summer

part 1.

written by luciasona

Eindhoven.

Barcelona v Wolfsburg.

03/06/23

This year was never going to be one for winning.

Not for Ona, at least. And she was beyond fine with that; she hadn't gone to Manchester three years ago with grand hopes of sweeping a quadruple or becoming the breakthrough starlet on every report.

She knows what she went for; the game. But she isn't quite sure what she'd hoped for. Aside from the obvious...was Manchester supposed to have been golden? Or was it supposed to have been this gritty trimester of her youth that turned her from girl to woman?

Anyway, you never go home empty-handed, not really. Not in ways that actually matter.

For all she lost to the club, to the city, she gained something. A new language, different friends, independence, an appreciation for inauthentic Chinese takeaway, a girlfriend?

She was someone now, for better or worse. Someone people cared about, publicly and in the circles of elite football. With that comes a loss of anonymity, of regular-person privacy. But somehow, the losses feel incredibly insignificant when she looks at the bigger picture.

She only internalises just how substantial the dividends had been when she's sat thirty-thousand feet above the sea, and she starts to wonder if she'll actually miss Manchester after all. Or maybe she'll miss the growth, the strength she found, watching her tears of heartbreak turn into tears of heartache for something she loved and that loved her back.

This outcome and move back home is all she had wanted for so long, but that's a lot of pressure to put on a version of reality that contains approximately zero guarantees. Apart from, well, she'll be home. And she’ll have Lucy.

And now she's getting teary thinking about her sweet Lucy, wishing so badly that she could have been there to take care of her after the knee surgery. Better now than in six months, she decides. Being on the pitch together as teammates isn’t even something she can properly envision, and it’s scary, for many reasons. But she vows to cherish it nonetheless, because she has quickly learnt that nothing matters more than sharing these memories with people who truly love her.

The sun rises in flashes of purple-pink against her cheek, on the first flight out to Eindhoven. To her girlfriend. Maybe even to watch her lift a trophy. And if Barcelona concede miserably, this was still more than enough of a take-home for the season. She’d still lose nothing.

Maybe she won't text Lucy just yet. Maybe she'll keep it a surprise until the very last moment. It was a hasty decision to come anyway—they only finished up the season last week, and she's had more to do than she thought would be possible in trying to pack away her life here.

Lucy hadn't even formally asked her to come to the final, just knew it was a possibility, but one that probably wouldn't come to fruition. Little did she know, Ona was borderline terrified of her obsession with Lucy. It was hard to express the magnitude of her feelings, but she’d leap cities to support her, especially after the amount of grace and devotion Lucy has shown her since they first met. Always so gentle, so thoughtful, so giving in every action and word she spoke. It’s only been a few months of being official official, but Ona can’t remember the person she was before this.

Lucy was so intentional with her love that it had taken some time to catch up to Ona, and the adjustment to someone being so honest and devoted often leads to her feeling slightly undeserving. Or more so, fearful that it couldn’t be true. That was the prevailing theme of these past few weeks: if it breaks, Ona will break with it. She sees their love everywhere, feels it in every bone, throws herself at it time and time again only to come out unscathed. So how then, does it still feel so fragile? Still looks like a gust of wind could break it to smithereens?

⸻

Ona curves her hands around the cold barrier, leaning closer, the blaring sun making it hard to see clearly. She was feeling stupidly nervous, awkward even, incongruous. No one would read that from the outside; after all, she was a player, and Barcelona is, by all means, her team.

Her face crashes into her hands just three minutes into the game. Wolfsburg scored.

Lucy looks immobilised by the guilt of her mistake that led to the concede, and that alone cuts Ona in two. Like a punch to the gut, she remembers why she’s here—yes for the game, but her heart’s gaze can’t be torn from making Lucy the star of her world.

Ona doubts if she'd even felt this kind of stab when a loss came from her own doing. It sucked, but when you love someone as much as she did Lucy, it's hard to see the tough exterior over the tender middle that she showed Ona in their private moments. The version of Lucy that feared, and took pain deeply, that wanted so badly to do things right and couldn't forgive herself for mistakes.

That was the problem with all of this. The game became ruthless when its tendrils were seeded in every aspect of her life and relationships, in all the things that made her whole.

And damn if football didn’t try to break her sometimes.

She watches on with a heavy heart, her mind running wild with observations and notes that certainly won’t stick once this is over. It’s so much harder in the stands, when you can’t do anything but bite your cheek and aimlessly flit your focus around the pitch. Lucy was killer. This she knew, but it was different watching her determination spike in real time; a soul driven by a motor that compelled her to push harder in the face of adversity.

It's at some point after the half-time break before play begins again that Lucy spots her. Unintentionally maybe, but Ona can decipher from the distance Lucy’s jaw is falling to the ground nonetheless. Frozen in time, and Ona wishes she could have a momentary glimpse into the mind she so intensely reveres.

In fact, she is torn between grinning wildly and being struck with a look more solemn, more true to the reaction she felt in her chest at Lucy’s eyes locking on hers. Barcelona could lose this, and she isn't sure she can face a Lucy that heartbroken after they've been apart for so long, when all she wants to do is laugh and smile and touch like the hours are finally infinite again.

Ona says nothing beyond a smile. Just touches two fingers to her lips and sends Lucy a heartfelt kiss, who makes a small gesture on her cheek to show it was received.

Something deep in Ona's soul binds and blooms once more.

God, now this is plain torturous. Shifting the weight between her feet, her breath flying in only to be exhaled when the chance passes. She’d like to be normal about this, but the senseless belief in her is so strong that it’s eating her alive.

The victory creeps up on them. Minute by minute, it sweeps through. First Patri, then again, then Frido, and Ona’s never felt a thing like it. It only really solidifies when the whistle blows and her girls ecstatically bolt to each other, in just as much shock and elation as Ona herself. Pulse strong in her ears, her face is suspended in pure joyful disbelief.

A few long, blurry minutes later, the roaring sound drowning out her thoughts, she feels a hand tapping her shoulder. One of Lucy's friends, signalling that someone on the pitch is looking at them. Well, them, but Ona knows it's only her. She hopes, at least.

She has a quick decision to make. No, she mouths softly in Lucy's direction, after Lucy gestures for her to join her family who are already making their way down towards the pitch.

The speculation around her homecoming has been intense, with most people aware that it's imminent. Still, she isn't used to this level of recognition, especially in her home country.

And she doesn't want people to talk. Not about her, not about Lucy, not about them together. Nothing.

Plus, it's still that awkward phase with people who know Lucy, but hardly know Ona. Her family are incredibly kind of course, but she is still very much a stranger. She’d almost felt like striking up a conversation, making some promise that she's a good person and wants nothing more than to know Lucy and be someone she can trust. But she was too shy for that—still sometimes feels twinged with inadequacy.

So she watches from the sidelines, trying to quietly appreciate everyone and everything, but her gaze just keeps drifting to her girl. This was a new side of herself that she hadn't met before, one that so easily loses focus and is clinging so tightly she feels a bit suffocated by the pull. It was good, don't mistake her, but terribly intense.

⸻

"Why didn't you come onto the pitch?" Lucy asks, albeit very casually, the question that Ona had been anticipating since their proper reunion outside the changing room.

Hand in hand, the cooler night air hits their tired faces as they peruse a dimly lit street in the city, vaguely in the direction of Lucy’s hotel. The shops are shut, only bars and clubs casting various colours in her periphery. No one will know or see them here, and that’s exactly how she wants it.

Lucy in particular is denying the fact she’s slogging along, but Ona knows too well how the adrenaline takes hours to wear off after such a big rush.

Ona stifles from the question, wanting to apologise, feeling horrific at the thought of not fulfilling Lucy's wishes. In fact, she’d been feeling guilty for some time. It had felt like the right decision in the moment, but maybe the one guided by impulsive fear and not her heart.

It's like Lucy hears her thoughts. "It's okay that you didn't. I didn't really expect you to, I'm just trying to gauge what you're comfortable with."

"I could have," Ona answers quickly. "But I...we haven't seen each other in so long. I needed something special. Me and you only."

They’ve both sobered up from the party, where she wouldn’t like to think how overly affectionate she’d been with Lucy without realising it—much to the astonishment of their teammates who were not used to seeing either of them like that.

But with clarity comes returning in full force the weight of how consuming all of this was. She truly had no idea how to do any of this.

"That's fine. You can do whatever you want darlin’." Lucy’s warm hand squeezes hers, and it’s easy to believe she is being completely truthful.

"I kinda wish I did." Ona admits, moving to walk closer to Lucy.

"Next time." Lucy murmurs.

"Next time I'll be on the pitch anyway." Ona returns with a perk in her voice, a smile Lucy can hear.

"Exactly. How it should be." Lucy kisses her temple, snaking an arm around her. "I love you sweets. You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."

“Come on, you just won the Champions League for the fourth time.” Ona grins.

“I said, I love you.”

Ona feels like bursting, so much disbelief, but so warm and full inside. "I love you too. Quiero dártelo todo." I want to give you everything

Lucy laughs softly, tired, but her affection sings through every gesture. Her hand drifts sweetly to the back of Ona's neck, fixing the hair beneath her collar. "I know you do. But one thing at a time."

Ona breathes out, a little disappointed that they've turned into the recognisable street for their hotel. They slow down, just to appreciate the quiet and the breeze. She bites her tongue, before letting it out. "Does it ever scare you? Doing this again?"

Lucy gives it a moment. "What d'you mean love?"

Ona glances down, careful with her words, fearful as always that they will land completely wrong. "Like...it's not ideal, no?"

Lucy keeps her gaze ahead, a faint smile playing on her mouth when Ona catches it. "I wouldn't want anything else." She replies simply.

"Me too." Ona agrees hastily, lest she imply there is a better option than Lucy or their arrangement. "I just...the football, it's our life, and now we have this that complicates it, or not complicate but it...it's not as easy. To not care. When the football goes wrong, because it affects us."

A squeeze from Lucy’s hand lets her know it was received with full sincerity. No twisting of words or finding scorn where there was only a deep feeling that would eat her away if she didn’t bring it up. As guilty as she feels for letting these thoughts bug her even on days as beautiful as this.

"I know the distance wasn't easy." Lucy turns to her after a break for thought. She still looks at Ona like it's the first time she's ever seen her. "But you only care so much because it's special. Maybe the fact it's not ideal makes it more special. Anyway, we don’t do this because it’s easy, we do it because it’s real."

"You know I would take any risk for you." Ona says with her whole heart, her eyes bright but profoundly honest.

"Likewise, my special girl.” Lucy says, sincere and struck by the same wave of emotional depth as Ona. Her voice comes raw and devotional. “I want you. Location, schedule, nothing changes the fact I’m thinking about you every moment. Always on my mind. And I’ll never hurt you Ona, I swear it."

Lucy’s words make her throat tighten, meeting her jade eyes and holding her hand tighter as they pause in the street. Close was never close enough—she wanted to hear Lucy's voice all the time, to feel her heartbeat wherever she went. And day by day, month by month, she has been. Slowly believing, slowly being proven that real is better than easy. Delicate is better than safe.

Ona holds onto Lucy tightly, and her blunt fingernails find Ona’s scalp. "Of course I'm not scared, sweets." Lucy murmurs in afterthought, still stuck on what Ona had shared. It was the little things like that which made her character all the more special.

"Me neither."

⸻

It's past two in the morning when they're still snacking on lousy room service, warm and close in plush bathrobes after a much needed shower together. An episode of Friends plays quietly in the background, but they haven't shared a word in some time.

It's silence of the gentle kind, but when time together feels so borrowed, the weight of it sometimes pulls Ona further from comfort and into fear that they're not doing enough, somehow not savouring these moments as much as they could. Her ears still ring from the match, and she can guess Lucy is the same.

"You taking the left side like usual?"

"Yes." Ona smiles, and Lucy grins back, like the sight of her happiness is enough to make her blood warmer. “I think you’re so beautiful Lucia.” She adds softly, making Lucy scrunch up her face adorably.

“And I think you’re tired…and beautiful.” Lucy replies, Ona’s cheek fitting perfectly in the hand that reaches out to caress it.

“I think you’re speaking for yourself.” Ona says, leaning in.

“No…I’m not…” Lucy answers, swiftly catching Ona’s lips.

It provokes a small squeak of exclamation at first, both tasting of chocolate and a lingering alcoholic tinge from earlier.

Ona doesn’t hesitate, swinging her legs over Lucy’s lap to straddle her and kiss her harder. Lucy loves that, always has, always makes a point to grab Ona’s ass or press her tongue in deeper to engage in a fun battle for who needs this most.

It’s both of them. Of course.

Ona cups the back of Lucy’s head when she’s falling back against the mattress, their legs so tightly locked they don’t even know where to begin untangling. Her lips crash against Lucy’s once more, gently taking the robe apart at her chest.

“I love you.” Lucy reiterates in a breathier husk between kisses.

“I love you.” Ona may have the more suggestive hands, but the way Lucy kisses her with that deep, slow, possessive edge, drives Ona wild.

“You love my tits too.” Lucy grins as Ona palms them and flicks across her nipple with a thumb. The fondling doesn’t lead anywhere though, instead Ona is just tracing skin and feeling as much of Lucy beneath her fingertips as she can.

“Sí.” Ona admits finally, before sinking her face tiredly into Lucy’s neck. So badly wanting to do more, show how proud she is of Lucy and her strength, but God, she can hardly hold herself up.

“Chickened out already?” Lucy mutters teasingly.

“No.” Ona groans a weak, blushy defence.

“It’s fine.” Lucy answers promptly. “I don’t need anything more.”

“You sure? Tonight is for you…my winner.” Ona cranes her neck to confirm Lucy’s sincerity.

“Yes. Really. I’m tired. I can wait till tomorrow if you’re that insistent.”

“Pff.” Ona chuckles before settling her body weight fully. “That’s a first.”

Lucy scoffs, planting a firm kiss on Ona’s cheek while keeping her close. Ona liked the size difference, the way Lucy can fully envelop her and both hands can span the majority of her back.

“Thanks for coming today, love. Really." Lucy murmurs into her hair. Ona gives a small nod. "And don't worry so much about the future. It's one week at a time in this life, and honestly...the control we do have is over what matters most."

Lucy’s fingertips soothe the back of her neck. She takes the words in, just finds it hard to verbalise a response. Lucy continues, her voice combing through Ona’s deepest fears, because suddenly the medal hanging up across the room means nothing if her lover's comfort is at bay.

Their relationship was never perfect, never will be - this life doesn’t permit softness and perfection - but what they lose in time is quickly made up for in promises kept and words shared. Lucy’s love could keep her afloat no matter how treacherous the waters; that, she can only hope.

“What should we do to make it work? I…I never want to be far from you. It’s my worst fear.” Ona answers meekly, not scared as such, just softened by the moment and her impending thoughts of how impossible it is to imagine the future.

"We can make promises. Like we already have done. That we'll keep showing up for each other, and we'll keep that end goal in mind."

"What is our end goal?"

Lucy takes some time to answer, the tiredness affecting her, but not enough to kill her wit. "Well, we don't know what life will look like in however many years. No one does. So maybe it's better to break it down into small end-goals. Like, we'll end this week excited about what's to come. Or we'll end the summer with lots more memories to hold onto when we're struggling. Nothing further."

The words that come from Ona’s lips feel foreign even to her, unintended and buffered by a half-smile. “And what if it all goes wrong?”

Lucy’s smile is proper and whole. “What if it all goes right?”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

part 2.

written by marchaprilmaybe

Oslo 2026, Barcelona vs Lyon

The final whistle cuts through the noise of the crowd and Ona can’t help the grin that spreads across her face.

The scoreboard reads 4-0, and Barcelona are Champions of Europe once again.

She stands at the edge of the centre circle, her boots planted in the grass, her chest heaving with adrenaline. She doesn’t know who to run to with Laia sat injured on the bench, so she decides to take in her surroundings instead.

She isn’t usually the type to be sentimental, but as she looks around, something in her chest twinges when she realises this is the first Champions League final they’ve won without Lucy on the pitch with her.

The ache draws her attention back to the one in 2023 when she’d watched the match with a jaw clenched so tightly it had hurt the next day, but she forces herself to live in the moment and take it all in.

The Lyon players sink to the ground around her, their white shirts stained with sweat and grass, their heads bowed, but Ona doesn’t really look at them.

She looks up toward the stands, toward the swarm of bodies pressing against the barriers, the noise swelling and breaking against the concrete of the stadium, and she thinks, where is she?

She can’t see properly, the sun’s in her eyes and suddenly the noise in the stadium properly hits her.

Around her, her teammates begin to gather in celebration. Aitana reaches her first, arms thrown wide, screaming something that gets swallowed by the roar. Then Alexia and Irene, then the whole team is surging toward her in a tidal wave of sweat and tears and disbelief, and Ona lets herself be pulled under.

Hands grip her shoulders, her waist, her face. Someone sprays a bottle of water over her head and she flinches away from them, laughing, the cold drops running down her temples and soaking into the top of her shirt.

The grass beneath her boots is chewed up, ragged patches of dirt showing through where the match had been fought hardest, and she stamps her feet on it, feeling the uneven earth beneath her, grounding herself in the physical reality of this moment.

She can’t believe they’ve won again, it doesn’t feel real at all.

After the ceremony, her medal hangs heavy around her neck, the gold catching the late evening light that filters through the gaps in the stadium roof. Ona runs her thumb across the embossed surface, tracing the curve of the trophy etched into the metal, and thinks about how different this feels from the first time.

It had been a blur of champagne and confetti and not quite believing it was real. Transferring to Barcelona and winning in her first season with Lucy had felt like a fever dream, but this time it feels like a fitting goodbye. She knows that this’ll be her last time playing with this team in such a prestigious match, but somehow that doesn’t feel wrong.

Ona's gaze drifts back toward the stands as she thinks about Lucy, her sweet Lucy who’s taken a couple of days off training to come and watch, much to the annoyance of the Chelsea staff. She remembers sitting in Eindhoven three years ago in Lucy’s position, her hands clasped between her knees, watching the match unfold on the pitch below.

Though many of their fans would say otherwise, Ona thought Lucy had been magnificent that night. All controlled power and surging runs down the right flank, her boots eating up the grass. Ona remembers thinking that she played that match with her soul rather than her head as she watched from the stands, her heart climbing into her throat every time Lucy went in for a tackle.

The helplessness of it still lingers in Ona's fingertips, the way she had gripped the railing in front of her until her knuckles went white and bitten the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She’d wanted to be down there with her, had always been more comfortable on a pitch than watching in the stands and able to do nothing to change the game.

She reminisces now on her bashfulness at that game, when she and Lucy had only been together for a short time and she was still plagued by fears of Lucy calling her one day to end it all. Over the years, those fears have subsided, replaced by blurry dreams of holidays and time spent together.

Long distance had never been the plan when Ona moved to Barça, but when Lucy’s contract expired it simply became the shape their lives took. Lucy in London and Ona in Barcelona, with odd weekends stolen like contraband and quiet dinners in restaurants where no one has any idea who they are.

They’ve learned to be invisible in plain sight, to exist in the spaces between the headlines for the most part, to keep their names out of the reputable papers and their faces off the tabloid covers.

It’s exhausting sometimes, the constant vigilance, the way Ona had to keep her answers in check when interviewers asked about her personal life, the way Lucy deflected questions with that easy grin that didn't quite reach her eyes.

But it’s theirs, this thing between them, this quiet and stubborn and unglamorous thing, it’s theirs, and they guard it with the same ferocity they bring to the pitch.

The memory of Eindhoven sharpens in her mind and she recalls the final whistle, the way Lucy had sunk to her knees and her teammates had swarmed each other in celebration.

Back then it was Lucy's Barcelona, the team she would join the following season, the city that would become their shared home for one brief and magical year. Sometimes the thought of it made Ona feel like her heart was being torn from her chest.

She hates the distance and secrecy, not helped by their competing schedules. She hates the missed calls and lonely nights staring at the ceiling of the flat they practically shared when Lucy was there.

But she always thought that none of it mattered if they could just keep finding their way back to each other. And they always had.

Now, standing on the pitch with a winner’s medal round her neck, Ona scans the crowd with a growing urgency. The celebration continues around her, Mapi has somehow acquired a Mallorca flag and is draping it over Patri's shoulders and Kika is trying to convince everyone to dance with her, much to Alexia’s amusement.

She knows roughly where Lucy is sitting, or where she was sitting before the first goal and the chaos and the eruption of bodies that turned the stands into a heaving mass of celebration. She knows she’s wearing a yellow jacket and sunglasses in an attempt to be less recognisable, as if wearing anything could make Lucy Bronze unrecognisable at a football match.

The memory of her sitting next to Sarina Wiegman at the Manchester derby in 2023 while trying to be discreet flits through her mind then, making her smile to herself.

Ona spots her eventually; she’s standing in the aisle with one hand gripping the railing, the other shielding her eyes against the low light of the dying sun.

Lucy is watching her. Even from this distance, even with the sun’s glare and the chaos and the thousands of people between them, Ona can feel the weight of that gaze, steady and warm and meant only for her.

Ona raises her arm. She waves, then points toward the pitch, toward the tunnel, toward the route that Lucy could take to join her on the grass.

Come down.

The gesture is broad but unmistakable, she doesn’t need to say the words as they’re evident enough in the wave of her hand.

Come and celebrate with me.

What she really wants to say is come down to the pitch and let me hug you in front of all these people. The thought is reckless and Ona knows it, but the adrenaline is still singing in her blood, and for a moment she doesn't care about the cameras or the journalists or this carefully maintained wall of privacy they've built around themselves.

She wants Lucy here with her, she wants her close. Lucy's response is immediate, though, and it’s not the one Ona wants. She shakes her head and gestures back with her free hand, a subtle but clear no. Her expression is soft but certain, the look she gets when she's made a decision and nothing Ona can do will change it.

Not here, not like this, it says. Ona feels the rejection settle somewhere beneath her sternum, but she understands. Of course she understands. This is the deal they've made, the compromise they live with, the price of keeping something precious out of the harsh light of public scrutiny.

Lucy is protecting them both, the way she always does, the way she has since the beginning when they both played for Barcelona and couldn't even risk being seen leaving the same building together for fear of speculation.

But Ona is stubborn and she fights for what she wants. It's one of the things Lucy loves about her, or so she claims during those late-night calls when the distance feels particularly acute and they talk in that low, unguarded way that only happens when the rest of the world isn’t watching.

So instead of returning to the celebration, instead of letting the moment pass, Ona turns and walks toward the stands. She follows the edge of the pitch, weaving between the grounds staff, and finds the entrance to the seating area.

A security guard steps forward, trying to dissuade her from leaving the pitch, so Ona holds up her medal, and does her best attempt at a disarming smile. The guard hesitates, then waves her through with a look that says he's seen stranger things during Champions League finals.

The stairs are steep and narrow, the concrete worn smooth by decades of foot traffic. Ona climbs, her boots leaving smudges of grass and dirt on the steps as she goes, and she can hear the crowd of people still in the stadium noticing her passage. A ripple of recognition follows her upward, phones rising and voices calling her name.

She keeps her eyes forward. She’ll look back on this and realise she stupidly wasn’t thinking about the cameras or the social media posts that would appear later in the evening.

All she can think about is Lucy, and the way she looks standing in that aisle with the stadium lights catching the highlights in her hair, and the fact that Ona would rather spend this moment in a concrete stairwell than on a pitch full of confetti and her teammates if it means being closer to her.

She emerges into stands and realises Lucy has moved down a bit to meet her in the middle, and now she’s leaning against the railing with her arms crossed and that particular expression on her face that Ona likes to think of as fond exasperation.

A few other spectators are still in the vicinity, an older couple in Barcelona scarves and a group of teenagers who have gone quiet at the sight of a player walking among them, but Lucy has positioned herself slightly apart from them.

"You're not supposed to be up here with me," Lucy says. Her voice is low, barely audible above the noise from the pitch, and there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth even as she tries to look stern.

"I wanted to see you though," Ona says, “want you to come down and celebrate with me."

Lucy laughs, a short, quiet sound, and uncrosses her arms. For a moment they just stand there, close enough to touch but not touching, the space between them charged with the electricity that comes from being apart for weeks and then suddenly together again.

She can’t wait until they’re together all the time and this feeling disappears from her body altogether.

"You were amazing tonight, so good, love," Lucy says, and the words come out rough and full of emotion, "didn’t realise how much I’ve missed seeing you play in person.”

"You’ll get to a lot more soon, cariño," Ona grins, reaching up to push a strand of hair away from her face, and Lucy's hand moves before she can stop it. Her fingers find Ona's hair, pushing it back from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear, and Ona holds still for the touch.

Lucy's fingertips graze her temple, her cheek, the line of her jaw, and there's a tremor in that touch, a barely contained energy, like water pressing against a dam.

"Your hair's a mess, darlin’, needs sorting out,” Lucy murmurs, and she continues to run her hands over the top of Ona’s head, smoothing down.

It’s touching for the sake of touching, but Ona knows watching this match must’ve been hard for Lucy after everything that’s happened for her this season. She knows that Lucy’s trying to ground herself in something she knows, and there’s nothing she knows as well as Ona.

She watches the way Lucy's eyes darken and soften at the same time, the way her breathing shifts, the way her other hand comes up to rest on Ona's shoulder.

"Dios, I’m so warm. Can’t wait to shower,” Ona says, suddenly feeling the sweat that’s sticking her shirt to her skin, and Lucy huffs another laugh.

"Your forehead’s all red and shiny,” Lucy says as her thumb traces a small circle on Ona's shoulder, pressing through the fabric of her shirt, “you did so well tonight though, I’m so proud of you, love.”

Ona bites her lip at the praise. She’s used to receiving texts saying the same thing, but it’s different hearing it from Lucy as she strokes her hair.

"You knows, you could come down, Luce," Ona tries again, softer this time, “at least just for a bit. No one would care, you know they all love you.”

"Darlin’ you know I’d love to,” Lucy's voice is gentle but firm, “ but there are cameras everywhere. And that lot,” she nods toward the lingering spectators, the teenagers who are very obviously trying to pretend they're not watching, the phones that have remained raised.

“They've already seen you come up here. If I walk down onto that pitch with you, it'll be everywhere, you know how it is."

Ona does know. She knows the way a single photograph can spiral into a story, the way a moment of unguarded joy can be dissected and analyzed and turned into something public and consumable.

She knows because they've spent three years learning how to avoid exactly that, building their life in the margins, in the spaces between the spotlight's sweep. And most of the time, she doesn't mind. Most of the time, the secrecy feels like a form of intimacy, a language only they speak, a wall they've built together brick by brick.

But right now, standing here with Lucy's hands in her hair and Lucy's warmth close enough to feel, she finally cares. She cares about the distance that still exists even when they're standing right next to each other. She cares that they have to have this conversation in whispers even though she’s just won one of the biggest competitions of her life.

"I missed you," Ona says, and the words come out smaller than she intends, stripped of the defiance she'd wanted to put behind them.

Lucy's hands still. For a heartbeat, two heartbeats, three, the noise of the stadium fades until all Ona can hear is her own pulse and the distant echo of the crowd. Then Lucy exhales, a long, slow breath that seems to empty her of something she's been holding, and her hands resume their movement, smoothing Ona's hair, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her gently closer.

"I missed you too, love," Lucy says, and this time there's no attempt at casualness. The words are raw and unadorned, and they land in the space between them like something sacred. "Every minute, every match I couldn’t be at, every time I couldn't be there for you, couldn't—" She stops, swallows, starts again. "I'm so proud of you, Ona. You have no idea."

Ona's throat tightens. She thinks about Eindhoven, about sitting in those stands with her heart in her mouth, about wanting nothing more than to be on that pitch with Lucy, to share in the victory or the defeat or whatever came.

She thinks about all the facetimes that had to be ended at the worst moments, all the matches they've played on opposite ends of the continent, some of them against each other, all the nights spent alone in hotel rooms staring at a screen.

She thinks about how Lucy's voice sounds at one in the morning when she's lost a match and doesn't want to talk but calls her anyway, just to hear another person breathe on the other end of the line.

"I think I might have some idea, mi vida," Ona says, and her voice cracks on the last word, and Lucy makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be something else entirely.

"Yeah,” Lucy's thumbs trace the line of Ona's jaw, tilting her face up, “yeah, I suppose you do."

The kiss, when it comes, is quick, but it says everything it needs to. Lucy leans down and presses her lips to Ona's with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt. The world narrows to the pressure of Lucy's mouth, the warmth of her hands, the scent of her skin beneath her perfume and for a moment there is nothing else.

Not the stadium, not the crowd, not the cameras. Just this and them, how it was always meant to be.

When they part, Lucy looks at her with a smile and Ona can feel her pulse hammering in the wrist pressed against her neck. The noise of the stadium rushes back in, the distant music and murmur of the lingering spectators.

Ona opens her eyes and sees Lucy's face inches from hers, her careful composure cracked wide open, and she thinks, this has been worth every secret. Every stolen weekend. Every lonely night.

"They definitely saw that," Lucy says, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she presses closer, her arms winding around Ona's shoulders tighter.

"Sí, probablemente," Ona's hands find the back of Lucy's neck, her fingers finding the collar of her jacket, “do you care?"

Lucy is quiet for a moment. Then she lifts her head and looks at Ona, and there's something in her expression that Ona has never seen before. It’s a kind of fierce, defiant tenderness, completely different from the way she typically presents herself to the world.

"Ask me again tomorrow," Lucy says, laughing as her hands find the railing again, steadying herself.

Ona stops thinking then about anything except the the way she feels right here right now with Lucy. She wants to ingrain into her brain the way the late Oslo light is catching the gold of her medal and the green of Lucy's eyes and the impossible, improbable fact that they are here, together, in this moment, and nothing else matters.

"I can’t believe we just did that," she says, tucking herself into Lucy’s shoulder and hiding her face from the crowd. Lucy grins at her words, that wide, unguarded grin that Ona tells her could light up a room.

"You just won your second Champions League and you’re choosing to be up here with me instead of celebrating," Lucy points out, “what am I supposed to do?”

"I had to come up and see you," Ona says, and their soft laughter fades into something quieter for a moment, “needed to see you properly. But I want you to come down with me, please Lucía.”

Lucy's expression softens. She reaches up and strokes the tops of Ona’s ears, a habit born from years of listening to Ona complain about them. "I know," she says. "I know, angel."

The endearment lands like a touch, and Ona leans into it, into the warmth of Lucy's hand against her cheek, into the sound of a word that Lucy only uses when they're alone, that’s only for her ears.

And the stadium lights are bright and the crowd is still there and somewhere, in a thousand phones and a thousand cameras, this moment is being captured and preserved and transformed into something public, something that will exist beyond the two of them.

But right now, in this bit of the stadium, with Lucy's arms around her and Lucy's heart beating against hers, Ona cannot bring herself to care.

"Go on, your team's waiting for you," Lucy says eventually, nodding toward the pitch where the Barcelona players have started taking pictures with each other and their families, “you should be down there with them."

"Only if you come down with me," Ona says, and she means it with every cell of her aching, sweating, triumphant body.

Lucy smiles, and it's the kind of smile that Ona wants to memorise, to keep, to pull out on the nights when the distance feels unbearable and the time zones conspire against them and the only thing she can do is stare at the ceiling and count the hours until she'll see Lucy again.

"Okay," Lucy says, and she shifts slightly, “but only if Joan and your mum and dad are gonna be there too, I don’t wanna draw too much attention to myself.”

“Sí claro, they’ll be down there with you. I think they’re sitting over there,” Ona says, pointing to a different section of the stand. Lucy follows her hand and is able to make out the shape of her parents and brother, who is gesturing wildly at the pitch.

Lucy considers for a while, looking between Ona and the pitch, and eventually says, “ah fuck it, let’s go.”

They decide to be a bit more professional this time, opting to walk down the stairs on the inside of the stadium to get down to the pitch rather than climbing back down the stands.

There are fans lining the tunnel when they finally emerge at the touchline, and Lucy absentmindedly sticks her hand out towards them when she hears her name. She doesn’t really look towards them, paying more attention to following Ona as they walk towards the celebrations.

At some point they’re met by Ona’s parents and Joan, who greet Lucy like she’s their own daughter, hugging her tight and telling her they’ve missed her.

Ona watches Lucy chatting to her mum in a mixture of Spanish and broken Catalan and something in her chest clenches at the sight. Lucy catches her eye, smiling widely as she continues to speak.

The obligatory photos with her family and teammates are taken on the pitch in a bit of a blur. Ona grins as she stands between her parents, their arms around her, and then with Joan, who nudges her and tells her he’s proud of her.

It’s bittersweet, though, her family being here to witness this win. It’ll be her last one with Barcelona, the last one playing in colours that her family have supported their entire lives. Over the past few months, she’s felt a little guilty about leaving them all behind having fought so hard to return for them barely three years ago.

She looks over at her team, the one she’s been through the highest of highs and the lowest of lows with, and then at Lucy.

This time when she looks at her she doesn’t feel guilty though, in fact she doesn’t see just Lucy. She sees their lives intertwined again, Lucy’s socks mixed with hers in the laundry basket, Coco and Narla fighting for space on the sofa in their flat.

And it’s blurry, but she sees Lucy a little older, holding the hands of two small children with dark hair and green eyes, the same ones she sees more and more frequently in her dreams these days.

They’re all watching her from stands just like these, wearing shirts with her name, their name, on the backs.

She knows she’s made the right choice then.

⸻

The hotel room door clicks shut behind them, and the muffled bass from the afterparty three floors down fades to nothing.

Lucy leans against the doorframe, watching Ona take out her earrings and drop them onto the dresser. The medal catches the lamplight, gold and heavy against Ona's collarbone where it still hangs from its ribbon.

The straps of Ona’s top cling to the slight sheen of sweat on her chest, the aftermath of hours spent celebrating on a crowded dance floor. Lucy's gaze trails over her, the loose strands of hair that have fallen from the bun she’d put them in earlier, the smudge of mascara beneath her eyes, the flush that sits high on her cheekbones.

She looks beautiful and wrecked all at once, Lucy thinks. She looks like someone who has just lived through one of the best nights of her life.

Lucy can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than Ona does.

Ona reaches for the clasp that sits against the back of her neck, but Lucy crosses the room in two strides and her fingers close over Ona's, stilling them.

"Let me do that."

Ona's hands fall to her sides and she turns away from the mirror, presenting her back to Lucy. She opens the clasp swiftly with one hand, revealing the tan lines on Ona’s back and the delicate points of her shoulder blades.

Lucy parts the fabric, slides it off Ona's shoulders, and it pools at her feet like spilled wine. Ona doesn’t move, she waits to see what Lucy’s going to do next.

She doesn’t have to wonder for very long, as she feels Lucy’s fingers tracing over her hips through her trousers gently until they reach the zip.

It’s pulled down slowly, so slowly that Ona can hear the individual teeth parting. She can feel Lucy’s breath on her neck, just below her earlobe.

When she steps out of them, she’s left standing there in underwear the color of midnight, the medal still resting against her chest. Lucy's fingertips trace the ribbon where it curves around Ona's neck, then follow it down to the disc of gold itself.

She lifts it over Ona's head carefully, sets it on the dresser beside her bracelets. The metal is warm from Ona's skin, and Lucy lets her thumb rest against it for a moment before letting go.

"You were amazing today darlin’, always so proud of you,” she says, her voice low smooth as honey.

Ona's breath catches. Lucy's hands settle on her waist, thumbs drawing slow circles against the bare skin above her hipbones. She presses her lips to the top of Ona's spine, then to the vertebra below it, working her way down with patient reverence.

Each kiss lands softly but deliberately, with no rush or urgency, just the steady worship of a body that has earned every moment of tenderness it receives.

"Lucía," Ona begins, but no words will form to follow it.

"Shh." Another kiss, lower now, at the small of her back. "Let me."

The clasp of Ona's bra gives way under Lucy's practiced fingers. She slides the straps down, following each inch of newly revealed skin with her mouth; the ridge of Ona's shoulder blade, the soft dip beneath it, the warm curve of her side.

Ona shivers when Lucy's lips brush the sensitive spot just above her waistband, and Lucy smiles against her skin, pleased at getting the reaction she always does.

"You worked so hard for this, didn’t you, sweets," Lucy hooks her thumbs under the elastic of Ona's underwear, tugs downward. The fabric slides over her hips, down her thighs, and Ona steps out of it, kicking it aside. "Every training session, every early morning and late finish. It was all worth it for this, wasn’t it?"

Ona turns then, and Lucy sees the sheen in her eyes, the slight tremor in her jaw. She cups Ona's face in both hands, kisses the corner of her mouth, the bow of her upper lip, the soft swell of her lower one.

She guides Ona backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sits, looking up at Lucy with an expression that makes Lucy's chest ache.

Lucy kneels in front of her. She lifts Ona's left foot, presses her lips to the inside of her ankle, then higher to her calf, the back of her knee, the tender skin of her inner thigh. Ona's fingers find Lucy's hair, tangling there but not pulling, just holding. The touch grounds them both a little in the heat of the moment, much like it did in the stands earlier.

"You deserve this more than anyone," Lucy switches to Ona's right leg, starting again at the ankle, “every second of it."

"Lucy, por favor,” she sighs, head tipping back.

"Please what, love?" She's teasing now, nipping at the crease where thigh meets hip, breathing hot against Ona's skin. Lucy thinks the scent of her is intoxicating, like perfume and sweat and something heady underneath that’s only for her.

Ona's grip tightens in her hair, “tócame, por favor, te necesito."

Lucy rises at her words and strips off her own clothes with much less ceremony, her top is pulled over her head, her jeans shoved down and underwear discarded in a heap. She crawls onto the bed, pushing Ona back against the pillows, covering her body with her own.

The contact makes them both gasp. They’re pressed skin to skin now, the heat between them building like a slow fire. Lucy braces herself on one elbow, her free hand tracing the line of Ona's jaw, the column of her throat, the dip between her collarbones.

Ona's nipples press against her own, hard and insistent, and the feeling sends a pulse of arousal straight to Lucy's core.

"You're so beautiful," She kisses Ona's throat, feels the pulse there, quick and insistent, "so fucking beautiful, can’t believe you’re mine."

Ona's hands slide up Lucy's back, nails dragging lightly over her muscles. She pulls Lucy down into a proper kiss, deep and hungry, their tongues sliding together, breath mingling.

When Lucy finally breaks the kiss, she trails her lips down Ona's neck to her chest. She takes her time here, mapping the skin she knows so well, the faint scar below Ona's left breast, the mole just above her right, the way her breath hitches when Lucy's mouth finds her nipple.

She circles it with her tongue almost painfully slowly, then draws it between her lips, sucking gently.

Ona arches off the bed, her fingers clutching at Lucy's shoulders as she gasps, “ay, sí, así mismo—“

Lucy's hand drifts lower, over the taut muscles of Ona's stomach and between her thighs. She's wet, slick and ready, and Lucy's fingers glide through that wetness with ease.

She doesn't push inside yet, she just teases, tracing the folds of Ona's pussy, spreading her arousal before circling her clit with the lightest possible touch.

Ona whimpers. Her hips roll, chasing Lucy's fingers, seeking more pressure. Lucy gives it for a moment before pulling back, returning to maddening feather-light strokes. The wet sounds of her fingers moving inside Ona fill the quiet room, the epitome of intimacy, mixing with Ona's ragged breathing.

"Lucía, I swear to God,” she pants against Lucy’s hair.

"What?" Lucy lifts her head from Ona's breast, grins up at her, “tell me what you want."

"You know what I want."

"Yeah I do sweetheart, but I wanna hear you say it anyway.”

Ona's eyes flash. She grabs Lucy's wrist, holds it in place against herself, "hazme el amor, por favor."

Lucy's breath leaves her in a rush. She slides two fingers inside Ona in one smooth stroke, and they both moan, Ona at the stretch and fill, Lucy at the tight, wet heat that grips her fingers like a vice.

The sound Ona makes is raw and desperate, and it sends a jolt of desire straight through Lucy's body.

"I love you," she whispers as she starts to move, slow and deep, pulling out until only her fingertips remain inside, then sinking back in, “love you so much darlin’, you’re so good for me, so pretty for me."

Ona's head falls back against the pillows. Her thighs fall open wider, making room for Lucy between them. Lucy settles into a rhythm, not fast, not slow, but somewhere in between, each thrust deliberate and measured, angled to drag against the spot that makes Ona's breath stutter.

She can feel Ona opening for her, body yielding and welcoming, pussy dripping around her fingers with each stroke.

"You were perfect today." Lucy's mouth finds Ona's throat again, biting gently at the tendon that stands taut beneath the skin.

"When I was watching I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky I am. Can’t believe you chose me, can’t believe I get to see you like this."

Ona's hands fist in the sheets, twisting the white cotton into ropes. Her hips rise to meet Lucy's fingers, grinding against her palm with each thrust. The wetness between her thighs is obscene now, coating Lucy's hand, dripping onto the sheets beneath them.

"And you know I'll always choose you, per sempre,” she says, adding a third finger, stretching Ona wider, and the sound Ona makes is somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

She's close, Lucy can feel it in the way she clenches around her fingers, in the trembling of her thighs, in the desperate pitch of her breathing.

But Lucy slows. She doesn't stop, just reduces the pace, drawing out each stroke until Ona is writhing beneath her, caught on the edge of release. The agony of it shows on Ona's face, her brows drawn together, lips parted, chest heaving.

"Lucía," Ona's voice cracks, “por favor, no puedo, necesito—"

"I know, love,” Lucy says and kisses her, soft and tender, while her fingers continue their unhurried rhythm, "I've got you."

She pulls back just enough to look into Ona's eyes. They're glassy, unfocused, her pupils blown wide with desire. Lucy has never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

Something shifts in her chest, a sudden tightness that has nothing to do with desire at all. She slows her fingers further, then stills them completely, resting inside Ona while her thumb traces idle patterns on her hip.

The room feels different now, and Ona can tell there’s something she wants to say.

“Can I ask you something?"

Ona blinks, some of the haze clearing from her expression. Her body shifts restlessly, adjusting to the pause. “Right now?"

"Yeah, I can’t stop thinking about it."

Ona studies her face for a long moment, then nods, “sí, vale."

Lucy swallows. She doesn’t really know how to ask it, but she feels she has to, especially now, after all of this.

"Do you think you’ll regret it? Leaving Barcelona for Arsenal?"

Ona's brow furrows, “¿qué?"

"To be closer to me, in London," Lucy's voice comes out smaller than she intended, “you could have gone anywhere. Lyon, Bayern, a contract extension at Barça. Literally anywhere. I feel like you chose Arsenal just for me. And sometimes I wonder if that's—"

"If it's what?" Ona pushes herself up onto her elbows, Lucy's fingers still inside her, the intimacy of the position at odds with the sudden seriousness of the conversation. "If it's a mistake?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to, I know you’re thinking it." Ona reaches up, cups Lucy's face in her hand. Her palm is warm, slightly damp, "mírame."

Lucy looks. Ona's eyes are clear now, fierce in the way they are when they’re arguing and she knows she’s right. The haze of arousal has burned away, replaced by something steely and certain.

"I‘ll never regret it, not for a single second." Ona's thumb strokes Lucy's cheekbone. "I love you more than anything in this world, mi corazón, quiero dártelo todo. You know that."

"But your career—"

"I’ll be right where I need to be," Ona says, and her voice is firm, certain, “this isn't just about you, Lucy. This is about what's right for me and my career. Arsenal is the right choice for both of those things right now."

Lucy searches her face for any trace of doubt, any flicker of uncertainty, but she doesn’t find any. Just the steady gaze of a woman who knows exactly what she wants and has no intention of second-guessing it.

"You're sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything, mi vida,” Ona says, and pulls her down into a kiss, and this one is different from before, it’s less hungry and more grounding.

"T’estimo. I chose Arsenal and I choose you. All of it. Every time."

The tightness in Lucy's chest loosens. She exhales against Ona's mouth, feeling the last of her anxiety dissolve like morning fog. When she starts to move her fingers again, it's slower than before, her pace almost reverent. Each stroke is a benediction, a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice Ona’s made for her.

"T’estimo molt," Lucy whispers. She kisses the corner of Ona's mouth, the hinge of her jaw, the spot behind her ear that always makes her shiver, “I love you, and I'm so proud of you."

Ona's breath catches. Her body arches into Lucy's touch, responsive as a struck chord. Lucy's thumb finds her clit, circles it with just enough pressure to make Ona's thighs tremble. The arousal that had cooled during their conversation floods back, hotter than before, and she pulses around Lucy's fingers.

"I love watching you play, " Lucy's voice is low, rough with emotion, "you’re so strong. Watching you tonight I thought, this is it. This is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with."

Ona makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob, "you’re going to make me cry."

"That's okay, darlin’" Lucy kisses the tear that leaks from the corner of Ona's eye, tastes the salt of it on her tongue, "I've got you."

She increases the pace slightly, her fingers curling inside Ona to find that spot, the one that makes her see stars. Ona's hips buck, her hands scrabbling at Lucy's back, nails leaving red lines across her shoulder blades.

The pleasure builds in layers now, each thrust adding to the last, each brush of Lucy's thumb against her clit sending sparks cascading through her body.

"Dios, Lucía, me voy a—"

"I know." Lucy's mouth finds Ona's nipple again, tongues it in time with the rhythm of her fingers, “want you to come for me on my fingers, so pretty for me.”

Ona's orgasm builds like a wave, it’s slow at first, then gathers speed and power until it crashes over her. Her whole body goes rigid, her pussy clenching around Lucy's fingers, her mouth open in a silent cry. Lucy holds her through it, never stopping the movement of her hand, drawing out every last tremor until Ona goes limp beneath her.

The aftershocks ripple through her in diminishing waves, each one accompanied by a small, breathless sound that Lucy swallows with a kiss.

She withdraws her fingers slowly, gently, and brings them to her lips to taste Ona on her skin. Ona watches through half-lidded eyes, her chest still heaving, a lazy smile curving her lips.

"Vine aquí." Ona reaches for her, and Lucy goes willingly, settling into the curve of Ona's body. They lie facing each other, noses almost touching, sharing the same warm air. Lucy can feel Ona's heartbeat gradually slowing against her own chest, the sweat cooling on their skin, the satisfied heaviness in their limbs.

Lucy traces the line of Ona's jaw with her fingertip, and whispers, “I love you so much, Ona.”

Ona catches Lucy's hand, presses a kiss to her palm, “I love you too."

They stay like that for a while, tangled together in the rumpled sheets, the medal gleaming gold on the dresser across the room. Ona shifts, pressing closer. Her hand slides down Lucy's side and then back up, the back of her knuckles brushing over Lucy’s nipple gently. Lucy’s eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and she exhales shakily.

Lucy’s tits have always been a weakness of Ona’s, she can’t seem to help herself whenever an opportunity to touch them presents itself. There’s just something about seeing Lucy so lost in pleasure that makes Ona more wet than anything else. She likes to see how long she can make Lucy wait as she sucks and touches her nipples before she’s begging for more.

But as much as Lucy would love for Ona to do that tonight, they’re both exhausted and have to be awake at a stupidly early time tomorrow.

"Not tonight, love" Lucy catches her hand, brings it back up to her lips, “tonight’s about you."

Ona opens her mouth to argue, but Lucy silences her with a kiss, soft and lingering, full of all the things she can't quite put into words. The argument dissolves into a sigh, and Ona melts against her, boneless and content.

"Rest," she murmurs against Ona's lips, “you've earned it."

Ona's eyes flutter closed. Her breathing slows and deepens. The tension that had been holding her upright since the final whistle, since long before that, maybe, since the first day of preseason when the dream of tonight was still just a distant possibility, finally releases its grip.

She goes soft in Lucy's arms, pliant and trusting in a way she allows herself to be with no one else.

But just before she drifts off, she mumbles something that makes Lucy's heart clench, “quédate conmigo.”

"Always," Lucy presses a kiss to Ona's forehead, pulls the duvet up over their tangled bodies, "I'm not going anywhere, darlin’."