you.

it’s not balance.

it’s friction.

constant.

burning.

⸻

final whistle feels too loud.

too final.

you’re standing slightly apart from everyone else, not because you’re avoiding them, but because your body hasn’t caught up yet.

she’s on the other side of the pitch.

you don’t look for her.

you still find her anyway.

and this time, she’s already looking at you.

no celebration fully in her face.

no relief.

just that same expression from before.

like she’s still waiting for something else to happen between you two that has nothing to do with the score.

⸻

and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like rivalry anymore.

it feels like consequence.

the stadium is too loud for what just happened on the pitch.

even after the whistle, even after the scoreline settles into something humiliating and final, it still feels like the noise should be louder. like something should be happening that explains the way your chest hasn’t stopped tightening since that tackle.

6 - 3.

it doesn’t even feel like a number. maybe not even failure. it just feels like distance.

but none of that is what follows you into the corridor.

⸻

you walk out later than most.

white kit half-sweat soaked, legs still carrying that wrong impact, head not fully back in the room yet.

madrid staff are talking somewhere behind you.

barca voices echo further down.

you’re not really listening to either.

you’re just moving.

then you see her.

alexia putellas-segura.

standing near the junction of the tunnel corridor where everything splits.

like she was waiting.

or like she just ended up there and didn’t bother moving.

⸻

for a second, neither of you speaks.

it’s worse than the match.

because there’s no crowd now.

no commentary.

no reason to perform anything.

just air.

just space.

just her.

⸻

you stop first.

you hate that you do.

“was that necessary?” your voice comes out flatter than you expect.

alexia looks at you like she’s been expecting that exact sentence.

“you were running into space.”

“so you took my leg out?”

a pause.

she doesn’t deny it immediately.

that’s new.

that’s what makes your stomach tighten.

“you recover fast,” she says instead.

like that explains it.

like that makes it okay.

your laugh is sharp, disbelieving.

“is that what that was about? testing me?”

her eyes flicker once.

not away.

just… off-centre.

“no.”

but it doesn’t sound like no.

it sounds like something she hasn’t decided how to say properly yet.

⸻

you step closer without meaning to.

she doesn’t move back.

of course she doesn’t.

that’s the problem with her.

she never gives you the easy distance.

“you went through me, putellas.”

the surname lands differently here.

no pitch.

no game.

just you saying it like it’s the only thing holding you apart.

her jaw tightens slightly at it.

“you don’t get to act like you didn’t see it coming.”

“i saw it coming?” you repeat, voice lower now. sharper. “you think that makes it better?”

silence.

long enough that it starts to feel like something is about to break.

⸻

somewhere down the corridor, footsteps pass.

voices fade.

you don’t look.

she doesn’t either.

it’s just you and her in a space too quiet for how loud the match still feels inside your head.

⸻

“you always do that,” she says finally.

“do what.”

her gaze locks properly now.

not tactical. not analytical.

just… fixed.

“act like i’m supposed to be careful with you.”

your breath catches slightly at that.

you don’t show it.

you never show it.

“i’m not asking you to be careful.”

a beat.

she steps closer.

too close for post-match. too close for rivals. too close for anything that still claims to be normal.

“then what are you asking for?” she says quietly.

and that’s where it shifts.

because neither of you has an answer you can say out loud.

⸻

you swallow once.

your voice drops.

“stop looking at me like that on the pitch.”

she tilts her head slightly.

“like what.”

you don’t answer immediately.

because the truth is worse than anything you’ve said so far.

like i matter when you’re deciding what to do next.

you don’t say it.

you can’t.

so instead-

“like i’m part of your ridiculous game.”

that lands.

properly.

for the first time all match, she looks like she doesn’t have a rehearsed response.

just silence.

just something building behind her eyes that she doesn’t release.

⸻

then she says it.

soft.

too soft for how much it changes the air.

“princesa.”

you flinch before you can stop yourself.

you hate that she sees it.

she does.

of course she does.

your voice comes out quieter now, but sharper in a different way.

“don’t.”

she doesn’t step back.

doesn’t apologise.

doesn’t stop looking at you.

“why?” she asks again.

same word from years ago.

same problem.

just older.

heavier.

closer.

⸻

and this time, you don’t have distance left to give her.

you don’t even realise you move first.

you just do.

closing the space you’ve been holding since you were fifteen.

she meets you halfway without hesitation.

like she’s been waiting for the moment you stop pretending.

the kiss isn’t gentle.

and although definitely not thought about on various occasions. it isn’t planned.

it’s collision again, just like the match never stopped happening.

everything that was controlled on the pitch breaks here.

quietly.

finally.

⸻

somewhere down the corridor, a door opens or closes- you don’t register which.

footsteps pass.

neither of you pulls away fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

alexia is still too close when she does.

breath uneven.

eyes not fully steady.

and then she grabs your wrist.

not rough.

not asking.

just deciding.

and pulls you down the side corridor before the world gets a chance to catch up.

⸻

the supply closet door shuts.

and the noise of everything else disappears.

the air is immediately thicker. stale. charged. like the small room itself knows it’s not big enough to contain whatever the hell this is. one weak bulb hums overhead, throwing harsh shadows across Alexia’s face. her eyes are dark, pupils wide, chest still rising and falling from the match. from you.

she still hasn’t let go of your wrist.

you can feel your pulse hammering against her thumb like it’s trying to escape her grip and failing.

for a second you just stare at each other. years of quiet resentment, stolen glances, and bitten-back words compressed into this tiny fucking closet. then she exhales shakily and everything snaps.

you crash into her at the same time she pushes you back against the metal shelving. the kiss is violent in its need — teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongues sliding hot and desperate. there’s nothing careful about it. nothing romantic. it feels like punishment and relief at the same time.

her hands are everywhere. gripping your jaw, sliding down your neck, fisting the front of your damp madrid jersey like she wants to rip it off but knows she can’t. you shove your hands under her barca shirt, palms dragging over the slick heat of her skin, feeling the way her abs tighten under your touch.

“fuck you,” you growl against her mouth.

alexia laughs, low and ragged. “i know you want to.”

you bite her lip hard enough to make her hiss. she retaliates by shoving her thigh between your legs, pressing up with deliberate pressure. the friction pulls a broken sound from your throat that you hate giving her.

she smiles against your neck like she’s won something.

“still so fucking stubborn,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. her teeth graze the sensitive spot just below it and your hips jerk involuntarily. “even when you’re this wet for me.”

“callete-”

she doesn’t. instead she slips her hand into your shorts without warning, fingers gliding through how embarrassingly soaked you already are. two fingers drag up over your clit and your knees nearly buckle.

“ mierda,” she breathes, almost reverent. “all this from one tackle?”

you reach down and palm her through her own shorts, feeling the heat and wetness there. “says the one who’s dripping just from fighting me.”

her breath stutters. good.

you stroke her properly, matching the rhythm of her fingers on you. the closet fills with the obscene sounds of heavy breathing, wet friction, and the occasional rattle of the shelf behind your back every time one of you moves too sharply.

alexia’s forehead drops to yours. her eyes are half-lidded, lips parted. she looks wrecked already and it makes something feral uncoil in your chest.

“look at me,” she demands quietly.

you do.

the eye contact is too much. too intimate for what this is supposed to be. but you can’t look away. not when her fingers curl inside you, stroking that spot that makes your vision blur. not when you press harder against her clit and feel her thighs start to tremble.

“princesa,” she whispers again. this time it doesn’t sound like a taunt. it sounds like she’s losing control of the word.

you come first- sudden, violent, biting down on her shoulder to stop yourself from moaning loud enough for the entire corridor to hear. your whole body locks up around her fingers as the orgasm rips through you like fire in your veins.

she follows seconds later, hips grinding desperately into your hand, a choked gasp against your neck as she falls apart.

for a long moment the only sound is both of you trying to remember how to breathe.

her fingers are still inside you, slowly stroking through the aftershocks. you keep your hand cupped between her legs, possessive even now.

alexia pulls back just enough to look at you. her hair is a mess. lips swollen. eyes glassy.

she looks beautiful.

you hate how much you mean that. but it’s true. anyone disagreeing is either blind or delusional.

“this doesn’t fix anything,” she says, voice hoarse.

“i don’t want it to fix anything.”

she nods once, like she understands. then she kisses you again- slower this time. deeper. almost tender. the kind of kiss that scares you more than the rough one.

when she finally steps back and fixes her clothes, the loss of her body heat feels criminal.

she glances at you one last time before cracking the door open.

“next time,” she says quietly, “i want you in a bed. where i can take my time.”

then she’s gone.

you stay leaning against the shelf for another minute, legs shaky, heart still racing, the taste of her still burning on your tongue.

rivals.

yeah.

that’s exactly what you are.

⸻

i. when the timing finally learns your name. for a moment, she is only here - and it feels like a mistake the world forgot to correct.

for once, the world doesn’t interrupt her.

it’s such a small thing, at first, that you almost miss how wrong it feels.

no sudden message lighting up her phone mid-sentence. no distant voice calling her name from somewhere outside the room. no shift in her posture that tells you she’s already halfway gone before she even stands up.

just silence.

proper silence.

the kind that doesn’t feel like it’s waiting to be broken.

you’re still getting used to it when she knocks.

not rushed. not distracted. not already leaving while arriving.

just a knock.

you open the door and she’s there.

alexia.

but not as you usually know her.

no kit. no training bag slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. no phone already vibrating in her hand like it’s attached to her pulse.

just her.

standing still like she isn’t being pulled in a hundred directions you can’t see.

“i cancelled the rest of today,” she says, almost immediately.

like she needs you to understand it wasn’t accidental.

you blink once. “you… cancelled it?”

she nods, slower than usual, like she’s still getting used to the weight of her own decision.

“yeah. no training. no meetings. no media. nothing.”

she pauses, then adds softer, like it matters more than she expected it to:

“just today.”

you don’t move out of the doorway straight away.

because there’s something strange about hearing her say that.

not because she never could.

but because she never did.

you step aside eventually, letting her in.

she walks in carefully, like she’s stepping into something she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to have.

the room feels different with her in it like this.

not borrowed.

not temporary.

just… occupied.

she notices things you don’t think she usually has time to notice. the quiet corners. the absence of urgency. the way nothing here is trying to take her away.

“it’s… quiet,” she says.

you let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t quite get there.

“yeah,” you reply. “it usually is.”

she nods like that makes sense, but her eyes stay on you a second too long.

like she’s trying to recalibrate something.

⸻

you end up sitting together without really deciding to.

no plan. no schedule. no countdown in the background of every sentence.

she leans back slightly, hands loosely clasped, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself when she isn’t being needed elsewhere.

you notice it then.

how still she is.

not tired-still.

not drained-still.

just present in a way that feels unfamiliar on her.

“i forgot what this feels like,” she says quietly.

you glance at her.

“what, sitting still?”

she shakes her head once.

“no… not that.”

a pause.

she searches for the words like she’s not used to having to find them without urgency pushing her forward.

“being somewhere and not thinking about when i have to leave.”

that lands differently.

not dramatic.

just real.

you look away for a second because it’s easier than holding it directly.

“you don’t usually get that,” you say.

it isn’t a question.

she hums softly in agreement.

“no.”

then, quieter:

“i didn’t realise how much i didn’t get it.”

⸻

her phone is on the table.

face down.

it doesn’t light up.

not once.

you notice how often you expect it to.

how your attention still occasionally drifts toward it even though nothing is happening.

she doesn’t touch it.

that feels like the most important detail in the room.

once, she shifts slightly like she might reach for it out of habit.

then stops herself halfway.

you see it.

she sees you see it.

and instead of pretending it didn’t happen, she exhales softly.

“i’m trying,” she says.

you look at her properly then.

“i know.”

but there’s something in your voice that isn’t entirely convinced anymore.

not cold.

just cautious.

like you’re waiting for the pattern to return.

⸻

time passes without announcing itself.

it doesn’t feel like waiting.

it doesn’t feel like anything is building toward interruption.

and that’s what makes it strange.

she talks more than usual.

not about matches. not about pressure. not about anything that pulls her away mid-sentence.

just small things.

things that don’t need to be finished quickly.

you realise, somewhere in the middle of it, that you’re not watching her for signs of leaving.

you’re just listening.

and she’s not half elsewhere.

she’s here.

fully.

for once.

⸻

later, you end up outside.

you don’t remember deciding to go there. it just happens naturally, like the day is allowed to expand instead of contract.

the air is softer than expected.

she walks beside you without adjusting her pace.

that alone feels like something you would’ve noticed more before.

“this is nice,” she says after a while.

you glance at her.

“yeah,” you agree.

she nods slowly, like she’s agreeing with something bigger than just the moment.

“it feels… normal,” she adds.

and you almost ask her what normal means in her life.

but you don’t.

because you already know the answer would hurt in a quiet way.

⸻

her phone stays silent.

not once does it interrupt.

you start noticing how your own thoughts begin to loosen without being constantly pulled back into expectation.

there’s no “after this” hanging over anything.

no invisible countdown threading through her voice.

just now.

and now.

and now again.

she stops walking at one point, turning slightly toward you.

you stop too.

she looks like she wants to say something important but doesn’t rush into it like she usually would.

instead, she takes her time.

it feels almost unfamiliar on her face.

“i didn’t know i could do this,” she says finally.

you tilt your head slightly.

“do what?”

she exhales, almost a laugh, but softer than that.

“be here without thinking about being somewhere else.”

a pause.

then, quieter:

“or someone else waiting.”

that last part sits differently.

you don’t answer immediately.

because you hear what she isn’t fully saying.

not guilt.

not apology.

just recognition.

⸻

“i think i always thought i’d have more time later,” she admits after a while.

her voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it that isn’t.

you watch her carefully now.

“after things calm down,” she continues. “after tournaments. after matches. after everything.”

you feel the word land before she even finishes it.

after.

she pauses.

then looks at you properly.

like she’s seeing the shape of it for the first time, instead of just using it.

“i never really asked what happens if ‘after’ never feels like this.”

you don’t answer.

because you don’t need to.

the question already knows its answer.

⸻

the walk back is slower.

not because either of you say it should be.

but because neither of you rush it.

when you reach the door again, she stops.

just stops.

like she’s checking something internally.

“i should probably go soon,” she says, but there’s no urgency in it.

it sounds almost unfamiliar coming from her.

you nod.

“yeah.”

a pause.

then she adds, quieter:

“but i don’t want to.”

that’s the first time it feels simple.

not complicated by logistics or timing or everything waiting beyond the moment.

just honest.

you look at her.

and for a second, everything feels like it might finally be aligned.

no gaps.

no delays.

no after.

just here.

⸻

she steps closer slightly, not fully closing the distance.

like she’s still learning whether she’s allowed to stay in it.

“i cancelled everything for this,” she says again, softer this time. “for today.”

you nod slowly.

“i know.”

she searches your face for something.

not permission.

not reassurance.

something steadier than both.

and when she finds it, she doesn’t say anything else.

she just stays.

and for once, she doesn’t leave in stages.

she doesn’t split herself between here and elsewhere.

she is just here.

and the terrifying part is how easily it could have always been like this.

how nothing about this moment feels impossible.

just… unchosen.

until now.

and for the first time in the shape of your entire story, there is no “after” waiting at the edge of the room.

only time that finally learned how to arrive on time.

ii. you stopped arriving, so i stopped waiting. love doesn’t end; it just learns your schedule better than you do.

it doesn’t end loudly.

there’s no clean break, no sharp sentence that splits everything into before and after.

it just starts to feel… unnecessary.

that’s the first change neither of you names.

not in words.

not in tone.

just in how often silence starts finishing conversations for you.

she still calls.

she still tries.

she still says your name like it should pull you closer the way it used to.

but something in you doesn’t move as quickly toward her anymore.

not because you stopped caring.

because you stopped bracing.

⸻

“amor, i missed your call,” she says one night, voice slightly tired, like she’s already been pulled through too many things before reaching you.

you’re sitting somewhere quiet. phone on your lap.

you used to pick up immediately.

you don’t anymore.

“i was out,” you say.

a pause on her end.

“oh,” she replies softly. “okay. i just… didn’t know where you were.”

you glance down at your own hands.

you used to always be where she could reach you.

“i was just… somewhere else,” you say.

another pause.

longer this time.

like she’s trying to place what that means.

she doesn’t ask you to explain.

and that’s new too.

⸻

it starts showing up in small reversals.

she calls twice. you don’t rush to answer the second time.

she sends a message marked “amor?” and you don’t immediately soften toward it like you used to.

you read it.

you don’t respond straight away.

not to hurt her.

just because your time no longer bends automatically around hers.

⸻

when she finally reaches you properly later, her voice is quieter than usual.

“you didn’t pick up,” she says.

there’s no accusation in it.

just confusion trying not to become something heavier.

you lean back slightly.

“i was busy.”

a pause.

“you’re always busy lately,” she says gently.

you let that sit.

because it isn’t wrong.

just incomplete.

“so are you,” you reply.

but you both know it’s not the same kind.

⸻

there’s a moment where she tries to laugh it off.

it doesn’t land properly.

“we’re just out of sync,” she says lightly, like she’s naming something temporary.

you look at your screen for a second before answering.

“we’ve been out of sync for a while,” you say.

the line goes quiet.

not dead.

just… aware.

⸻

she starts adjusting.

you can hear it in her voice.

she calls earlier. then later. then in between things she used to think were too small to interrupt for you.

voice notes instead of texts.

longer messages.

shorter gaps.

like she’s trying to catch up to a version of you that no longer waits in the same place.

“i miss you,” she says one night, and it sounds heavier than before.

you believe her.

you always do.

but it doesn’t pull you forward anymore.

it just sits there.

“yeah,” you reply softly. “i miss you too.”

and you do.

just differently now.

⸻

the first time she notices properly, it isn’t dramatic.

it’s a pause that lasts half a second too long.

you don’t answer immediately when she calls.

not because you’re ignoring her.

because you’re mid-conversation with someone else. mid-life. mid-moment that doesn’t revolve around a ringtone anymore.

when you call back later, she answers quickly.

too quickly.

like she’s been holding the phone without admitting it.

“you called?” she asks.

you nod even though she can’t see you.

“yeah. i was out.”

a beat.

“oh,” she says again. softer now. “okay.”

and then, quieter:

“i just wasn’t sure if you’d call back.”

you pause.

you would’ve, once.

immediately.

⸻

that’s when it shifts again.

not because anything breaks.

but because she starts asking a question she didn’t ask before.

“are you okay?” she says more often now.

like she’s trying to understand a version of you that isn’t positioned where she left it.

you are okay.

just not in the place she recognises anymore.

“yeah,” you answer once. “i’m just… not always free when you are.”

that one lands.

you can hear it in her silence.

not shock.

not pain.

just recalibration.

⸻

she tries to hold onto the structure she knows.

after this match.

after this camp.

after things calm down.

you don’t interrupt anymore.

you just listen.

and that’s the difference she feels but doesn’t know how to name.

you used to fill the gaps.

now you leave them open.

⸻

one night, she calls after a match.

you can hear everything in the background.

celebration. noise. life continuing loudly around her.

she still finds a quiet corner for you.

“we won,” she says, breath uneven.

you smile slightly.

“i know.”

a pause.

“i wanted to tell you first,” she adds.

you believe her.

but there’s something missing in it now.

not truth.

timing.

⸻

“you feel far away lately,” she says suddenly.

not angry.

not accusing.

just honest in a way that sounds new coming from her.

you look at the wall in front of you.

“i’m not,” you reply.

then, after a second:

“i’m just not always where you are.”

that silence again.

longer this time.

because she understands it more than she wants to.

⸻

she tries one last thing.

not dramatic.

just hopeful.

“after the next stretch of matches,” she says softly, “i’ll have more time. properly this time. i can come, i can stay, i can-”

you hear yourself before you decide to speak.

“it’s okay,” you cut in gently.

she stops.

not because you’re harsh.

because you’re calm.

that’s worse.

⸻

“you don’t need to plan around me,” you add.

there’s a long pause.

you can hear her breathing on the other end.

like she’s standing in a room that suddenly feels unfamiliar.

“i always come back to you,” she says quietly.

you nod even though she can’t see it.

“yeah,” you say. “after everything else.”

that lands deeper than either of you expect.

⸻

after the call ends, she doesn’t hang up quickly.

she stays on the line for a second too long.

like she’s waiting for you to return to the version of yourself that used to stay.

you don’t.

you’ve already moved on with your night.

not out of anger.

just rhythm.

⸻

and that’s when she understands it properly.

not that you’re gone.

not that you don’t love her.

but that you stopped structuring your life around the idea of her arriving.

and she is still learning how to arrive in a life that no longer pauses for her timing.

iii. what we became after all the almosts. not an ending, not a return - just everything finally happening at once.

it doesn’t happen in a moment you can point to.

there’s no single decision, no clean turning point where everything suddenly becomes easy.

it happens the way most real things do.

slowly.

quietly.

in the space between everything that used to hurt.

⸻

alexia doesn’t belong to stadiums anymore.

not in the way she used to.

there are still echoes of it sometimes- old interviews, clips, people saying her name like it still carries motion in it- but they feel distant now, like something that happened in a life she used to live at full speed.

now she moves differently.

slower.

more present.

like she finally learned how to stay in one place without being pulled out of it.

⸻

you notice it most in the mornings.

not because they’re perfect.

but because they’re ordinary.

there’s no countdown under anything anymore.

no checking of time zones.

no guessing what version of her you’re going to get when she finally arrives in your day.

she just… is there.

sometimes before you wake up.

sometimes sitting quietly in the kitchen with hair still slightly messy, holding a cup of coffee like she has nowhere else to be.

which, now, she doesn’t.

⸻

“they’re still asleep,” she says softly one morning, glancing down the hallway.

you follow her gaze.

two small rooms.

two quiet lives still forming themselves in fragments.

you hum in response.

“they always are at this time.”

she smiles a little at that.

not proud.

not tired.

just… warm in a way that feels earned.

“we used to be that small too,” she says.

you look at her properly.

“yeah,” you reply. “we still are. just… differently.”

that makes her pause for a second.

not because it’s deep.

because it’s true.

⸻

there are still traces of who you both were.

they don’t disappear.

they just stop controlling the shape of things.

you still notice her sometimes when she gets quiet in a specific way- the way she used to when she was waiting for something to interrupt her.

but now, nothing interrupts her.

and she doesn’t reach for interruption anymore either.

she just sits with it.

with you.

⸻

she retired quietly.

not dramatically.

no final stadium speech that felt like an ending.

just a season that ended and didn’t restart.

and when people asked what came next, she didn’t talk about legacy or closure.

she just said she wanted time.

and then came home.

⸻

you remember the first few months after that.

how strange it was.

how she would still wake up at the wrong time sometimes, like her body expected urgency that wasn’t there anymore.

how she would sit with her phone for a while before remembering she didn’t have to check it anymore.

how she would look at you sometimes like she was still adjusting to the fact that you didn’t leave in pieces anymore.

⸻

“it’s weird,” she admitted once, sitting on the edge of the bed.

you glanced up from what you were doing.

“what is?”

she shrugged slightly.

“not having an ‘after’ anymore.”

you paused.

then smiled a little.

“you still say it.”

she huffed a quiet laugh.

“habit,” she said.

a beat.

then, softer:

“you used to be my after.”

that landed differently now.

not sharp.

not painful.

just… memory.

you closed the distance between you slightly.

“i was always there,” you said gently. “just never at the same time.”

she looked at you for a long moment.

then nodded.

“yeah,” she said. “we fixed that.”

⸻

you didn’t fix it in the way people usually mean.

there was no single repair.

no perfect conversation that solved everything.

it was smaller than that.

you both stopped leaving in the middle of sentences.

you both stopped treating presence like something temporary.

you both learned how to be tired in the same room at the same time without drifting apart from it.

and slowly, that became enough.

⸻

the kids don’t know any of this version of you yet.

not the waiting version.

not the almost version.

not the version defined by timing that never aligned.

to them, you’re just… there.

both of you.

always reachable.

always returning.

always already home.

⸻

sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet again, alexia will lean into you without saying anything.

not needing to be anywhere else.

not checking anything.

just existing in the same stillness as you.

and you’ll think about how strange it is that something so calm used to feel impossible.

how love used to feel like timing.

and now it just feels like time.

shared.

⸻

“do you think we would’ve made it if we handled things differently?” she asks one night, half-asleep against your shoulder.

you don’t answer immediately.

not because you don’t know.

because you do.

you look down at her.

at the lifethat exists around you now.

at the quiet that no longer feels empty.

“i don’t think we would’ve known how to,” you say softly.

she hums in response.

not disagreeing.

just understanding.

then she adds, even quieter:

“i’m glad we learned.”

you close your eyes for a second.

“me too.”

⸻

there’s no epilogue feeling to it.

no grand closure.

just continuation.

just the absence of urgency where urgency used to define everything.

just two people who stopped missing each other in motion and started existing beside each other in stillness.

⸻

and if someone were to ask what changed the most between then and now,

it wouldn’t be love.

it wouldn’t even be timing.

it would be this:

you both finally arrived at the same version of life at the same time.

and stayed.

iv. the night we finally stopped being careful. some loves don’t die quietly. they bleed out screaming. 

the fight doesn’t start with yelling. that’s the worst part.

it starts with alexia being twenty-three minutes late.

twenty-three.

because you’ve counted.

because somewhere along the way you’ve become the kind of person who counts.

the door opens. you don’t look up.

“amor- ”

“don’t.”

silence. you hear the door close. keys. footsteps.

then …

“don’t what?”

you laugh. and immediately hate the sound. because it doesn’t sound like you. it sounds bitter.

“don’t call me that.”

“why?”

you finally look at her.

she still has her training jacket on. still has grass stains on her socks. still looks like she came straight from football. straight from the thing that always came first. and suddenly you’re so angry you feel sick.

“because i don’t want to hear it.”

alexia stares.

“okay.”

you nod.

“okay.”

“what?”

“nothing.”

“clearly not nothing.”

you grab your bag.

start shoving things inside. a charger. a hoodie. whatever your hands touch.

“what are you doing?”

you don’t answer.

“what are you doing?”

louder.

“what does it look like?”

alexia’s face changes.

slightly.

just enough.

“don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“bebe, don’t do this.”

and there it is.

that phrase.

that tone.

that calm.

like she’s arriving halfway through a conversation she should’ve been present for from the beginning.

something snaps. completely.

“don’t do this?”

your voice rises.

“don’t do this?”

“stop shouting.”

“stop being late.”

silence. immediate. violent.

alexia blinks.

once.

“i said i was sorry.”

“i don’t care.”

that lands.

you see it land.

alexia actually recoils. just slightly. but you see it.

good.

good.

for once.

good.

because you’re tired of being the only one hurting.

“you don’t mean that.”

“i do.”

“you don’t.”

“i don’t care anymore.”

the room goes still. alexia’s jaw tightens.

“don’t say things you don’t mean.”

you laugh again. that awful laugh.

“that’s rich.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing.”

“say it.”

“why?”

“because i asked.”

and suddenly you’re furious. because even now she sounds like a captain. like she’s managing a situation. like she’s trying to control something that’s already on fire.

“because i’m sick of saying things.”

“what?”

“i’m sick of talking.”

“then stop talking and tell me what’s wrong.”

you stare at her.

actually stare. because that’s insane.

genuinely insane.

“you don’t know?”

“know what?”

“you don’t know?”

“know what?”

you’re shouting now.

“what is wrong with us?”

alexia goes silent.

and somehow that’s worse. because she does know. of course she knows.

she always knew.

“amor- ”

“stop calling me that.”

“then stop acting like i don’t love you.”

and there it is.

the real thing. sitting in the middle of the room.

bleeding.

you swallow hard.

“i know you love me.”

alexia freezes.

because she wasn’t expecting that.

“then-”

“that’s the problem.”

her face falls.

and suddenly you’re crying. you didn’t even realise you were crying.

but you are.

tears everywhere. voice shaking. hands shaking. everything shaking.

“because you love me.”

alexia just stares.

“you love me and this is still what i get.”

the words rip out of you. ugly. broken.

“you love me and i’m still sitting alone.”

“you love me and i’m still waiting.”

“you love me and i’m still second.”

“i never-”

“don’t.”

“i’ve never made you second.”

“yes, you have.”

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

alexia’s voice cracks.

loud.

raw.

“football isn’t a person.”

“it didn’t have to be.”

silence.

both breathing hard.

both crying now.

you wipe at your face.

it doesn’t help.

nothing helps.

“do you know what the worst part is?”

alexia doesn’t answer.

“i would wait forever.”

the room stops. completely. alexia actually looks winded.

like you hit her.

“what?”

“i would.”

your voice breaks.

“that’s the fucked up thing.”

another breath. another tear.

“i would stay.”

alexia closes her eyes.

instantly.

like she can’t bear hearing it.

“don’t.”

“i would’ve waited forever.”

“please don’t.”

“i would’ve married you.”

that one does it.

that one breaks her. completely.

because suddenly she’s crying too.

not quietly. not elegantly. just devastated.

“stop.”

“i would’ve built my entire life around you.”

“stop.”

“i would’ve kept choosing you.”

“stop!”

the shout shakes the room.

alexia turns away.

both hands in her hair.

pulling.

hard.

“stop saying that.”

“why?”

“because i know!”

the scream echoes.

you freeze.

alexia is sobbing now. actually sobbing.

“you think i don’t know?”

she slams her hand into the wall.

hard.

the sound makes you jump. she doesn’t even seem to notice.

“you think i don’t fucking know?”

another hit.

“alexia-”

“no!”

another.

harder.

“i know.”

her voice breaks.

“i know.”

she’s crying so hard she can barely get the words out.

“every time i missed something.”

a breath.

“i knew.”

another.

“every fucking time.”

another.

“you think i wasn’t counting too?”

you stop moving.

because suddenly she’s not yelling at you anymore.

she’s yelling at herself.

years of it.

all at once.

“i knew.”

she laughs.

a horrible sound.

“god, i knew.”

she wipes furiously at her face.

fails.

“i knew every dinner.”

“every birthday.”

“every call.”

“every fucking after.”

your chest hurts.

physically hurts.

“then why didn’t anything change?”

the question comes out tiny.

broken.

alexia looks at you.

and for the first time all night-

she looks angry.

actually angry.

not at football.

not at timing.

at you.

“because i couldn’t.”

you blink.

“what?”

“i couldn’t.”

“that’s bullshit.”

“i couldn’t!”

the scream tears out of her.

“what did you want me to do?”

“choose me.”

the words leave before you can stop them.

silence.

instant.

dead.

alexia goes completely still.

you know immediately you shouldn’t have said it.

but it’s too late.

way too late.

because now she’s furious.

absolutely furious.

“fuck you.”

you stare.

alexia never swears at you.

ever.

“what?”

“fuck you.”

tears running down her face.

voice shaking.

“fuck you for saying that.”

“alexia-”

“no.”

she points at you.

shaking.

“don’t.”

you’ve never seen her like this.

never.

“i chose you every chance i got.”

“well clearly you weren’t gifted enough chances then, were you?.”

the second it leaves your mouth you wish you could take it back.

too late.

too late.

too late.

alexia flinches like you’ve stabbed her.

actually flinches.

then laughs.

small.

broken.

and somehow that is the most horrifying thing that’s happened all night.

because she sounds defeated.

“yeah.”

she nods.

slowly.

“i know.”

silence.

“i know it wasn’t enough.”

you stop breathing.

alexia looks at the floor.

not at you.

not anymore.

“that’s the thing, isn’t it?”

her voice is tiny now.

wrecked.

“i gave you everything i had.”

a tear slides down her cheek.

she doesn’t wipe it away.

“and it still wasn’t enough.”

that is the moment the fight dies.

not because it’s resolved.

because there’s nowhere left to go.

because suddenly neither of you are angry.

just heartbroken.

because she’s right.

and so are you.

and that’s what ruins everything.

you love her.

she loves you.

you would’ve waited forever.

she would’ve given forever if she’d had it.

but she didn’t.

and you can’t build a life out of things people would’ve given.

only things they actually could.

and that’s so much crueler.

because nobody is the villain.

and nobody gets to stay.

00. i know it’s for the better. and still, every version of you shows up before the present does.

you don’t mean to think about her.

it just happens the way it always does now.

quietly. without permission. without warning.

like your mind still hasn’t fully accepted that a year can pass and someone can still feel this close without being anywhere near you.

you’re sitting in a café you picked too carefully.

something neutral. something new. something that doesn’t belong to either of your lives.

your hands are wrapped around a drink you’ve barely touched.

there’s a message on your phone you already checked twice.

she’s on her way.

tinder date. first one in a long time.

first anything in a long time that isn’t tied to the shape of alexia’s absence.

you should be focused on that.

you want to be.

but your thoughts keep slipping.

not backwards in time exactly.

sideways.

into versions of things that never happened.

⸻

it’s funny how nostalgia doesn’t feel soft anymore.

it doesn’t arrive like a memory you miss.

it arrives like something you can’t stop your body from remembering even when your mind refuses it.

it’s unwelcome.

it’s heavy.

it sits in your chest like it still has a right to be there.

you stare out the window and think, not for the first time, that it’s been a year.

a whole year.

and still, sometimes it feels like you’re just in between moments with her.

like she hasn’t fully left the room you stopped sharing.

⸻

you think about her anyway.

not the way people think about exes they’re over.

not clean. not distant.

more like:

what if it had been different.

what if she hadn’t always been running.

what if you hadn’t learned how to wait so quietly.

what if timing had ever been kind enough to hold you both at once.

your mind doesn’t choose one version.

it never does anymore.

it cycles through them like a habit it doesn’t know how to break.

⸻

in one version, she stayed.

no urgency in her voice.

no phone lighting up mid-sentence.

just alexia, sitting across from you like she finally had nowhere else to be.

and you can almost feel how easy it would’ve been.

how normal it could’ve been.

like love didn’t have to be earned in stolen minutes.

just lived in them.

⸻

in another, you left first.

you stopped answering.

stopped softening.

stopped turning your life into a space she could step in and out of whenever she finally arrived.

and she looked at you like she didn’t understand how she became the one chasing.

like she had always assumed you would still be there when she turned around.

⸻

the third-

the softest one. the most dangerous one. 

you both grew into it. slowly. imperfectly.

no sudden fixing.

just time passing until it stopped hurting in the same places.

alexia retired. you stopped waiting.

and somehow, without either of you noticing the exact moment it changed, you became something steady.

not because the past disappeared.

but because it stopped leading.

⸻

and the last version. you don’t like this version.

the one where it all finally snaps instead of slowly fading.

your mind fills it in anyway, sitting in the café a year later like a habit you can’t drop.

alexia there for once when she shouldn’t be.

no timing, no gaps, just everything coming out too late and too loud. shouting. tears. her hitting the wall. you throwing words you can’t take back.

and in the middle of it, all that honesty you always thought would save you both.

it doesn’t. it just makes it worse.

because in that version, nothing is unclear anymore.

and it still ends the same. you don’t like thinking about it.

because it’s easier to make her the villain there.

easier to hate her than to remember she was just someone you loved for too long in the wrong timing.

but you never really manage to hate her properly. not even there.

not even in your head.

⸻

you blink.

the café is still here.

the chair opposite you is still empty.

for now.

you glance at your phone again.

no new message.

just the time.

just now.

just reality, refusing to pause for your imagination.

you exhale slowly.

because none of those versions exist.

not really.

they never did.

⸻

you hear the door open.

your head lifts slightly before you even decide to look.

it isn’t her.

it never is.

just a stranger scanning the room, looking for someone who isn’t you.

you look away again.

not disappointed.

just… settled.

⸻

that’s the thing about all those versions you just lived through in your head.

they don’t change anything.

they never did.

they just made the waiting feel like it still had somewhere to go.

but it doesn’t.

it never did.

⸻

your phone buzzes.

a message.

she’s here.

you look at it for a second longer than you mean to.

then you stand.

grab your things.

smooth your breath back into something usable.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t think about alexia while you move forward.

not because she doesn’t exist in your memory anymore.

but because she finally stopped being the place you were going.

⸻

you step out of your thoughts into real time.

and as you look up and see your date walking into the cafe toward you, you realise something simple.

not healing.

not closure.

just truth.

you can carry every version of her in your head forever if you want to.

it still won’t change where you are now.

and it won’t change where she isn’t.

⸻

you learn alexia’s life in fragments before you ever learn how to fit into it.

not the romantic kind of fragments people imagine. not stolen kisses in empty corridors or whispered promises that feel like they could hold the world together.

more like time stamps.

8:03 - training starts.

11:47 - she finally replies.

23:19 - she says she’s sorry again.

you start recognising the rhythm the way other people recognise songs.

you don’t even realise you’re doing it at first.

just sitting there, phone in your hand, watching the little moments pass like they belong to someone else.

they do, really.

they belong to her.

⸻

alexia is always slightly out of reach.

not emotionally. not at first.

she still talks to you like you’re something she chose, something she would choose again without thinking. her voice is always warm when she gets to you, like she’s stepping out of a different world and remembering how to breathe properly.

but she is never fully here.

there’s always something behind her voice.

a stadium. a whistle. a schedule.

“amor, i can’t stay long,” she says often, like it’s a habit she hates but can’t break.

and you always say, “yeah, it’s fine.”

because it is fine.

until it isn’t.

⸻

the first time you notice the pattern, it’s not dramatic.

it’s a missed call.

then another.

then a message four hours later:

sorry, media ran over

you stare at it longer than you should, like staring might add something that makes it hurt less.

you reply anyway.

it’s okay. good luck.

you watch the little read receipt appear.

no reply after that.

just silence again.

⸻

you meet her properly between matches, in those strange borrowed pockets of time that don’t feel like they belong to either of you.

for once, there’s no rush pulling at her the second she arrives. no phone already buzzing in her hand, no staff waiting just out of frame. just a quiet that feels unfamiliar on her like she’s not entirely sure what to do with it.

you notice it more than she does at first.

she’s still in motion when she sees you.

always in motion.

hair slightly damp, jacket half-zipped, phone already buzzing again in her hand.

and still, when she looks at you, her face changes like everything else disappears for half a second.

“hola bebe,” she says, softer than everything around her.

you smile. “hola ale.”

she steps closer immediately, like she’s been holding herself back the entire day just to do that.

her hands find yours without thinking.

“i missed you,” she says.

you believe her.

that’s the worst part.

because she means it every time.

⸻

but she also says things like:

“after this match.”

and:

“after camp.”

and:

“after the next one, i promise.”

always promises that sound real in the moment.

you start collecting them without meaning to.

not like keepsakes.

like warnings you’re learning how to ignore.

⸻

you notice it first in the goodbyes.

how fast they get.

how rehearsed.

how she starts apologising before you’ve even left.

“i’ll call you tonight,” she says once, already walking backwards toward someone calling her name.

you nod.

she doesn’t call.

not that night.

not the next morning either.

and when she finally does, it’s already midday and she sounds like she’s been awake for too long.

“i’m sorry,” she says immediately.

you don’t ask what for anymore.

there are too many answers.

⸻

there’s a moment, early on, where she almost stays longer.

you remember it more clearly than you should.

you don’t realise it at first, but she’s already choosing between you and something you can’t see.

her phone doesn’t even need to buzz this time. it just sits there on the table like it’s heavier than everything else in the room.

she keeps glancing at it anyway.

not constantly. just enough that you start noticing where her attention keeps slipping.

you try not to make it mean anything.

but it already does.

she doesn’t look at it immediately.

that’s how you know she’s trying.

then she sighs softly, presses her thumb into her screen, reads whatever’s there.

and the shift happens instantly.

not cold. not distant.

just… pulled.

like a thread inside her has been tugged tight.

“i have to go,” she says, already standing.

you nod too quickly. “yeah. okay.”

she hesitates.

that’s new.

“after the next camp,” she adds, quieter, like she’s trying to place it somewhere safe in the future. “i’ll have more time. i promise.”

you smile like you understand the shape of that sentence.

“yeah,” you say again. “after.”

she leans down and kisses your forehead before she leaves.

it’s gentle.

careful.

like you’re something she doesn’t want to disturb too much before she goes back to everything else.

⸻

after she’s gone, the silence feels different.

not empty.

just unfinished.

like something was supposed to continue but forgot how.

you sit there for a while, staring at your phone even though nothing’s coming.

and you realise, very quietly, without drama or decision, that you are starting to learn the timing of her life.

and none of it includes you on time.

only after.

always after.

⸻

the first sign that something is shifting isn’t a fight.

it’s silence.

not the peaceful kind. not the comfortable kind that comes after a long day when everything feels settled.

it’s the kind that feels slightly misaligned, like two clocks that used to match perfectly and now don’t quite agree on what time it is anymore.

you notice it first when you call her.

once.

twice.

it rings out longer than usual.

you sit there staring at the screen, watching her name like it might decide to change its mind.

it doesn’t.

you don’t know yet that she’s standing under stadium lights, being lifted into something loud and golden and irreversible.

you just know she isn’t answering.

⸻

you find out the way you always find out things about her life.

late.

not because she hides it.

because her world moves faster than the space she has for you inside it.

you open your phone later that night and see it everywhere.

photos. clips. headlines.

alexia putellas.

la reina.

captain. winner. history again.

there she is in every frame- arms raised, eyes shining, surrounded by noise that feels bigger than any one person should ever have to hold.

you stare at it for a long time.

because you are proud.

you are.

that doesn’t cancel the feeling that follows it.

that strange, quiet drop in your stomach that has nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with timing.

⸻

your phone finally buzzes.

missed call: alexia

then another message almost immediately:

i’m sorry, amor. we won. i tried to call you right after but media- everything is crazy

you read it slowly.

you imagine her saying it out loud, breathless, still half inside the celebration, still being pulled in ten directions at once.

you should reply quickly.

you don’t.

instead, you scroll back through the photos again.

there she is.

la reina.

standing where she belongs, apparently. in the centre of everything.

and you think, briefly, how strange it is that someone can be that loved by so many people and still not be able to reach one person on time.

⸻

she calls again later.

you answer this time.

her voice comes through immediately, tangled with background noise.

music. shouting. someone laughing too loudly near her.

“amor,” she says, relief spilling into the word. “i was trying to find a quiet moment, i swear.”

you sit on your bed, phone pressed to your ear.

“i saw,” you say.

there’s a pause.

you can hear her breathing shift, like she’s stepping away from the noise.

“yeah…” she says softly. “we did it.”

you smile a little. “i know. congrats.”

another pause.

she should sound fully happy. she does, mostly.

but underneath it, there’s something else.

like she’s split between being everywhere and trying to be here at the same time.

“i wanted you there,” she says suddenly.

your grip tightens slightly on the phone.

you believe her.

you always believe her.

“i know,” you say gently.

then, quieter, almost like she’s confessing something she doesn’t like admitting:

“i looked for you after. for like… five minutes. i thought maybe you were there and i just hadn’t seen you.”

something twists in your chest at that.

five minutes.

that’s all you get, sometimes.

five minutes of looking for you in a life that doesn’t stop moving.

⸻

“it’s okay,” you say, because it comes out before you can decide whether it’s true in the way she needs it to be.

she exhales, like she’s been holding her breath since the final whistle.

“no,” she says quickly. “it’s not just okay. i hate that this keeps happening. after this- after the next camp, i’ll have more time, i swear. i’ll come to you properly. no rushing.”

there it is again.

after.

you close your eyes for a second.

“you always say that,” you say softly.

the silence that follows is immediate.

not angry.

just… aware.

like she hears it this time in a way she didn’t before.

“i mean it every time,” she says, quieter now.

“i know,” you reply.

and you do.

that’s why it hurts differently.

⸻

on the other end, you can hear the noise of her world again creeping back in.

someone calling her name. footsteps. movement.

she lowers her voice.

“i have to go back in a second,” she says.

of course she does.

you nod even though she can’t see it.

“yeah. go.”

she hesitates again. longer this time.

“are you okay?” she asks.

you look at the wall in front of you like it might have an answer.

“yeah,” you say.

a beat.

then, softer:

“i’m just… a bit behind you today.”

she doesn’t respond right away.

when she finally does, her voice is almost too gentle.

“you’re not behind me,” she says. “you’re with me.”

you don’t correct her.

because in her world, that might even feel true.

in yours, it doesn’t quite land the same way.

⸻

before she hangs up, she says your name quietly.

like she wants to anchor you there.

“i’ll call you properly tomorrow,” she promises.

you nod again.

“after?” you ask, almost without meaning to.

a small pause.

then, softer than everything else:

“after,” she agrees.

the line goes quiet.

and when it ends, it feels less like a goodbye and more like a delay.

⸻

you put your phone down and stare at the ceiling for a while.

somewhere out there, she’s still la reina.

still in motion. still being celebrated. still being pulled forward by everything she’s worked her entire life for.

and you think, not bitterly, just honestly-

there’s a version of her life where everything fits perfectly.

where love and timing and football all arrive at the same moment.

you just don’t seem to be in it.

not on time.

only after.

⸻

it starts without you deciding anything.

that’s the strange part.

there isn’t a moment where you sit down and choose distance like it’s a clear, deliberate thing. no dramatic turning point. no internal speech where everything clicks into place.

it’s more like… you just stop reaching.

not all at once.

just slowly, quietly, in the gaps where you used to try.

⸻

at first, you still look at your phone.

you still wait.

you still notice the timing of everything the same way you always have.

but there’s a difference now.

you don’t act on it.

a missed call doesn’t turn into a second call anymore.

a delayed message doesn’t turn into a follow-up.

you just… let it sit there.

like she does.

like her world taught you how to do.

⸻

alexia doesn’t notice immediately.

because she’s still alexia.

still la reina.

still moving through stadiums and flights and recovery days and meetings that stretch longer than they should.

her life is full in a way yours never competes with.

she calls when she can.

she texts when she remembers to breathe.

and she always sounds like she’s just stepped out of something loud.

“amor, i’m sorry i missed you,” she says one night, voice slightly rough from exhaustion. “training ran late and then i had to-”

“it’s fine,” you cut in.

there’s a pause.

not long.

but different.

you hear it immediately.

“are you busy?” she asks gently.

you glance at your phone screen.

you were just sitting there.

not waiting.

just existing.

“yeah,” you say. “kind of.”

another pause.

“oh,” she says softly. “okay. i can call later then.”

“yeah,” you reply. “later’s better.”

and then you end it.

not abruptly.

just… clean.

simple.

like it’s normal.

⸻

you don’t realise what you’ve done until a few days later when she calls again and you don’t pick up right away.

not because you’re ignoring her.

because you’re in the middle of something else.

something small.

something ordinary.

something that used to stop immediately if she called.

you let it ring.

once.

twice.

then you finish what you’re doing before you check your phone.

there’s a missed call.

and a message right after:

amor?

you stare at it for a moment.

then you put your phone down again.

not out of spite.

out of something quieter.

habit forming in reverse.

⸻

when she finally reaches you later, her voice is softer than usual.

“you didn’t answer,” she says.

you shrug even though she can’t see it. “i was busy.”

a pause.

you hear her breathing change slightly, like she’s trying to place you in a version of reality she understands.

“oh,” she says again. “okay. i just… wasn’t sure.”

you sit on your bed, looking out at nothing in particular.

“it’s fine,” you say.

you hear her hesitate.

“are you okay?” she asks again, like she’s started asking it more often than she used to.

you think about it properly for a second.

you are okay.

just not where she expects you to be.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m just not always free when you are.”

that lands.

you can tell.

not because she reacts loudly.

but because she goes quiet in a way that feels heavier than before.

⸻

the shift becomes clearer in small ways.

you stop rearranging your day around her calls.

you stop keeping your phone face-up like it’s waiting for permission to move.

you start leaving it in another room sometimes.

you start missing things.

not on purpose.

just… naturally.

like the gap between you is becoming something you can live inside.

⸻

alexia tries to adjust.

you can hear it.

in the way she starts calling twice instead of once.

in the way she sends voice notes instead of texts, like sound might reach you faster than words.

in the way she says your name more carefully now.

like she’s trying to make sure you’re still there when she says it.

“i miss you,” she says one night, after a match that left her voice raw and tired.

you’re lying on your bed, phone pressed to your ear.

you believe her.

you always do.

but it doesn’t move you the way it used to.

“yeah,” you say quietly. “i miss you too.”

a pause.

then she adds, softer:

“you’ve been different lately.”

you stare at the ceiling.

this is the first time she’s said it out loud.

“busy,” you reply simply.

another pause.

“me too,” she says automatically.

and that’s it.

that’s the problem.

because it’s true.

but it’s not the same kind of busy.

⸻

later, there’s a moment where she finally gets you on a video call.

she looks exhausted.

hair slightly damp, eyes still carrying the echo of a match.

she smiles when she sees you, immediate and warm.

“there you are,” she says softly.

you sit back in your chair. “hi.”

she studies you for a second.

longer than usual.

“you’re quiet,” she says.

you tilt your head slightly. “i’m just tired.”

she nods, but she doesn’t fully accept it.

you can tell.

she’s learning you in a different way now.

like she’s realising she doesn’t recognise all the versions of you anymore.

“i’ll have more time soon,” she says quickly, almost instinctively. “after this stretch of matches, it’ll calm down a bit. we can- ”

you don’t even let her finish.

“it’s okay,” you say gently.

not sharp.

not cold.

just… final in a quiet way.

she stops.

blinks.

then looks at you like she’s trying to understand what you didn’t say.

you soften your voice slightly.

“you don’t need to plan around me,” you add.

that one lands deeper.

you can see it in her face immediately.

because she does plan around you.

just not in the same time zone.

⸻

after the call ends, she doesn’t hang up quickly like she used to.

she stays for a second too long.

watching the screen like she’s waiting for you to come back into it.

you don’t.

you’ve already put the phone down.

⸻

and that’s when it becomes obvious.

not to you.

to her.

you’re not chasing her anymore.

you’re just… matching her pace.

finally.

⸻

you don’t notice the exact moment alexia stops being confident she still has time.

it doesn’t arrive loudly.

no argument. no confession. no breaking point that splits everything cleanly in two.

it arrives in the silence after she says your name and you don’t immediately soften.

that’s when she starts to realise something has shifted.

not gone.

just… no longer reaching back the way it used to.

⸻

she shows up between matches.

not planned.

not scheduled.

which is the first thing that feels wrong about it.

alexia is always scheduled.

always accounted for. always carried by something bigger than impulse.

so when she appears in your space like she’s stepped out of a different rhythm entirely, it takes you a second to process it.

she’s still in training gear. hair tied back, breath slightly uneven like she came straight from somewhere she didn’t fully leave.

“i came as soon as i could,” she says immediately, like she’s trying to fix something before it even speaks.

you blink once.

“you didn’t have to.”

that makes her pause.

just a fraction.

but you see it.

“i wanted to,” she says anyway.

you nod.

not unkind.

just… distant in a way she isn’t used to receiving.

⸻

she follows you inside without really asking.

she always used to.

but now it feels different.

like she’s stepping into something that no longer automatically opens for her.

you make tea. or coffee. something ordinary.

she watches you the whole time.

not in a controlling way.

in a trying-to-understand way.

“you’ve been hard to reach,” she says quietly.

you shrug slightly. “you’ve been busy.”

she exhales through her nose, almost a laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

“that’s not the same thing,” she says.

you glance at her briefly.

“it feels the same,” you reply.

that lands harder than either of you want to admit.

⸻

she sits across from you.

not next to you.

that’s new too.

“i keep thinking,” she starts, then stops, restarting like she’s trying to find the version of this conversation where she wins it back before it slips further away. “i keep thinking we just need… time. after this stretch of matches, things slow down. i can come properly. we can-“

you don’t interrupt this time.

you just listen.

and that’s what makes it different.

because you used to fill the silence for her.

now you don’t.

she notices.

“we can fix this,” she says more firmly. like if she says it with enough certainty, it becomes true. “i know i haven’t been fully there lately, but i’m trying. i always come back to you.”

you look down at your hands for a second.

then back up.

“you do,” you agree softly.

her shoulders ease slightly.

too early.

because you add, just as gently:

“but you always come back in between everything else.”

the room goes still.

not dramatic.

just… honest.

⸻

she leans forward a little.

“amor,” she says, softer now, breaking into catalan instinctively like she does when she’s tired or scared of losing something, “dona’m una mica de temps.”

give me a little time.

you hear it.

you always hear her better in those moments.

but something in you doesn’t move the way it used to.

“i already gave you time,” you say.

she blinks.

once.

twice.

like she’s trying to place when that happened.

you continue, still calm.

“i waited through matches. through camps. through flights you didn’t make. through calls you missed. i didn’t complain. i just… adjusted.”

her jaw tightens slightly.

“i didn’t mean for you to feel like- ”

“i know, bebe” you cut in softly.

not angry.

just certain.

that’s worse for her.

⸻

she stands up halfway without meaning to, then stops herself.

like her body wants to fix it but doesn’t know how.

“i thought we were just… out of sync,” she says. “not out of time.”

you look at her properly now.

really look.

and she looks tired in a way trophies don’t fix.

but you also see something else.

hope.

still there.

still stubborn.

still believing in “after.”

you swallow slightly.

“there was never an after where we both arrived at the same time,” you say.

her breath catches.

not loudly.

just enough to show she felt it.

⸻

silence sits between you again.

this one heavier.

older.

she tries one more time.

“i can change it,” she says, quieter now. “i can rearrange things. i can-”

you shake your head gently.

that’s the first time she stops talking without you finishing the sentence for her.

“you shouldn’t have to rearrange your life,” you say. “it’s your life. it already works for you.”

a pause.

then, softer:

“it just doesn’t fit me in it the way we thought it would.”

⸻

she looks at you like she wants to argue.

like she wants to pull every version of you back into earlier versions of this conversation where things could still be fixed.

but she doesn’t.

because she knows you now.

not perfectly.

but enough.

and she realises something she hasn’t said out loud yet.

you’re not asking her to choose you over football.

you stopped asking that a while ago.

you’re just no longer asking at all.

⸻

“so what happens now?” she asks quietly.

it’s the first question she’s asked that doesn’t assume an answer that leads back to her winning time.

you think about it for a moment.

not long.

because the answer has been forming for longer than either of you have been willing to name it.

“now?” you repeat.

she nods.

you exhale slowly.

“now you keep going,” you say. “and i stop waiting for the part where it lines up.”

that’s it.

no anger.

no collapse.

just clarity.

⸻

her eyes stay on you like she’s waiting for a final correction.

for you to say it’s not real.

for you to soften it.

you don’t.

and eventually, she nods once.

small.

almost involuntary.

like her body understands before her hope does.

“i never meant to make you feel like you were second,” she says quietly.

you believe her.

that’s what makes it hurt less sharp and more… final.

“i know,” you reply.

a beat.

then, barely above a whisper:

“you just were always somewhere else first.”

⸻

she doesn’t leave immediately.

she sits there a moment longer, like if she moves too quickly, it becomes permanent.

you don’t stop her.

you don’t ask her to stay.

you don’t say “after.”

because “after” was always hers.

never yours.

⸻

when she finally stands, she hesitates at the door.

just once.

“i do love you,” she says, like it still matters enough to say even if it doesn’t change the outcome.

you look at her.

and for the first time, you don’t try to hold onto the moment longer than it is.

“i know,” you say.

and you mean it.

that’s why it ends.

not because the love wasn’t real.

but because it was never in the same place at the same time.

⸻

she leaves quietly.

no dramatic exit.

no storm.

just footsteps fading into a life that keeps moving forward.

you stay where you are for a while after.

not waiting.

just… present.

for the first time, not five minutes behind her shadow.

not behind at all.

just outside of it.

⸻