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Phantom Pain, pt III

4 + 1 mini-series | Alexia x coach!reader | enemies to lovers

4 times you keep it together. 1 time you can’t.

Sometimes it has to get worse before it gets better.

Part I is here and Part II right here.

a/n sorry, took me ages. but they’re back. very angsty, borderline jealous and slightly toxic. tw!

wc ~13k

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

#1

On an already chilly morning in late October, you’re at the training ground too early.

Sleep didn’t come again.

Your dreams keep holding you somewhere between waking and sleep. You’re lying in bed, but it isn’t your room. Everything is slightly off, shifted and misproportioned. You know someone is lying behind you. You feel warmth, breath, presence. But when you move, there’s nothing there. Still, the sensation lingers. You try to get up, but your body responds with a delay. Not paralyzed. But also not entirely yours.

You wake up every time drenched in sweat.

It’s still dark when you turn into the parking lot. You kill the headlights and let your gaze rest on the floodlit training building for a moment. You love your job, but every day feels heavy now, nothing comes easily anymore, as if a weight is constantly pressing down on your body.

A car pulls into the lot and stops in front of the building. The headlights cut out, and when the door opens, the interior light flicks on. Carmen leans across toward Alexia in the passenger seat. You see her smile. Alexia’s posture doesn’t shift. Carmen lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair behind Alexia’s ear. She stays still, like a doll. Carmen leans in further, draws her closer, kisses her. Alexia’s mouth moves mechanically.

Then Alexia gets out, slams the door without looking back, and walks into the building. Carmen starts the engine again. The headlights flare across the lot, and you sink lower into your seat without meaning to. She has become a fixture in your periphery over the last few weeks. After training, lingering in the parking lot, at team dinners, even after league games, out on the pitch where everyone can see. She unsettles something deep in your gut.

You take a deep breath, reach for your backpack on the passenger seat, and grab your tablet from the back. The number of empty Coke cans and coffee cups wedged between training plans is starting to look excessive. You gather a few of the discarded cups, wrinkle your nose, and push the car door open.

When you get to your office, you move straight to the window without turning on the lights. On the far side of the pitch, Alexia is already there. A small figure tracing steady laps. Your eyes catch on her, stay there, as the sun rises over Barcelona. Every morning for four weeks, you’ve been watching her run herself into the ground. Lap after lap. Until her breathing turns rough and uneven. Until she drops to her knees, hands braced against the turf. Three deep breaths, controlled, forced, then she pushes herself back up and goes again.

Every evening, you pull up her stats on your tablet. You scroll. And scroll. Your eyebrows lift despite yourself at the absence of recovery. Numbers that shouldn’t look like that. Gaps that aren’t there. You linger on them longer than necessary.

In week two you’d asked Elena to keep an eye on her. She didn’t ask questions, just nodded.

⸻

You’ve scheduled the afternoon session for 3 PM. After a morning full of drills it’s just light recovery work, mobility and pool time for those who need it. Alexia doesn’t show up for recovery.

You scan the pool area, the stretching stations. Nothing. “She’s in the gym,” Elena says, appearing beside you with her medical bag. “How long has she been in there?” you ask. “Since lunch ended,“ she looks at her watch, „forty minutes now.” You close your eyes briefly, exhale through your nose. “Have you—?”

She shakes her head and looks at you. “She’s a pro athlete, YN. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” You just nod, letting her continue. “You know, I don’t think she needs me to tell her that she’s been training way too much lately.”

Your hand comes up to your earlobe, brushing over it briefly. “Could you—“ you flinch at your own tone, breathe in again, “could you just make a note? For protocol? Give her medical advice on her recovery time or something?” Elena raises an eyebrow at you. “I could— yes.” She studies you a moment longer. “But this isn’t a solution to…” She circles a finger lightly in the air between you. “—whatever this is.” Her gaze sharpens. “And you know that.” Your shoulders drop as you exhale. “Yeah,” you say, “I know.”

“And—” Elena looks at you pointedly, “we both know you can’t out-stubborn Alexia.” You close your eyes for a second, inhale deep. “I’ll go talk to her myself,” you say and turn around.

Your shoes squeak against the pale grey linoleum as you approach the gym. You’ve gone over the conversation twice on the walk over from the pool. What she’ll say. What you’ll say. It doesn’t help. The knot in your stomach hasn’t loosened once.

The gym is mostly empty, afternoon light cuts in through the high windows, flat and white. You stop in the doorway for a moment and watch her. She’s pulling heavy on the cable machine. Her shirt is dark with sweat, hair pulled back tight. A towel hangs around her shoulders. Two large water bottles sit by the machine. One is empty, tipped over, the other is stripped of its label. She finishes a set, resets and starts again.

For a split second, you consider faking a call as you walk in to announce yourself. You clear your throat instead, step closer slowly, giving her time to register you.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t stop. Your hand slips into your pocket, fingers brushing the hair tie you shoved in there this morning. You roll it between your fingers, step up beside the machine, plant your feet, straighten. Breathe in.

“You’re supposed to be in recovery,” you say, eyes fixed on her. She keeps pulling like she’s trying to tear the cables out of the machine. “I am recovering,” she replies, without looking at you. Another pull. The weight stack lifts, drops. Lifts and drops again.

You raise an eyebrow but say nothing. Sweat runs down her temple. Her arms are tense, defined, the muscles in her back are shifting under the straps of her top, ink moving with them. She exhales sharply through her nose. Under the long sleeves of your Barça top, the hair on your arms stands on end.

She finishes the set before turning, lifts the towel and wipes across her face. When she looks at you, her expression is blank. “I’m fine,” she says dismissively.

Your lips press together, tight. It’s the same look your mother used when she knew you were hiding a bad grade. “Recovery times exist for a reason, Alexia.”

She flinches at her name. “I don’t need any recovery right now,” she says, swinging her right leg off the machine, grabbing her bottle as she gets up. When she’s standing, she’s a little bit taller than you and suddenly right in front of you.

She lifts the bottle to her lips and you catch her scent, heat, clean sweat, something softer underneath. Her perfume. You take a step back on instinct. Re-establish distance, just as she takes a few gulps from the bottle, her throat moving, sweat dripping from her forehead. Her eyes flicker sideways to you. She sets the bottle down and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I don’t bite,” she then says matter-of-factly, and just stands there like Michelangelo carved her from marble. You groan internally at your own thoughts. She holds your gaze for a second, searching your face. Whatever she’s looking for, she doesn’t find it. No sign of the tight knot showing on your face.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, moving past you, shoulder brushing yours on the way to the leg press. You stare at her back for a moment. “You’re doing too much,” you say, going after her. “I’m training. Doing my job,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks over and swings her towel over her shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much when you’re a professional athlete.” She sets the bottle down a little harder than necessary. “Not if you want to be the best.”

You press your thumb and index finger to the bridge of your nose, eyes closing briefly. She adjusts the weights, focused and precise.

“You need rest,” you say, emphasizing the words. “I need to be ready,” she answers without looking at you. She turns to the machine, sits down and positions her feet on the plate. “We have a Champions League qualifier in Stockholm in three weeks,” she adds. “Which is exactly why you need to recover now,” you reply pointing your finger downwards. “I’ll recover on the plane,” she says and starts her first set.

You stand beside her, close enough to keep your voice low and study her for a moment. “Alexia, is this about—” you begin.

“It’s not,” she interrupts sharply setting the plate back into position. “Whatever you think it is, it’s not,” she states. “This is about me. My training. My standards,” she continues, her eyes locking onto yours. “Not everything is about you, you know, YN?” Her jaw works hard. “I’m very sorry to inform you that my world is not circling around you,” she adds almost sweetly. You see the pulse in her temple.

You huff, dismissing it. “Alexia, you’re obviously overcompensating.” You raise an eyebrow, anger rising in your chest. “And let me dare say,” you add, “not just here in the gym.” Her head snaps at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She shoots back in a low voice so no one can hear her. “It means,” you say, your voice slightly trembling with anger now, “that I know exactly what you are doing here,” you point to the machine, “and on the field,” you point to the grass beyond the windows, “and out there with—, with—,” you search a moment for the right word. Then let out a short and dry laugh. “With your girlfriend or your—, your fuck buddy or whatever she is.” You wave your hand in the air and try to take a breath, calm down as you are still standing in the gym. The thought hits you hard. Not here.

Alexia just looks at you, completely calm. So calm it irritates you instantly. Then she smiles almost lazily and says in the sweetest voice possible “As I said, very clearly, YN: My training intensity has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with you.” She sets her feet on the plate again, turns her head to the machine, and resumes her workout.

You watch the muscles in her thighs tighten and release, watch the controlled force of each movement. Your jaw is clenched, your arms crossed. “Finish this set,” you say finally. “Then you’re done for the day.” The words come out harsh and it feels good. She doesn’t react. “That’s an order, Alexia,” you add sharply, adrenaline rushing through your body.

She stills at that. Her feet remain on the platform. Her head turns toward you, very slowly. “An order,” she repeats incredulously, one eyebrow lifting. “Yes,” you say. “An order.” For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Neither do you. Then she inhales sharply through her nose, pushes the weight back into the rack, and walks past you toward the door, her shoulder brushing yours.

⸻

By 7 PM the building is mostly empty. Just you and a few staff members doing late work. You pack your bag, turn off your office lights and head for the parking lot. The air outside is crisp, properly cold now that the sun has set. You shiver as you step out of the building.

Carmen is leaning against a car near the entrance, scrolling through her phone. You want to walk past her but when she hears your footsteps on the pavement, she looks up and smiles. “Oh! Hi!” She straightens, tucking her phone into her pocket. “YN, right?”

“Yes hi,” you say completely neutral, not slowing your pace.

“I’m Carmen. Remember? Alexia’s girlfriend,” she continues and smiles.

“Yeah, I know,” you tell her and point to the far end of the parking lot. “I really need to—.”

“Right, of course you remember.” She laughs lightly. “Everyone knows everyone here, I guess.” She shrugs and you adjust your bag on your shoulder, finally pausing and waiting for her to get to whatever point this is. “It’s good to see you again,” she says, “I was just— I was waiting for Ale to finish training,” she continues and gestures toward the entrance. You don’t say anything. “She’s been so busy lately,” Carmen trails, her smile turning slightly rueful. “Like, all the time. Early mornings, late nights, extra sessions. I barely see her anymore.” She laughs again, and scratches the back of her neck. “I’m starting to feel a little jealous of this place.” Her lips are a thin line.

You don’t know what to say to that.

“But I know it’s important,” she continues quickly. “The extra training you’ve scheduled for everyone. Alexia explained it to me. We talk a lot. All the injury prevention work, the big games coming up. It makes sense, she is a pro athlete.” She nods to you, to herself, you can’t tell. “She said you’ve been really thorough about it,” Carmen goes on. “Making sure everyone does the additional sessions. The tight schedules. Which is great, obviously. I mean, no one wants more injuries, right?” She tilts her head slightly. “It’s just a lot, you know? For her. For—. For me, us I mean,” she laughs again.

Your mouth opens but you don’t really know what to say. You suddenly feel some kind of odd pity for that woman standing there in the parking lot. Waiting for someone who has never really— you cut your thoughts off as Carmen is still smiling at you, warm and genuine. There’s no accusation in her expression. No harm. Just the easy trust of someone who believes what they’ve been told.

You take a deep breath. “Alexia, she—. She works hard,” you finally say.

“She really does.” Carmen’s expression softens with obvious affection. “Too hard sometimes,” she says, “but that’s Alexia, right? When she commits to something, she goes all in.” She pauses. “I just hope all this extra work is worth it. That it’s actually helping.” “It’s important work,” you hear yourself say. “Oh, I’m sure it is!” Carmen agrees readily. “I don’t really understand all the technical stuff—biomechanics and load management and whatever—but I trust that you know what you’re doing. And if it keeps her healthy, then I’m all for it.” She glances toward the building. “Even if it means I see less of her for a while.” A door opens somewhere behind you. You both turn to look, but it’s just a member of the cleaning staff.

“Anyway,” Carmen says, her smile returning, “I should let you go. I’m sure you’re tired after a long day.” She starts backing toward her car. “But yeah—just wanted to say thanks, I guess. For taking such good care of them all. Especially her.”

She gives a little wave and shoves her hands into her pockets. She shivers slightly. “I guess I’ll wait for her in the car,” she says, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. She opens the door and slides on the drivers seat. You stand there for a moment longer, the cold seeping through your jacket.

Then you head toward your own car leaving this conversation behind.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

#2

You set down the second glass just as the doorbell rings. The plate of pan con tomate is already on the table, olive oil catching the light in a thin, uneven sheen. You bought olives as well, black ones, because she likes them better, and some crackers.

Elena is beaming when you open the door. "Ladies' night," she announces, holding up a bottle of wine. You raise an eyebrow, a crooked half-smile pulling at your mouth as you lean in for the customary two kisses. "Come in," you say warmly.

She slips past you and makes herself comfortable on your couch, toeing off her shoes and wrapping a blanket around her legs. You disappear into the kitchen and return with a corkscrew. As you open the bottle and fill both glasses, she's already loading her plate with food. Thursday evenings have become your ladies' night, as Elena likes to call it. A routine you find yourself genuinely looking forward to. Good food, a glass of wine, and films most of the time — a bar only when games fall on Sundays rather than Saturdays. Elena talks most of the time and you listen. You feel like you don't have many interesting things to say besides your job, and she already knows everything about that anyway. So you let her talk. About her husband and her twins, seventeen and always in trouble. About her dog and her mother-in-law, who is apparently very Catalan and has an opinion on everything. Her stories fill the space in a way your own life hasn't been able to for a while.

"By the way," Elena says after a while, lifting her glass and watching you over the rim, "did you talk to Alexia the other day?" You take a sip of wine before answering, buying yourself a second. "Well," you say, "yes and no." You shrug. She looks at you curiously as you set the glass down with a soft click. "She probably hates me even more now." Elena raises an eyebrow before laughing out loud. "Well, from what I've heard so far, that's hardly possible," she teases.

"What do you mean by that?" You frown slightly. "I mean,” she stretches the word deliberately, “you were pretty hard on her walking away back then in Granada.” She pauses. “And your sudden reappearance here probably didn't make things much better," she says, shrugging.

You have no reply to that. Elena's expression tightens slightly. "So, what did you say to her? In the gym, I mean." You reach for a slice of bread, pick at the tomato with your fingers. "I told her to stop overtraining," you say, then finally push the piece into your mouth. "That was the point of going to her, wasn't it?"

Elena leans back a fraction, studying you. "And what did she say?" You shrug. Small. "She stopped." "Pfff." Elena lets out a short breath. "I'm sure that made a huge impression on her." You bite into the bread a little too hard, crumbs spilling onto your lap. Elena watches you, head tilting slightly. "Do you really think it's that simple?" she says. "You tell her to stop destroying her body and she just does it?" You pick up some crumbs and place them on the table. "Have you tried anything else?" She asks.

You pick up another crumb. "What would you suggest? I mean— She hates me, Elena, she makes it perfectly clear every single day." Elena tilts her head. "Alexia doesn't hate you, YN. I've seen what it looks like when she doesn't like people. She starts ignoring them. With you, she does exactly the opposite." She takes a sip of her wine and lets that sit.

"Maybe," she continues after a moment, "you tell her you're worried?" Your head lifts immediately. "I'm not—.” You shake your head. “I’m not worried." You frown. "At least not the way you're implying, anyway." Elena narrows her eyes slightly, bringing her glass to her lips. "What am I implying, YN?"

You don't answer.

"You know what I think?" she continues after a moment. "I think the two of you really need to talk about what's actually going there,” she circles her finger in the air. “Behind all that avoidance and—,” she pauses and looks at you, “and tension. As I would call it,” she winks at you.

You breathe in and let time stretch. "It's not like I don't know what's going on,” you finally say. The crumbs on your lap and on your plate are very interesting. "And that would be…?" she asks, looking at you curiously. "Well, she obviously has a problem with the fact that I left. Back then. In Granada," you shrug. "Mmhm," Elena replies. "And you?"

You fill your cheeks with air and let it out slowly. "I— I don't know. I feel uncomfortable when she's like that. I can't be around her. I think about— think about it too much." Your voice drops. Elena’s eyes are on you. "Think about what, YN?" She nudges your knee with hers. "About everything. The way she acts, what she says, how— how it was back then." Elena breathes in and out. You continue, running a hand through your hair. "I don't know. This— this tension between us, it just ruins everything. If she can't even be professional, then she should at least act normal. Like a normal person." You break off, the rest catching somewhere in your throat.

"Normal," Elena repeats, making small quotation marks in the air. She gives you a look. "You're not exactly 'normal' around her either, are you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “You both carry on like it's some kind of game between you." She gestures vaguely with her fork. "Whatever this is you keep doing." Your lips press together. “No one is going to win that." "I'm not trying to win anything," you say, quieter now, but there's still an edge to it. She nods slowly. "Then stop acting like it." You don’t know what to say to that and just drop your gaze to your plate.

"YN," Elena says a little louder after a moment, giving your thigh a light double tap to get your attention, "when was the last time you did something that wasn't work?" You don't answer. "When was the last time you went out? Saw friends? Had fun?" You reach for the bottle, refill your already empty glass slowly. "I'm seeing you right now." Elena snorts. "You're hiding behind work," she corrects. "You come in early, you stay late, you eat lunch at your desk." "I'm doing my job," you say flatly. "Listen," she cuts in, waving that away, "the team is going out tomorrow night. A bar in Gràcia. Very casual. You're coming."

"I don't think—" you start. "It's not a request," Elena says firmly. "You need to get out of your office and your flat, away from training data and biomechanics reports, and remember that you're a person, not just a coach." You open your mouth to argue. Then close it again. "Fine," you concede. "I'll come."

Elena's expression brightens immediately. "Good. And I'm bringing someone,” she adds casually. You frown. "Who?" "A friend. Sara. She's a doctor at Hospital Clínic." Elena tilts her head slightly, watching your reaction. "Smart, funny, gorgeous." She looks at you. "Single."

You lift your head. "Elena—"

"Just meet her," Elena says, already pushing herself up from the couch and reaching for the remote. "No pressure. Just— be open to the possibility that there are other people in Barcelona besides—" She stops herself, shakes her head slightly. "Just be open."

Then turns to the TV and puts on the show the two of you had been watching.

⸻

The bar is exactly what you'd expect from a place the team chose. Dimly lit, loud enough to feel energetic but not so loud you can't talk, filled with people in their twenties and thirties who all try to look as though they don't care about a thing.

You arrive at nine-thirty, already regretting this decision. Elena spots you immediately and waves you over. She's standing with a woman. Tall, dark hair, a warm smile that reaches her eyes when Elena introduces you.

“YN, this is Sara. Sara, YN.”

“Elena’s told me about you,” Sara says, extending her hand. Her grip is confident, her English accented but fluent. “The biomechanics genius who’s going to keep everyone healthy.”

“That’s generous,” you reply, trying to laugh the compliment off. “I’m just trying to keep them from tearing their ACLs.”

“In this game, that makes you a genius,” Sara counters, her smile widening. You look at her dimples a second longer than you should. She’s attractive. Warm brown eyes, an easy smile, the kind of presence that puts people at ease. Under different circumstances, you’d be interested. Under different circumstances, you wouldn’t be scanning the bar for someone else.

“Let me get us drinks,” Sara offers. “What do you want?” “A glass of wine is fine,” you say. She glances toward Elena. “Ela?” Elena nods. “Wine, then.”

Sara heads to the bar, and Elena immediately leans in. “She’s perfect, right?” Her eyes are wide when she looks at you.

You inhale. “Elena— I—” you start, a little helpless. “Just give her a chance,” Elena says, softer now. “One conversation. That’s all I’m asking.” She squeezes your hand lightly.

Before you can respond, a burst of noise rises near the entrance. Several players arrive at once. You recognize Mapi with Ingrid, Patri and Pina, Aitana with Keira and Lucy, even from a distance. They flood the space with energy, calling out greetings, ordering drinks.

Behind them, moving more slowly, Alexia appears. You recognize her immediately. Her posture first, spine straight. Then her gaze, scanning the room like a pitch. Her expression composed and unreadable. Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

Alexia is wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket, her hair loose around her shoulders. Large hoop earrings catch the light. You’re about to look away when you notice Carmen behind her, one hand resting low on Alexia’s back, easy, familiar, laughing at something Mapi just said.

“Here you go,” Sara says, handing you a glass of red wine, pulling you back. Her smile is warm. Open. You smile back. “Perfect,” you manage, turning away, scanning for a table.

In your peripheral vision, Carmen leans in, says something into Alexia’s ear. Alexia’s lips tug upward.

The three of you sit down, your back to her.

Sara is easy to talk to. She asks thoughtful questions about your work, shares stories from the hospital that are equal parts horrifying and hilarious, and makes you laugh despite the tension settled between your shoulder blades.

At one point, Elena stands. “I’ll leave the two of you to it,” she says. “I’m heading over to Jona—we have some recovery plans to discuss.”

You look at her pointedly. She winks, already turning to leave.

Sara smiles at you. “So—do you want another drink?” she asks carefully, her smile warm. You can tell she’s asking for more than that. You pretend not to notice and push your chair back. “Yes— I— I’ll get more drinks,” you say, the words coming out awkwardly as you head toward the bar without looking back.

You’re trying to catch the bartender’s attention when a body appears beside you. You feel the heat before you turn. Alexia stands next to you, staring straight ahead. “Enjoying the evening?” she asks.

You focus on the bottles lined up on the shelf. “Yes,” you reply, your voice flat. “I’m having a really good evening, thanks.”

She says nothing. The silence stretches, just long enough to grate. Then she takes a breath. “Who’s Bambi over there?” she asks, nodding slightly toward your table. A knot forms in your throat. “Her name is Sara. She’s a friend of Elena’s,” you answer, clipped. Alexia hums. “She doesn’t look like your type.”

You exhale through your nose. “And what is my type, Alexia?” You turn fully toward her now, resting your arm against the bar.

Alexia looks at you, tilts her head slightly, her mouth pulling into a thin line. “Two years ago, I could have told you exactly,” she says, leaning a fraction closer. “In a bar, in the dark— you were pretty clear about it. Whispering in my ear.

Something sharp twists in your stomach. “Oh, come on, Alexia. Not that old song again. Let it go,” you say, your tone short, your eyes fixed on hers. She’s close. Too close.

Alexia narrows her eyes, then shakes her head slowly, almost like she regrets it. “You’ve already figured out it’s not that simple, right?” She holds your gaze. “You seem to need a little distraction yourself,” she adds, nodding toward Sara. “So—enjoy your evening.” Her voice drops on the last words.

She knocks twice on the bar, then turns and walks back to her table. You stay behind at the bar and breathe through it, twice, deep and slow — until the bartender appears and asks for your order.

You return to the table with two glasses of wine. "Who was that?" Sara asks, her eyes open and curious. "One of our players," you answer briefly. "Your conversation seemed—," Sara starts, then settles on “are you okay?” You see the genuine concern in her eyes and guilt flashes over you. You try to put it down. "Yeah, I don't know. She just had a question about next week's training plan, that's all," you say. Sara looks at you for a moment. Then she nods to you, maybe to herself, as though she's made a decision, and takes a sip of her wine. "So, Elena told me you just moved to Barcelona," she says, pulling your attention back. "Do you like it?" "Yes, absolutely," you reply. "It’s very busy, but a nice city." "Have you had a chance to explore the city much?"

Some players move past your table from the direction of the bar, taking the one right behind yours, which gives you a clear view of Alexia. And Carmen. You breathe in and force your focus back.

"Not really. Work has been pretty consuming." Sara smiles, understanding. "I get that. When I first started at the hospital, I barely left for six months." She takes another sip of her wine. "But Barcelona is amazing once you give yourself permission to actually experience it."

You nod. Your eyes drift past her again. Alexia isn't looking at you. Her attention is fixed on Carmen, or on whoever is talking.

"Have you been to Park Güell yet?" Sara asks. Your gaze snaps back. "No." "Sagrada Família?" "Only from the outside." You shrug.

Your eyes flick past Sara again. This time, Alexia is already looking at you, picking at the label of her beer bottle. When your eyes meet, something sharp hits low in your stomach, warm, spreading into your legs and your arms.

"Okay, that's unacceptable," Sara says, laughing. "You can't live in Barcelona and not see Gaudí properly." You scratch your head, forcing your attention back to her. "I'm taking you this weekend," she says firmly, grabbing your arm and smiling. You force a smile and laugh nervously. "I don't know if—"

"Come on," Sara interrupts gently. "Just as friends." Her fingers brush your arm lightly. "A local showing you around. No pressure."

She's giving you an out. Making it easy. And objectively, there's no reason to say no. She's attractive, interesting, kind. Exactly the kind of person you should want to spend time with. "Okay," you hear yourself say. "This weekend sounds good." Sara's smile widens. "Perfect."

At the table behind you, Carmen laughs. Loud, almost performative. When you glance over, Alexia isn't laughing. Her jaw is set, her eyes on Sara. Or on you. You can't tell. Then her attention snaps back to Carmen.

⸻

An hour later, you've had another glass of wine and are actually starting to relax. You've been deliberately ignoring Alexia's gaze, focusing on Sara. She asked about your life, your childhood, seems to genuinely care for how you feel and what kind of human you are. As she’s now telling a story about a patient who came into emergency with a truly bizarre injury you notice that you’re laughing for the first time in weeks. Your head and your chest feel lighter than they have in ages. Sara talks a lot with her hands, fully absorbed in her own stories. She touches you occasionally and you let her. Let it feel good.

At some point you excuse yourself to find the bathroom. "Be right back," you say, smile at her and push your chair back. She nods. "I'll be here."

You weave through the crowd, past bodies and voices and too much warmth, until the hallway opens up and the air shifts, cooler and quieter. The bathroom is empty. You lean against the wall for a moment then step up to the sink, turn on the tap and let the water run over your hands longer than necessary. Your reflection looks back at you, flushed and a little unfocused. You reach for the soap, more out of habit than need and wash your hands.

The door opens behind you. When you glance up into the mirror, she’s standing there. Alexia, framed by the doorway for a second before she steps fully inside, the door falling shut behind her with a soft, almost careful click. She watches you without expression, head tilting slightly to one side, as if adjusting her angle might change what she's seeing.

"Is Bambi boring you already?" She asks, her tone light, almost conversational. You look at her reflection in the mirror, narrow your eyes. You breathe in, then slowly reach for the paper towels. Pull two free. The thin paper tears slightly under your fingers. You dry your hands with more focus than necessary. It’s only then that you turn. Very slowly.

She's leaning against the closed door, one shoulder against the wood, watching you. "What do you want, Alexia?" you ask her. She tilts her head again slightly. "Protecting her already?" she asks. "I'm not protecting anyone." You drop the paper towels in the bin. "Least of all from you."

Alexia pushes off the door. “She likes you.” She takes a step closer. “I can see it.” You don’t move, your back is against the sink. “You should take her on a date,” she continues, taking another step. “Have a nice dinner, drinks. One, maybe two.” Her voice is steady, her eyes stay on you. “Maybe you’ll have some fun with her. She could ask you to come up to her apartment.” She shrugs, almost casually. “And maybe you actually have the guts to stay this time.” A faint smile pulls at her mouth. Sharp. Deliberate.

You try to step back but the sink stops you. Alexia notices, closes the remaining distance. She's standing close enough now that you can see the small mole on her collarbone. The one that— No. Your breath catches. Your stomach tightens.

“You know, YN, I can feel your eyes on me. I can feel every lingering look you throw my way. When I train in the gym, when I enter a room.” She smiles at you sweetly. “When you’re supposed to look at her but can’t—.” Her smile sharpens. You don’t say anything, just try to breathe normally.

"Is that your revenge?" she asks, quieter now. "For Carmen?" Her eyes are dark, fixed on yours. "You're so transparent," she scoffs.

Your jaw clenches. "I don't do revenge," you shoot back. "No?” She frowns. “Then why is it so hard to breathe normally when I’m close?" She tilts her head. Right there. Unavoidable. Close enough that you can see the way her pupils are dilated. Close enough that when she shifts her weight, you feel it. Close enough that you smell–

The thought hits you suddenly, sharp and unwelcome.

"You smell like her," you say before you can stop yourself.

Alexia goes still.

"You smell like Carmen."

She blinks. Once. Twice. Her brow furrows slightly. Her gaze drops to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

She's searching for something. Doesn't find it. She shifts her weight, closes her eyes briefly. Recalibrates. Opens her eyes again. Then takes a step back.

Alexia shakes her head once, small, almost to herself. "You should go back to her," she says. Her voice is different now. Flat. "To Sara." She holds your gaze a moment longer, then steps aside. You really don’t know what to say to that. So you just stare at her for a moment. Blink. Then you walk past her to the door, your shoulder brushing hers. You don't look back, pull the door open and step into the hallway.

You stop a few feet down the corridor. Close your eyes. Breathe in slowly, hold it, let it out.

This can't keep going.

⸻

Noise floods in for a second when you step back into the bar. Sara looks up at you with a smile as you walk back to her. You sit down and sigh.

“You alright?” she asks, watching you, concern in her voice. “You look like someone died,” she adds, trying to joke. You give her a tight smile. “Yeah, just suddenly tired,” you say, the excuse landing flat. She studies you for a second, something softer in her expression. “Then it’s the right moment to call it a night,” she says simply and stands, reaching out to pull you up. “Come on, I’ll call you an Uber.” You nod. Your whole body feels heavy. Guilty. You force a smile and hope it reaches your eyes.

Alexia is nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Carmen standing up at some point, checking her phone, saying her goodbyes, heading for the door.

When you step outside into Barcelona’s November night, the street is still alive. Your Uber pulls up right in front of you. Sara pulls you into a warm hug. “I had a really nice evening,” she says, looking into your eyes. “This is my number.” She presses a small piece of paper into your hand. “Text me if you feel like a tourist tour of Barcelona.” Then she turns in her heels and you watch her walk away.

You slide into the car and let your head fall back against the headrest.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

#3

Jona calls at 5 PM on Friday, just as you're unlocking your apartment door and slipping out of your shoes. For a second, you let the phone ring in your hand, watching the screen light up, thinking about leaving it, about letting the evening stay untouched, the day end where it's supposed to. Then you pick up.

"Jona, hola— what's up?"

He coughs, the sound rough and close to the receiver. "Hi— sorry to call this late, but I need you to step in for me at the charity gala tonight."

You close your eyes briefly, leaning your head back against the door, already feeling the shape of your evening shift. "I've got a bad cold," he continues. "Fever, chills. I can't make it." He coughs again.

"Okay," you say, a little flatter than you intend.

"It's sponsors, board members. Someone from the coaching staff has to be there." Another cough. "I already told them you're coming. Some players will be there too. Just smile, shake hands, talk about the season." You push yourself off the door, moving further into the apartment, keys still in your hand, not quite sure where to put them. "You'll be fine," he adds.

"Yeah," you say after a moment, quieter now. "I think I can manage."

"It starts in two hours. The W. Black tie." A short pause. "Thanks, YN. I owe you."

⸻

You stand in front of your closet longer than necessary, your gaze moving over different clothes until it settles on a black dress that's been hanging there for months. The tag is still attached, a leftover from an event that never happened. It has a low back, lower than you remembered. Your skin is exposed from your shoulder blades down to the base of your spine, the line of it sharp in the mirror. You turn, check the front. The neckline sits just below your collarbones. Simple and clean. Your mother would approve.

You take a breath. In. Out. Without the tracksuit, without the routine, you feel suddenly aware of yourself in a way you usually avoid.

You keep your makeup minimal—mascara, a touch of color on your lips—you work in a bit of dry shampoo at the roots of your hair because there isn't time for anything else. You try a bun first. It feels too tight, too formal. Then you try loose, half-pinned, pieces falling around your face. Better.

The heels you bought in Munich still work fine. Black, pointed, three inches that make your calves tighten when you stand. When you look up at yourself in the mirror, your eyes meet your own and hold for a second, not quite critical, not quite neutral either.

⸻

The Uber arrives at 6:45. The headlights are cutting briefly across the pavement outside, and you slide into the back seat, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress once, then again, as if that might settle it into place. The city passes by in blurred streaks of light, reflections sliding across the window.

The W rises ahead, all glass and sharp edges, overlooking the dark stretch of the ocean. When you step out, the November wind cuts straight through the thin fabric of your dress, cold enough to make you pause for a second, your breath visible in the air. You should have brought a coat.

Inside, a woman in a Barça staff polo approaches you with a clipboard and a practiced smile, checking your name before looking up again. "You're at table one," she says. "With the board. And Alexia."

Great.

You nod once, shifting your bag from one shoulder to the other, and checking your lipstick with a quick glance in the reflection of the glass beside you. "Thank you," you smile and walk past her.

The sound of voices and music grows as you move toward the ballroom, your hand tightens briefly around the small strap of your bag before you go through the doors.

The room opens wide in front of you, chandeliers casting warm light across white tablecloths and gold-rimmed glasses. You hear muffled conversations and laughter as you step inside.

Your table is near the front. A board member and his wife are already seated, making polite conversation with Mapi and Ingrid. Aitana is scrolling through her phone, one hand wrapped around a champagne flute. They look up when you approach.

Mapi's eyes widen slightly. "Wow. YN." You set your clutch on the table. "Hi."

"That dress is—" Mapi stops herself, glances at Ingrid, who's smiling. "You look great."

"Thanks," you reply and smile at her.

"Jona bailed?" Aitana asks and sips on her champagne casually. "He’s a bad cold," you answer and Aitana nods sympathetically. "That's rough,” she says more to herself than anybody else and resumes scrolling through her phone.

“These things are so boring anyway." Mapi laughs. "But you get free champagne, fancy food, and watch rich people spend money on stuff they don't need. This is entertainment," she whispers and looks around if someone overheard her.

A ripple of movement near the entrance makes you look up. More guests are arriving. You scan the crowd without meaning to. Then you see her.

Alexia walks in alone. She's wearing a dark suit, black, tailored perfectly, a white shirt underneath. Her hair is down, falling in waves past her shoulders. She moves through the room with the kind of presence that makes people turn their heads without realizing they're doing it. Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass.

Mapi follows your gaze. "Oh good, she made it," she says. Then, quieter, she adds, "don’t stare too much, YN." You look away from Alexia and raise an eyebrow at Mapi.

Alexia is directed to your table and takes the empty seat directly across from you. Her eyes drift to you briefly, you catch her looking before she lowers her gaze. "Hola," she says to the table generally and smiles. She sits and accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Her posture is perfect—spine straight, shoulders back.

When dinner is served the board member and her husband dominate the conversation, asking Alexia about the upcoming Champions League qualifier, about the team's form, about recovery protocols. Alexia answers with practiced ease, her voice is steady, her responses are measured. Between the appetizer and the main course, one of the sponsors, a woman named Edith, leans across the table toward you. "So— you're the new biomechanics coach, yes? Josep speaks very highly of you." You dab your mouth with a napkin. "I appreciate that," you reply and smile politely. "He says you've made significant changes to the training program," she adds. "We've implemented some new protocols," you explain. "Injury prevention is a priority." "Smart." She nods. "Especially after last season. Losing players to ACL tears is expensive."

You resist the urge to point out that players are people, not investments. Instead you smile and say, "We're doing everything we can to keep the squad healthy."

"And what does the captain think of all this?" She turns slightly, addressing Alexia directly now. "I imagine change isn't always easy to accept." Alexia sets down her fork. Her expression doesn't shift, but something tightens in the line of her shoulders. "The changes have been—" She pauses, reaching for her wine glass. "—comprehensive." Edith laughs. "That's a diplomatic answer." Alexia's mouth curves slightly. "I'm very diplomatic, you’ve known me for a long time now, Edith."

"But seriously," Edith presses. "How's it been working with the new protocols?" You brace yourself involuntarily. Alexia takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down with precision. Her voice is even and measured. "YN's work is thorough," she says. "Very detail-oriented. She catches things that might otherwise go unnoticed. Like small compensations and subtle imbalances. Things that could become problems down the line." Her voice is even and measured, her eyes are fixed on Edith. Mapi turns her head to Alexia. Out of the corner of your eye you see how she grabs Ingrid’s thigh under the table and squeezes it lightly. Ingrid turns her head at that and also looks into your direction.

"She's demanding," Alexia continues, still looking at Edith. "She holds everyone to high standards, including me. Which isn't always comfortable." She pauses and wipes her hands on her napkin. "But discomfort is often where growth happens," she then says and suddenly looks directly at you. Your heart is beating fast but you hold her gaze.

She breaks it first, takes a deep breath. "So yes, the changes have been comprehensive. But they've also been effective,” she concludes. Alexia picks up the menu that is displayed on each table and fumbles on the edge of the paper.

“Oh I bet they are,” Mapi murmurs under her breath. Ingrid nudges her foot under the table. But Edith looks pleased. "Oh wonderful,” she claps her hands once and smiles. “That's exactly what we like to hear,” she exclaims, then turns back to you. "You're clearly making an impact, darling,” she says, patting your hand.

You nod because you don’t know what to say to any of that. Then you take a sip of wine and smile at the sponsor. Alexia studies the menu.

The main course arrives, some kind of chicken in a cream sauce, and the conversation turns to possible new signings in the winter transfer window. Alexia cuts her food into precise pieces, eating slowly. You're acutely aware of every movement she makes. The way she lifts her fork. The way she dabs her mouth with her napkin. The way her arm rests on the table but her fingers twitch sometimes.

After the main course people start circulating, clearly to start the networking portion of the evening. You excuse yourself.

⸻

The bar is near the back of the room, tucked into an alcove with dim lighting. You order another glass of wine, and while you wait, you feel the presence before you hear the voice.

"Make that two."

Your spine goes rigid. You turn your head. Alexia is standing beside you, close. Closer than necessary for a crowded space. You can smell her, clean and expensive, faint smoke, and underneath that, her. The same scent from the gym, from the training ground, from every space she occupies that you can't seem to escape.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is controlled.

You don’t answer. The bartender sets down two glasses. Alexia picks up one, her fingers brushing the stem, and you watch the movement, the way her hand wraps around it, the tendons in her wrist visible under her skin. The small 11 tattoo. She stays there, her shoulder almost level with yours, both of you facing the room.

"What was that at the table?" you ask, taking a sip of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see her mouth curve slightly. "I'm working," she says simply, taking a sip of her own wine.

You turn to look at her then, and it's a mistake. She's already looking at you. Her eyes move across your face, your cheekbones, your mouth, back up to your eyes. "You look—" she starts, then stops. Her jaw shifts. "Different."

"Different how?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Just different." Her eyes drop down to your collarbone, your throat, lower. Then back up. "The dress—." She vaguely gestures toward you. Heat spreads across your chest and up your neck. Her gaze is steady, direct, the kind of look that pins you in place. Almost hungry. "You don't usually—" She stops again, seems to reconsider. "It's nice." Your fingers tighten around your glass. She just looks forward, breathes out once.

“Alexia, there you are—” Josep appears beside her out of nowhere, some man next to him. “Richard and I want to talk to you about something,” he tells her. “But let’s take a photo first.” He claps her on the shoulder. It lands a little too hard. Alexia’s smile flickers, tight for a second.

Josep waves the photographer over. “We’ll put the two ladies in the middle, yes?” He laughs. You barely have time to react before Alexia is next to you. Close enough that her shoulder brushes yours when she shifts into place, the fabric of her suit moving softly against your bare arm. Your hand curls slightly at your side. You don’t know where to put it.

“A bit closer together, please,” the photographer calls. You’re already close. “Don’t stand so stiff, ladies,” Josep adds, amused. Alexia exhales quietly. Then her arm lifts. Her hand settles at your waist. Her fingertips find the narrow strip of bare skin where your dress dips.

You stop breathing. Her touch is very present and certain. Your spine straightens. Every muscle in your body goes still around the point where she’s touching you.

The photographer steps closer, adjusting his angle. Richard is saying something beside you, his voice sounds distant. Alexia shifts her weight slightly.

Her hand moves with it. Just a fraction. Enough that her fingertips drag barely across your skin. Heat spreads instantly, sharp and low in your stomach, moving before you can stop it. Goosebumps rise along your arms and across your back.

Next to you, Alexia inhales. Slow. Deep. You feel the movement through the brush of her sleeve, the slight pull at your waist where her hand rests.

“Okay, smile,” the photographer calls. You force something onto your face. It doesn’t feel like a smile. Alexia turns it on instantly beside you. Controlled. Composed. But her hand doesn’t move.

The camera clicks. The light flashes. Once. Twice.

Her fingertips still rest against your skin. Warm now.

Click. Click.

Too warm.

Click.

You don’t breathe until the camera lowers.

“Bueno, that’s it!” the photographer finally says.

Alexia pulls her hand away, fast and sudden. Cold remains on your skin. She immediately steps forward, reestablishes the distance between the two of you . She briefly rubs her wrist with her left hand, as if she wants to wipe you away, looks at the floor.

Then her gaze lifts. She doesn't smile, she's just there. In your ears you hear a ringing sound.

Then Josep claps her on the shoulder again, she turns her head away from you, and breaks the moment. He turns her shoulders toward the room, wants to take her with him. Her gaze goes over her shoulder back to you once more. Then the room swallows the three of them.

⸻

The auction starts at 8:30. You sit through it mechanically. Signed jerseys, wine country weekends and VIP experiences are sold within minutes, the numbers climb, hands rise. You drink more wine and talk briefly to Aitana who seems to be more than bored about all of this.

At 9:15 they announce a break. You need air. You slip out through a side door onto a terrace that overlooks the city on one side and the sea on the other. You opt for the sea. Always.

It's cold. Properly cold. Your breath comes out in small white clouds. A few other people are scattered along the railing, far enough away that you're functionally alone. You move to the edge, wrap your arms around yourself, lean against the stone balustrade. The ocean sprawls below, all movement and indifference.

Behind you, the door opens. You don't turn. Footsteps approach—measured, familiar. They stop beside you.

"Running away?" Alexia's voice is low.

"Just getting air." You shake your head and breathe in deeply before turning your head toward her. Your third glass of wine has made you pleasantly drunk, the cold grounds you.

She's close. Even closer than she was at the bar. You can feel her next to you, the heat of her body cutting through the cold. She's holding her jacket loose over her shoulder, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up. Her forearms are bare, the ink on her skin dark against the pale fabric.

"Do you hate these things as much as I do?" she asks finally. "Yes," you simply say. "How many have you been to?" She wants to know. "This is my first." You answer and hold your eyes steady on the water. Her mouth curves, almost a smile. "Lucky you." "How many for you?" You ask back. "Too many." She shifts her weight, her shoulder brushing yours. The contact is brief but you feel it anyway. "They're all the same. Same people, same speeches, same—" She stops. "Same everything."

The wind picks up and her hair moves, falls across her shoulder. She doesn't brush it back. "You're going to freeze," she says, nodding at you. "I'm fine," you answer and shake your head. But you can already feel the goosebumps on your arms.

Alexia takes the jacket from her shoulders and wordlessly drapes it around yours. Her scent envelops you instantly. You close your eyes for a second and breathe in. When you open them again and look to the side, she's looking at the sea.

The silence stretches.

"You're good at it, though," you pick up the conversation. "Good at what?" she asks after a long moment, frowning in confusion. "Pretending." You shrug.

She turns her head to look at you fully. Her left arm grips the railing. Her eyes are dark in this light, her pupils wide. "Is that what you think I'm doing?" she asks, almost surprised.

"Isn't it?" You tilt your head to the side. She doesn't answer. Just looks at you, her gaze moving across your face again—slower this time, more deliberate. Her eyes catch on your mouth, stay there for two seconds, three. Your breath stutters.

"YN—" she starts.

The door behind you opens. Voices spill out—laughter, conversation. Alexia steps back immediately, puts space between you. Her face rearranges itself into something neutral.

Two people you don't know walk past, heading to the far end of the terrace. They don't look at you.

When they're gone, Alexia doesn't move back. The distance stays. "I should go back inside," she says and gestures over her shoulder.

"Okay," you nod. But she doesn't move. She stays there, her hand gripping the railing, knuckles white. You can see her breathing, slow, controlled, like she's concentrating on it.

"Alexia—"

She pushes off the railing, turns toward the door. Stops. Turns back at you and walks backwards while talking. "That dress," she says. Her voice is rough, she nods toward you. "You should wear it more often." Then she's gone.

You stand there in her jacket for another five minutes, waiting for your heart rate to return to normal. It doesn't.

When you go back inside, the auction is just finishing. The ballroom is loud, warm, too bright after the terrace. Across the room, Alexia seems to be deep in conversation with Mapi. She looks at her silently while Mapi gesticulates wildly and points her thumb over her shoulder.

Your table has long been abandoned. You make a final round to Josep, who toasts you from across the room. "YN," he calls out as you approach, "I hope you had a good evening. Edith spoke very highly of your new training methods, you must have made a good impression." "I— yes, it was an interesting evening," you smile at him. He nods, satisfied, and guides you once more to another group of men in suits. As you walk through the room, you feel Alexia's gaze on your back.

By 10:30 the room is slowly emptying. You collect your bag, ready to escape, when you meet Mapi and Ingrid on the way out.

"Hey, you survived your first sponsor evening," Ingrid smiles at you mildly. "Barely," you smile back. "Did you have good conversations?" she wants to know.

You feel Mapi's gaze on you. Look at her briefly.

"Yeah, I think so." Mapi's eyes narrow slightly. "And with Alexia?" she asks, her voice flat. "Did you have a good conversation with her too or did you just happen to have stolen her jacket," her head nods in the direction of the jacket which is now folded over your arm.

You open your mouth. Close it. „María, drop it," Ingrid lifts her hand to Mapi’s lower back.

Mapi takes a step closer, her voice dropping lower. "Just be careful, YN. She's still my best friend." Then she lets Ingrid guide her away.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

#4

The flight to Stockholm leaves at nine AM on a Wednesday that’s already dark at seven-thirty. The early December sky is pressing down on Barcelona like a lid.

You arrive at the airport early with a coffee in your hand, watching the team go through security. Jana and Alexia arrive together. Jana is bouncing up and down, apparently very excited for the trip. Alexia’s backpack is slung over one shoulder, the team trolley at her side. She’s wearing the travel outfit from some designer, same as the rest of the team, but you have to admit she’s the only one who actually looks good in it. Her hair is pulled back, large sunglasses perched on her nose even though there’s no sun. She doesn’t look at you as she passes.

The gate is crowded. You find a seat near the window, pull out your tablet, open the medical files you’ve been reviewing. Across from you, Elena is on her phone, texting rapidly. She looks up, catches your eye, smiles briefly before returning to her screen.

“My sons,” she says without looking up. “They have a school thing on Friday morning. An awards ceremony.” Her thumbs move quickly across the screen. “I promised I’d be there.” “You’ll make it,” you say. “If we land on time. If the bus doesn’t hit traffic. If—” She stops herself, shakes her head. “I’ll make it.”

Boarding is called. You file on with the rest of them, find your seat on the aisle, three rows from the back. Elena slides in beside you, pulling out her neck pillow. Across the aisle, two rows up, Alexia settles into a window seat. You can see the back of her head, her hair darker against the pale headrest.

Elena follows your gaze. “So— how was your weekend with Sara?” she asks with studied casualness, looking at you curiously. You snort lightly. “As if you haven’t already heard everything from her.” “Yes, but I want to hear it from you,” she teases, nudging your knee with hers.

You lean your head back against the seat and exhale. Smile to yourself. “It was good. Nice. We had a good day, she showed me around, all the nice little cafés in narrow streets.” “Ohhh, is that a smile I see in your pretty face?” Elena teases and waves her index finger in front of your nose. You snatch it out of the air with your hand. “Maybe?” You turn your head toward her. “It was really nice. She’s great. Easy to talk to, she listens, she asks the right questions, she cares—.” Elena looks at you for a moment. Then she furrows her brow. “But—?!” she asks, inspecting you.

“But— I don’t know. There is no ‘but’. I like her.” She keeps studying you as you breathe in loudly. “It’s just— I have a job that I truly like but it also keeps me very busy most of the time.” You shrug. “You know how it is. Little time, training on weekends, an away game every other week—.” You wave your hand a little dismissively. “It doesn’t align easily with other people’s schedules.” Elena raises an eyebrow at that. “I—, you sigh, “I really just don’t have the headspace for anything serious right now,” you say, picking invisible crumbs from your travel suit.

“Hmm,” Elena hums and leans back in her own seat. Her hair goes static against the paper with the Barça logo on the headrest. “So no second date?” She asks. “I don’t know, Elena,” you answer, looking past her out the window. “I like her and she deserves someone who is really into her. I don’t want to play games when there’s no serious intention from my side, you know?” Elena tilts her head to your side and looks at you dismissively. “Sara is no one to mess around, no. She is a genuine good person, YN, I wouldn’t have introduced her to you if she wasn’t.” “I know, I know!” You hurry to say. The quieter “I know, Elena.” She lets that sit for a moment and looks out of the window. Then she turns her head to you again, squinting. “But that wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your head being full of— someone else?” she asks.

You shake your head vehemently. “It doesn’t, Elena. Really.” You sigh. “Alexia is one of my players and nothing more.” Elena frowns at Alexia’s name. You sense your mistake right away. Elena’s mouth turns into a lazy smile. “Well,” she says lightly, “look at that.” Her smile widens to a grin. “I didn’t even have to say anything and you’re already giving yourself away.” You groan internally and let your head fall against the headrest. Elena just winks at you and puts on her headphones with satisfaction.

You roll your eyes at her and turn back to your tablet with the data.

The rest of the flight is smooth and quiet. Most of the team sleeps. You try to work but your eyes keep drifting forward, catching on that dark hair and the angle of her shoulders when she shifts position.

⸻

In the afternoon, Jona runs through tactics in the meeting room of the hotel. The opponent is good—Swedish champions from last season—but beatable. Alexia sits in the front row, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, absorbing every word. You watch her from the back, feel once again the urge to look at her every time she shifts or adjusts herself. It’s starting to annoy you.

Training is at four, light work, just activation and set pieces. The pitch is artificial, the temperature hovering just above freezing. Your breath comes out in clouds.

Alexia doesn’t speak unless she’s spoken to. You’re standing next to Elena who is checking Aitana’s ankle, a minor thing, just tightness, when you feel eyes on you. When you look up, Alexia is watching you from across the pitch, her expression is unreadable. When your eyes meet, she looks away.

She is wrapped in long training pants, only takes off her thick jacket just before the start. Underneath she’s wearing a hoodie whose sleeves she pulls over her hands while running, even though she’s also wearing gloves. She furrows deep lines in her forehead, lifts her gaze to the sky and shakes her head once. Then she pulls the Barça beanie lower on her forehead, drops her head to the ground and jogs off. Actually, it’s more of a trudge. The corners of your mouth lift slightly in amusement. You turn away before anyone can see.

⸻

Thursday, matchday, arrives cold and getting colder. You’re at the stadium by 4 for a 6 PM kickoff under floodlights that you internally curse. Who schedules a kickoff this late in early December? The Swedish club officials had indicated that the pitch was occupied earlier by one of the youth teams. The Women’s Champions League apparently has to wait.

You sigh as you step onto the pitch in a thick parka, setting up the medical area, laying out supplies, running through protocols with Elena.

“She’s been watching you constantly,” Elena remarks casually beside you. “Don’t you think—” “No,” you snap at her a bit too harshly. “I don’t think anything, Elena.” You straighten up after checking the bag on the ground. “Look, I—” you breathe in deeply. “I’m doing my job here and the rest—” she raises her eyebrows and looks at you. “The rest will sort itself out over time,” you continue. “She just needs some time to get used to the fact that our relationship is different than—” you search for the right words, “than it was before,” you finish the sentence. She just looks at you for a long time.

“You should talk,” she finally says, throwing her medical bag over the shoulder. “It’s starting to hurt watching you two.” With that she turns around and walks toward the tunnel.

Warm-ups start at 5:15. You stand pitchside with Elena and the second assistant coach, watching them go through their routines. The stadium is filling slowly, only a few people want to see the match, no wonder in this weather. The small crowd is bundled up thick. The sky has turned white-gray, small flakes falling from above. The forecast predicted light snow during the match, and the referees already decided to use an orange ball.

By the time the teams line up, snow is coming down steadily, small flakes that melt on contact with the pitch but settle in the stands, on the advertising boards and on your jacket.

Alexia throws a glance at the sky, small clouds coming from her mouth with each breath. Her mascot, a small girl, maybe six years old, is shivering and her teeth are chattering. Alexia takes off her jacket and drapes it around the girl’s shoulders. She turns around and smiles at her with a big gap in her teeth. Alexia smiles back, rubs the girl’s upper arms warm with her hands and pulls the sleeves of her jersey a bit further over her hands.

The whistle blows. Barça starts strong and soon leads 1-0 with a goal from Claudia Pina. Alexia orchestrates from midfield, her passes are sharp and precise. In the 23rd minute, she plays a ball through to Salma that splits the defense. 2-0.

The snow is falling harder now, thick enough that you can barely see the far end of the pitch.

By halftime it’s 3-0, a header from Irene after a corner from Mapi.

The Swedish team see their chances of a goal dwindling, the first half took place almost exclusively in their half. Jona nods at you contentedly as the players hurry into the dressing rooms.

You look at Elena, who is grabbing her bag. “I don’t like the pitch, it’s already super muddy,” you say, nodding toward the wet green. Elena follows your gaze and nods. “I’ll tell everyone that with this score and weather they shouldn’t risk anything,” she replies and heads toward the dressing room.

While you go onto the pitch with the substitutes for warm-ups, you check the forecast again. A heavy snowstorm is predicted for tonight, far too early in the year and apparently surprising even for the Swedes. You close the forecast.

In the 58th minute, they score another goal—Aitana from half-right. Jona comes up to you, his hand in a fist, and high-fives you and the bench. That should be it. Job done.

In the 78th minute, Alexia goes down.

It looks wrong immediately. One second she’s turning into space, the ball tight to her foot, the next her leg gives under her and she folds, abrupt, unfinished, like something cut mid-motion. She hits the ground hard, hands flying to her right ankle.

Your stomach drops so sharply it feels like something tearing loose inside you. You’re on your feet, the cold forgotten as heat floods through you all at once. It’s starting somewhere in your chest and spreads outward until your fingers tingle with it. Your breath catches halfway in. “Fuck—” You breathe out. Snow cuts across your vision, sharp and blinding. You lift a hand to shield your eyes, squinting hard, trying to force the distance smaller or clearer.

On the pitch, Alexia is rolling on the snow-covered pitch, one hand lifted over her face, the other locked around her ankle. Her body curls in on itself, then twists again, restless and trapped. Your chest tightens.

Aitana is the first to reach her. One hand hovers before it lands carefully on Alexia’s arm, like she’s not sure what will make it worse. She says something but Alexia doesn’t answer. Her left forearm is shielding her face, and still you can see the tension in her face, the way her eyes are squeezed shut beneath it, the sharp rise and fall of her chest.

The referee arrives as Aitana looks up, both hands waving for Elena and Matheo. The referee blows the whistle allowing them to step on the pitch. On the sideline, Jona turns and signals for Keira to get ready. It all happens in split seconds.

You can’t move. Not forward, not back. Your legs feel locked and useless. All that energy, that heat, has nowhere to go, building under your skin until it almost hurts. Elena sprints past you, medical bag in hand, her shoulder clipping yours hard enough to jolt you sideways. You barely feel it.

Your eyes don’t leave Alexia. Her hand is still gripping her ankle, fingers digging in like she can hold it together by force. A nasty thought crosses your mind. It’s so mean that you try to push it down immediately: the way she’s down there, exposed and vulnerable— something about it feels like the only honest thing you’ve seen from her in weeks. It makes your stomach sick.

You finally turn around, look at the bench, then up at the sky. Anywhere but at her. You swallow hard. Your throat is dry. When you turn back to the pitch, Alexia is sitting up, one hand still on her ankle, her face tight. Around her, teammates have formed a loose circle—Mapi crouching beside her, Patri standing with her hands on her hips.

Elena helps her to her feet. Matheo supports the other side and they help her hobble off the pitch. It’s painful to watch.

As they reach the sideline, you come up directly next to her. “How are you?” you ask, over the applause meant for her. “Felt better,” Alexia says through her teeth, her head angled down toward her foot. “Can you move it?” you ask. Your voice comes out smaller than you expect.

Her head lifts. She looks straight into your eyes. Snow clings to her lashes, melts into her skin; her hair is damp, small crystals catching briefly before they disappear. She squints, tilts her head slightly. And then, under her pain marked face a tiny smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. It’s gone so quickly you might have imagined it. Then she drops her gaze again. Turns her foot slowly. Then the other way. Slower this time. Deliberate. Even.

“Can you stand?” you ask. Your lips press into a thin line, your gaze drifting—her eyes, her flushed cheeks, the sweat at her hairline despite the cold, her mouth. She lifts her head again. Finds you first. Holds you there. Only then does she lower her foot toward the ground, inch by inch, controlled.

“Ouch,” she says, leaning slightly into your space, the word landing just before her weight fully settles. The sharp inhale follows a beat later. Her fingers flex once at her side, then still. “I don’t know,” she adds, squinting faintly. Her eyes stay on yours. Through the shift of weight. Through the tension in her jaw. Through the uneven rhythm of her breath.

“I’ll take her to the dressing room for a check,” Elena says, nodding at you and setting off with Alexia at her side. You nod once. “Keira,” you call, already stepping back, your voice steadier now, cutting clean through the noise. “You’re on.”

As they pass you, Alexia shifts her weight, lets it dip just enough to catch, then steadies herself against Elena. A step later, she turns her head, as far as Elena’s hold allows, back over her shoulder. You’re already halfway turned toward the pitch when—

“YN—”

You stop. Alexia’s gaze is already on you.

“Can you come with me?” She looks at you.

Elena’s eyes flick between you, one eyebrow lifting behind Alexia’s back. You look from Elena back to her, Alexia keeps her eyes on yours. Her hand tightens slightly on Elena’s arm. Her step shortens, just a fraction. She waits. You just nod at her briefly, and raise a hand toward Jona to signal that you’re going with them. He gives you a thumbs up and turns back to the pitch where the fourth official is just holding up the board with the green 21 and red 11. Keira jogs onto the field.

⸻

The dressing room smells like sweat and wet grass. Elena taps the examination table twice. “Up here.” She turns her gaze to Alexia, who pushes herself up and lays the injured leg on the table. You lean against one of the lockers at a deliberate distance.

Elena examines the ankle thoroughly. Alexia stares at the ceiling the entire time. Your gaze travels over her. Her face, her chest rising and falling, her knee with the scar, her ankle.

“We need to get this looked at,” Elena breaks the silence. “I can’t assess it properly from the outside. Best we go to the hospital right away.”

Alexia groans quietly and slams her balled fist once against the table. Elena palpates the ankle, foot, and lower leg one more time. Then nods conclusively. “This is going to swell up properly now. I’ll call an ambulance and let Jona know.” Alexia nods, barely perceptible. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Gracias, Elena.” Elena nods and pats her knee twice before heading to the door. “It’ll be fine.” As she passes you, she holds eye contact for a long moment.

The door falls shut behind her with a soft click that is still too loud for the silence of the room. “How do you feel?” you ask into the silence, your voice still wobbles slightly. Alexia snorts softly and props herself up on her forearms, abs tensing. “Like shit,” she replies dryly. “I don’t want to go through rehab again, weeks of building back up, of—” She breaks off and swallows hard. Turns her head away from you.

You press your mouth into a thin line, breathe out audibly. “I’m sorry,” you say and push off from the locker. You take the two steps to the table and stand somewhat stiffly in front of her. Your arm hovers halfway in the air, not really knowing what to do. Your hand trembles slightly. You’d like to stroke her back, tell her everything will be okay. Behind her back, you briefly ball your hand into a fist before you let your arm drop again.

“We should ice that,” you murmur. Her head snaps to the side and she looks directly at you. Her eyes are filled with tears, her face contorted with pain, jaw tensed. “We?” she presses out, and her tone is cool. “I wasn’t aware we were doing anything together here, YN.”

You breathe in once and out again, hold her gaze. Then you turn wordlessly to the ice box and take out two cold packs. When you hand them to her, your fingertips touch. Your stomach contracts. She looks directly away. She shivers, her kit is soaking wet from the snow and clings to her body. You slip out of your long Barça down coat and lay it over her shoulders. She doesn’t move.

“Ten minutes and we’re off,” Elena announces entering the room. Then she breathes in deeply and turns to you. “This is going to take longer tonight. My boys—the awards ceremony tomorrow morning—” “I’ll stay with her,” you cut her off. “I’ve got this. You fly home. To your family.” You say decisively. “You really don’t have to—,” she interrupts, but you already raise your hand and shake your head. “No, Elena, you have family, you’ll fly home. I have the medical background. It’s gonna be fine.” You smile at her as she draws her lips to a small line. “Really no problem,” you assure her, “I’ll handle it from here.”

Behind you Alexia snorts quietly. You both turn around to her. She just looks at the ground. You turn back to Elena and smile. Her hug is warm and long “Thank you,” she whispers in your ear. “I know this is difficult. I really—“

You shake your head, “go, it’s fine, really.”

On the table, Alexia closes her eyes and lets her head sink down onto her knee just as the doors open and the team filters in. They gather around her, hands on her back, quick hugs, brief high fives for the win. But the mood is tight.

Outside the locker room, you find a stadium official and arrange for your luggage to be pulled from the team bus. When you turn back, the ambulance has arrived. Two paramedics are pushing a wheelchair through the tunnel, their boots squeaking against the concrete. Alexia is still sitting on the table, your coat around her shoulders, phone on her ear.

“Sí, sí, estoy bien. Me he hecho daño en el tobillo.”

A pause.

“No, mamá, creo que solo es un esguince.”

Another pause.

“Sí, me duele pero—” she waits. ”¡Que no, mamá! No tienes que venir. Estoy bien, de verdad.”

“They’re here,” you mouth to her and point toward the door. She nods once.

“Estoy con— Estoy con el equipo médico. Me cuidan bien.”

She breathes out.

“Vale, vale. Te llamo cuando tenga los resultados. Te lo prometo.”

Another pause.

“Y Mamá—¿le dices a Alba? No quiero que se entere por las redes.”

She gets up and lowers into the wheelchair.

“Gracias. Un beso, mamá. Yo también te quiero.”

⸻

A nurse meets you at the intake desk of the hospital, glances at Alexia, and immediately waves you through. She leads you down a corridor, through two sets of doors, into a private examination room. “The doctor will be here soon,” she says, and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

You set the bags down against the wall. Stand there while Alexia is sitting on an examination table and staring at the ceiling. Her phone buzzes. Once. Twice. She looks at the screen and turns it face down on the table. A third time. A fourth. You look at her, wait a moment before you ask, “do you want water?” “No,” she immediately answers. “Something to eat?” “No.” She doesn’t look at you.

You sit down in the plastic chair near the window. Outside, the snow is still falling, thick and relentless. You watch it accumulate on the ledge, building up in drifts.

Time stretches. Five minutes.

You check your fingernails. Pull on invisible dirt.

Ten minutes.

Your phone buzzes with a message from Elena:

On our way to the airport. Let me know how it goes. ❤️

When you look up, Alexia is watching you. She looks away when you meet her gaze.

Twenty minutes.

You get up and start pacing the room, hands in your pockets. Her phone buzzes again, she ignores it. You pace to the window, back to the chairs, to the door, back to the window. Your steps echo in the silence of the room, interrupted by another buzzing sound from her phone. At some point Alexia takes a deep breath. Back to the chairs, to the door, to—

“YN!“ her voice cuts through the silence. You look up at her. “Sit down, per Déu“. She massages her temple and squints her eyes. You go back to the chairs.

Thirty minutes.

The door opens.

A doctor enters, introduces herself in English, shakes Alexia’s hand, then yours. She examines the ankle carefully, her fingers gentle but thorough, pressing here and there, asking questions. Alexia answers in a monotone. Yes. No. There. A little higher. “I’ll prepare the MRI,” the doctor says finally. Alexia just nods. “Please wait here, Ms. YLN, it’ll take half an hour, maybe forty minutes.”

And then Alexia is gone, wheeled through the door and down the hall, and you’re alone. You sit back down. Pull out your phone. Respond to Elena, to Jona with brief updates. You check the time, 10:17. The charter flight is supposed to leave at 10:30. You send a quick text to the club’s travel management to ask for your return options later that night. You sigh. Stand. Sit. Stand again. Pace to the window and back.

There’s a water cooler in the corner, and you fill a small paper cup, drink it in two gulps, fill it again. The clock on the wall ticks forward. 10:28. 10:34. 10:37. Your chest feels tight. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, the way you learned years ago. It helps most of the time.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s José from the club’s travel management. “Hola, yn, I’m sorry, I have bad news,” his accent is thick, “no more scheduled flights tonight to Barcelona— the snow is too much,” you breathe out audibly. “I checked charter but also no starts because the snow. The team’s machine was last I checked. I try everything bring you back but impossible, I’m sorry.” “Okay,” you hear yourself say, “don’t worry, José, we’ll just stay here and see tomorrow.” You massage your temples. “I send driver,” he continues, “but hotels difficult too.” You don’t know what to say to that anymore. “It is not the usual ones,” he apologizes, ”it is small but good reviews and two rooms free. I send name and address and call you tomorrow.” You nod to the phone. “Okay, thanks, José, we’ll manage,” you reply. “Say hello to Ale, and call me when changes. I am available.” “I will, good night, José.” The line goes dead and you breathe out.

At 10:53, the door opens. Alexia is wheeled back in. She looks exhausted. “How was it?” you ask. She looks at you and raises an eyebrow only half way. “Loud,” she says dryly. Her voice is thin and stretched. You just nod.

Another ten minutes pass before the doctor returns. "Good news," she says and looks on a tablet. Your chest loosens all at once. "No fractures. No ligament tears. Grade one sprain—mild stretching of the lateral ligaments, some inflammation, but structurally intact." Alexia exhales, sharp and sudden. You look at her and your eyes meet. You smile and she closes her eyes briefly. It feels like the most intimate moment you’ve shared in four months.

"Rest, ice, compression, elevation," the doctor continues. "I'm giving you crutches as a precaution, but you can bear some weight if the pain is manageable. Just listen to your body. If it hurts, don't push it. Keep it elevated tonight, ice regularly. Physical therapy back home,” she explains.

You nod once. „Thank you,“ you say to her, we’ll do the treatment back in Barcelona. Just wanted to be sure it’s nothing severe.”

Alexia forces a polite smile at the doctor and shakes her hand. You reach for the papers the nurse hands you to sign when the doctor clears her throat. “Ms. Putellas, would you mind signing this for my daughter? She loves you and really looks up to you,” she smiles almost apologetically. Alexia takes a small breath, barely visible if you didn’t pay attention. Then she nods and signs the small piece of paper the doctor hands her.

The crutches arrive ten minutes later. Alexia tests her weight carefully, adjusts the height. She stands, putting most of her weight on her good leg, and takes a few cautious steps. Her jaw is tight, a slight limp visible, but she manages. “Okay?” you ask. She doesn’t answer.

You gather the bags again. Follow her out into the hallway, then through the maze of corridors back to the main entrance. The reception desk is quieter now, just one nurse on duty. She doesn’t look up as you pass.

Outside, the cold hits you like a wall. Alexia stops on the top step, sways slightly. You reach out but catch yourself before you touch her. “Careful,” you say instead. She just adjusts the crutches and starts down, one step at a time.

The private car is waiting at the curb, engine running. The driver gets out, helps load the bags into the trunk. You open the back door and Alexia slides in, a little awkward with the crutches. You go around to the other side and climb in beside her.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

+1

The hotel is a small, family-run place tucked into a narrow side street. The receptionist, a young woman, maybe seventeen, looks up as you step inside, her smile warm despite the late hour.

“Hello, we’re from FC Barcelona, travel management booked for us,” you say at the desk. “Just for one night.” She nods immediately, fingers moving quickly as she clicks through something on the computer. “Yes, I noted that right away,” she says, her smile shifting into something more practiced. “Would you and your wife prefer a king-size or a queen-size bed?” she asks, looking at you expectantly.

You just barely manage to swallow a laugh before Alexia cuts in, too quickly. “We’re not— we—” She falters, the sentence collapsing halfway through. “We need two rooms,” you finish for her, giving the receptionist a small nod.

A faint flush rises to the girl’s cheeks. “Oh— I’m sorry. I didn’t—, I assumed—” You wave it off without hesitation. “It’s fine. No problem. Just check us in.” She nods, a little too eagerly now, and slides two tablets across the counter. “Please sign here— and here. The rest was taken care of.” She checks her computer again and nods. Her smile returns, a bit tighter this time.

In the quiet of the lobby, Alexia’s stomach growls loudly. She presses a hand flat against her abdomen, as if that might quiet it.

It’s the first time since you left the hotel that you look at her properly. She looks miserable. Crutches, a wrapped ankle, still in her kit, your jacket over her shoulders, wet hair and dry sweat. Her posture is nowhere near the way it usually is. You let out a long breath.

“Is there any chance you could prepare something to eat?” you ask, turning back to the receptionist. The young woman nods quickly. “I’ll ask my mum if she can still make you something— we’ve actually closed the kitchen.” You nod, grateful. “Thank you.” “I’ll have something sent up,” she adds.

In the elevator, you stand on opposite sides. The mirror reflects you both, neither of you looks at the reflection. When it stops Alexia moves first, the crutches making soft thuds against the hallway carpet. You follow three steps behind, both bags over your shoulder, watching the careful placement of each crutch, the slight hesitation before she shifts her weight.

She stops at her door first. One crutch is tucked under her left arm, the other she leans against the wall. She shifts her weight onto her good foot as she reaches for the key card in her pocket. Her hand shakes slightly as she slides it into the slot. The light blinks red. She tries again. Red. “Let me—” you start. “I have it,” she says, not looking at you. Third try. Green. The door clicks open.

She picks up the crutches, pushes the door wider with her shoulder. You set her bag down just inside the threshold. “Thank you,” she says to the doorframe. You straighten. Stand there for a moment. “Do you need—” “No.” Too fast. “I’m fine.” Your jaw tightens. “Alexia.” She finally looks at you. Her eyes are dark and shadowed. “What?” She snaps. “You haven’t eaten since—” you try. “I’m not hungry,” she insists.

“Your stomach literally just—” “I said I’m not hungry.” Her grip on the crutches tightens. “Stop managing me.” She closes the door with a decisive click.

You stand there for three seconds. Five. Then you walk the two meters to your own door, let yourself in, drop your bag on the floor. The room is small. Queen bed, desk, chair, bathroom visible through an open door. The window overlooks the street, snow still falling in thick curtains.

You pull out your phone. Three messages from Elena, one from Jona and José asking if everything went all right. You type quick responses, then plug the phone in and leave it on the desk. In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face. Look at yourself in the mirror. The shadows under your eyes are pronounced. Your hair is coming loose from its tie, mascara smeared under your eyes. In the bathroom next to yours you hear water running.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Check the time: 11:47 PM. A knock at the door makes you jump. The girl from reception is standing there with a tray, two wrapped sandwiches, two bowls of steaming soup, some water. “Your friend didn’t answer,” she says apologetically, gesturing with her thumb over her shoulder to the left. “Oh—okay. I’ll just take everything and bring it over,” you reply. “Thank you,” you add with a small smile. She smiles back, then disappears around the corner.

You wait till the sound of the running water has disappeared. Then another 10 minutes until you walk over and knock.

“What?” Her voice is muffled. “They brought food.” You say a little louder than probably necessary. Nothing at first. Then “I told you I’m not—” “It’s one sandwich and a bowl of soup, Alexia,” you say to the door. “I’m not asking you to sit down for a three-course meal. Just open the door.” Another pause. Longer this time.

The lock clicks, the door opens a crack and face appears. She’s in track pants and a Barça hoodie, her hair drips from the ends, leaving dark marks on the shoulders. She's barefoot, the injured ankle visibly swollen. She's clearly putting minimal weight on it, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

You hold out the tray. “Eat.” She looks at it. Then at you. “Why?” You roll your eyes and actually groan loudly. “Because you’re injured, Alexia. And you’ve played a match and spent the evening at a hospital and now it’s nearly midnight and you haven’t eaten since the afternoon. And I’m not going to listen to your stomach growl through the wall all night.” You push the tray forward slightly. “Just take it.”

She hesitates another second, then opens the door wider, takes the tray. Your fingers brush hers as you hand it over. She pulls back immediately. “Thank you,” she says quietly. You nod once and turn to go.

“YN—.” You look back. She’s standing there, the tray balanced awkwardly in her hands, her weight shifted onto her good foot. “The bandage. I needed a shower, and now I need a new one.” She gestures at her foot a little helplessly. “Can you—” Her eyes close briefly, her jaw is set. You wordlessly step inside, taking the tray out of her hand as you pass her.

Her room is identical to yours. Same furniture, same layout. The bed is still made. Her bag sits by the wall. The crutches lean against the desk. You set the tray down as moves to the bed, lowers herself carefully to sit on the edge. Her hands grip the mattress. She doesn’t look at you.

You crouch down in front of her. “Let me see.” She extends her leg slowly. The ankle is swollen, puffy around the joint. “We need more icing,” you say and stand up. In the mini fridge you find two small ice packs and wrap them around her ankle with the bandage.

You turn toward the desk, scanning for the pain medication the doctor prescribed. You find it next to Alexia’s phone on the desk. Just as you reach for it, the screen lights up, buzzes against the wood. Carmen. Your hand hovers over the medication. The phone keeps buzzing. Twice. Three times before it goes silent. Behind you, Alexia doesn’t move.

You pick up the tablets, deliberately not looking at the phone but back toward the bed. “Here.” You hold out two, offer the bottle of water. “Take these.” She accepts them without a word. As she lifts the glass to her lips, her phone buzzes again.

This time you see it clearly. Carmen. Alexia swallows the tablets and sets the glass down. “How bad is it?” you ask, nodding at her ankle. The phone stops. “I’ve had worse,” she says. “I can walk. Just— carefully.” The phone starts to buzz again.

You can’t help it, your eyes flick to the desk. Back to Alexia. “Do you—” You gesture vaguely toward the phone. Her jaw is set. “Leave it,” she just says. The buzzing continues. Four times. Five. Then silence.

Alexia’s eyes settle on yours, holding in a silent challenge. You try to ignore it.

“Do you need anything else?” you ask. “Water? Another pillow?” She laughs, short and bitter. “Right. Now you care what I need.” Your jaw tightens again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You force your voice calm and measured.

“You know exactly what it means.” Her eyes flash. You take a deep breath. “No, Alexia. I don’t. So why don’t you enlighten me.”

She looks at you. Even in the dim light, you can see the anger in her eyes. “Four weeks,” she says, her voice low and controlled. “Four weeks you’ve watched me run myself into the ground. Watched me like I’m some experiment. Taking notes. Asking Elena to monitor me. Standing at your window every morning.” You try to keep your face neutral. She lets out a sharp laugh. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Heat floods your face. “You were—” “Training too much? Overworking?” she cuts you off. “Yes. I know. And yet—” she gestures between you “—nothing. Not a word. Not a single word. Not until today. Not until I got hurt and you had no choice but to step in.” “That’s not—” you stop yourself, closing your fist as if that might steady you.

It hits you all at once. You feel so tired. So so tired. Your eyes sting. You blink, slow, but it doesn’t clear. Your head aches. Your legs feel heavy. Your chest is tight. Always tight. The sleepless nights, the constant edge, the way your body has been holding tension day after day, week after week. It all settles at once, pressing down. Too heavy. Far too heavy.

You try to breathe through it. It doesn’t work. “You should eat,” you say. Your voice comes out lower than you expect. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” You turn toward the door.

She breathes in and out. Once, twice.

“YN—” it comes out tight, clipped.

“Eat,” you say again into the room, moving toward the door. “Keep the ice on for twenty minutes. Then rewrap it, but looser this time. If you need—”

“Don’t go.”

The words stop you cold. Your hand is already on the doorknob.

“Please.”

You close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose. “Please what, Alexia?” It comes out sharp. You don’t care anymore.

Silence.

You turn around. She’s still sitting on the bed, one leg extended with the ice pack balanced on her ankle, the other foot flat on the floor. Her hands grip the edge of the mattress, knuckles white. “I don’t want to be alone right now,” she presses out.

“Ha.” The sound tears out of you, bitter and sharp. Your pulse spikes too fast to control. “You’re a funny one to say that,” you say, far too loud for the small room. Three quick steps and you’re back in front of the bed.

“You know what, Alexia—fuck you.” You point at her. “Really. Fuck you.” The words come out like they’ve been sitting in your mouth too long, turning sour.

“You’ve been pushing and pulling at me for weeks. Months.” Your finger cuts through the air with each word. “You move me around however it suits you. First you ignore me, then you treat me like I’m an idiot on the pitch, and then—” your breath catches “—then you show up with Carmen, fucking around right in front of me every day. To prove what, exactly? Tell me, Alexia— what are you trying to prove?”

Your pulse hammers in your throat. “And then— then you stand there at that stupid gala,” you continue, your voice tightening, “that stupid fucking gala where everyone gets to listen to the great captain of the women’s team— and you talk about me like I’m— like I’m somehow what—? Saving your club— your precious Barça? Am I suddenly good enough for that?” The words taste bitter.

She flinches, then lets out a short, sharp breath.

“No, Alexia— no. Don’t do that. Don’t roll your eyes at me. Don’t— anything. You don’t get to do that.” You shoot at her. You have to take a deep breath.

She just looks at you for a long moment. “You know what’s funny?” She tilts her head, her voice is calm, almost a bit sad. “She thought we were serious,” she lets out a short and bitter laugh, shakes her head. “She actually thought—”

“I don’t care what she thinks, Ale,” you snap at her. “I don’t care about her, or your relationship, or—.”

“We’re not—,” she tries to interrupt but you shake your head to dismiss her. You’re not done yet.

“What is wrong with you, Alexia? Seriously—what’s wrong with you? One second you look at me like I’m the only person in the room, and the next you push me away over a—” you gesture, sharp and somewhat helpless, toward the tray “—over a fucking sandwich?”

The anger burns sharp enough to bring tears to your eyes. You hate that. You shake your head hard, turn away, take two steps into the room. A frustrated sound breaks out of you as you drag a hand through the air. Silence drops into the room so abruptly it rings.

Then you hear her breathe. In. Out. Again.

“Stop yelling at me,” she says from the bed, her voice calm.

Irritation snaps through you. “What?!”

You turn back at her. “Did you take a fucking de-escalation course or something?” you throw at her, staring in disbelief.

“I’m in pain, YN,” she says, still calm.

You close your eyes. Shake your head. Open them again. “Right. Of course.” Your voice is still sharp. “It’s about you, and you only. We only get to argue when you decide we do.”

She just looks at you. "Good night, YN."

You stare at her. "No." Then shake your head. Your voice comes out flat, hard. You swallow. "You don't get to do that."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Do what?"

"Dismiss me. Again." You take a step closer to the bed. "You don't get to act like I'm the unreasonable one when you're the one who— who—"

"The one who what, YN?" She looks at you expectantly and has to tilt her head up a little. Her voice is sharp and calm. "I'm really sorry that I'm obviously too dumb or too unprofessional or too— average," she scoffs. "But tell me— the one who what? What am I to you?"

She pushes herself up, one hand braced against the bed frame. Her weight shifts carefully onto her good leg, the injured ankle taking only partial weight. She winces slightly but holds steady.

You look at her, shake your head. "You're making this impossible." A loud sigh escapes your mouth. Your hands gesture without words coming out. Your eyes dart into the room looking for what to say, how to explain. Then you finally lock your eyes on her, hold her gaze. You feel tears coming up again.

"You're the one who makes every fucking day of my life a living hell," you whisper.

She looks back at you and swallows hard.

You gesture helplessly and blink the tears away. "You told me to stay away from you and then you spent week after week making sure I couldn't. Every. Single. Time. In the gym. At Jana's party. At the bar, the gala. Tonight. You don't want me gone, Alexia. You want me suffering."

She stares right back at you, breathing hard, takes a moment. Then she bursts out, "you want to talk about how hard this is?" She gestures between you. "Who suffers more? Like this is a competition?" Her gaze is locked on you. "You're not so innocent either, YN. You always tell me to be professional, to act normal, to— I don't know— obviously forget everything there was between us." She frowns almost to herself, "but do you know how hard it is to see you every day? To feel your eyes on me every fucking day?" She raises her eyebrows. "I can feel every lingering look you throw my way" she goes on.

You can’t tell why but you take a step toward her. It’s like being pulled into her space. Irresistible.

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Even when you’re supposed to look at her but can’t—“

“Fuck you, Ale,” your voice is low and trembles slightly.

She smirks. "Oh, we've established that's not the problem."

You raise your hand in defense, shake your head. "Don't—" you stop. Breathe hard through your nose. She tilts her head. “Don't what? Remind you? Don't talk about it? Or don't admit that you think about it too?"

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do." She shouts now, cuts you off. "You think I can't tell? The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention? The way your breathing changes when I'm too close?"

You can't answer. Can't move.

"You want to know what's really remarkable?" Her voice goes quieter, more intimate. „Every time you look at me like that I wonder if you actually want to kill me or fuck me.”

She pauses, tilts her head. “I still haven't worked out which."

The words hang in the air between you. Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat as you lock your eyes on her.

"Maybe both," you hear yourself say.

Her pupils dilate. You watch it happen. She shifts slightly. "So which one wins?" She raises her chin in a silent challenge.

"I don't know yet,“ you admit and breathe deliberately.

"Well,” her voice drops lower, “you should probably decide soon. Because I'm not going to ask you twice." Your breath stutters. "Ask me what?" You frown, irritated.

She doesn't answer. Instead, her hand comes up slowly, she looks down between your bodies as finger hooks in the waistband of your track pants. Her skin brushes yours. Everything in you tightens.

"Your touch burns my skin," she says quietly, her eyes locked on yours. "Every time. Ever since that night. I feel it for hours after."

You can't breathe properly. "Alexia—"

"I know you want me, YN." She tugs slightly at the waistband. Then she raises her eyes to yours. "And I want you,“ she whispers.

You take another step forward. She shifts to meet you and falters for a second, catching herself against you. Your arm holds hers to steady her. There’s almost no space left now.

"Say that again,” you demand quietly. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly. “I want you, YN.” Your skin prickles. “This is a bad idea,” you breathe, “you, me, the team— everything—.“ You can see every freckle on her nose.

She shakes her head barely visible "we‘re stuck here,“ she tilts her head, leans forward, and her mouth finds the pulse point on your neck. She bites gently into the sensitive skin there. „Far away from everybody,“ she murmurs into your skin, adjusts her angle and places a light kiss there. “No one will know.”

You let out a shaky breath. She leans back to look into your eyes. Her free hand comes up, her finger trails along your jaw, then she lets her hand slide to the back of your head, locks it there. She leans your forehead against hers. Her jaw clenches, her eyes hold yours. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she breathes. You close your eyes.

She pulls you in.

Your lips meets hers.

Testing first, feather light. Your other hand comes up to cup her cheek.

You deepen the kiss, she answers with a bite in your lip. Want and hunger rise inside your whole body. Your hand slides to the back of her head, tangles in her hair, and she makes a sound in her throat that shoots straight through you. Her mouth opens under yours, and it’s suddenly months of tension, of watching, of wanting and denying spilling out of you. Heated and angry.

You press your knee between her thighs and she gasps into your mouth. She grabs your collar and yanks you closer. She loses her balance and takes you down with her onto the mattress behind. Your hands come up automatically, guiding her down so she doesn’t put weight on her ankle. You end up half on top of her, half beside her, pull back just enough to breathe.

“This is such a bad idea,” you repeat, shaking your head. “I don’t care,” she answers, eyes not leaving yours. She pulls you back in again, her hands are everywhere, gripping, pulling, sliding over your back. “I really don’t care.”

You moan, can’t help it. She is so close, you kiss her desperately, or she kisses you, you can’t tell. Her good leg hooks around yours, her hands find the hem of your hoodie, urgently tugging it up.

And suddenly— your breath hitches.

It doesn’t come back.

Your chest tightens, sharp.

Your heart stutters once, then starts racing, too fast, too loud, pounding up into your throat and in your ears. You pull back abruptly.

“Wait—“ the word comes out thin. Your lungs don’t fill properly. You try again. Air in, shallow. Not enough.

Her hands are still on you. Too much. Too close.

You shake your head once, quick, like you can clear it. “Wait,” you say again, more urgent now.

She stills underneath you, looks at you, her lips red and swollen. Your vision of her slightly blurs.

She frowns, opens her mouth, moves it, but all you can hear is her muffled voice. A ringing in your ears. She moves her mouth again, but the words don’t reach your ears.

She grabs you by your shoulders, steadying you. Cold sweat breaks across your back. You force air into your lungs.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Her mouth moves again. Her face is twisted with fear.

“YN!” Her voice is somewhere distant. “YN, look at me,” it gets louder, clearer. She takes your head between her hands, stills it. “Look at me,” she pleads.

You look into her eyes. Take a breath. Another one. Deeper. Your skin prickles, your breath is still uneven.

Then your arms loosen and weight drops forward.

She lets out a soft breath as you come down on top of her, her hands moving instantly, one sliding up to the back of your head, the other bracing lightly against your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Your forehead presses into the space between her shoulder and neck. Your breathing is still rough, dragging in and out, uneven, catching every few seconds.

She adjusts slightly beneath you, careful, shifting just enough so you’re not pressing against her injured leg. One of her hands settles at the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair. She starts to stroke there, small movements, over and over, her thumb brushing lightly at your hairline.

“Breathe,” she says softly. “Just breathe.” Your body is still tense. Your shoulders tight under her hand.

Another sharp inhale, then one that goes deeper. Your grip on her shirt loosens, you don’t remember putting your hand there.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Her hand doesn’t stop moving.

Your breathing begins to slow. The tightness in your chest eases, just a fraction, then a little more. Your weight settles heavier against her.

Her fingers keep tracing the same path at the back of your head, slower now, almost absent-minded, like she’s following the rhythm of your breath.

The room is quiet. Your eyes slip closed.

Your breaths come deeper now. Even.

Another shift of her hand, gentler this time.

Another one.

Another—

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

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