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Alexia Putellas

La Reina Series Grounded Anchored Rooted Planted

At Home (La Reina Series Universe One-Shots)

The Goodbye Visca Barça Eighty-Two Quedate

Quédate

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Lia Wälti

The Weight We Share Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Title Pending (WIP)

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Leila Ouahabi

Fifteen Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

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Patri Guijarro

As You Are

Sorry in Advance

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Winter Olympians Series

They understand what gold demands. This winter, they're not competing for it -- they're standing for the women who are. An anthology of elite women footballers and the winter Olympians who hold their hearts.

Alexia Putellas x Reader

When football ends, what's left is everything that matters.

Part 2: Eighty-Two

The final whistle blew and for a moment, nobody moved. The sound echoed across Estadi Johan Cruyff before disappearing beneath the roar of the supporters. Barcelona had won. The match was over.

For the first time in more than a decade, there wasn’t another home match waiting for Alexia Putellas. No next captain’s walk. No next ordinary afternoon in blaugrana. No next time. Just this. 

Beside the bench, Alexia remained seated for a moment. Mapi beside her. The two of them looked out across the pitch they had spent years calling home. The crowd was on its feet. Still singing, still applauding, still refusing to let the afternoon end. 

Yet for a few seconds, everything felt strangely quiet. Like the rest of the stadium had fallen away. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Some things were too big for words. Mapi reached over and squeezed Alexia’s knee once. Alexia laughed slowly, the kind of laugh that hurt, that existed somewhere between gratitude and heartbreak. 

When she stood, the supporters erupted immediately. Not because she had done anything at that moment, but because she was Alexia. 

Every second left felt precious now. The team gathered near midfield. The supporters remained standing. Nobody wanted to miss a moment. 

Pere stepped forward first. The applause started before he even spoke. Alexia smiled and shook her head slightly, embarrassed by the attention yet moved by it anyway. 

That was when Eli, Alba, and you made your way down to the pitch. The grass felt different beneath your feet. Sacred somehow, not because it was a football pitch, but because it was hers. The place where so much of her life had happened; where so many versions of Alexia had existed. 

Pere spoke and the supporters applauded. The players smiled through watery eyes. Your eyes never left Alexia as she stood there and just listened. She had her hands clasped in front of her trying to stay composed, to absorb it, and to hold onto the moment without letting it overwhelm her. 

Then the screens came alive. The farewell video. Her farewell video. The one she had already shared with the world. The one she posted four days ago. The one she thought she had already survived. Only now she wasn’t watching it from a phone, she was watching it here. In the Johan, surrounded by the people who had lived it with her. 

The stadium fell quiet. Thousands of people watching. Listening. Remembering. The first clips appeared. A younger Alexia. Old matches, teammates and dreams. Years unfolding across the giant screen. The growth of Barça Femení: the victories, the heartbreaks, the supporters, the journey. 

Throughout all of it, you never stopped watching her. Not the screen. Her. The way she smiled at certain moments. The way shook her head at others. The way memories seemed to find her unexpectedly. 

Alexia wasn’t crying, not exactly. The tears never actually fell, but her eyes gave her away. Bright, glassy, watering more with every passing second. She kept blinking. Kept pressing her lips together. Kept trying to smile through it as though she could somehow hold the emotion together through sheer force of will.

She did for a while. Then the video reached the end. Her words. Her goodbye. The final images fading across the screen. The realization settled over the stadium that this wasn’t preparation anymore. This was real. It was actually happening. 

Alexia stood perfectly still, eyes shining beneath the stadium lights. Not crying, but close enough that everyone who loved her could see the battle she was fighting. The applause started immediately. Loud and endless yet somehow it felt distant. Alexia looked overwhelmed by it all. Like she didn’t quite know where to put the amount of love being handed back to her. 

Mapi moved first. Of course she did. Nobody seemed surprised. She crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around Alexia holding her tightly, protectively, like she’d done a thousand times before.

Patri followed. Then Kika and Clara. Each one stepped forward without hesitation. Without anyone asking. They just knew. By the time Vicky reached them, Alexia was already surrounded. Vicky practically crashed into the group. The emotional control she’d been fighting for all afternoon finally gone. 

Suddenly there were arms everywhere. Players squeezing closer. Laughing, crying, holding onto one another. One giant impossible family hug in the middle of The Johan. 

The supporters broke. You felt it happen around you. People openly wiping tears away, singing louder, and applauding harder, because for all the goals and trophies, all the headlines and records, this is what Alexia had built. Not just a football team, but a family. 

The hug lasted longer than anyone expected. Nobody wanted to be the first person to let go. Eventually, reluctantly, they did one by one. Alexia wiping quickly beneath her eyes before anyone could tease her too much. The players laughing through their own emotions. 

Finally, Alexia stepped forward with the microphone in hand and the stadium immediately quieted. Thousands of people falling silent because their captain had something to say one last time. 

Her voice broke once, then twice. It broke not because she wasn’t prepared, but because some things you can’t be prepared for. 

She thanked the supporters, the club, her teammates and staff. The people who believed in her, in Barça Femení. The people who stayed and who built this alongside her. At one point she had to stop talking completely when the emotion caught up to her. Immediately the supporters started chanting her name. The sound rolled across The Johan like a wave. Alexia looked down, smiled and took a breath before somehow finding the strength to continue. 

By the time she finished, half the stadium was crying. The other half wasn’t far behind. 

Then came the lap. Just Alexia. No stopping, no signing. No one beside her. Just one woman walking around the pitch that had raised her, staying within the white lines and the edges of the sideline like even now she understood the shape of this place by heart. 

The team followed behind her for their own lap, thanking the supporters for the season, but they left enough space. Enough room and quiet around her because everyone understood this part belonged to Alexia alone. 

The supporters leaned over railings holding up scarves, flags, jerseys, photos, her name, her number, their memories and she waved to all of them. Every section, every corner, every face she could catch. She wasn’t stopping and signing yet. She was just looking, receiving, letting the Johan love her one final time without asking anything back. 

The lap took longer than it should have but nobody cared. Nobody wanted it to end. Every few steps she lifted her hand again, sometimes smiling, sometimes pressing her lips together and sometimes looking down just long enough to keep the feeling from swallowing her whole. She wasn’t saying farewell to a stadium, she was saying farewell to the people who had loved her all this time. 

Eventually, she made her way back toward midfield, the team - her family and us. You saw it immediately. The shift in the way she was starting to leave the moment. Already grieving it before it was gone. Already looking toward the ending instead of the people still standing beside her. 

You stepped forward and she found you immediately, like she always did. You cupped her face gently and pressed a kiss to her forehead before resting yours against hers. Her eyes closed instantly. One breath, then another.

“Quédate conmigo en el momento, Ale.” Stay with me in the moment, Ale.

For a second, she didn’t move or speak. She just stood there breathing. The sadness didn’t disappear and neither did the grief, but you felt something shift. The tension left her shoulders and the weight settled differently. 

When she opened her eyes again, they were still glassy. Still emotional but present. Here. With you, Eli, Alba, her teammates, her supporters. With Barça. A soft, small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Then she kissed you, right there in front of everyone. The supporters immediately lost their minds. The team wasn’t much better. Cheers, whistles, laughter, applause. The entire stadium celebrating the moment with you. 

Alexia laughed immediately afterward, hiding her face against your shoulder in embarrassment but overwhelmingly happy. Alive. Then she pulled herself together and went right back to the supporters. Of course she did. 

This lap was different. This one was for them individually. For every person who had waited, every child still pressed to the barrier, and every supporter holding out something for her to touch. 

You stayed near midfield with Eli and Alba while Alexia made her way around the Johan again. This time she stopped for everything: jerseys, flags, photos, scarves, programs. Anything handed to her. Nobody rushed her. Nobody wanted to. This is why she had chosen the Johan, to experience Barça with them one final time. To be able to look people in the eye and give them whatever pieces of herself she still had left to give. 

The crowd grew smaller and small as the noise began to soften. The evening moving later into the night and still she kept signing, smiling, and saying thank you. 

At some point, movement near the tunnel caught my eye. Clara. She walked back out quietly, no cameras following, no big announcement. Just Clara and you could immediately see it. She was emotional, barely holding it together. You opened your arms, no words, just an invitation. She walked straight to you. The hug was heavy. The kind that didn’t need an explanation. You held her while Alexia kept signing near the sideline, both of you watching the woman who meant so much to you both in completely different ways. 

Alexia turned at one point, saw you and stopped. For a second, her face softened because she wasn’t just seeing you hugging Clara. She was seeing proof that the people she loved had found each other. That her worlds didn’t have to stay separate anymore. 

You felt Clara shift in your arms and loosened your hold, smiling softly as you gave her a gentle nudge toward Alexia. “Go.” Clara didn’t have to be told twice. She walked straight toward Alexia. Alexia met her halfway. Their hug was quiet, tight, long enough to matter. Not dramatic or performative, just the kind of embrace shared by two people who already understood everything they needed to. 

When they finally separated, Alexia pressed a kiss to Clara’s forehead - smaller and more private than earlier. Clara smiled through whatever emotion she was still fighting, then turned and made her way back toward the tunnel. 

Eventually only scattered groups of supporters remained. Then a handful until Alexia had reached them all and none remained. The stadium sat almost empty around you all. Rows of quiet seats where flags were once waved. The last traces of noise fading into the night air. 

Alexia had finally made it back to midfield when Mapi appeared again. She was freshly showered and changed. No kit. No match around her anymore. Just Mapi. Walking back out like she wasn’t ready to leave just yet. After all, she had spent the last nine years here with Alexia. 

She stopped beside Alexia at midfield. For a while, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there together looking out across empty seats of the Johan – the place that had shaped so much of their lives and who they had become. The place they had fought for, won in, cried in, and loved in. For several minutes neither moved, just taking it all in together. 

Eventually, Mapi squeezed Alexia’s shoulder, pulled her into one final hug and disappeared back down the tunnel.

Suddenly, there were only four people left: Eli, Alba, You and Alexia. The stadium sat quiet around us. The place that had held so much noise now holding only silence. Alexia stood between Eli and Alba, looking out across the Johan and suddenly it hit me. This moment belonged to them. They had been here before any of us; before the trophies and sold out stadiums. Before the world learned her name. 

So quietly, you started to step back to give them space. To give them this moment. A hand caught yours immediately and you looked down. Eli. She didn’t let go. Instead, she squeezed your hand once, firm and certain, the way she always did when she meant something. 

“Quédate, hija mía.” Stay, my daughter.

Your throat closed instantly. Before you could say anything, she tugged gently on your hand and pulled you back beside them like there had never been another option. Making sure you understood there had never been any question where you belonged. 

Alexia looked over, her eyes still glassy from everything the day had been and smiled softly. Home. 

Without saying a word, she slipped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you against her side. Instinctively your arm wrapped around her waist. Alba stepped closer on Alexia’s other side. Eli never let go of your hand. 

Patri Guijarro x Reader

The first thing you say is "Sorry," but it isn't actually about being late.

Author's Note: Inspired by "Sorry in Advance" by Marielle Kraft. Not a lyric fic—just a story that grew from the feeling of the song. If you haven't heard it before I would suggest giving it a listen.

You’re late. Which is almost impressive considering this was your idea. Patri checks her watch for what might be the fifth time and immediately tells herself to stop. This isn’t training. There’s no schedule to keep. No one’s counting reps or minutes or efficiency. She agreed to this knowing that.

She just didn’t expect to be standing outside a closed ceramics studio on a Thursday night, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, wondering how she ended up saying yes to a first date that involved clay and an instructor named Marta who had definitely looked at her funny when she asked if five minutes last was still late. 

You’d pitched it like it was nothing. It’s kind of random, you’d said. But it’s fun and low pressure. Worst case, we make something ugly and laugh about it.

Patri doesn’t usually do random on first dates. She does coffee, maybe dinner. Something contained that she can leave easily if it doesn’t feel right. This had felt different, not risky — just unfamiliar. She’s surprised herself by agreeing without overthinking it. Honestly, she’s still surprised.

“Sorry.” Your voice cuts through her thoughts as you jog up the sidewalk, breathless and smiling like you’re not even slightly ashamed. You slow when you reach her, hands braced on your knees for half a second. 

“I know. I know,” you say quickly. “Five minutes late is basically on time for me, but I swear it wasn’t intentional. I ran into – actually, no, that’s a lie. I lost track of time.”

Patri watches you with the same focus she used on the pitch, cataloguing details without meaning to: the flushed cheeks, the way you talk with your hands even when you’re apologizing, the complete absence of nerves. 

“It’s fine,” she says automatically. 

You straighten, grinning like you don’t quite believe her but accept it anyway. “You say that like you mean it.

“I do,” Patri says. Realizing a beat later that she does.

The class ends up being exactly what you promised — messy, unstructured. Marta corrects your hands twice and gives up. You laugh too loudly when your bowl collapses in on itself and insist it has character. Patri’s hands are steady and precise, but she doesn’t mind when you bump her elbow or smear clay where it doesn’t belong. 

It’s not what she would’ve chosen, but it’s exactly what she didn’t know she needed. 

By the time you’re heading back to your place, shoes dusted and fingers still smelling faintly like wet earth, Patri realizes something else — she hasn’t checked her phone once. Not for messages, time nor an exit. 

First date. No backup plan, No urge to leave early. That alone feels new. 

You talk the entire way, jumping between stories like you’re tracing constellations only you can see. Names she doesn’t recognize. People she hasn’t met. You don’t pause to explain any of it. You don’t check to see if she’s following. You just assume she will. And she does. You only stop talking when you both reach your front door. 

“Well,” you say, glancing at the door, then back at her. “For a first date, that went…shockingly well.”

Patri huffs a quiet laugh. “Is that your professional assessment?”

“I don’t usually pick something like that for a first date,” you admit. “And I definitely don’t usually rul late to my own ideas. So year, I’d call it a win.”

That catches her off guard — not because it surprises her, but because it mirrors something she hasn’t said out loud.

“Yeah,” Patri says. “Same.”

You tilt your head, curious but not pushing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah”

You smile like that answers more than one question and the thought comes to her uninvited, unfiltered; settling low and certain in her chest. You are going to quietly ruin the way I’ve been doing life. Patri doesn’t know yet whether it’s a warning or an observation. 

You hesitate at the door, keys already in your hand like you’re deciding something. Patri stays where she is, giving you space she doesn’t feel particularly good about offering. 

“I had a really good time,” you say. Causal. Honest. “Which is not something I say lightly on a first date.”

Patri’s mouth cures despite herself. “Me neither.”

There’s a pause — not awkward, not searching. Just quiet. The kind that stretches because neither of you rushes to fill it. She’s already aware of it, the unspoken rule you both seem to share. No rushing. No first-date kisses. Too much weight too soon, usually. Too many expectations wrapped up in something that should still be light. So when you step closer, it takes her a second to register it. Not because it’s sudden — because it’s deliberate.

Your hand brushes her arm as you lean in, warm through the fabric of her jacket, grounding in a way that makes her chest tighten. The kiss itself is soft and brief, more certain than urgent, like you’re checking something rather than claiming it. Your lips fit easily against hers, familiar in a way that makes absolutely no sense. 

For a heartbeat, she forgets to think. She just feels — the warmth, the steadiness, the quiet rightness of it — and then it’s over. You pull back first, just far enough to give her space again.

You pull back just enough to look at her, eyes bright, words tumbling out before you stop them. “Wow,” you say, half-laughing. “Okay, cool, so that’s either the last first kiss I ever have or I’ve officially ruined my own rules.”

The sentence lands crooked. Unpolished. Honest in a way you probably didn’t mean to be. 

You blink like you’ve just heard yourself. “Sorry,” you say immediately, smiling like you’re half-expecting her to call you out. “I don’t usually —”

“It’s okay,” Patri cuts in, quicker than she means to. She clears her throat, grounding herself. “I don’t usually either.”

Your smile softens at that, something quieter settling in behind it. “Good.” The word lands heavier than it should. You step back then, easy and unbothered, like the kiss didn’t demand anything further from either of you. Like it was just something that happened — something allowed. 

“Text me when you get home,” you say, already opening the door.

“I will,” Patri says, even though she usually hates being told that. 

You give her one last smile — bright, familiar, entirely yourself —and disappear inside, the door closing softly behind you. Patri stands there for a moment longer than necessary, pulse steady but mind loud, replaying the exact shape of the kiss like it might change if she thinks about it hard enough. It doesn’t.

Patri doesn’t make it out of the neighborhood before her phone rings. She glances at the screen and exhales a quiet laugh when she sees Alexia’s name. Of course, like she’s been summoned. 

She considers letting it ring for half a second then answers. 

“Hola,” Patri answers, pulling out of the neighborhood.

“Well?” Alexia says immediately. “How did it go?”

Patri opens her mouth to answer and nothing coherent comes out. “It was —” She exhales, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Fine. Not fine. It was a first date.”

Alexia hums. “That’s a lot of qualifiers.”

Patri snorts despite herself. “I’m driving. I can’t — I keep replaying it.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It’s not,” Patri says quickly. “I mean — it shouldn’t be. It was just one night.”

“And yet,” Alexia prompts. 

Patri turns the radio on without thinking. Music fills the car too loudly and she immediately turns it back down again, the quiet rushing in like its been waiting for her. “I can’t stop thinking about stupid things,” she admits. “Not even the kiss. The way she laughed. The way she didn’t hesitate about anything. She picked the date, ran late to her own idea, and somehow that didn’t bother me at all.”

Alexia laughs. “That alone is concerning.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Patri replies. “I keep telling myself this is ridiculous. I know how first dates go. I know how to keep things contained.”

“And yet,” Alexia says again, smiling into the word.

“And yet my chest feels…busy,” Patri says, the words slipping out before she can stop it. “Not tight. Just — full. Like something moved in without asking.”

There’s a pause on the line. Not judgemental. Interested.

“She kissed me,” Patri adds. “Which I don’t do. Not on first dates.”

Alexia’s tone softens. “And?”

“And it wasn’t dramatic,” Patri responds. “That’s what’s messing with me. It was soft. Brief. And then she stepped back like she trusted me not to disappear.” She shakes her head even though Alexia can’t see it. “I turned the radio on. Turned it off. I said out loud that this was ridiculous.”

“And did that help?”

“No,” Patri admits. “It made it worse.”

Alexia chuckles. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You absolutely are spiraling,” Alexia says fondly. “You never talk like this.”

Patri falls quiet at that, the city slipping past her in blurred shapes. “She texted me,” Patri says after a moment. “Said she made it inside. Said she’s blaming me if she can’t sleep.”

“And?”

“And I smiled. I don’t do that either.”

Alexia doesn’t hate this time. “She’s bringing chaos into your life.”

Patri grimaces. “That’s not —”

“In the best way,” Alexia finishes. “You sound alive, P.”

The words land heavier than they should.

“I keep thinking she’s going to ruin the way I’ve been doing life,” Patri says quietly. “Like everything is about to get rearranged and I didn’t agree to it.”

Alexia’s voice gentles. “Did you pull away?”

“No.”

“Did you want to?”

Patri exhales, long and steady. “Not even a little.”

Alexia smiles — Patri can hear it. “Then maybe it’s not ruining anything.”

Patri stays in the car longer than she needs to. The engine is off now, the quiet settling around her in a way that feels heavier than it should. Her phone rests face-down in her lap, Alexia’s words still echoing faintly in her head. You sound alive. 

She exhales slowly, staring out through the windshield at nothing in particular. The is usually the part where she regains control. Where she files the night away, categorizes it, decides what it means later — when it’s quieter, safer, contained. 

This isn’t happening. Instead, the moments keep resurfacing out of order Your laugh. The way you didn’t linger. The kiss that didn’t ask. The chaos you brought with you without even trying. And then your voice again, too fast and half-laughing, like you hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all. Okay, cool, so that’s either the last first kiss I ever have or I’ve officially ruined my own rules.

Patri’s mouth curves despite herself. She’s spent so long living by rules she didn’t remember agreeing to — first dates that stay light, feelings that stay contained, a life that stays ordered enough to manage. She thinks, suddenly, that there may not be rules anymore. Or maybe there never were.

The realization doesn’t send her into panic. It doesn’t even feel like loss. I feels like possibility.

Her phone buzzes softly in her hand, the vibration gentle enough that it feels more like a reminder than an interruption. She looks down. 

You Just making sure you got home okay.

Something in her chest loosens at the simplicity of it — the lack of urgency, the absence of expectation. She types back before she can think better of it.

Patri I did. Thank you.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again. 

You Good. Sleep well. 

Patri smiles, small and private, and sets the phone face-down again. You are going to quietly ruin the way I’ve been doing life. She lets her head fall back against the seat, eyes closing for just a second. She doesn’t reach for her phone. She doesn’t make a plan. She doesn’t try to get ahead of it. 

For the first time, she lets the feeling exist without containment. And somewhere beneath the anticipation, there’s something steadier beginning to take shape. Not fear. Not urgency. Just the quiet understanding that whatever comes next, she doesn’t want to put away. 

She picked up her phone one more time, smiling to herself as her thumbs hovered over the screen. 

Patri Maybe some rules are worth breaking.  Sweet dreams.

Coming Soon: Magnolias

Alexia x Platonic Teammate!Reader

Leila Ouahabi x Reader

For one night, her world gathers in one place

I figured I need to start getting the rest of this story out as well. Sorry it has taken so long.

Chapter 8: Ordinary Days

Chapter 9: Thirty-Three

Leila insists she doesn’t care about birthdays. 

She says it casually, like it’s settled, like she hasn’t mentioned at least twice this week that thirty-three feels “very calm” and “honestly kind of perfect.” 

“Thirty-three doesn’t need attention,” she tells you one night, thoughtful. “It’s already…solid.” 

You nod, agreeable in a way she does not trust. 

She squints. “Why are you being nice?” 

“I’m always nice.” 

“That’s not true.” 

Fair. 

On the morning of her birthday, you choose chaos. Very deliberately.

You lift the kitten from where she’s curled up and warm, carry her into the bedroom, and gently set her on the bed beside Leila. For half a second, the kitten blinks sleepily — confused, offended. 

Then she launches herself onto Leila’s stomach with unearned confidence, kneading enthusiastically and purring loud enough to be disruptive. 

Leila groans, eyes still closed. 

“No,” she mutters. “I’m older now. I need peace.” 

The kitten steps directly on her throat. 

Leila gasps. “Attempted murder.” 

You barely manage to keep it together, laughter caught in your chest as you lean in to press a kiss to her temple. 

“Happy birthday,” you murmur. 

Leila cracks one eye open. Then the other. “You did this.” 

“I absolutely did.” 

She smiles anyway — slow, unguarded, already warm with the day. 

Training still happens. Of course it does. She insists on it, because routine steadies her and because football has always been the one constant she doesn’t negotiate with. You walk her to the door, kiss her once, then again.

“No surprises,” she says, narrowing her eyes. 

You hum. “I make no promises.” 

She laughs, shakes her head, and leaves. 

You spend the day pretending to be calm. 

The truth is, this took weeks. 

Late-night messages. Time zones. Careful planning around training schedules. Quiet coordination so nothing leaked. You learned quickly that loving Leila also meant loving the people who knew her before you — who had shared locker rooms, losses, victories, hotel hallways at dawn. 

When you asked, no one hesitated. 

We’ll come.  Of course we’ll come.  She’s turning thirty-three — how could we not? 

So they flew in from Spain together — one long flight out of Barcelona, cramped seats and shared headphones, whispered jokes somewhere over the Atlantic. They arrived jet-lagged and determined, carrying nothing extravagant. Just themselves, overnight bags, and the certainty that this mattered. 

When Leila gets home, the apartment looks exactly the same as when she left. No decorations. No obvious signs. The kitten is asleep in a sunbeam, innocent. 

Leila drops her bag by the door and immediately narrows her eyes. 

“You’re being weird,” she says. 

“I missed you.” 

“That’s not weird.” 

You take her coat. “Come sit.” 

She does, still scanning the room like she expects something might jump out. 

You hand her a drink. She takes a sip, relaxes just slightly. Then the doorbell rings. 

Leila frowns. “Are you expecting someone?” 

You smile. “Kind of.” 

When you open the door, the apartment fills instantly. 

Spanish spills into the room first — laughter, voices overlapping, the familiar cadence of people who have shared years together. Bags drop. Arms wrap around Leila before she can even form a question.

She freezes — just for a heartbeat. 

Then she laughs, breath catching, hands flying up to cover her mouth as she’s pulled into hug after hug. 

“What—” she starts, voice breaking. “What are you doing here?” 

They talk over each other. Teasing. Scolding her for not noticing. Telling her she looks older, wiser, exactly the same. Someone presses a kiss to her cheek. Someone else squeezes her tight like they’re afraid she might disappear. 

The kitten darts into the chaos immediately, delighted, attempting to climb a shoulder like she’s found her people. 

“They flew in,” you say softly, when Leila finally looks at you — eyes bright, overwhelmed. “All together. from Barcelona.” 

Her expression crumples into something open and stunned. 

“You flew in?” she repeats, disbelief threaded through her voice. 

“For you,” someone says simply. 

Leila laughs, wiping at her eyes, pulling them all closer like she needs to confirm they’re real. “You’re insane,” she says, affectionate and undone. 

“You’re thirty-three,” another replies. “We’re allowed.” 

The apartment feels smaller now — fuller. Jet lag dissolves into joy. Someone opens a bottle. Someone else insists on helping with dinner even though you already planned it. The kitchen becomes loud, crowded, alive. 

Leila moves through it all like she’s floating — stopping to hug, to listen, to laugh, to rest her forehead briefly against someone else’s before moving on. 

At some point, you slip into the kitchen under the pretense of finding clean glasses. You’re standing at the counter, hands busy, breathing for a second, when Alexia steps in beside you. 

She doesn’t say your name right away. Just reaches for a towel, dries her hands like this is the most ordinary thing in the world. 

“She’s happy,” Alexia says quietly. Not asking. Just stating it. 

You glance toward the living room, where Leila is laughing, surrounded, radiant. “She is.” 

Alexia nods, satisfied. Then she looks at you — really looks. 

“This,” she says, tipping her chin toward the noise, “doesn’t happen without you.” 

You swallow. “It was a group effort.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “Still.”

She bumps her shoulder lightly against yours and heads back out like nothing important was said at all. 

Dinner stretches long. Stories pile over each other. Teasing sharp and affectionate. Someone produces a cake — nothing elaborate, just enough. Candles flicker. They sing. Loudly. Off-key. Leila laughs through it, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. 

Thirty-three arrives surrounded. 

As the night softens, the volume lowers. People drift to the guest room, claim couches, curl up wherever they fit. The apartment settles into a gentle hum — breathing, murmurs, the quiet aftermath of joy. 

Leila ends up beside you on the couch, legs tangled, her head resting against your shoulder. The girls are still there — asleep, whispering, half-present in the background — close enough to see, close enough to feel. 

“This,” Leila says quietly, gesturing with her free hand. “This is a lot.” 

“Too much?” you ask. 

She shakes her head immediately. “No. Just… full.” 

You smile. “That’s abundance.” 

She exhales, sinking further into you. “I didn’t know life could look like this.” 

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. 

Outside, the world keeps moving. Cameras will return. Noise will find its way back in. 

But tonight, at thirty-three, Leila is held — by history, by chosen family, by a love that knows how to gather people and let them stay. 

She closes her eyes, content, the room still breathing around her. 

Thirty-three isn’t quiet. 

It’s full. 

Alexia Putellas x Reader

For eighty-two minutes, she refused to become a farewell

I was unsure if I should post this but here it is. I have a third part if there is interest.

Part 1: Visca Barça

Alexia gave herself to Barça one final time. The rest happened the way football always does — too quickly. 

One moment she was walking onto the pitch beneath the roar of Estadi Johan Cruyff. The next, eighty minutes had disappeared. An assist. Countless touches. Thousands of supporters trying to memorize every second. Suddenly there wasn’t much time left at all. 

The match kept moving which felt impossible somehow. After everything underneath the stadium before kickoff. After the tears she had fought so hard not to shed. After the realization that this was really happening. 

The clock just kept going. 

From the family section, I found myself looking at the scoreboard more than the pitch. Not intentionally. I just couldn’t stop.  

The match itself had begun to blur together. Not because it wasn’t beautiful. Not because Alexia wasn’t brilliant. But because every passing minute felt stolen. Every glance at the clock felt like watching sand disappear through my fingers. Yet one moment remained perfectly clear. 

The assist. Thirty-five minutes. Aitana’s first goal back. The ball reached Alexia and for a split second the entire stadium seemed to lean forward. Then she saw it. The space, the run, the possibility nobody else had noticed yet. One touch. One pass. Perfect. Aitana finished it.

The stadium exploded. Aitana’s arms went wide immediately, joy and relief crashing through her all at once. And Alexia — she just smiled. Of course she did. Of course one of the defining moments of her final match would be creating something for somebody else.

The supporters celebrated. Aitana celebrated. The team celebrated. And watching from the stands, I couldn’t stop thinking how impossibly Alexia that was. Not the goal, the gift.

Even here, even now, even with an entire stadium prepared to celebrate her, she found a way to hand the moment to someone else. To Aitana, a teammate returning from injury, someone she loved. One final reminder that the woman the world knew as a goalscorer had always been, at her core, a creator. A giver. 

The crowd sang her name afterward. She pointed everyone back into position. Focusing, working, and leading as though there were still years left instead of minutes. As though this wasn’t goodbye. 

The scoreboard ticked onward. 

Seventy-four. Seventy-five. Seventy-six. 

The atmosphere changed; not louder but heavier. The supporters still sang and the flags still waved. The drums still echoed through the Johan, but underneath it all sat something fragile. Everyone knew - the younger players, the supporters, the staff, teammates. Even from the stands I could see it in the way people watched her. Not casually, but carefully. Like they were trying to save every detail, every touch, every turn, every gesture, every familiar movement. 

And Alexia — Alexia was still playing. Still directing traffic. Still demanding the ball. Still pointing teammates into spaces before they saw them. Still leading. Still carrying. 

For eighty-two minutes, she refused to become a farewell. She was simply a footballer. 

Somehow that hurt more than anything else, because she wasn’t playing like someone leaving. She was playing like someone who still belonged. 

Then the fourth official stepped forward and the board went up. 

I never actually saw the numbers. Not at first, because the second it happened, the Johan rose to its feet. All of it. Every section. Every row. Every person. One collective movement like six thousand people had been holding their breath together for eighty-two minutes and finally couldn’t hold it anymore. 

The applause arrived a heartbeat later. Not cheering, not really. Something more emotional than that. Gratitude. Heartbreak. Love. Thousands of people trying to say thank you all at once. 

The noise crashed down from the stands wave after wave after wave. I looked immediately toward Alexia. She had already seen the board. For the briefest second she stopped. Not dramatically but just enough. The kind of pause you only notice when you’ve spent years learning someone. 

Then she smiled and my heart broke because it wasn’t her public smile. It wasn’t the captain’s smile or the smile she gave the cameras. It was the smile of someone trying very hard not to cry. 

She started walking towards Marta and suddenly the reality of it all landed even harder. The captain’s armband came off slowly; painfully slowly as neither of them wanted to rush the moment. The elastic caught briefly against Alexia’s wrist and I found myself staring at it. She had worn that armband for so long that seeing her remove it felt wrong. Like watching someone set down a piece of themselves - a responsibility, a promise, a part of who she had become. 

The applause showhow grew louder because everyone understood this wasn’t just a substitution. This was a passing forward. A shared moment between two players who had spent years playing and growing with each other. Alexia wrapped the armband around Marta’s arm herself. Carefully. Deliberately. Then she pulled her into a hug long enough to say everything words couldn’t. 

When they separated, she squeezed Marta’s shoulder once and for a moment I saw it. The captain passing part of herself to another captain that led silently through actions while Alexia was the visual representation of the captain. Two players who guided the next generation to the point they were at now. 

Then Alexia turned, not towards the sideline, towards midfield and the center circle – the heart of the pitch. The guard of honor was already forming. Players from both teams taking their places. Waiting. But Alexia wasn’t looking at them yet. 

She was looking at the Johan. The stadium. The supporters. The place that had watched her become herself and for a moment she simply stood there taking it all in. The noise. The flags. The songs. The faces. The memories. 

Every version of herself that had ever existed here — the little girl, the teenager, the captain, the woman, La Reina, the legend of Barcelona.  

Then she bowed - slowly, deliberately, one final time. The gesture she reserved for the biggest moments. Only this wasn’t Camp Nou. This wasn’t a Champions League night. This was the Johan – the pitch that raised her. The pitch where the ordinary days happened. The pitch that had become home. 

The supporters broke. I felt it happen around me. People who had spent the entire afternoon fighting tears finally lost the battle. A woman several rows down buried her face in her scarf. Someone behind me whispered her name like a prayer. An older man stood applauding with tears running openly down his face. 

Because everyone understood what that bow meant. Not goodbye. Thank you – thank you for believing when nobody else did, thank you for staying, thank you for building this, thank you for giving us something worth loving. 

When she straightened, tears were already shining in her eyes. Then she began walking. The guard of honor applauded from both sides. Supporters sang her name. The stadium shook beneath the sound. Every step carrying her closer to the sideline. Closer to goodbye. Closer to the moment nobody wanted. 

There were quick high fives, fast half hugs. Then there was Clara. The high-five that turned into a half hug and head time before Alexia continued. Clear that she didn’t want all the attention on her. 

Then I noticed Vicky standing at the very end, closest to the touchline, to the future. Closest to the place Alexia was about to leave behind. Vicky looked absolutely devastated. She was trying to smile, trying to hold it together and failing completely. Suddenly she didn’t look like one of the brightest young talents in world football. She looked heartbreakingly young – just a girl saying goodbye to someone she had always assumed would be there. 

Alexia saw it instantly - of course she did. She always noticed. She stopped and pulled Vicky into her arms, longer than anyone else. Protective and tender the way she always was with Vicky. The applause continued around them. The singing continued and the entire stadium watched. Yet somehow the moment felt private like nobody else existed. When Alexia finally pulled back, she cupped the side of Vicky’s face, said something only Vicky could hear, and then pressed a kiss against her forehead. A simple gesture so quiet it was almost lost beneath the noise yet somehow one of the loudest moments of the entire afternoon, because everyone understood. Not goodbye but keep going. 

Then Alexia turned towards the sideline. Looked down at the crest over her heart. Her fingers found the badge and she lifted it. For a second she simply stared at it as though trying to memorize the feeling. Then she pressed her lips against it one last time. 

The stadium erupted. People crying openly now, singing, applauding. People trying desperately to hold onto a moment already slipping away. 

Just beyond the touchline, Patri waited. She had stepped back deliberately giving Alexia space. Giving the moment room to belong to Alexia. 

Only when Alexia finally crossed the line did Patri move. Neither of them made it very far. THe met immediately. Wrappyed around each other. One quick embrace. One emotional thank you. One final acknowledgement between two people who understood exactly what this club meant. 

Then Patri took a breath, turned, and stepped onto the pitch. The match continued. The future already arriving. 

Alexia turned toward the bench; toward her people. Pere reached her first. Then coaches and staff. Then everyone else waiting to pull her into quick hugs before emotion overwhelmed them completely. 

Eventually she made it to the bench. To the empty seat waiting for her next to Mapi. Already substituted earlier. Already saying goodbye to Barcelona herself. 

Mapi’s eyes were red. Alexia’s weren’t much better. Neither of them spoke immediately. They simply sat beside each other. Watching the match continue without them. Watching the club they loved move forward. Watching the final minutes disappear. Together.

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Alexia before her final match for Barcelona.

The tunnel at Estadi Johan Cruyff felt smaller than usual. Not physically, but emotionally. Like every hallway underneath the stadium had suddenly become too narrow to hold the weight of what this night meant. 

The air itself felt heavier. Thick with anticipation and grief and something almost sacred underneath it all. The concrete corridors hummed with muffled stadium noise overhead, the sound vibrating faintly through the walls while staff members move around us in quieter currents than normal. 

People softened around her tonight. Not sad exactly. Reverent.

Staff members who had known her for years lingered when she passed. Academy girls standing off to the side tried not to stare too openly, clutching jerseys and accreditation lanyards in nervous hands. Security guards who normally barely looked up softened immediately when she smiled at them. One woman from the media team pressed her lips together hard after hugging her, like she was trying not to cry before kickoff had even started. 

This wasn’t just another player leaving. 

This was Alexia. 

And this stadium — this place was full of her. 

Not in the giant historic way of Camp Nou nights. Not in the headline-making way the world would remember. In the real way. 

Morning recoveries before the sun came up. Double sessions in August heat. Rainy training days when nobody outside these walls cared enough to watch. Rehab. Film sessions. Captain’s meetings. Cold nights. Bad losses. Tiny locker room jokes. Ordinary Tuesdays that slowly became history without anyone realizing it yet. 

The repetitions of a life. The repetition that built a dynasty brick by brick until suddenly the whole world was watching women’s football differently because of what this team became here. Because of what she became here. 

Her hand rested against the small of my back as we walked toward the pitch entrance. Steady and warm even through my jacket. Grounding herself through touch the way she always did when emotions got too big to carry neatly. 

Despite everything — the noise, the cameras waiting outside, the history pressing against all of us — there was still something so instinctively Alexia about the way her thumb kept moving softly against my spine without her even realizing she was doing it. Like somewhere underneath all the legend and pressure and heartbreak, she was still just trying to stay anchored. 

Then the supporters started chanting her name from the stands. Not casually, not rhythmically, but emotionally. 

ALEXIA

ALEXIA

ALEXIA

The sound rolled through the stadium like a heartbeat. Loud enough that I felt it in my chest before I fully processed it with my eyes and beside me — her breathing caught. Just slightly, but enough that I looked over immediately. 

The stadium lights spilled down the corridor entrance ahead of us, catching against her eyes, and God —she already looked emotional. Not crying yet, but trying so hard to hold everything at once. Every banner, voice, and memory. Every version of herself that existed inside this club. 

She looked toward the pitch with this expression I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover from. Pride and heartbreak and disbelief all tangled together so tightly it looked painful to carry. 

“I grew up wanting this club to survive,” she said softly. 

The words nearly knocked the air out of me because that was the truth people forget now. There was no guarantee women’s football would become this when she was young. No guarantee little girls would someday fill these stands wearing Barça shirts with women’s names on the back. No guarantee Barça Femení would become the standard of Europe. 

Back then, survival itself had been the dream and somehow, this woman standing beside me had helped build all of this from the inside out. 

Her father believed in her before any of it existed. Before Ballon d’Ors, sold out stadiums, murals, little girls, and chants shaking the stands. Before the world learned her name. 

Suddenly, I understood something devastating about this goodbye…

Part of her was grieving that he never got to see what she helped build. Not because she needed the validation, but because he would have loved this. The little girls in the stands wearing her name. The flags waving everywhere in blaugrana colors. The songs. The way an entire generation now looked at women’s football like it belonged to them too. 

Because of her. Because she stayed long enough to help make it real. 

She swallowed once, hard enough that I saw it move down her throat before looking back toward the pitch entrance glowing ahead of us. 

“I think he would’ve been proud,” she admitted quietly. The vulnerability in her voice nearly broke me on contact. I actually had to look away for a second because there are moments where loving Alexia feels unbearably tender. 

This was one of them. The capitana about to play her last match for the club of her life not talking about winning, but about the people who helped her believe she belonged here before the rest of the world caught up. 

“You know what I keep thinking?” she asked quietly. 

“What?”

“That I was so lucky.”

I actually stopped walking, because only Alexia could stand on the edge of leaving behind one of the greatest legacies football has even seen and still frame it as gratitude. Not entitlement. Not ownership. Gratitude. Like she still couldn’t quite believe this life had happened to her. 

“You changed this club forever,” I told her. 

Her eyes flicked toward me instantly. So immediate. So certain. 

“No,” she said softly. “We changed each other.”

That’s the moment that finally broke me. Not the banners or the noise. Not the realization that this was the last time I would ever watch her walk out for FC Barcelona wearing that crest over her heart. 

It was that sentence. We changed each other – because she meant it. 

This club raised her, held her grief, witnessed her becoming. Asked everything from her, gave everything back, and built her into someone generations of girls would point to someday and say — that’s the reason I believed I could belong here too. 

And she loved it enough to leave before she had nothing left to give. That was the part people outside football would never fully understand. 

Leaving wasn’t betrayal. Leaving was the final act of devotion. 

Knowing the story deserved to continue even if she wouldn’t be the one carrying it anymore. 

The music started above us then. Kickoff getting closer. The stadium trembling now beneath the sheet force of noise and emotion and thousands of people trying to hold onto history while it slipped through their fingers in real time. 

Alexia looked toward the pitch entrance then back at me and suddenly, she wasn’t Alexia Putellas the icon for a second. She was just my girl trying not to cry before the biggest goodbye of her life so I stepped closer. Fixed the collar of her jacket even though it didn’t need fixing. I ran my thumb once against her jaw. Her skin was warm. Soft. I could feel the tension she was holding there underneath the surface. 

“You ready, cariño?”

Her eyes went glassy immediately. The kind of glassy where emotion rises so fast it almost catches her off guard, but she nods anyway. Brave even now. 

Then she leaned her forehead against mine for one brief, hidden second underneath the roar of the stadium. 

One second to breathe. One second to not be the captain. One second to just be held. 

“I don’t know who I am without this club,” she whispered. 

My heart cracked clean open, because there it was. The real fear underneath all of it. Not leaving. Not headlines. Not the future. Identify. The terrifying reality of separating yourself from the place that shaped almost every version of who you become. 

So I kissed her gently before she could disappear too far into that fear, soft enough to ground her. Certain enough to mean it. When I pulled back, I smiled even though my throat burned with emotion. 

“You’re still the girl who loved football enough to change it.”

She stared at me for a long moment after that. Like she was trying to memorize the words. Then finally she smiled a real smile. Small, wreaked, and absolutely beautiful. 

And somewhere above us, Estadi Johan Cruyff shook with the sound of thousands of people chanting her name one last breath before fully giving herself to Barça one final time. 

But… “Alexia’s Last Game” is coming tonight.

They both brought the teams to glory!