to be, or not to be—that is the question:

Bayern had already arrived and spread out by the time Barcelona stepped onto the pitch for the pre-match inspection, players and staff scattered across the field with the easy confidence of people standing on familiar ground. It was their stadium after all, their territory, and they carried themselves like they belonged there.

But Alexia could see the nerves lying beneath the surface, no matter how brave and intimidating Bayern tried to appear - she wasn’t scared, and neither was the rest of the team.

Pitch inspections had become routine to her. A chance to feel the grass beneath her shoes, feel it in her hands, adjust to the atmosphere of the still empty stadium and see her opponents before kickoff. But as Barcelona spread out across the pitch, the blonde's attention caught on someone standing near a goalpost.

While most of Bayern’s training staff stood huddled together near the bench, already relaxed and laughing amongst themselves, one lone figure had wandered further onto the pitch entirely on her own. An iPad was tucked securely beneath her arm while she held a notebook and pen in her hands. 

If not for the moving pen in her hand, Alexia might have mistaken her for a statue with how still she was standing. Not even looking down to see what she was writing, instead completely focused on how the girls from Barcelona behaved and moved on the pitch - even if they were just walking around and joking.

Alexia found herself staring at the mystery woman much more than she should.

The difference between her and the rest of the Bayern staff felt unsettling to the captain - so concentrated and isolated while the rest were already done with the inspection and were just chatting in a corner.

“Who is that?” Alexia asked quietly, more to herself than anyone else. Mapi followed her gaze and shrugged. “No idea. Maybe an analyst? Bayern’s got like five of them.”

She didn’t really expect her teammate to have a useful answer but was disappointed by the answer nonetheless. Just as she was about to tell her as much, she felt a stare settle on her.

Alexia looked up, and the stare didn’t falter. She was still and composed, pen hovering above her notebook, as if she had been studying Alexia just as closely as Alexia had been studying her. 

The moment stretched for only a few seconds, but it was enough to feel deliberate, neither of them in a hurry to look away first. Then, almost casually, the woman lowered her gaze back to her notebook, breaking the connection with a small shift of her shoulders before continuing to write as if nothing had happened at all - but Alexia could see the small smirk on her lips.

The blonde frowned slightly.

She had expected something. A reaction, a flicker of recognition, anything that showed the woman knew exactly who she was - Alexia Putellas, two-time Ballon d’Or winner, with more than enough titles under her belt to intimidate most opponents. 

But there was nothing.

“She’s weird,” Patri muttered, having just caught the end of her captain’s interaction. If you could even call it that.

Alexia didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were still fixed on the goal area, watching the way the woman moved a few steps closer, completely absorbed in whatever she was writing down.

Then, without really thinking about it anymore, Alexia turned her head slightly. “Bühl?” she called as the German approached them. 

Klara Bühl looked over. “Hm?”

Alexia nodded subtly towards where the woman had just sat down, leaning against a goal post “Who is she?”

Klara followed her gaze, then let out a small laugh, like the answer was obvious. “Oh,” she said, “that’s our tactical assistant coach. She basically runs half our tactical prep.”

Alexia’s eyes drifted back toward the goalpost almost immediately.

The woman still hadn’t moved much, now sitting against the white metal frame with one knee pulled up slightly while she wrote something down across an already crowded page of notes. Every now and then her gaze flicked back toward Barcelona’s players, focused and thoughtful in a way the Catalan found increasingly difficult to ignore.

And before she could properly think things through her feet were already moving towards you.

“Oh my god,” Patri groaned somewhere behind her. “You’re actually going over there?”

The woman noticed her approach long before Alexia reached her and just stared at her while she was making her way over. Before the captain had reached her, she had stood up, the pen had stilled and the notebook had been closed and vanished into a coat pocket.

Up close, she looked younger than Alexia expected, however the stare didn’t waver and was still scary as hell.

For a moment neither of them spoke, just sizing each other up. But the blonde broke first, nodding to the coat pocket, “Find anything useful?”

The corner of the woman’s mouth lifted slightly.

“That depends,” she replied smoothly, finally closing the notebook. “Are you planning on making this easy for us?”

The faint smirk still lingered on your lips, subtle enough that Alexia almost thought she had imagined it, but there was something undeniably amused in the way you watched her now, as though her walking over had only confirmed whatever conclusion you had already come to.

“Confident,” Alexia noted lightly.

One of your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Would you prefer I wasn’t?”. The Catalan found herself caught off guard for half a second by how easily you held your ground beneath her stare.

Up close, you somehow seemed even calmer than before, completely unaffected by the fact that the Alexia Putellas was standing directly in front of you. There was no nervousness in your expression, no awkward fumbling for words.

And it unsettled her more than she cared to admit, how your eyes seemed to constantly analyse her.

“What exactly are you writing down?” Alexia asked after a moment, nodding subtly toward the notebook now tucked away inside your coat pocket.

You tilted your head slightly, considering her question for a second before answering.

“Tactical adjustments, patterns, weaknesses.” That small smirk appeared again, just barely visible at the corner of your mouth. “And maybe,” you said smoothly, “which Barcelona players are easier to distract than others.”

Before she could respond, someone further down the pitch called your name sharply and said something in German. Your attention shifted immediately toward the Bayern bench before returning to Alexia one last time.

“You should probably go warm up properly, Putellas,” you said calmly as you stepped around her. “I’d hate for all those Ballon d'Ors to lose against Bayern.”

Then you walked away before Alexia could think of an answer good enough to stop you.

Usually warming up before the match was calming, and helped Alexia focus on the game. The familiar rhythm of drills, repeated movement and stretching were addicting to her, but this night was different, no matter what the blonde tried her attention kept drifting off.

The stadium was slowly filling up with supporters clad in red and white, while music echoed through the speakers - just enough to entertain the people but, but quiet enough that conversations were easy to overhear.

Barcelona had been warming up for nearly ten minutes before the Bayern staff started to take their places on the bench and behind it. Her eyes immediately found your figure again - the reason for her distraction.

Just behind you was a woman that appeared to be close to your age, also dressed in staff gear, holding a cooler of Powerade while you walked slightly ahead, flipping through the notebook with concentration.

Alexia could hear the woman talk to you in English, the Brit was loud enough that her words made their way over to the captain, but she only caught part of it at first.

“... seriously need to relax.”

She could only scoff at the woman’s words. Relax? You certainly didn’t look stressed. You barely looked up from the page. “I am relaxed.” 

The woman snorted beside you. “Right. Because stalking Barcelona’s warmup from the goalpost definitely screams relaxed.”

Alexia’s mouth twitched despite herself, just a bit amused at how passionately you had watched them.

You finally glanced sideways at the woman with weary eyes. “It’s called tactical preparation.”

“Sure,” she said dryly. “And I’m sure your actual coaches appreciate their little overachiever assistant doing all the hard work for them.”

Something about the comment immediately bothered Alexia.

Maybe because of how quickly you went quiet afterward. Or maybe because Alexia had already spent enough time watching Bayern’s technical area to know your role clearly extended far beyond “assistant” and that it simply wasn’t true.

You only stood quiet at the comment, eyes already dropping back to your notes. The woman sighed quite loud and dramatically. “God, you’re impossible before matches,” then, quieter this time, “You act like you’re the one actually coaching.”

Alexia’s jaw tightened, her eyes locking onto the British woman beside you. Because from everything she had seen so far, it certainly looked like you were coaching and analysing.

And judging by the way your shoulders stiffened almost immediately beside the woman, this clearly wasn’t the first time she had said something like that.

Eight minutes.

It had taken Barcelona all of eight minutes to be ahead. 

The stadium erupted instantly in anger, as Ewa Pajor disappeared beneath a crowd of celebrating Barcelona players. If there’s one thing the polish woman knew how to do, it’s score goals, especially against Bayern. No matter if in Barça’s blaugrana or Wolfsburg’s neon green.

Alexia patted the goalscorers back with pride and satisfaction while her gaze swept to the sideline where the Bayern bench looked shocked.

The head coach was already speaking rapidly to one of the assistants beside him, frustration clear in every sharp movement, but you had gone strangely still again, eyes locked onto the pitch with that same intense concentration Alexia remembered from the inspection earlier.

And then suddenly you moved - the notebook was gone, replaced by the iPad tucked beneath your arm as you stepped directly into the technical area beside the coach, who stopped talking immediately. 

The Catalan didn’t have more time to observe your actions closely as play resumed, she did however see Giulia Gwinn make her way over to you in the coaches box, where she listened to your instructions.

Bayern’s shape changed almost instantly after Gwinn made her way back and made a few gestures that clearly meant something to the others. 

The midfield line dropped slightly deeper whenever Barcelona tried building through the center, forcing them wider instead. Bayern’s strong and experienced wingers stopped tracking aggressively and started blocking passing lanes first - effectively shutting every attempt on goal down.

Alexia frowned slightly as she jogged back into position after another corner, eyes flicking toward the bench area again. The head coach had stepped back already but you hadn’t.

You were still standing near the line, one arm folded across your chest while the other held the iPad against your side, eyes constantly moving across the pitch as Bayern reorganised themselves exactly the way you had indicated moments earlier.

You were observing and shaping the game. Just as a content smile made its way onto your face the Brit tugged you back by the jacket, out of Alexia’s sight.

The whistle for halftime couldn’t have come sooner, finally letting you breathe for a moment as Barcelona still led, but only barely. The home team's adjustment had worked well enough to slow the game down, much to the frustration of the Spanish team.

As Alexia made her way toward the tunnel, she found you again - hands full with an iPad, notebooks and a tactical board. You flinched when a heavy hand landed on your shoulder. 

“Nice adjustment,” she said casually, her spanish lilt soft in your ears. For the first time all evening, you looked genuinely surprised. Then your expression settled back into something smoother, more controlled, though Alexia didn’t miss the faint satisfaction that flickered across your face at the compliment.

“Careful, Putellas,” you replied lightly. “People might start thinking you enjoy talking to me.”

Alexia’s mouth twitched upward, a cocky smirk settling on her lips. “They wouldn’t be wrong.” And before you could answer that one, she disappeared further down the tunnel alongside the rest of Barcelona’s squad.

The second half started much messier than the first had ended. Barça still had most of the possession, moving the ball across the pitch with the same irritating patience and speed that had frustrated Bayern in the first half. But the home side looked sharper, hungrier. 

The equalizer came in the sixty-ninth minute. The Allianz Arena exploded in cheers, the second Franzi Kett buried the ball into the back of the net with a stunning shot assisted by Pernille Harder. Bayern's bench erupted into chaos, finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.

Alexia swore quietly under her breath while Bayern’s players disappeared into celebration near the corner flag. And despite her teammates teasing comments from earlier, her eyes searched for you again. For the first time all evening, you weren’t composed, no you looked thrilled.

One of Bayern’s assistant coaches grabbed your shoulders excitedly while players on the bench shouted toward you, and for a brief moment you laughed openly, the sound completely swallowed by the roaring stadium around you.

Your face looked much softer when you were this happy.

However, the game turned ugly quickly after that.

The foul happened directly in front of the sideline with the team benches and the coaches boxes. One second Franziska Kett was desperately trying to recover against Salma Paralluelo, the next Salma hit the ground with an angry shout as she held up some strands of hair - the referee’s whistle cut sharply through the stadium noise. 

At first, nobody seemed too worried - only a couple of weeks earlier Katie McCabe didn’t get anything for her action.

Then the referee reached into her pocket.

Red.

The entire stadium erupted instantly.

Bayern players crowded the referee almost immediately while the Barcelona bench shouted for the decision to stand, and a few meters away Kett looked completely stunned as she backed away slowly with both hands pressed against her head.

José Barcala was already storming out of the coaches box furiously, shouting so aggressively toward the ref that everyone could hear it. Several staff members tried unsuccessfully to calm him down, but the Bayern coach only grew louder. 

Then came the second red card.

The stadium noise somehow became even louder.

Barcala stared at the referee in disbelief before being forced away from the sideline by security and staff members alike, still shouting over his shoulder while Bayern’s bench dissolved into confusion around him.

You were already stepping forward before Barcala had even fully disappeared down the sideline tunnel, one hand reaching automatically for the tactical board while Bayern’s assistants and players turned toward you. 

Alexia watched as you spoke rapidly in German, pointing sharply toward the pitch while Bayern’s players looked uncertain, now a player down and desperately trying to reorganize.

A strange thrill settled low in Alexia’s chest as your eyes lifted briefly from the tactical board and met hers across the pitch again. In the middle of complete chaos, you looked terrifyingly calm and completely happy.

The final whistle finally released the high strung tension of the crowd. The Allianz Arena erupted into a relieved applause as Bayern’s players collapsed into each other, congratulating themselves on making it through the game.

After saying good game to her opponents and teammates alike Alexia made her way back over to where you were standing on the pitch. The captain pointedly ignored Pina’s wiggling eyebrows. You looked tired for the first time since she’s met you, while your fellow staff celebrated.

“That was good,” Alexia said as she stopped in front of you, slightly breathless. “Very good.” Your eyebrows only lifted a bit in surprise at the kind words. “We still only drew.”

“Sí, but after all this?” Alexia gestured vaguely toward the pitch with a small scoff. “With ten players and crazy coach?” A grin pulled at her lips. “Vale, maybe you save them a little.”

A soft laugh escaped you as you shook your head, knowing damn well that the catalan herself wasn’t happy with a draw, always wanting to win.

Before you could make her aware of her hypocrisy, the British woman from earlier suddenly appeared beside you again, a possessive hand on your shoulder. Well, she hadn’t exactly materialized out of nowhere, but Alexia had been far too busy admiring your smile to notice the woman approaching. 

“There you are,” she sighed dramatically in a heavy English accent before finally noticing Alexia properly. “Oh.” You straightened slightly. “Alexia, this is Emma.”

“Her girlfriend,” Emma added smoothly before you could say anything else. Well. That certainly wasn’t what the footballer wanted to hear, but she could see something unreadable flicker across your face for the briefest second.

Emma, meanwhile, looked far too pleased by the attention she had gotten by such a prominent figure of women's football. “I handle travel schedules and staff accreditation for the club,” she explained quickly. “Matchday logistics mostly.”

Alexia blinked once. Because the way Emma had been talking and behaving all evening, she had half expected her to be running Bayern herself. 

Then Emma laughed lightly, nudging your side. “She takes football way too seriously honestly. I swear she cares more about tactics than actual people sometimes.” 

“Hmm.” A faint smirk pulled at her lips. “One organises buses, the other organises football.” 

Emma’s smile faltered slightly and for the first time all evening, she didn’t seem to have a response ready. “Right,” she muttered after a second, patting your shoulder once more before stepping away toward the rest of Bayern’s staff.

The Catalan looked back at you with a much softer smile now.

“So,” she said casually, switching the conversation back where she wanted it, “you like Spain?” Your head lifted again, confusion flickering across your face. “What?”

Alexia grinned faintly. “Barcelona.” She shrugged. “Maybe one day we steal you, no?”

This time your laugh sounded more genuine as you tilted your head, “Can Barcelona even afford me?” you asked lightly.

Alexia’s grin only widened.

“For you?” she said smoothly. “Vale. Maybe I ask president personally, huh?”

27th of April - Barça Training Facilities, Barcelona Spain

Back in Barcelona the analysis session had been over for nearly 20 minutes, but Alexia was still there, reviewing their lines against Bayern and what went wrong. Pere Romeu stood beside her, arms folded as he watched his captain re-watch the game again and again.

“The adjustment they made after our goal, that wasn’t Barcala,” she said suddenly.

Pere glanced over briefly. “Hm?”

Alexia pointed on the screen where she could see you talk to Gwinn, giving her the changes they were supposed to make. “That was her.”

A small smile pulled at the coach’s mouth, like he had been waiting for somebody else to notice. “She’s good,” he admitted simply.

She crossed her arms loosely. “You need another assistant?”

That earned her a proper look this time. Pere leaned back slightly against the desk. “Why? Are you recruiting for me now?”

“Maybe,” Alexia replied without shame.

The older man laughed quietly before glancing back toward the frozen image on the screen where you stood near the sideline, iPad tucked beneath your arm.

“She already applied.”

Alexia blinked.

“What?”

“For next season,” Pere clarified casually. “Not officially finalized yet, but we’ve been watching her for a while.” Something strange twisted low in Alexia’s chest at that. “She wants to leave Bayern?”

Pere shrugged lightly. “From what I heard, Bayern’s not exactly trying very hard to keep her, and they’re losing a few of their core players of the last few seasons as well.”

“Well,” she said lightly, already turning toward the door, “sounds like Barça will be happy about that.” 

02nd of May 2026 - Barça Press room, Barcelona Spain

The heat in the press room felt unbearable in preparation for the second leg of the semi final, now in Barcelona. Not only the heat of so many people in a room without windows, the bright lights or the cameras heating up, but also the what of the questions.

Alexia sat upright beside Pere Romeu, hands loosely clasped in front of her, though she wasn’t really listening to the final questions anymore, her attention drifting in small, toward the other side of the table where you were sitting with Klara Bühl and bombarded with questions about the red cards and how you’ll move on from it as a team.

“Alexia,” a journalist called from somewhere in the middle rows, voice cutting cleanly through the room as the last of the movement settled, “in matches like this, how much do you think influence from the bench actually changes what happens on the pitch, especially when the coaching structure shifts during the game?”

Alexia leaned back slightly in her chair, hands still loosely interlaced, listening properly this time and taking a moment before she answered.

“It depends,” she began slowly, slightly measured, “but in games like this… you can feel when something changes from outside, no?”

She paused for a second, searching for the right word, eyebrows drawing together slightly.

“Like… hm… how do you say… when someone is seeing the game before it happens?” She glanced briefly toward Pere, then shook her head lightly, continuing anyway. “Sometimes it is not the coach shouting, it is someone who is… already there, mentally.”

“And that kind of influence can decide matches?” The question came again, a bit sharper now.

Alexia exhaled softly through her nose, almost amused.

“Sí… It can be very dangerous, or very good. If you understand football like that… you don’t need to be on the pitch to change everything.”

The end of the press conference couldn’t have come sooner in your opinion, as chairs were scraping back and journalists started talking to each other.

Alexia stood with Pere, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder when she saw you pass just a little too close to the edge of the exit path, holding one of your notebooks against your chest.

The hallway outside was quieter, dimmer after the harsh lights of the press room, the noise of voices bouncing further down toward the exit. Pere was a step ahead of her, when a movement at the edge of the corridor near a side passage caught her eyes. The blonde gestured to her coach that she would see him tomorrow, telling him she wanted to use the washroom before leaving.

In front of the bathroom you sat on a bench, files iPads and notebooks stacked on top of each other as one of them dropped. With a soft slap of paper and leather it landed on the florór, sliding slightly before coming to rest near the wall. 

Alexia got to it first, picked it up and looked at the open page. Your handwriting was dense, chaotic and a mess of german and english.

A small sound left her, halfway between amusement and disbelief at seeing her name in there. “Hm,” she said quietly, tilting the notebook slightly so you could see what she was looking at.

You shifted instantly. “That’s private.”

“No,” Alexia replied easily, finally looking up at you with far too much confidence for someone currently invading your privacy, “I think maybe you should watch us again, vale?”

“I watched you for ninety minutes.”

“Mm.” She tilted her head slightly, unconvinced. “Not enough, clearly.”

The smugness in her voice only made you step forward quicker, reaching for the notebook before she could continue embarrassing you further, but the second your fingers nearly brushed the paper, Alexia reacted faster.

Her hand closed around your forearm smoothly, almost lazily, while her other arm lifted the notebook higher and further away from you in the same motion.

The movement was so effortless it completely caught you off guard with how easy it clearly was for her.

Her hand was large and warm against your skin in the cold hallway, fingers firm around your arm while she held you back without even properly looking like she was trying, and for one brief second your body simply stopped responding the way you wanted it to.

Alexia noticed the lack of bite coming her way, and looked at you again - amused by the flicker of surprise across your face and the way your eyes darted down toward where she was holding you before lifting back up to her again.

And the smile that spread across her face after that was unbearably smug. “Ah,” she said softly, amusement dripping through every syllable now, “mira eso.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“If I knew you go this quiet when I hold you like this,” she continued, voice lower now, teasing in a way that made heat crawl annoyingly fast into your face, “maybe I do it earlier, hm?”

Your mouth fell open slightly in disbelief.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, trying once more to tug your arm back, only for Alexia’s grip to tighten just enough to stop you again with ridiculous ease.

“Sí,” she agreed immediately, completely unashamed. “But you are still trying.”

The worst part was that she looked entirely too pleased with herself now, dark eyes flicking between your face and your arm in her grasp like she was enjoying every second of watching you realize exactly how much stronger she was than you had expected.

Then, almost casually, she tilted the notebook again.

“Hm,” she hummed teasingly, “and this here is definitely wrong.”

You groaned quietly. “Alexia…”

“No, no, listen.” She laughed softly now, clearly having the time of her life. “You think you understand us, but maybe you are too distracted every time I look at you.”

“That is not happening.”

“Mm.” Her eyebrows lifted knowingly. “You sure, cariño?” Heat rushed even faster into your face at that, making your cheeks burn and eyes divert. “Ah,” she grinned, satisfaction written all over her face now, “there she is.”

You stared at her in disbelief. “You’re so annoying.”

“Venga,” she scoffed lightly, finally letting your arm go, though not before her thumb brushed once against your skin almost absentmindedly. “You started this when you stare at me from goalpost like psychopath.”

“I was analysing you.”

Alexia’s grin only widened. “Sure you were.”

Only then did she finally lower the notebook enough for you to snatch it back, though she kept standing far too close afterward, eyes still fixed on your face with amusement.

“You know,” she added lightly after a second, “for someone so scary before the match, you get very quiet when I touch you.”

You scoffed softly, trying to ignore the heat still sitting in your face. “You’re unbelievably full of yourself.”

“Mm, maybe.” Her grin only widened slightly. “But I am also right. ”Your eyes narrowed at her while you gathered your notebooks back against your chest. “Do you flirt with everyone like this?”

A slow grin spread across Alexia’s face. “Cariño, you are not everyone.” The answer came far too easily.

Before you could recover properly, her gaze flicked briefly toward the notebook in your arms before returning to your face again.

“And your girlfriend?” she asked casually, though the curiosity beneath it was obvious. “She knows you get like this?”

You blinked once, then let out a soft breath through your nose. “Emma’s not my girlfriend anymore,” you corrected calmly. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

For the first time since picking up your notebook, Alexia looked genuinely caught off guard.

The reaction only lasted a second before something far more pleased settled across her face instead, slow and smug and entirely too satisfied for your liking.

“Ah,” she murmured softly, unable to stop the grin pulling at her mouth now. “This keeps getting better for me.”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “You’re unbelievable. What’s with the sudden obsession?” Before she could answer that, the bathroom door beside the bench suddenly opened.

Klara stepped out first, still fixing the sleeves of her hoodie before she stopped dead at the sight in front of her.

You standing flustered with your notebooks clutched against your chest.

Alexia standing far too close with the most self-satisfied expression Klara had ever seen on another human being.

The German blinked once. Then slowly looked between the two of you again. “…Oh my god,” she muttered in disbelief.

Your face immediately hardened. “Don’t.”

Klara ignored you completely, her gaze moving slowly between the two of you before one eyebrow disappeared into her hairline. “…Why are you two standing so close?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nobody is standing close,” you answered immediately. At the exact same time Alexia said, completely calm, “We are having conversation.”

Klara stared at both of you for a second.

Then her eyes dropped briefly to your face, clearly noticing the embarrassed look and wide eyes, before looking back at the Barcelona captain, who still looked unbearably pleased with herself.

You let out a long sigh. “Please don’t start.” But the winger was already grinning now. “You flirted with her,” she accused Alexia outright. The Catalan only shrugged lightly, entirely unashamed. “Maybe.”

Klara looked between the two of you again, visibly trying and failing not to laugh.

“Wow,” she said slowly, eyes lingering on your still warm face, “I leave for five minutes and somehow you’re the one losing your head?”

“I’m not losing anything,” you shot back immediately.

Alexia hummed softly beside you, clearly unconvinced. “No?” she asked innocently. “Then why you look at me like that?”

Your mouth opened briefly before closing again when absolutely no good answer came to mind fast enough. Which only made Alexia’s grin widen.

Klara outright laughed this time, folding her arms across her chest. “This is incredible actually.”

“You’re both annoying.”

“Sí,” Alexia agreed easily, not taking her eyes off you for even a second. “But only one of us has you blushing in hallway, no?”

You shot Alexia one last look, still visibly flustered and annoyed all at once, before adjusting the notebooks against your chest again. “Enjoy your ego while it lasts, Putellas,” you muttered dryly. “Tomorrow I’m making your life miserable for at least ninety minutes.”

The grin on Alexia’s face only widened at that. “Ah, vale,” she laughed softly, “there she is again.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough that Klara snorted beside you.

“Come on,” you said, nudging the taller blonde sharply with your elbow as you finally started walking down the corridor. “Use those stupidly long legs and move your ass. Some of us actually have work tomorrow.”

“Excuse me?” Klara called after you, laughing in disbelief as she hurried after you with far less dignity than she probably wanted.

“And good luck tomorrow,” you called over your shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

Alexia let out a quiet laugh through her nose, shaking her head as she watched you disappear around the corner with Klara still complaining beside you in German. 

“Qué mujer,” she muttered under her breath, still smiling long after you were gone.

03rd of May 2026 - Camp Nou, Barcelona

Camp Nou was already loud by the time Barcelona stepped onto the pitch for warmups, fans clad in blaugrana trickling in and filling the stands, music echoed around the stadium. Normally the atmosphere helped Alexia settle into herself before a match, but tonight her attention kept drifting elsewhere.

Straight toward Bayern’s bench.

You were already there, standing near the technical area with an iPad tucked beneath your arm while clips from the first leg flashed across the screen in front of you. Two analysts stood beside you, along with Gwinn and Bühl, all listening while you pointed something out with quick, sharp gestures toward Barcelona’s midfield shape during rondos.

“Madre mía,” Mapi muttered after catching her staring again. “You have a serious problem.”

Alexia scoffed immediately. “I am warming up.”

“With Bayern’s assistant coach?”

“She is a tactical assistant,” Alexia corrected automatically.

Mapi’s grin widened instantly. “Ah, so now you know the exact title too?”

Patri snorted somewhere behind them while Alexia ignored the both of them with as much dignity as possible, though the smug looks on her teammates’ faces made that increasingly difficult.

A shout cut through the noise, forcing Barcelona back into drills, though even then her gaze kept wandering between passing sequences and stretches. It wasn’t until a short water break that your eyes finally lifted from the iPad.

Straight toward her, but you only smiled faintly before looking away again, continuing your conversation with Gwinn as if nothing had happened.

“Alexia!”

Pere’s voice snapped across the pitch sharply enough that several players turned.

The blonde looked over. “Sí?”

“You plan to finish warming up today or keep scouting Bayern staff for me?”

Patri nearly folded over laughing, catching herself on Pina’s shoulder, while Alexia rolled her eyes hard enough to make Mapi shove her shoulder teasingly.

“Very funny,” she muttered under her breath before jogging back into position.

Still, when she glanced toward Bayern’s bench one last time, she caught the corner of your mouth twitching upward again.

Barcelona came out aggressively from the very first whistle, moving the ball with sharp, suffocating movements that immediately forced Bayern deep into their own half. Within the opening minutes they had already created two dangerous chances, one forcing a strong save from Mahmutovic while another flashed narrowly wide after a quick combination through midfield.

Once the match started properly, Alexia’s focus narrowed almost completely toward the game itself.

This was a Champions League semi-final at Camp Nou. There was no room for distractions once adrenaline took over. Every movement became automatic, and Bayern spent most of the opening minutes trying desperately to survive Barcelona’s intensity.

The pressure finally paid off in the thirteenth minute.

A quick switch of play pulled Bayern’s defensive line apart just enough for Salma Paralluelo to attack the space behind Gwinn, and once she got through on goal there was never really any doubt about the outcome. Camp Nou erupted as Salma buried the finish confidently into the bottom corner before disappearing beneath celebrating teammates.

Alexia barely even looked toward Bayern’s bench afterward, already jogging back to her position while Barça tried to keep momentum high.

But Bayern answered almost immediately.

Only four minutes later Linda Dallmann found space after a messy second ball dropped awkwardly outside Barcelona’s box, and before anyone properly reacted the midfielder drove the ball low past Cata into the corner.

Alexia swore quietly under her breath while retreating back, frustration flashing hot through her chest. Bayern settled deeper after that, slowing the tempo wherever possible while Barcelona tried forcing openings through the middle again.

Then came the twenty-second minute.

The attack itself was ugly, the ball bouncing wildly around Bayern’s box after a corner while defenders desperately threw themselves in front of every attempt. One clearance failed, then another, until suddenly the ball rolled loose toward the penalty spot.

Straight to Alexia and her instincts won.

One touch. Strike. Goal.

The stadium went nuts around her, teammates on and off the pitch screaming as the culers started another chant.

Alexia turned immediately toward the sideline as the net rippled behind Mahmutovic, and this time, her eyes found you instantly.

Without slowing down properly, she angled her run closer toward Bayern’s coaches box before dropping into her familiar celebration, a bow, with a smug grin pulling at her mouth.

Directly toward you.

Then, just before teammates crashed into her from behind, Alexia lifted her head again and winked.

You just stared at her for half a second too long before rolling your eyes sharply and gesturing for your players to reset. But the Catalan still caught the reluctant twitch at the corner of your mouth before she disappeared beneath celebrating teammates.

The match settled into something scrappier after that.

Bayern dropped deeper and deeper, trying to slow Barcelona’s rhythm whenever possible while frustration slowly crept into challenges across midfield. In the twenty-ninth minute Stanway earned herself a yellow card despite her protests.

From there Bayern focused almost entirely on surviving until halftime.

Barcelona dominated possession while Bayern defended and tried to calm the game down whenever possible to get it back to their side. One minute of added time appeared on the fourth official’s board.

Then finally, at 45+1, the whistle for halftime echoed through Camp Nou.

The tunnel under Camp Nou was loud with halftime movement, boots echoing off concrete as both teams filtered away from the pitch, and Alexia barely had time to reset her focus before someone bumped lightly into her shoulder and, when she turned, there you were walking beside her, Bayern jacket half open and iPad tucked under your arm.

“Nice goal,” you said casually, though your eyes lingered on her just a fraction too long. “Bit dramatic with the celebration.”

Alexia’s smile came immediately, easy and unbothered as she kept walking in step with you. “Ah, you watching very close hm?,” she said, voice warm with amusement, letting the words roll a little as her gaze flicked over you.

“Hard not to when you bow in front of our bench.”

That earned a quiet laugh from her, low and pleased.

“Vale,” she replied, leaning just slightly closer as the tunnel narrowed around them, “so you like it enough to remember.”

You shot her a sideways look. “Don’t overthink it.”

Alexia tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully as if she was weighing something she already knew the answer to, and then she said it, light and almost teasing as they kept walking, “you trying to get into my head?”

The captain saw the shift in your expression, the brief hesitation before you recovered, and the corner of her mouth lifted as she softened into something almost fond. “Mm,” she added, quieter now, amused rather than sharp, “cute.”

Your stare sharpened immediately. “It’s not…”

“Tranquilo,” she cut in easily, still smiling like she’d already decided what she thought, “I like it.”

A voice called your name from further down the tunnel, pulling you away as you turned your head and began to step back toward Bayern’s dressing room. “Second half,” you said over your shoulder, regaining yourself quickly, “don’t get too comfortable.”

Alexia’s grin lingered as she watched you go.

“No promises,” she called after you, still amused, before finally turning toward Barça’s dressing room and shaking her head once under her breath.

The second half started with a similar energy.

But Barcelona came out sharper, faster, more ruthless in possession, and it didn’t take long before Bayern started getting pushed deeper again, forced back into survival mode as the pressure built.

In the 54th minute, the breakthrough came again.

A quick combination through the left half pulled Bayern’s defensive line just half a step too late, and Ewa Pajor didn’t need a second invitation, she finished and Camp Nou erupted as Barcelona stretched the lead.

Two minutes later, Claudia Pina came on for Caroline Graham Hansen, and immediately Barcelona looked even more dangerous in the final third, the game speeding up with fresh legs as Bayern tried to adjust.

Then in the 58th minute, it happened again.

From the right half, Pina floated a long free-kick cross toward the far post, Esmee Brugts rose to meet it and nodded it back into the danger area, and there, half turning, body already falling, Alexia connected instinctively, guiding the ball into the far corner.

She celebrated only briefly, turning toward the crowd with that familiar lift of her arm and a grin.

She didn’t dwell on it then, not with the game still alive, not with Bayern still dangerous, and her attention snapped back into place almost immediately as Barcelona pushed forward again, not giving up.

When the 85th minute board went up and her number appeared, she already knew what was coming, on her way toward the sideline she clapped for the fans in thanks, handing over the captain’s armband to Patri. 

There were tears in her eyes, as she took in the sight of a packed Camp Nou wearing her colours and her name, of a semi-final played at home for the club she had grown up dreaming of, and she blinked hard once again.

On the bench she sat slightly back from the noise, breathing more evenly again now but still watching the pitch, still locked into the game even without being on it, and her gaze inevitably found you once more at the edge of Bayern’s coaching box, where your focus remained absolute despite the pressure building around you.

She saw Emma beside you then, talking frantically, gesturing confidently and saying something that you clearly didn’t agree with, based on your expression, as you tried to stay locked on the game while clearly fighting the distraction beside you.

The Catalan could see the tension in the way you stood, the way your attention kept snapping back to the pitch, and when Emma continued speaking you finally shook your head once, firm and decisive, cutting through it and turning your focus fully back to the match, effectively ending the discussion.

Then came the 89th minute.

Caruso won the ball in the midfield and Bayern shifted forward instantly, as Harder drove through the centre and slipped Imade into space before the ball came back across in a messy way that ended with the finish. Bayern didn’t celebrate much as they could immediately hear the Spanish team and fans protest.

Even from the bench Alexia felt her eyes finding you, because she had learned by now that you didn’t react like everyone else. At first you were completely still while your players were protesting on the field.

The blonde saw the slight drop in your shoulders, the shift in your weight, the way your head turned toward the officials before anyone else had even processed what was happening.

You were waiting. And then came the announcement, the goal would be VAR-checked.

Foul in the buildup - Goal disallowed.

The noise flipped violently from Bayern celebration to frustration and disbelief, but on the sideline Alexia saw you let out a controlled exhale that didn’t try to hide the disappointment, only accept it.

Just disappointment, clean and honest in a way that made you look younger for a second.

The final five minutes passed in a blur of exhausted pressing, clearance after clearance, and Barcelona simply trying to manage the game rather than force anything new, while Bayern threw everything forward in one last attempt that never quite broke through the Catalan structure.

When the whistle finally went, it didn’t explode into chaos so much as release—arms dropping, bodies bending forward, players collapsing into exhaustion and relief all at once, before both teams slowly began to find each other for the ritual that always followed matches like this.

Handshakes first, then brief embraces, words exchanged in passing that were half respect, half disbelief at what had just been survived.

Pere found you almost immediately, “Very good,” he said simply, nodding once as he looked at you properly, with respect. “You did incredible for the first time coaching.”

A few Barcelona players passed by while shaking hands, some offering quick smiles, others stopping long enough to pat your shoulder or exchange a few words in Spanish or English, still slightly breathless but clearly appreciative of what they had just been through. 

After you joined the rest of the Bayern players and Staff on the pitch in a quieter circle, shoulders close, with visible emotions. A few wiping their faces quickly before they all walked together toward the away end, clapping their hands and raising them in thanks to the small cluster of travelling supporters who had stayed until the end. Finally they retreated to their dressing room.

Barcelona, in contrast, had already started their full lap of the stadium, players moving together toward the stands where drums were already being played for team chants and huge flags were being waved, the atmosphere shifting fully into celebration.

Alexia only broke away from the celebrations once the initial wave had settled, slipping out of the cluster of teammates, her breathing still slightly elevated as she crossed back toward the centre circle where Pere Romeu and you were still standing.

She slowed as she reached you both, a faint grin already forming like she had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Oh,” she said lightly, glancing between the two of you with clear amusement, “I see my scouting worked, no? Very good job for me.”

Pere let out a short laugh, shaking his head as if he had expected nothing less from her. “Careful, Alexia, you start taking credit and I will start charging you.”

“That is fine,” she replied without missing a beat, still smiling as she shifted her attention fully onto you now. After a quick shared look with Pere, he gave a small nod before stepping away, leaving the two of you with the noise of the stadium stretching out behind you.

Alexia didn’t waste the space he left.

She tilted her head slightly, studying you for a second before speaking with that effortless confidence you were just slightly jealous of.

“Next year you win… in blaugrana then, vale?”

You exhaled softly through your nose, not quite a laugh, but not resistance either. “Maybe,” you replied, more careful now, eyes flicking briefly toward the pitch before returning to her.

That made her hum lightly, but instead of pushing further, her gaze sharpened just a little. “What was that Emma talking to you about?” she asked.

You paused, then gave a small shrug. “She wanted me to make substitutions again,” you said honestly, glancing down for a second as if replaying it in your head, “but I didn’t see the point. Not if I couldn’t actually fill the gaps properly with what we had on the bench.”

Alexia nodded slowly, like she was filing that away, but her eyes stayed on you. “And what is the deal with her anyway?” she asked after a beat, more direct now, though still calm. “Why she says she is your girlfriend?”

That made you let out a short breath, tiredness slipping through. “She isn’t,” you said simply. “Not anymore. She just… doesn’t really accept that.”

“And you?” she asked then, quieter. “What is stopping you from coming to Barça?”

“I’m scared of the change,” you admitted, voice lower now, “but I still want to grow. That’s why I sent the application to Pere in the first place… a while ago. I just wasn’t sure if I would actually follow through with it.”

Alexia didn’t push further right away, she just watched you for a second longer, then her expression softened, the intensity easing back into that confidence she wore so naturally.

“Vale,” she said quietly, more so to herself, then let out a small breath through her nose, “I know you will like Spain,” she added after a beat, tilting her head slightly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “the sun, the food… the people.”

A faint grin tugged at her mouth as she glanced at you again, a little more pointed now, “Especially the people,” she added, not really trying to hide what she meant with that.

You gave her a look at that, somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement, and Alexia noticed it immediately, of course she did.

She just smiled a little wider in response, unfazed.

“And you are already here a lot in your head, no?” she continued, calmer now, voice dropping slightly as she stepped half a pace closer again. “So it is not so big a change. Just… make it official.”

There was a brief pause, the stadium noise distant enough now that it felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

“Next season, you come. And I show you the rest properly, vale?”

“And if I do come,” you asked, tilting your head slightly, “and you get what you want… will you just keep looking at me like this, or do you move on to the next thing you decide you want?”

Alexia didn’t answer immediately. She just looked at you, really looked, like she was weighing the question properly instead of brushing it off. Then her grin came back, honest in its amusement.

“Ah,” she said quietly, almost like she understood what you were really asking. “So that is what you think.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I don’t think you are something I ‘finish’,” she said simply, her voice steady and matter-of-fact, like the idea itself didn’t really make sense to her. “If you come… I think you will just be there.”

“And I don’t get bored of interesting things,” she added, a faint exhale through her nose. Then her expression softened just a fraction as she lifted her hand, brushing it lightly over your cheek, the touch brief and soft making the heat shoot up to your face.

“And you, cariño,” she murmured, her tone dropping slightly, “you are very interesting. Always will be.”

Y/N lingered on the grass, sprawled out with one leg bent, pretending she was too tired to move. In truth, she was waiting. She knew Ona would be the last off, just like always, taking a few extra minutes for finishing drills, then fussing over her boots as if they were fine china.

“Are you going to nap there or should I carry you inside?”

The familiar Catalan accent made Y/N smile before she even opened her eyes. She peeked up at Ona, who was standing over her with hands on her hips, sweat still glistening at her temples.

“Carry me,” Y/N said flatly, stretching her arms up like a child.

Ona rolled her eyes but crouched anyway, offering a hand. Y/N took it and let Ona pull her up. Instead of letting go, Ona kept their fingers linked as she guided Y/N toward the tunnel.

“Childish,” Ona muttered with a grin, though her thumb brushed across Y/N’s knuckles like it was second nature.

Behind them, Patri and Mapi exchanged smirks.

“You two done with the honeymoon walk?” Mapi called out.

Y/N immediately dropped Ona’s hand, face flushing. “Shut up, we’re just walking.”

“Sure, just walking,” Patri echoed in a sing-song tone.

Ona shot them a look but didn’t bother answering, instead nudging Y/N with her shoulder as they entered the changing rooms.

Inside, the atmosphere was the usual chaos; music blaring from someone’s speaker, boots clattering into lockers, voices bouncing off the walls. Y/N sat on the bench, still catching her breath. Ona plopped down right beside her, close enough their knees touched.

“You okay?” Ona asked softly, her voice lower now that it was just for Y/N.

“Yeah,” Y/N answered, leaning her head onto Ona’s shoulder without a second thought.

It wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was normal for them. Ona was the first person Y/N gravitated to after training, after games, after long bus rides. Their bodies just…fit. Whether it was leaning into each other on the bench or sprawling out side by side on the grass, closeness was their language.

The rest of the team noticed, of course.

“Look at them,” Mariona whispered loudly to Alexia, nodding at Y/N’s head resting comfortably against Ona.

“They’re basically dating,” Alexia replied, smirking.

Y/N heard them but refused to lift her head. If she did, she’d give them the satisfaction of seeing her blush. Instead, she stayed put, and Ona made it worse by adjusting slightly, tucking her arm around Y/N’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re spoiling her,” Mariona teased.

“Jealous?” Ona shot back smoothly.

The locker room erupted in laughter.

Later that evening, the team headed to a casual dinner at one of their usual spots. A long wooden table stretched across the restaurant’s back corner, already filled with plates of tapas and pitchers of sangria. Y/N slid into a chair, and before she could even set her bag down, Ona dropped into the seat beside her.

“Of course,” Mapi muttered under her breath, earning a snort from Patri.

Y/N pretended not to hear, but she was hyperaware of how Ona’s leg brushed against hers under the table, or how Ona leaned in close whenever she wanted to make a comment only Y/N would hear.

Halfway through the meal, when the laughter reached its peak, Y/N felt something tug at the hem of her sweater. She glanced down, Ona’s hand was there, curling into the fabric absentmindedly while she talked to Alexia. It was such a tiny, unconscious gesture, but it made Y/N’s chest flutter uncomfortably.

Mapi noticed. Of course she did.

“Unbelievable,” Mapi said loudly, pointing at their linked sides. “You two are glued together. It’s like Velcro.”

“Better than being alone, no?” Ona shot back without hesitation, still tugging lightly at Y/N’s sweater.

That shut Mapi up for a few seconds, replaced by laughter from the rest of the table.

Y/N buried her face in her drink, wishing the sangria were strong enough to erase the heat creeping up her neck.

After an evening at an away match, the bus ride back to the training ground was quieter, players yawning or scrolling through their phones. Y/N had a window seat, forehead pressed against the cool glass. She felt movement beside her, Ona settling in, blanket in hand.

Without asking, Ona draped half of it over Y/N and leaned into her side.

“You’ll get sick,” Ona murmured, tugging the fabric higher.

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re bossy.”

“Someone has to take care of you,” Ona said, not missing a beat.

Y/N’s heart stuttered. She told herself it was nothing, it was just Ona being Ona. That’s what friends did. Friends shared blankets. Friends leaned on each other. Friends brushed each other’s hair out of their faces when they were falling asleep on the bus.

Still, when Y/N let her eyes flutter shut, she thought maybe the others weren’t entirely wrong.

And when Patri snapped a photo of them slumped together under the blanket, sending it to the team group chat with the caption just date already, Y/N knew the teasing wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

By midweek, it had become relentless. No matter what Y/N did, no matter how innocent, the team found a way to twist it into something about Ona.

When Ona tied Y/N’s shoelaces before training because Y/N was running late?

“Ohhh, married life.”

When Y/N shared her water bottle with Ona?

“Wow, so romantic.”

When Ona offered Y/N her jacket after practice?

“If you two don’t kiss, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Y/N was over it. Or at least, she told herself she was. The team had other ideas.

The Barcelona training ground lounge was always noisy after practice; protein shakes blending, shoes squeaking on the floor, laughter bouncing off the walls. Normally, Y/N found it comforting background noise. Today, though, the sound carried a dangerous undercurrent.

She could feel the glances being thrown her way, the barely muffled giggles. Something was brewing.

Mariona finally broke the suspense. She dropped into the armchair opposite Y/N with a grin far too wide to be innocent. “Alright, Y/N. Time to face facts.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “What now?”

“That you’re in love with Ona,” Mariona said sweetly.

Y/N’s head snapped up. “What?!”

“You heard her,” Patri said, sliding onto the couch next to Mariona. “And we can prove it.”

“I don’t need proving because it’s not true!” Y/N shot back, though her voice was too high-pitched, too defensive.

Across the room, Alexia set her phone down, folding her arms with the calm authority of a judge about to deliver a verdict. “Then you won’t mind taking the test.”

“The test?” Y/N repeated, suspicious.

Mapi, lounging on the floor, grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “The crush test. Easy. We show you a picture of Ona. You tell us something about it. If you really only see her as a friend, you’ll notice all the normal stuff.”

“Normal stuff?” Y/N echoed.

“You know, boring details,” Patri supplied. “Shoes, earrings, background. Not, like…the way her collarbones look.”

Y/N sputtered. “I do not stare at her collarbones!”

“Mhmm,” Mapi drawled. “We’ll see.”

Mariona was the first executioner. She pulled out her phone, swiping until she found what she wanted. “Okay, ready? Three seconds.”

Y/N sat up straighter, determined. I will nail this. I’ll show them I don’t…

Mariona flipped her phone around.

The image hit Y/N like a truck. It was a photo from Ona’s Instagram: a charity gala last year. Ona wore a navy dress that clung in just the right places, her hair swept back elegantly, makeup soft and glowing. Jewelry sparkled at her ears and wrists.

Y/N blinked once. Twice. Her stomach did a weird flip.

The phone snapped back out of view.

Mariona leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “What colour were her earrings?”

Y/N froze. Her brain was mush. She’d noticed her hair, her smile, the shape of her shoulders, but earrings? Earrings?!

“They were…” Y/N swallowed. “…silver?”

Mariona cackled. “Wrong. Gold.” She shoved the phone back in Y/N’s face, zooming dramatically on the dainty golden hoops.

The lounge erupted.

“She didn’t even blink at the earrings!” Patri laughed. “She was too busy drooling!”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “This isn’t fair.”

“Oh, don’t worry, cariño,” Mapi said, already pulling out her phone. “We’ve got more.”

Patri’s turn. She flashed a candid shot from a matchday: Ona arriving at the stadium in casual jeans, a crisp white t-shirt, trainers, and sunglasses balanced on her head.

“Alright,” Patri said after a brief three-second glimpse. “What colour were her shoelaces?”

Y/N’s heart sank. “Her shoelaces? Who looks at shoelaces?!”

“Answer the question,” Patri said smugly.

Y/N hesitated. “Uh…white?”

Patri spun the phone back. “Red. Bright red.”

The entire room howled. Mapi rolled over dramatically, clutching her stomach. Even Alexia chuckled, shaking her head.

“This is scientific proof,” Mariona declared. “She doesn’t care about accessories. She only cares about-”

“My God, do not say collarbones again,” Y/N groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.

“Fine. Her smile,” Mariona corrected, grinning. “But still!”

Mapi decided to up the stakes. She scrolled furiously, then held her phone just out of Y/N’s reach. “Okay, okay. Here’s a tough one.”

The photo: Ona at the beach, hair damp from the sea, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a small bikini top showing just enough exposed skin to make Y/N’s chest tighten.

The phone disappeared too quickly.

Mapi leaned in. “What colour were her sunglasses?”

Y/N’s brain screamed. She’d been too busy staring at Ona’s figure, at the way her shoulders glowed in the sunlight.

“Uh… white?” she stammered.

Mapi smirked, flipping the phone again. “Brown. Amateur mistake.”

The room exploded into chaos.

“You’re hopeless!” Patri cried.

“She’s gone,” Mariona added, wiping tears of laughter.

“Pathetic,” Mapi declared, puffing out her chest. “Utterly, completely whipped.”

“I am not- ” Y/N tried, but her voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through.

“Yes, you are,” Mariona said cheerfully.

Alexia, calm as ever, finally spoke again. “Face it, Y/N. You don’t know earrings, shoelaces, or sunglasses. But if I asked what shade of lipstick Ona was wearing in that first photo…”

“I didn’t notice her lipstick!” Y/N insisted.

“Really?” Alexia raised an eyebrow.

Y/N squirmed. “It was…like…pinkish?”

Dead silence. Then the loudest explosion of laughter yet.

Patri rolled onto the floor, kicking her legs. Mapi clutched at Mariona for support. Even Alexia cracked a rare grin, shaking her head.

Y/N wanted the couch cushions to swallow her whole.

After the sunglasses disaster, Mariona decided to push the limits. She pulled up a photo of Ona celebrating a goal, arms wide, jersey slightly tugged, hair sticking to her forehead with sweat.

The phone disappeared after three seconds.

“Okay,” Mariona said. “What colour was her captain’s armband?”

Y/N sputtered. “She… she was… she wasn’t captain that game!”

“Correct,” Mariona said with glee. “But you hesitated because you were too busy staring at her abs.”

The room lost it.

“This is rigged!” Y/N tried to shout, but her voice was drowned out by laughter.

And then, Ona’s voice. Calm. Smooth. Amused.

“You know, you could just say I looked good.”

The entire room fell silent. Heads whipped towards her.

Ona was leaning casually against the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on Y/N. There was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, the kind that said she’d been listening the whole time.

Y/N’s soul left her body. “I- I- I didn’t…”

“You don’t need to explain,” Ona cut in gently, walking closer. “I don’t mind.”

The team collectively gasped. Then chaos broke out again.

“Oh my GOD!” Patri screeched.

“She likes it!” Mariona howled, practically doubling over.

“Couple of the year,” Mapi declared, raising her water bottle in a toast.

Y/N covered her burning face with both hands, praying for divine intervention. Ona, meanwhile, just dropped onto the couch beside her, settling in like nothing had happened.

And the worst part? Ona’s hand brushed Y/N’s thigh, lingering there with the lightest squeeze.

Y/N’s heart raced so hard she thought everyone in the room could hear it.

The lounge was still vibrating with laughter long after Ona sat down beside Y/N. The others were relentless; snickering, whispering, sending not-so-subtle glances their way.

Y/N, face still burning, tugged a nearby blanket over her head. “I’m never showing my face here again.”

“You’re a little dramatic,” Ona murmured beside her, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one interrogated like a criminal.”

“I heard enough.” Ona leaned back casually, crossing one leg over the other. “They’re not wrong.”

Y/N peeked out from under the blanket. “What do you mean ‘not wrong’?”

Ona smirked, letting the silence stretch until Y/N squirmed. Then she leaned close, lips brushing against Y/N’s ear. “You do stare.”

Y/N jolted, yanking the blanket back over her head with a groan. The team roared with laughter again, even though they had no idea what Ona had just whispered.

A few minutes later, Alexia finally clapped her hands. “Alright, enough. Leave them alone before Y/N combusts.”

The others, reluctantly, dispersed; some to the showers, others to grab food. Soon, the lounge emptied until it was just the two of them.

Y/N dared to peek out. “They’re gone?”

“Mostly.” Ona tilted her head, watching her. “You can come out now.”

Y/N sat up, hugging the pillow like a shield. Her heart was still pounding.

“I really hate them sometimes,” she muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Ona said softly. “They’re just…loud.”

“Loud?” Y/N laughed weakly. “They were practically staging my confession for me.”

Ona studied her, eyes warm, thoughtful. “Would that be so bad?”

Y/N froze. “What?”

“Confessing.” Ona said it so calmly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Y/N’s throat went dry. “I- I don’t…”

“You don’t what?”

The words tangled in Y/N’s mouth. She wanted to deny it, laugh it off, but the way Ona was looking at her, steady, unflinching, it made lying impossible.

Finally, she whispered, “I don’t…want to ruin us.”

Ona’s expression softened instantly. She shifted closer, prying the pillow from Y/N’s arms. “Hey.” Her hand slid into Y/N’s, fingers warm and steady. “You couldn’t ruin us if you tried.”

Y/N blinked, heart hammering. “You… you mean…”

“Yes,” Ona said simply. “I like you too.”

The world seemed to stop. Y/N’s ears rang.

“You do?” she whispered.

Ona smiled faintly, thumb brushing over Y/N’s knuckles. “Of course I do. Why do you think I always sit next to you? Or hold your hand? Or…steal your hoodies?”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you took my hoodie?!”

Ona laughed, leaning back smugly. “You really thought it just disappeared?”

Y/N buried her face in her hands, half mortified, half giddy. “Oh my God.”

“Relax,” Ona teased. “I like smelling like you.”

“ONA!” Y/N cried, voice cracking.

“See?” Ona grinned, eyes sparkling. “This is why I like you. You’re too easy to tease.”

Y/N lowered her hands slowly, heart still racing. “So…what now?”

Ona tilted her head, studying her carefully. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Now,” she whispered, “we take it one step at a time. No rush. Just us.”

Y/N swallowed, her eyes fluttering shut. “Okay.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, hands entwined, the world outside the lounge fading away.

And then, predictably, the door swung open.

“OH MY GOD!” Mapi’s voice rang out.

Y/N practically leapt a foot away, face scarlet. Ona, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. She just leaned back calmly, still holding Y/N’s hand.

“Finally,” Mapi cackled, stomping back down the hall. “They admitted it!”

Groans and cheers erupted from the corridor, proving everyone had been eavesdropping.

Y/N buried her face in Ona’s shoulder, mortified. “We’re never living this down.”

-----

Triblend Cafe was bustling. The cozy space you had created with your sisters, was filled with soft chatter from customers enjoying their morning coffee. Over the years your small shop had grown a lot, now you looked over the space proudly, watching a mix of regulars and new customers enjoy the place.

Your mind got pulled away by the soft ringing of the bell, signaling that a new customer entered the store. The second you saw who it was, your smile grew even wider. “Edward! It’s been too long!” You quickly get out from behind the corner to give him a hug. 

Edward was the first regular your shop had known. He used to live in the small apartment above the cafe, and would come down every day for a cup of coffee. No matter how many times you and your sister’s offered to give him a coffee on the house, he refused every single time, always saying something along the lines of wanting to help your business grow.

He was the sweetest man you had ever met. Recently he had to move out of the space above the cafe and move to an elderly home in the neighbourhood. It wasn’t every day anymore that he came in, but he tried to stop by at least once a week. Though, it had been closer to three weeks since you had last seen him. 

“It has been, darling.” He said fondly as you stepped away from hugging him again. “Now if my old brain isn’t tricking me, today should be Jess her day, right? Not that I don’t love seeing your face, of course.” You chuckle lightly at his words, you would never think he would mean anything badly, he didn’t have a negative bone in his body. “Old brain? You don’t have one of those. Aren’t you in your early fifties?” You joke back at him. “Very kind darling, but nearing eighties means I definitely have an old brain.” 

You loved talking with Edward, at this point he was like family to the three of you. “Well, Edward, you could’ve fooled me. It’s her day indeed, but one of her kids had to stay home with the flu, so I stepped in.”

From behind you, the bell dinged again. You turned its way to welcome the newest customers and smiled when you saw another pair of familiar faces. “Hi girls, I’ll be right with you.” You say to Katie and Caitlin entering. 

“Go help them dear, I'll go take a seat and catch up with you in a bit.” Edward put his hand on your arm for a second, giving it a light squeeze, before heading over to his favourite seat. The one where he could look out over the whole store.

“Hi girls, how are you? Back in your kits I see.” You knew they had a break from football, but seeing as they were now back in their training gear, the season must be starting again soon. “Yeah, we’re good. First training back today.” Caitlin answers. “And Kyra here is our newest signing, so we had to introduce her to your coffee, of course.” Katie added. 

You look behind them and see a third person in Arsenal colours. She smiles at you, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. Have they talked you into their favourite drinks yet, or would you like to go for something else?”

Kyra stepped forward, taking a closer look at the menu while you continued chatting with the girls. “Can I please have the triblend? It seems like that’s the main one with the name being on the building and all.” You recognise her accent instantly. “Very good choice, also did Caitlin kidnap you from Australia or did you come willingly?” She instantly laughs at your joke and you feel your cheeks flushing a little at how nice you found the sound of her laughter. 

After making the three of them their coffee’s to go, you make Edward’s and take it to him. “How have you been? What’s been keeping you away?” You ask, hopeful that nothing is wrong with his health. His growing smile quickly reassured you. “I’ve met a beautiful woman.” You sat down at his table instantly, “That’s amazing, tell me everything.”

You caught up with all the new updates in Edwards life between helping customers, patching the whole update together piece by piece. Ending the conversation by telling him he should bring her with him next time and that you would love to meet her.

—

Kyra walked into your shop again. Over the past few months she had often come in for a coffee with Katie and Caitlin on the way to practice or a game, but today she was on her own. “Good morning.” You say with a bright smile as she enters the cafe. 

She looks around her and sees the place is completely empty besides the two of you. “Hi, I really should’ve checked at what time you opened.” She chuckles lightly. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“I was just starting up, but you’re free to order anything you’d like.” You say, making your way behind the counter to start up the machine. “Oh, I’ll have whatever is easiest to make for you right now. I don’t mind, I just need some coffee to survive the day.” You chuckle at how dramatic she sounded.

Kyra puts down her suitcase next to a table and takes a seat near the counter. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you off to?” You ask while walking over to the rack to grab a mug. The rack is filled with all different kinds of mugs, a collection you had put together over the years. 

“We have a pre-season camp in the US, and Caitlin is going to be picking me up soon.” She seemed excited to go, yet also sleepy since it was still so early. Despite her tiredness, she followed your every move with her eyes, following you while you got to work behind the counter. 

The two of you continued chatting while you were making her coffee, actually you opted for two and made the second for yourself. You placed Kyra’s in front of her, “I know you had the triblend last time, but I wanted to make you one of my favourites. I hope you like this one. Let me know if you don’t, I can make you something else.”

Kyra took a small sip and her eyes instantly met yours. “This is so good!” You blushed a little at the compliment before moving back to the counter. “Have you had breakfast?” She shook her head in response. “My sister baked some fresh croissants if you want some?” Kyra couldn’t say no, so there she was eating a delicious croissant and slowly sipping her new favourite coffee. 

You continued getting the cafe ready, while you were chatting with Kyra about her stay in London so far, and occasionally taking a sip of your own drink. It was actually quite nice having someone around to talk to while you set up for the day. You loved talking with your customers, always seeing them as either acquaintances or friends depending on how long you had known then. 

“Can I ask who the man was you were talking with the first time I came here?” She asked you, her voice sounding full of interest. “Yeah, of course, his name is Edward. He used to live in the apartment above the shop, and was our first customer. He used to come in every morning to get a coffee, never letting us give him one for free. Over the years he became like family to me and my sisters.” 

“That’s really sweet. I could tell you had a good bond with him. With others as well, it’s really nice to see how much you care about the people that come here and how you’re always up for a chat with everyone.” You blushed at her compliments. “Thank you, that means a lot.”

Talking to Kyra was easy, and you enjoyed the conversations you were having with her. You liked getting to know your second Australian customer, maybe a little more that you liked getting to know any of your other customers, but you wouldn’t say that out loud to anyone.

Her phone rang, and she quickly picked up when she saw the caller ID. You didn’t follow the conversation, but the moment she hung up, she quickly gathered her stuff and got up. Taking the coffee mug with her in her haste. You watched as she closed her eyes the moment she realised what was happening.

The mug fell onto the floor in a handful of pieces, along with the last bits of coffee spilling onto the floor. “Is it broken?” Kyra asked with her eyes still closed, too scared to look if she ruined a part of the store.

“It sure is, but that’s okay. It’s only a mug.” You say, already getting a rag ready, along with a dustpan. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to break it. Please let me pay for a replacement.” You’re quick to shake your head, “Don’t worry about it, it’s part of the job at this point. Plus I was looking forward to going thrift shopping for new additions to our shelf anyways.” 

This sparked an idea in Kyra’s mind. “Can I maybe take you thrift shopping after I get back? I would love to pay for your replacement even if you say you don’t want me to.” You smiled, “That sounds like fun.” 

Kyra’s phone rang again. “Ehm it’s Caitlin again, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head with a laugh. “Go, your taxi is waiting. Come by when you get back and we can plan our thrift shop date.” Now Kyra was the one blushing. “Yeah, I’d like that. Sorry again, next time I’ll clean up myself, I promise.” 

“Oh you’re good, don’t worry about it.” You tell her, “Have fun in the US, and I can’t wait to hear about your time there when you get back. Say hello to Caitlin and Katie for me, will you?”

“I will, thank you again.” Kyra said before rushing to the door. You chuckle watching her clumsily pull her luggage around in her haste, not wanting to be any later to meet Caitlin in the car. Knowing she would probably never hear the end of it. 

You got back to work, customers started to flow in more and more, but all you could keep thinking back to was your morning with Kyra and how you’d go on a date with her once she came back.

-----

Alessia Russo steps into the shop like she always does: hood up, cheeks a tad pink from the early morning chill and a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’s trying not to grin too early. She pushes her hood down as she approaches the counter, hair slightly windswept, a few strands having escaped her neatly braided ponytail thanks to the January winds. Her eyes lock with yours like there’s nowhere else she could possibly look.

“Morning” she says, a little breathless, like she’s jogged here. 

You glance at the clock. 9:16. Later than usual, maybe that explains the winded appearance.

“You’re late” you tease, picking up a clean cup.

Alessia pretends to be offended, clutching her chest, but there’s a smile on her face regardless. She leans against the counter, eyes fixed on the pastry cabinet even though you both know she won’t buy one. It’s a ritual by now. “Had to run by the shop to grab some lunch as I forgot to shop last night. At some point I accepted I’d be late for training and gave up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re running late, huh? Should I be honoured you still made time for your daily coffee run?”

“You should, actually,” she says with a grin, leaning her elbow on the counter now. “Could’ve let the club feed me that filter machine crap, but here I am. Supporting small businesses.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” you say with a wide smile, writing down her usual on the paper cup. Oat vanilla latte, four pumps of syrup instead of the usual one (a nutritionist's worst nightmare, but you wouldn’t tattle on her). You’ve known her order by heart for weeks now, but the ritual of writing it never quite dissipates. .

She shrugs. “Also, you make it better.”

You don’t answer right away, just turning to the machine to hide your smile as the steam wand screams to life. It’s always like this with Alessia. You see her almost every weekday, like clockwork; pre-training, post-training, post-gym, post-whatever she’s had to do that morning for club or country, and she always stays for longer at the counter than a regular customer would. It’s never quite long enough to call it flirting, but well enough to make your stomach twist.

Behind you, Oscar is humming the Friends theme song. You resist the urge to throw a spoon at him.

“So,” Alessia says as you’re placing the lid onto her cup, “do I get the loyalty stamp today, or am I still banned after that time I judged your specials board?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ban you permanently for that,” you reply, still offended as you remember how long you had taken drawing the swirly letters on the board (art wasn’t your forte), but you do reach for the stamper tucked in the drawer beneath the till. “One more and you get a free one. Might even draw you a star on it.”

She raises a brow. “A gold one?”

“Don’t push your luck, Russo.”

Alessia laughs, a light and easy sound that makes your chest ache just a little. Then she leans closer over the counter, her voice lower now as you hand over the coffee.

“Thanks,” she says, fingers brushing yours for a second too long as she takes the cup.

You nod, trying to ignore the way your skin warms under her touch. If you focused your attention back on a small stain on the counter to hide the blush on your cheeks, who could blame you? “Enjoy your day. Hope they make you do something painfully awkward for content.”

“They will,” she sighs, backing away toward the door, “and I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”

Your heart stutters, but she’s gone before you can fully process the meaning behind her words. You stare at the door a second too long, watching the pathetic attempt at rain drip down the glass panel as the blush burns through your skin. 

There’s a clatter behind you as Oscar drops a muffin tray on the counter and clears his throat dramatically. “You know she only comes in on days you’re working, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Oscar gestures at the door like Alessia might reappear and confirm it herself. “She checks the rota. She literally asked me once when your next shift was. Tried to be casual about it, but she used your name like it was an MI6 briefing.”

You roll your eyes, finally facing him. “She likes the coffee I make.”

“She likes you.”

“She’s just being nice.”

Oscar snorts. “Hon, please. She flirts with you like she’s training for the Olympics. The hand brushes? The ‘you make it better’ lines? The lingering looks? I’ve seen less sexual tension in a romance novel.”

You busy yourself wiping the same part of the counter again. “It’s just a little banter.”

Oscar levels you with a look. You don’t turn around to see it, but you can feel it boring a hole into your back “And yet you blush every time she walks in.”

“I do not.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

You don’t dignify that with an answer, but that’s mostly because it’s true. Your cheeks are warm, your hands are still tingling, and your mind’s already racing ahead to tomorrow morning. You do that a lot, think about when you’ll next see Alessia. Every time someone vaguely blonde walks through the door for the rest of your shifts it makes your heart beat a little louder. 

Oscar grins, smug. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”

Now that draws a squeak from you as you move to grab a croissant from the case. You’ll drop a pound in the donations box for it later. Instead of answering, you shove the pastry into your mouth, making a helpless motion to Oscar that you can’t give him a response as you’re busy eating. 

He throws a cleaning cloth at you.

–

Evening shifts always make the café feel different. They’re usually slower, warmer, and a little softer around the edges. The rush of commuters is long gone, the after-school crowd has disappeared, and now it's just a few loyal regulars nursing drinks under low lighting, or students who are revelling in the miracle of a coffee shop that opens late. You’ve always liked it this way, when the espresso machine hums like a lullaby and everything feels slightly quieter.

Oscar is perched at the counter, legs swinging under the bar like a child as he scrolls through his phone. You’re restocking the pastry case, a literally neverending task. The dull clink of ceramic cups is the loudest sound in the room.

And then ding, the bell above the door rings.

“Hi,” you call without turning, wiping your hands on your apron. “Same as usual?”

You can practically feel her smile, “Bit presumptive, don’t you think?”

When you look up, Alessia is standing there in her training gear, cheeks tinted pink from the cold. This time her hair is down as if she’s recently showered, tucked behind one ear, and she’s smiling at you in that slow, easy way that always makes you forget your own name for a second.

You shrug, trying to hide how fast your pulse jumps. “Call it a hunch.”

She walks up to the counter and leans her arms on it, like always. “Yeah, well, I missed your ‘hunch’ the other night.”

You blink, a small frown forming on your face as you think back to Monday. “What do you mean?”

“I came in. Monday, like usual,” she says. “But you weren’t here.”

You pause halfway through reaching for a cup, it suddenly clicking. You’d taken the early shift instead to save your friend’s social life. “Oh. Yeah. Oscar needed the evening off - had a date with this magician guy–”

“Magician?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you say, grinning like . “He’s going through something, I don’t ask questions.”

Alessia huffs a laugh, and then goes quiet again contemplating something. “I didn’t stay long,” she says, more softly this time. “Place didn’t feel the same.”

Your hand stills on the portafilter. It’s a small sentence, but it lands like a pebble in your chest. Tiny, sudden ripples that make you look up. That’s when you finally see it. 

The shift.

The way she’s looking at you like she didn’t mean to say that part out loud, like she’s already bracing for the silence that might follow. And suddenly Oscar’s teasing words float back to you, the knowing grin as he smugly announced “you know she only comes in when you’re working, right?”

You thought he was joking, but now you’re not so sure.

You clear your throat, try to keep it light but you stumble over your own words, not quite knowing how the hell to respond.. “Guess I should tell you my rota, then. Save you the wasted trip.” You rush out and turn quickly, pretending to focus on steaming the milk so she doesn’t see the way you blush. The cup rattles slightly as you set it down, your heart thudding embarrassingly loud.

It’s nothing. It could be nothing. You like talking to Alessia. She’s funny, she’s easy to be around, and she always looks at you like she’s thinking too hardl. But now it feels like maybe she likes talking to you too, as more than just the source of her caffeine addiction, and the realisation is dizzying.

You pass the coffee across the counter, fighting the urge to clear her throat. “Here. Try not to be too devastated next time I take a night off.”

Alessia takes it, hands wrapping around the warmth like it’s winter outside. (It is.) “Not making any promises.”

She lingers for a second. You expect her to say something else, but she doesn’t.

Oscar, ever the tactful observer, coughs pointedly from behind you.

Alessia jolts slightly. “Right. I should go. Long day.”

You nod, ignoring Oscar’s obvious smirk behind your shoulder. “See you soon.”

“Yeah,” she says, turning to leave, one hand already on the door. “See you–”

She stops, just before the door. Doesn’t turn, not for a loaded moment that your English teacher would have once described as a pregnant pause. 

Then she turns back.

“Do you want to go out sometime?”

The café falls quiet again. Or maybe the blood rushing in your ears is so loud that you simply can’t hear anything other than your own heartbeat

You stare at her, not risking even a blink for fear she might disappear. “Out?”

“Yeah,” she says quickly, nervously. “Like… on a date. With me. If you want. No pressure if you don’t, just– I’ve been meaning to ask, and I keep chickening out. And then on Monday you weren’t here and it felt weird and that was when I realised maybe I should just… do it.”

You finally blink. She’s still there; Alessia Russo, Queen of Cool, looking like she’s barely keeping it together. There’s a flush across her cheeks now that has nothing to do with the cold and she’s holding the coffee like it might anchor her to the floor.

After what feels like a lifetime, you swallow out a “yeah.”

Her eyes widen. “Yeah?”

“I’d like that,” you say, smiling now “a lot.”

Alessia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week. “Cool,” she says, lips quirking into a bashful grin. “Okay. Great. Um. Are you free next Tuesday?”

There’s some faff, some negotiation as you both scramble to check your calendars, but then Alessia is walking out with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on her.

You turn back around and Oscar is literally clapping. 

You throw a napkin at him.

–

Oscar is sprawled across your bed like a bored Victorian housewife, flicking through TikTok and occasionally glancing up to deliver commentary that’s entirely unhelpful but very on-brand.

“Okay, but what if she shows up looking like absolute garbage?” he offers, chewing gum like it’s his life’s purpose. “Like full post-training gremlin mode. Would you still kiss her?”

You groan, slipping an earring in. “I’m not answering that.”

“She’s hot either way, just saying.” He flops onto his front dramatically, chin in his hands. “Please do remember to actually kiss her. I can’t deal with you doing this awkward dance for another month of my life.”

You ignore him and choose to smooth your hands down your sides, gaze flicking over your reflection one last time. The outfit took three tries. It’s cute, confident and casual enough not to look desperate, but still date-worthy. Your hair’s doing that thing you always hope for but rarely achieve, as if even it knows the gravity of this moment. There’s a nervous buzz dancing under your skin, low and thrumming, but not bad. It’s hopeful.

“It’ll be fine,” you murmur to yourself more than to Oscar.

He hums, already texting something, probably live-updating your outfit to his new magician boyfriend. “If she breaks your heart, I’m posting her order history on Twitter.”

“Please don’t.”

“She gets three extra pumps of vanilla,” he stage-whispers like he’s been personally scorned. “That’s not a person you can trust.”

–

The restaurant is small and tucked away, candlelit and warm despite the breeze curling in every time the door opens. You give your name to the host, first name only, because that’s all Alessia knows. That’s all either of you really had time for, just a casual warmth of familiarity built on coffee cups and eye contact and her shy little smirks at the till.

You’re seated near the window in a space that’s quiet enough to feel intimate. A candle flickers in the middle of the table. You let yourself breathe in deep, stomach fluttering.

She’s not here yet. That’s fine. You’re early anyway.

You order water and fold your hands in your lap to stop fidgeting. The cutlery glints in the soft light. Everything about the table feels ready, like it expects romance. 

7:05.

You scroll through your phone without really seeing anything. A couple texts from Oscar. A meme from your sister. No Alessia, obviously - you don’t have her number. You never thought to ask. It felt like something that would… just happen. 

7:11.

You pretend to read the drinks menu, even though you’ve looked at it three times now. You try not to glance at the door every time it opens, but you fail spectacularly in that. Any glimpse of a person makes you nervous, even if they’re six foot five, male and balding. .

7:17.

Your water glass is half-empty and you haven’t touched the bread basket.

7:21.

You tell yourself training might’ve run over. You picture her apologising already, all breathless and flustered with cheeks dutifully pink from the rush, hair still a little damp from the shower. You imagine her slipping into the chair across from you, laughing softly, saying “God, I’m so sorry, have you been waiting long?”

You’d say, “Not at all.” And you’d mean it.

7:26.

Maybe she’s just shy. Maybe she’s circling the block, building up the courage to come in. You keep one eye on the door, keep rehearsing what you’ll say when she walks through it.

Maybe you should order something  to make it feel less awkward. Or maybe you shouldn’t - maybe she’ll feel guilty if she sees you already eating.

7:33.

You consider messaging her. Just something light likr you’re not lost, are you? But then that little predicament comes back: you don’t have her number. You could DM her on Instagram, but she doesn’t follow you and you’re sure it would simply get lost in the thousands of adoring fans that flood her inbox. Fans who call her Lessi and cheer for her on Sundays and leave hearts under every photo.

The table feels colder suddenly, the candle’s burned an inch lower. It’s all still charming and romantic, but now it’s mocking you, too.

7:40.

You check your phone again. Like something might’ve changed. Like she might’ve miraculously appeared in your missed notifications.

She isn’t coming.

You don’t want to admit it, but the realisation unfurls slowly in your chest, heavy, thick and sour.

You’ve been stood up.

And not in a movie-style dramatic way. Not with a text or an excuse or even an awkward cancellation. Just… nothing.

Your reflection in the window is a bit pathetic, honestly. A bit too hopeful, even now. You’d done your hair, you’d worn perfume and you’d let your guard down. You’d cracked the door open and let her step through, and this is what you got for it. Here you are, alone with a sweating water glass and a half-hearted bread basket.

The waiter hovers nearby with that polite, pitying expression people wear around abandoned tables. You can't quite stand it so you get up abruptly and pull your coat tighter around yourself. Your face burns with something between embarrassment and disappointment and something you’re not quite ready to name.

You wave the waiter off before he can offer anything else.

Outside, the city feels bigger than usual. Loud. The wrong kind of alive.

You walk quickly, not because you’re in a rush, but because standing still feels dangerously ike the weight of it all might finally catch up and settle in your bones.

You don’t cry.

You just walk.

And try to uselessly forget the way her eyes crinkled when she smiles.

–

You’re late to work the next day. Not by much, seven minutes, give or take, but you’re never late. Not even when you’ve had two hours sleep, or missed the bus, or stayed up too long scrolling through videos that made your head ache. But this morning, your alarm had gone off, and you’d just… stayed there staring at the ceiling, covers pulled to your chin like they might keep the disappointment from seeping in through your skin.

By the time you drag yourself into the cafe, the sky is grey and heavy. The door clatters behind you in a way that makes your head throb. Oscar looks up from behind the counter, coffee cup in hand. One glance at your face, and he blinks. His expression shifts from casual to concerned in under a second.

“Well,” he says, carefully. “You look like death personified.”

You don’t answer. You drop your bag behind the counter and start tying your apron around your waist with fingers that feel clumsy and slow.

Oscar tries again. “I’m pretty sure those are yesterday’s jeans.”

You still don’t look up. Somehow you find the energy to murmur a pleading “please don’t start.”

He watches you and you can feel the way he’s turning something over in his head. Maybe a joke or a tease he’s too kind to let loose just yet. Then his voice softens. “Hey. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Y/N—”

“Seriously. Don’t.”

It comes out sharper than you mean it to. The tension snaps in the space between you like a rubber band stretched too tight. You suck in a breath, and Oscar immediately raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay. No pressure. My bad.” He backs off, bless him. “Do you want coffee? Do you want me to do all the front-of-house stuff? Do you want me to ban every man who calls you ‘darlin’ like it’s a tip?”

You finally glance at him. The concern is still there, but it’s wrapped in something gentler now, that warm, easy care that Oscar is best at. The kind of care that doesn’t demand explanations.

You nod, once.

“I’ll do the orders,” he says. “You take a minute.”

You head into the back, breathing in the scent of stale cinnamon buns and overused mop water, and try not to think too hard.

–

The morning moves at a glacial pace, but you find a rhythm that doesn’t make you want to burst into tears.

You make coffee. You wipe down counters. You pretend not to flinch every time someone says the word “date” into their phone.

It’s stupid. You know that. You know it’s stupid to still be this wounded. But it’s not just that she didn’t show. It’s the hope that did. The way you’d sat inside the restaurant for all that time, peeking through the window every few minutes like she might materialise if you just believed hard enough. The way you'd checked your phone even despite not having her number,  just to pretend you had some kind of way of reaching her.

You’d thought about messaging her on Instagram, still are really, but you’d blocked her. It didn’t mean anything, for she’d have no idea that a random barista had blocked her page, but you had to. When you got home and opened the app to see you still had her page loaded, it was the only thing you could do to stop the ache. 

Even if you hadn’t, what would you even say? Hey, remember that date you asked me on and then didn’t show up for? No big deal, just rewiring my expectations of human connection now, cheers. You nearly knock over a tray of clean mugs just thinking about it.

The bell above the door rings, sharp and bright.

You don’t look up. You’re too busy restocking syrup pumps. You don’t even glance at the clock, which might have told you it was the usual time for a certain someone to come in.

“Hi - sorry, I’m just– is Y/N working today?”

You freeze. Your spine goes rigid. Your hand pauses mid-motion, caramel bottle halfway to the shelf, and for a moment it’s like time folds in on itself.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s Monday. She always comes in after morning training on Mondays - it’s routine. But something in you hadn’t even considered she’d show up. Not after last night. Not after leaving you alone at a table for two, pretending you weren’t waiting for someone while the waitstaff looked at you with varying degrees of pity.

You duck fast.

One second you’re upright, the next you’re crouched behind the espresso machine like a soldier in a rom-com war zone. You keep your head down, heart hammering, breath caught high in your throat.

Oscar glances at you, confused.

You hiss, “I’m not here.”

“What–?”

“I’m not here!”

“Are you–?”

“I am not here, Oscar!”

He frowns for a millisecond, then shrugs. “Okay.”

You scramble through the door, narrowly avoiding knocking over the mop bucket, and wedge yourself between two towers of stock crates. The air smells like cardboard and pine-scented floor cleaner, and your knees are pressed against your chest so hard it hurts. You rest your forehead against them anyway, trying to slow your breathing.

From the front room, you can hear everything.

Oscar recovers smoothly: “Oh hey. Uh, no, she’s not in today.”

A pause. You can imagine her, frowning. Tucking her hair behind her ear. Doing that thing where her voice dips lower when she’s unsure.

“Really? I thought she usually– I mean–”

“Yeah. Shift swap.” Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s not in till next week.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Thanks.”

The door chimes as she leaves.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty just to be sure. The silence settles in thick around you.

Then the door creaks again and Oscar pokes his head through.

He spots you immediately with your knees hugged to your chest, eyes red and watery with a blotchy face in that way that only crying can do. You’re not sobbing, not really. Just letting the weight of it catch up to you.

Oscar doesn't say anything at first. Then he crosses the space, lowers himself down beside you, and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

That’s the opening of the dam. 

You fall into him, not bothering to stop the tears this time. They fall quiet and slow, soaking into his shirt. Your body sinks with each shaky breath, like now that someone else is holding you, you don’t have to pretend to hold yourself together anymore.

“I really liked her,” you whisper.

Oscar rubs your arm. He doesn’t know what happened, not yet, but he doesn’t even question it, just holds you and says  “She’s a dumbass.”

“She asked me out. She picked the day.” You sob quietly until you can’t anymore. It’s only when your eyes dry out that you let out a shaky breath, one that turns into a wet laugh. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You’re not. You liked someone and you let yourself hope. That’s brave, not stupid.”

You rest your head against his shoulder again, and Oscar squeezes you tighter. You’ll tell him what happened later, over cheap wine and terrible horror movies, and he’ll frown and call Alessia names he’s too kind to really mean, but for now you’ll be content with this moment here. 

Neither of you move from the floor when the bell chimes again. 

– 

Alessia had planned it all out in that low-simmering way she does, with a quiet confidence like she already knew exactly how Y/N would smile when she walked into the restaurant. How the soft glow from the candlelight would bounce off her cheekbones. How they’d laugh. How it would just feel… easy. Like all the flirting over lattes had always been leading here.

But instead, she’s sat in the back of a car on the way to a last-minute Arsenal PR event, stomach churning as the minutes tick past. She checks her phone again. Not that she’s expecting a text, she literally can’t. They never exchanged numbers, and she never asked. She thought it was cute, actually - made the date feel a bit more cinematic, that kind of “See you then” with no way of confirming, like something out of a Nora Ephron film. She’d show up, Y/N would be there, and it would all just fall into place.

Instead the clock ticked steadily towards the arranged time, and Alessia? Still here. Still shaking hands and smiling for sponsor photos and answering the same recycled questions she’s heard a hundred times about form, fitness, fixtures.

She pulls her phone out between camera flashes, frantically opening Instagram. She doesn’t even follow the cafe, but she remembers seeing a big ‘FOLLOW US ON INSTAGRAM’ plastered on a board once, so she knows there must be one. 

It takes her five minutes of digging to find the account. Then three more to find the right photo. And then finally– there. Y/N. Grinning behind the counter, name tagged in the caption.

Alessia’s thumb hovers over the profile for a moment before she finally clicks. It loads slowly. Painfully. Then she taps the message icon, heart in her mouth–

Her phone goes black. Dead.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, smacking the side of the phone like that’ll help. “Come on.”

The car jolts as it turns a corner, and her head falls back against the headrest in quiet defeat.

When she gets home hours later, soaked from the downpour that had started the second the event ended, shivering in damp trainers and an Arsenal hoodie she longed to change out forever ago, she races to plug her phone in. It powers back on and notifications flood in. A few from the PR team. A couple from teammates.

Alessia ignores them all in favour of opening Instagram again, her hands damp and clumsy as she fumbles through the same search.

Only this time, when she finds Y/N’s profile, it won’t load. The icon spins, refreshes, and then vanishes.

She’s been blocked.

Her chest caves in on itself, like someone’s physically pressed a thumb into her ribs and twisted.

Blocked.

She drops her phone on the bed and sinks down next to it, staring blankly at the ceiling. The date - the stupid, cursed, almost-date - was supposed to be the start of something. The real beginning. And now it’s… just a memory she doesn’t even get to share.

The worst part is, she gets it. She’d do the same thing in Y/N’s shoes; assume the silence meant disinterest, rejection.

It doesn’t matter that Alessia had rehearsed five different compliments. It doesn’t matter that she’d spent half an hour choosing between two jackets like it’d make or break the night. It doesn’t matter that she liked Y/N so, so much.

All that matters now is that she’d hurt her, and she might not get the chance to undo it.

–

​​Time doesn’t heal so much as it blurs.

It dulls the edges of things like the sharp snap of disappointment, the sting of being let down. But it doesn’t erase entirely. Not when the memory of Alessia is stitched into your mornings, folded between the seams of your days like a receipt you can’t quite bring yourself to throw away.

You go about your routines at the cafe like nothing’s changed. You clean milk steamers. You restock cups. You press your fingers to the window’s condensation as the weather turns. But Alessia Russo has become a name that sits heavy on your tongue, even when you don’t speak it.

You swap shifts. Oscar doesn’t even question you anymore. He just nods, slips his playlist on shuffle when he can see you’re trying not to think, and leaves you one of the nice pastries on the side whenever he restocks. Still, every time the bell over the door rings, your heart trips like it’s bracing for impact.

She doesn’t come in.

Not after that day.

But hope is sticky. And dumb. And doesn’t really care how hard you try to scrape it off your ribs.

And so, when you’re locking up the cafe one late Thursday, coat zipped to your chin, keyring between your teeth as you mutter to yourself about needing better gloves, you aren’t prepared for the shape that collides into you the second you turn from the door.

You drop your phone and stumble but hands grab your arms before you can fall. That’s when you find yourself nose-to-nose with the ghost that’s been haunting your afternoons.

Alessia is breathless. The rain is starting to soak through her hair, but she’s not got the hood of her jacket up. Her eyes dart across your face like she’s cataloguing you, maybe not believing that you’re here, real, right in front of her. Her lips part to say something, then close again, her throat working around the words like they’re too big to swallow.

You’re the first to speak. Sort of. It’s not really a complete thought, but it’s all you can process at that moment. 

“What–” you breathe, cold air catching in your throat and drawing a cough. “What are you–?”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, as if she’s been holding it in for weeks (she has). “I’m so–god, I didn’t know how else to find you. I’ve been checking the cafe’s Instagram. They posted earlier, and I saw you were still working tonight–”

“Wait, what?”

She shrinks slightly at your tone, but forges on. “I didn’t stand you up. I swear, Y/N. There was this last-minute PR event. I didn’t know about it until the day. I tried to find a way to reach you but–” she exhales, visibly cringing “when I went to DM you, my phone died.”

You don’t move, too scared to interrupt her speech. Rain drips into your collar uncomfortably but you remain, listening as Alessia keeps talking.

“By the time I got home and charged it, I went on the cafe’s Instagram to try again, but–”

“I’d blocked you,” you finish, quiet.

She nods, shame crawling across her face like a flush. “Yeah. Which - again - fair. I deserved that. I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care. I do care.”

You laugh, sharp and humourless, a sound scraped from the bottom of your lungs. “Kind of hard not to think that when I sat there for over an hour, Less.”

The nickname slips out before you can stop it. It lands between you like a live wire that makes Alessia flinch.

“I know,” she says. “I know. I was late, and then the event ran long, and then I couldn’t leave without looking like an asshole to my whole team, and by the time I got home–”

“You could’ve messaged me. Before. At any point in the weeks leading up to that date.”

“I wanted to,” she says, voice cracking. “But I didn’t want to seem like I was pushing. You never asked for my number either, you know.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

“No!” she says quickly, eyes wide. “God, no. I just… I’m so shit at this. At like… knowing when it’s okay to want something. I didn’t think you’d say yes to me. I didn’t think I deserved you saying yes.”

Silence.

The rain falls harder. Alessia doesn’t step back.

You hate how your chest aches. How her words are so messy and human and honest it hurts.

“I thought you were different,” you murmur. “Not just another person who’d say sweet things and then vanish when it mattered.”

Alessia's face softens, lips parted in horror. “I am different,” she says. “I didn’t vanish. I ran back here the second I could. The day after I came into the cafe but you weren’t there.”

A flicker of shame crawls up your throat. She sounds so genuinely devastated that you almost feel bad for hiding in the back room. Almost. “I was humiliated.”

“I know.”

“I liked you.”

She looks like she might cry. “I liked you too.”

You sigh and shake your head. You’re cold. Wet. Stupidly still in love with a girl who apparently stares at your Instagram stories like they’re prayer candles.

“You made me feel like an idiot.”

“I made you feel like I didn’t care. And that’s worse.”

You glance at her. She’s still standing there, soaked and shivering and letting you yell at her without once looking away. You can’t decide if you want to hug her or throw your keys into the nearest drain.

“Why now?” you whisper, quieter than before. “Why come tonight?”

Alessia smiles faintly, sad at the edges. “Because it’s been seven days, and every day I didn’t try felt worse than the last.”

You want to kiss her. You want to yell at her. You want to go back in time and force her to buy a portable charger and a pack of courage and ask for your damn number like a normal person.

Instead, you both stand there as the rain pools at your feet. The street is empty, the cafe dark behind you, and you vaguely remember that you forgot to sign out.

“I just…” Alessia says, voice quieter now, less frantic. “I just needed to wait for the perfect moment to make it right.”

You glance up at the streetlight above. At the water trickling down her hair, the moon caught in a puddle between your shoes. And despite everything, you laugh. Because how could you not?

You gesture around yourself at the rain that pours from the sky, eyebrows raised. “What? Were you waiting for your romcom sign? Because I think you got it.”

Alessia smiles, really smiles this time. Then, like gravity decided for you, you both move at the same time.

The kiss is soft at first, surprised almost, like neither of you expected it to actually happen. But it grows and deepens, her hands coming up to cup your jaw as yours fist in the hem of her jacket.

It’s everything you wanted it to be: messy and wet, rain-kissed and desperate. Alessia tastes like breath mints and cheap coffee, probably that filtered stuff she always complained about. You kiss her like you’re trying to rewrite the week you spent avoiding her shadow.

When you finally break apart, she’s beaming. Ridiculous. Gorgeous. Her cheeks are pink and she’s got rain on her eyelashes.

“So…” she says, a little breathless. “Am I allowed another chance?”

You grin. “Only if you charge your phone first.”

She salutes. “Scout’s honour.”

“Were you even a scout?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, trying helplessly to fight the grin from taking over your face.

“You’ll just have to go on a date with me to find out.”

The reminder that despite your age, you had put the work in to get here was good for your mentality. You were still trying very hard to make a good impression on your new teammates. They were two time Euro champions after all, and you didn't want them to look at you like a giant baby. It was only recently that your parents had even agreed to let you attend a team academy, so it wasn't like you had actually been around any of them before in much capacity.

"(Y/n), you're early. I was just about to send a car for you," Sarina greeted you. She was the first one that you had met with, and after a lengthy conversation with your parents and a handful of other coaches, it had been decided that this would be your first camp. The matches were small friendlies, ones that Sarina thought you should be around to see up close. You wouldn't play for several camps, but she wanted you to practice as much as you could with the team.

"Thank you, Coach Wiegman." You bowed your head down towards your coach. You were a few inches shorter than her, but your doctors all believed that you had one more growth spurt in you. Out of the girls on your youth team, you were one of the tallest, but you knew that you'd feel much smaller once you got to playing with the professionals.

"Please, call me Sarina. Everyone else does in casual settings like this. I don't know how they ran things on your other team, but you can relax a little here. It does my players no good to be so wound up," Sarinatold you. You wanted to take her advice, but you genuinely weren't sure if it was actually possible for you to calm down. "The bellhop will take your bags, go mingle in the meeting room with the girls. You'll be seeing a lot of them this week, and find Keira, she'll be your roommate this time around."

"Yes ma'am," you said as you rushed off through the lobby. You handed your bags over to the man with the luggage cart, who seemed very amused with the way you zipped around. Sarina couldn't help but crack a smile as she watched you as well. You pushed on towards the meeting area without a second thought, only stopping once you opened the door. It was your first real record scratch moment. Your heart raced as you stood in front of your entire team, all of whom were staring at you. There was a quick pause before you had two women at your sides, guiding you into the room.

"Oh my god, they said you were coming from the youth teams, but you look so young. Come on, Kei is just this way. I'm Beth, by the way, and we are so excited to have you here," Beth rattled off her words just as quickly as your heart was pounding in your chest.

"Beth, calm down, you're scaring her!" You turned your head to see Leah on the other side of you. That made a bit more sense, even if it did shock you to have the captain of the Lionesses standing right next to you. "Breathe kid, there's nobody to impress here."

"'S just a lot," you mumbled. For a moment, your native accent slipped hard. You were proud of where you had come from, but your parents had paid a lot of money to give you the media-approved "general" British accent. They didn't want to sway any sort of opinions on you from interviews. The only reason you didn't brush it off as ridiculous was because of your father's decades long career as a pundit. Rugby fans weren't the same as soccer ones, but you knew they had hooligans all the same.

"Oh god, not another one," Beth groaned dramatically. Leah's face lit up at the closeness in your accents. "Don't you start or I'll call Elle right now."

"Not starting on anything. Hey, you ever need a little slice of home, you find me kid. Always good to hear another Mi-," Leah started, only to be cut off by Lucy sliding her arm around your shoulders and pulling you away. "Lucy!"

"It's quieter over here. You look stressed, relax. You're only gonna be shadowing the best of the best. Keira's excited to meet you," Lucy told you. She pulled a chair out for you across from Keira, who set her phone down to smile and wave at you. You returned the gesture, albeit quite a bit more awkward than you would have liked. "I'm Lucy Bronze."

"(Y/n) (Y/l/n), pleasure to meet you," you repeated the greeting that you had worked on all weekend with your mother. Lucy bit back a laugh at how obviously professional you were trying to sound, which earned her a kick under the table from Keira. "Big fan of both of you, really."

"Pretty big fan of you too, especially with what they've been whispering about you. You've only just signed any sort of contract? I heard you were doing all that in a kiddie club. That's brutal for the others," Lucy said. You blushed as you thought about all the disgruntled girls and boys you had played against growing up. It was a mix of natural talent and dedication, not thousands of pounds of private coaches like what everyone thought. Your parents hadn't even shelled out any money for a scout, despite knowing that you had more than earned one.

"Sarina isn't giving her to you," Keira cut in. Lucy pouted at that, but she didn't stop talking to you about the little things she thought were impressive about you. It was weird being praised like this by one of the reasons you wanted to play in the first place. You knew that it should have helped you feel more confident, but instead, it just instilled the feeling that you had to do your absolute best even deeper.

…

You walked calmly into an empty dining hall for breakfast. The hotel buffet was set out with a much better spread than what you were used to. It wasn't that the coaches skimped on the youth players, but you understood why there was never anything more than a couple of protein options and maybe a bit of cereal. Your teammates would have tore through this without a second thought, but you were mindful.

"It's been a long time since someone has beaten Lucy to breakfast." You looked up from your food to see a few of the Manchester girls standing around your table. They all joined you, with Maya and Jess sitting on either side of you. "You're gonna be done with school pretty soon, aren't you? Ever thought of moving away, maybe to Manchester?"

"Alex!" Millie hissed as she slapped at the older defender. Alex didn't even bother to look ashamed. You weren't just a good prospect player, you were THE prospect player, and you would be until someone poached you. Yes, you were signed with London City's youth academy, but that contract would be up when you turned 18, and then there was no telling where you'd go.

"Blue would look pretty good on you," Jess said as she nudged you. It felt a little weird to think about where you'd go. The realization that you could go anywhere you wanted hadn't quite settled yet. You still hoped that you proved yourself to be useful as you worked your way up to playing for your team. "City blue, I think it would really bring out your eyes."

"I like the academy a lot, so I might just stay with my club. Besides, Michelle thinks that with the way the team is growing, we'll be contenders for the championship by the time I'm out of school," you said excitedly. It was more than they expected from you, especially after a nearly completely silent dinner the night before. You were still new, but you couldn't even begin to contain your excitement about your team. The thought of being part of something so new was great, especially since it wasn't every day that a new professional club popped up.

"You're patient, way more than I was at your age. I don't know if I could wait that long if I had the chance to play it big now," Maya told you. "Just don't embarrass me too much when we're playing against each other out there."

"Oh don't worry, I'm not really the forward type. I can do it if I need to, but it's more fun to let them come to me," you said. You fell into an easy conversation about defensive play, and suddenly, Maya seemed a lot more certain that you'd make the whole lot of them look silly out there. She was glad to have figured out that you'd go on and on about things you were passionate about, and the more they got you talking about football, the more obvious it became to them that you were truly a generational talent.

…

"Not a forward player my ass," Millie grumbled as Maya helped her onto her feet. You had completely blown past everybody with ease. Your speed rivaled Lauren's, and Millie knew when she saw you rushing towards her that she had no chance. It was a last-ditch attempt to knock you off the ball, but somehow, you had seen it coming from the corner of your eye and spun around her.

"I mean, she didn't shoot the ball," Maya pointed out. Millie wasn't sure who to glare at when she heard Lucy start to laugh. "Come on, let's go congratulate the kid on the assist."

"So, um, London is a pretty great place. The north is probably the best part of it," Leah said as she slung her arm around your shoulder. You cocked an eyebrow at her very obvious attempt to poach you. Arsenal had once been a dream, but you were committed to the place you were now. Loyalty was everything, that was what your parents had taught you.

"I'm sure that it's beautiful, but I've got a club team. Arsenal's got a rich history, but I want to help make some for a new club," you told her. You had been shutting down attempts to convince you to move all camp, and it wasn't showing any signs of stopping. They were having a bit of fun with you and you knew it. Still, you weren't sure if you were annoyed or just thrown off by all the attention.

Everything you did seemed to garner attention from your teammates. They praised your work ethic for things like always being early and keeping your focus everywhere. You knew that not everyone your age was this put together, but nobody had ever really noticed before this. You were grateful for the recognition, even if it just felt like the way you had always been. Your old coaches had expected it of you, and you hoped that these ones would too.

"Next time, don't let up. If you've got a chance to shoot, do it. Show 'em what you've got, it's how you get your minutes," Keira said as she stole you away from Leah. The teams reset their positions, and you took Keira's advice next time the ball was at your feet. It was obvious that they were playing around you a little, so you made sure that they didn't waste their time on you.

You kept your head up as you carried the ball across the field. You passed the ball around a little, but it still ended up back at your feet by the time you neared the box. You could have tried to run inside their defensive line, but you noticed a clear opening for a shot instead. You watched a scramble as they realized what you were doing, but the ball soared above their heads and right into the back of the net.

"That's my rookie!" Beth cheered as she pulled you in for a hug. You were nearly knocked over by the force of it, but you stood steady. "Please tell me that someone got on tape. Viv has got to see that shot."

"Okay, for real, either join Arsenal or play somewhere far away where I don't have to try and defend against that. I've got a reputation, and you're gonna end up making me look silly," Leah said. You let out a small chuckle as you looked away from everyone. The praise was making you a bit flustered. You had made a shot like that a hundred times, there were just a few people in front of you now.

"No promises, but there a few foreign teams I'd like to play for. At least go on loan to," you told her. "That's how you get better, and I want to be one of the best someday."

"Just promise me that you'll win more Champion's League finals than Bronze, and I mean shatter her record."