Summary : After moving to Madrid as Real Madrid's new photographer, Nicky canât seem to take her eyes off the pretty face Misa RodrĂguez. But how will she handle her growing desire for the Canarian goalkeeper when her contract strictly forbids dating players?
WC: I don't know, way too much
TW: at some point angst, smut +18, but still a lot of fluff
PS: French writer / I wrote this story during the 23/24 season, that explained some of the players are not in the team anymore. Anyway, it's a parallel univers so I do what I want.
Chapter 1Â âșÂ A harder job than I thought
Chapter 2Â âș Clearly on a bad slope
Chapter 3 âș Calmly panicking
Chapter 4Â âș Hell Clasico
Chapter 5Â âș Valleys and Peaks
Chapter 6 âș Paris est magique
Chapter 7 âș In the Haze
Chapter 8 âș Confusion and directions
Chapter 9Â âș The same struggle
Chapter 10Â âș A place for words
Chapter 11Â âș Not a cloud in sight
Season 2
Summary: A new season begins for Nicky, the newly promoted photography director of Real Madrid. Navigating her new responsibilities while maintaining her secret relationship with Misa is not easy on a daily basis, especially when the unpredictability of life keeps making things even more complicated.
WC: don't know yet
TW: angst, smut +18, but still a lot of fluff
PS: French writer / this season is based on the real previous season 24/25, with some changes and accommodations
Chapter 12 âș Better and bitter
Chapter 13 âș Dangerous steps
Chapter 14 âș The fall
Chapter 15 âș Broken nights
A Poorly Planned Escape by @skalfy
A Reputation for Good Taste by @skalfy
You Can't Talk No Sh*t Without Penalties (Misa Rodriguez x Marta Cardona) by @copper-16
Just Let Go 1 2 3 4 5 by @girlgenius1111
To the brink by @girlgenius1111
No one speaks to you like that by @girlgenius1111
ibiza holiday, part2 (leila ouahabi & misa rodrĂguez) by @a-pute11as
swipe, like, love, misa x reader by @starrynights-sunnyskies
a clash to keep her by @starrynights-sunnyskies
mine to save by @starrynights-sunnyskies
mine to protect by @starrynights-sunnyskies
One night in Ibiza (Misa RodrĂguez x Hermoso!Reader) by @pitchsidestories
Tough & Hard by @helen-with-an-a
Compliments by @helen-with-an-a
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Starting over In Madrid - Season 2
Reposting because of a bug :( please show it some love
Chapter 16 âș Winter lights
WC: 5K words
TW: angst but not only
NB: I recommend listening Formentera by Aitana which is a recurrent song through the story. Should have said it before.
Summary: A new season begins for Nicky, the newly promoted photography director of Real Madrid. Navigating her new responsibilities while maintaining her secret relationship with Misa is not easy on a daily basis, especially when the unpredictability of life keeps making things even more complicated.
Chapter 12 âș Better and bitter
Chapter 13 âș Dangerous steps
Chapter 14 âș The fall
Chapter 15 âș Broken nights
The words kept ringing in my mind as I navigated through the numerous guests, their eyes locked on the frames, unaware of their author escaping through the hall. I was glad they werenât paying attention to me. I couldnât wait to reach my small private room where Iâd lock myself away for a moment and probably cry. I didnât know how to deal with what Iâd just heard. Even if we had been about to kiss in the elevator just yesterday, hearing those words hit me on another level. I knew now she was suffering, aching like I had been for weeks and it felt impossible to tame my feelings anymore.Â
I felt the pain again, blunt and vivid, the tearing sensation of being deprived of her, of a part of myself being ripped apart. I swallowed to help my throat relax, the burning feeling of tears rising in my weary eyes, I quickened my pace therefore, slaloming between people until I ran into Hayley at the end of the gallery. Unable to compose myself, I froze in front of her, her face mirroring my own panic.Â
âNot hereâ, I cut her off before she even spoke and I waved her to follow me to the small room.Â
âNicky!?â, she called in dismay as soon as I had closed the door.Â
Sadness and exhaustion crept up on me. I leant onto the table and Hayley came to hold me in her arms. I let my head fall against her shoulder, realizing how solitary I was since the break up. I had shut myself from most people, including her, my best friend here in Madrid, when I had tried to pull away from everything related to Misa. Now, her soft patting was showing me how much I missed the comforting presence of a friend at my side.
âI know it hurts Sweetie. Breathe. You are still heartbroken and itâs okey to feel that wayâ Hayley murmured. She didnât sound surprised by my revelation so I deduced she and the goalkeeper had remained close.
âWhen does it stop hurting? Is it that hard for her?â I didnât know why I asked her that, I only knew I had very little control over anything anymore. I could tell Hayley was embarrassed, reluctant to give away her friendâs feelings. However, after a deep sigh, she answered.
âYes, it has been, and itâs still very hard for her. But you know Misa, sheâs buried herself in work so she canât feel anythingâ.Â
I didnât know what to answer. I had done pretty much the same, and had thought it was working, but in the end, dismay was as vivid as the first day now that the emotions were resurfacing. Although now, I knew that it was a shared pain and that changed everything.
Hayley nudged me.
âCome on Nicky, itâs your night, you did an amazing work and everybodyâs proud of you. You should be proud of yourself and enjoy the moment! What can I do to make you feel better⊠maybe we could go dancing? I think Iâm hearing music! âÂ
The energy of the party attracted me. It had been my remedy, but only as a photographer. I hadnât been part of those nights, not really, and I hadnât danced for so long. It felt weird just to think about it and I wasnât sure dancing really appealed to me anymore.
âNicky! Dance and photography, thatâs how we became friend together. Letâs go, girl!â Insisted Hayley.
My first thoughts went to Misa. We had become friend through dance. I remembered our first night at the club in Chueca. I remembered her hips pressing against mine, her strong hold as she conducted our dance, her brown eyes lighting a flame inside my heart.Â
The flame had lasted in our hearts until tonight, I thought, almost choking. That thought pulled me toward the dancehall and toward her, suddenly, and I nodded to Hayley.
âGreat!â The Aussie triumphed without knowing my inner conflict.Â
I followed her back to the gallery. We passed in front of a series of portraits. Face after face scrolled by. The enlarged head of the goalkeeper was among them, her round face in black and white, peering at the horizon, her plump lips bearing the traces of a pout. I remembered when I had taken the shot. She was finishing training and coming back to the locker room, her gloves and a bottle of water in hand. I had followed her and she had turned to an unusual direction with a quick, discreet shove of her head. She had entered a small room. She had pinned me to the wall. I could still feel the taste of her mouth on my tongue right now.Â
We reached the dancing hall when I recalled the way her hand had slipped under my pants. Stars had been dancing, I had cried her name in a whisper, and she had held me close, covering my spent face with kisses. âTe amo, guapa,â she had said.
âSounds good!â Hayley pulled me away from my memories and into the crowd of dancers. I felt awkward in the middle of people having fun, my brain clouded by the memory, the ghostlike feel of Misa making my limbs stiff. I was taken aback, standing still among the moving bodies.
Hayley took my hands gently, âSweetie, let go.â
She moved slowly, and I tried to follow just as Maelle and Teresa spotted us. They looked so cheerful, so alive, when they joined us. How great it had to be to feel that way! Maybe if I moved with an equal dedication I would taste their joy. I had never given it a try at the club because nobody had been expecting me to do so. Here it was different. I was the focus of attention. Like Maelle and Teresaâs intrigued glances suggested, I was supposed to look happy and accomplished, not lost in melancholy, wiggling weirdly on the dance floor.
Something in my brain snapped, wrecked from trying and failing to fake it. My moves got loose. Fuck them! I was going to dance if that was what everybody wanted! They were all waiting for the photographer of the night to enjoy herself. They were going to have it.
So, suddenly, I danced for real. I smiled, I laughed, I set my mind free. I wasnât Nicky anymore. I was a photographer on her opening night, celebrating how she was supposed to. The dance floor was becoming crowded and the music louder. It was perfect. Perfect to move along the rhythm and to forget anything else. Misa didnât exist, I had never met her. I danced and danced, every time more wildly, becoming one with the fake happy woman wearing my face. Hayley was smiling broadly, buying the lie I had crafted for everyone, including myself. The bar was full of partiers waiting for their drinks. I could do with a drink too. It would be a nice reward for having gotten rid of her. Misa was nobody, no one. Why would I feel sad if I was not in love? And if she didnât exist, why was she sitting on a stool at the bar? Why was she looking at her phone instead of dancing at a party? Why was my heart aching again like somebody had just punched me in the stomach? Why, if I wasnât in love?Â
There was a wave of swirling dancers and the goalkeeper was out of view. I tried to refocus on the dance and on my mascarade but I couldnât. The impostor was gone, the mask with it. I wanted to find her again. The music changed and the tall persons who were blocking my view walked away. Instantly I stretched my neck, looking for the stool where she had been seated on and found it empty. I couldnât help but pray she hadnât gone home. My brain had switched completely once again, driven by an urge to see her as our group was pushed further at the center of the dance floor. And among the waves of moving heads, was her face. She was dancing with Caroline and Signey, looking sightly absorbed by the songâs rhythm. My heart tightened as I realized I felt relieved to see her having fun with her friends. What was going on with me? I couldnât let myself fall for the goalkeeper after all my efforts to keep my distance! But how could I stay away from her knowing her feelings for me were intact? Maybe that was the reason why I didnât step back when the crowd pushed our little group closer to hers and when, inevitably, the two groups started to merge into one.Â
From the opposite side of the dance circle, Misa took a few seconds to realize I was there. She looked down, embarrassed, her dance suddenly timid. My moves got tensed too, like I had become conscious of every muscle in my body. I tried to relax to blend in with the other girlsâ casual dance but the goalieâs presence inside the dance circle was swallowing everything else. Fortunately, nobody cared about us. Time had passed and with nothing to feed it, it was long since the misacertijo had been forgotten. The players seemed to have totally forgotten their past assumptions. They didnât notice how we kept glancing at each other, swift and shy, and nobody noticed when we locked eyes as a new song began, its first notes connecting our two minds right away.Â
Porque desde que estĂĄs aquĂ
AquĂ cerca de mĂ
Que tĂș eres mi baby
Ese recuerdo de tenerte sin ropa
Memories linked our bodies, a string between us, a beam of sorrow.Â
A wild dance beside a pool.Â
Delicate hands healing a wound.
New movements of the crowd made us break our eye contact, people were having their ways through our circle and our group dissolved in the mass of dancers. For a moment, I was lost in the sea of faceless people, their joy and energy repelling me suddenly. My constant fight against my feelings was wearing me down to the bone. I knew it was time to go out to smoke to avoid another mental breakdown. With any luck, a cigarette would grant me the blank, numbed mind I needed so much.Â
My arms carved a path between moving bodies, some of them huddled together. I shouldered my way a few more feet, the edge of the dance floor in sight. A perfume reached my nostrils, sweet and floral. A head turned around, its dark brown dyed hair swirling, spreading the suffocating scent all around. And her beautiful face was there, right in front of me.Â
We locked eyes again, the string between us back and stretched to the maximum as her longing froze my body onto the spot. At that moment, all I could think of was how insanely attractive she was.
Porque desde que estĂĄs aquĂ
AquĂ cerca de mĂ
Que tĂș eres mi baby
Ese recuerdo de tenerte sin ropa
My brain recomposed her soft and slender voice singing in place of Aitana, and I pictured her taking care of my wounds, lying on her sofa. Her concentrated features merged with the troubled ones standing in front of me and a foolish force pulled my body forward, surprising the goalkeeper who opened her eyes wide, her confusion showing more as I placed my hand onto her arm. I realized she was looking, astonished, at the bracelet attached to my wrist.Â
I withdrew my hand immediately but my gaze rested hesitantly on hers. I didnât know why I had done so, I only knew I could not stand to see her in pain. Misa was frozen too, unblinking, her chest rising up and down faster as I opened my mouth, wishing, willing to find the right words to say. Because of what I had eavesdropped, I knew something she didnât and I wanted to fix that, to make things fair. I wanted to let her know that I shared that pain, that she wasnât alone, and that if I could, I would give anything to take both of our pain away. But keeping her bracelet had already proved that and I fell short of what else I could come up with.Â
I hadnât had time to say anything. Somebody jostled me rather roughly and I plunged forward right against the young goalie. Strong arms took me, wrapping themselves around me as I regained my balance. More people pushed around us, trying to exit the dance floor, and Misa had no choice but to hold me against her, our faces barely inches away from each other.Â
The feel of her embrace shrouded me, overwhelming. I was in the elevator again but I had no panic attack this time, drowning in her perfume, aware of her cheek brushing mine as I stayed pressed against her hard muscular body. My arms were folded between our chests, my hands closed in two fists. Misa was barely moving, unfailing at protecting me from the movements of the crowd.Â
A few seconds later, people had stopped swirling in every direction and had settled in tight groups, giving us back some space. However, I was once again unable to stop breathing in that intoxicated scent of her and leave the powerful and reassuring hold of her arms.
Not now. One more second, please. Just one.Â
Another one. To lose myself in it, in her.Â
To forget.Â
We broke up.Â
The thought of us stabbed me like a knife, sharp and piercing, and I pulled back suddenly but only to fall into her lost eyes. I was taller because of the hills and my glance unusually leveled with hers, suspended. Her face was so damned beautiful, she had put light make up on, her smoky eyes enhancing her gaze which was already so intense. Resting on her chest, my fists unfolded and lay flat on the skin of her neckline, moist under my palms. She had loosened her grasp but had not let me go completely. Anyway, it was those brown almond-shaped eyes that were ensnaring me as they begged me to stay here. The pulled string had now shrunk to inches in a perfect horizontal line, thin but strong, almost vibrant. I could cross those inches to kiss her now, as her lips were inviting me, waiting, trembling, to do so.Â
I was loosing it. All of it. My entire being driven toward her and her only. All the feelings I had for her were spurting madly from where I had locked them down two months ago in a hurricane of overwhelming emotions.
No! No, I couldnât go all over again! I couldnât handle it! I was not going to fall for it another time! She had dumped me! She had broke my heart! I had make it there, at Real Madrid, without her! It had been too hard to come to where I was now, able to feel little joys, little success, barely able to bear the loneliness that crushed me every night.
The string broke apart.
I tore myself from her arms and fled through the crowd, not looking back as excruciating pain choked me. I pushed people more roughly than before. I needed to get out of here desperately and to bury my feelings for her back deep down. I had to beat them down, to destroy them so they could never escape again. Once for good.Â
I finally reached the edge of the dance floor and rushed to my room to take my stuff. It was too risky to stay here another minute. I felt more lost than ever, diving back into my feelings as I packed my things into a backpack and headed back toward the main entrance. I escaped the building. Tension eased as soon as I was outside, but I paused a few feet away from the door, the need to smoke urgent.Â
I dropped my bag and exhaled deeply. I didnât know how to handle my emotions anymore. My heart was about to explode, wrecked with pain. It was freezing cold tonight, the longest night of the year, and my breath let out puffs of steam as I took another deep breath to calm myself down. I leaned onto the wall, pulled out a cigarette and put it between my lips. I lit it up, the first drag appeasing me a little more, helping me to clear my burned-out brain. I made a promise to myself. I wasnât going to spoil everything I had worked so hard to build because of Misa. I would make sure I would never be that close to the Canarian goalkeeper again. Never.Â
I heavily breathed out smoke, the sound of music suddenly louder with somebody going out. I brought the cigarette back to my mouth, wishing nobody would find me there no matter who they were. âDamned it!â I muttered under my breath as a shadow stretched toward me. I took out my phone, the cigarette hanging from my mouth, a clear message to signal whoever was here that I wasnât keen to talk.Â
The sound of footsteps got clearer with the shadow on the floor growing. A silhouette finally appeared around the corner, and I dared to glance up at the tall figure standing a few feet away. My heart leaped. It was Misa and her attitude had changed to the opposite, assured and oozing self-confidence. I peered at her, astonished, as she walked toward me, her pace determined. I knew then she wasnât here by chance. She had been looking for me.Â
Misa faced me, stared at me ostensibly, her eyes locked onto my cigarette with a hard frown. She looked furious. Had I offended her by leaving the dance floor? Why had she been looking for me then? To have a fight? To scold me?Â
But she didnât let me have the time to make any more assumptions. Without warning, her fingers ripped the cigarette from my lips, threw it on the floor and crushed it. I gasped, staring back, shocked and outraged. My heart drummed so hard in my chest, its beating went crazy when she took my face in her hands, her hold firm and assured, and crashed her lips onto mine.Â
I let out a first whine of surprise, and a second of release. My brain boiled with dozens of questions, dying one after the other as her lips worked fiercely over mine. Thinking became completely impossible. I couldnât stop her. Worse, my whole being had been wanting this so badly I started to kiss her back without restraint.Â
It felt all brand new and yet extraordinary familiar to make out with her. My hands automatically found their way around her muscular shoulders and up her neck, to the baby hair at her nape. Misaâs taste and the way her lips enfolded mine could not be compared to anything else. Only her plump and full lips could wrapped themselves softly like this, yet demanding, yet commanding and I didnât even fight before I surrendered to them as the tip of her tongue brushed over my lips. I cocked my head to the side and her tongue plunged into my mouth, filling me with a fire I had not felt for weeks. A peaceful haze had me dazzled, like her kiss, the smell of her breath and the feel of her grasp keeping me close were erasing the bruises of my heart, which had lasted far longer than the ones left by my accident.Â
Misaâs mouth finally parted from my lips and she rested her forehead against mine, both of us out of breath, the puffs of steam dancing around our faces in the cold night.Â
âHeyâ, I said, closing my eyes to sink a little deeper in our closeness.Â
âHeyâ, she echoed, her breathing shaky. She had gone straight outside and was shivering, freezing in her thin clothes. Â
I leaned back. Misaâs anxious gaze followed mine as if she feared I was going to dismiss her. I simply took off my long coat to put it around her shoulders, before I snuggled up to her and wrapped the cloth around us both.Â
Misa had made my brain crash. I couldnât think, nor could recall why we couldnât be together in the first place. My arms ensnared her torso, pressing her more against me. The goalkeeper buried her nose in my hair, her heavy breathing blowing strongly against the shell of my ear. She hugged me back like crazy. I closed my eyes, wishing to stay like this forever, in that suspended moment. Iâd never allowed myself to dream of something like that, spontaneous and visceral, and I wasnât understanding how we had ended up clumped together, two bodies shaped into one, trembling under a coat, when I had fought so hard to keep my distance from her, only minutes ago. Staying apart required a mental strength I was forced to admit I no longer had.Â
Misa lifted my chin, her soft look swallowing my emotions as my brain vainly tried to reconnect with reason.Â
âNicky⊠Iâ she began.Â
âPlease donât go,â I cut in. Reason had failed.
She gasped. Her lips stretched into a guilty smile.
âShould I take you back inside? Or home?â
âI donât want to go back,â I confessed, reaching out to her face. Extreme fatigue and deep liberation were putting my brain in slow motion. The curious stare of the goalie, waiting for my decision, accompanied me as I took her back in my arms. âIâm already home.â I said.Â
I felt her deep breath.Â
âEsperame. Wait,â she asked, parting from me. Her eyes were shiny and she covered her face as she headed back inside.Â
I stayed there, hovering in an overwhelming mix of emotions, until the young brunette came back, her coat on and her car keys in her hand. She pulled up my bag onto her shoulder and we headed toward the underground parking lot. We climbed inside her car, taking a minute or so to warm up inside the vehicle, before the goalie turned on the engine.Â
The drive back to my flat would be quick, only taking a few minutes, but I was back at floating and time stretched strangely into the night. I shot glances at the goalkeeper to make sure I wasnât dreaming. The goalie stayed focused on the road, a discreet smile animating her pretty mouth until we reached home.Â
âAre you alright?â Misa asked, breaking our quietness as she parked in front of the building. Â
âIâm so confusedâŠâ I confessed.
âOh⊠I understand. Iâm dropping you off andâŠâ
âNo,â I cut in, eyes on the windscreen.Â
âI think you should rest. Process whatâs happening.â
Misa placed her hand onto my thigh. The contact was soft and light but it enfolded my whole body and I locked eyes with her.Â
âNo. No, I canât let you go.â I stated, feeling my heart crumble at the thought.
She smiled, frankly, making her dimple pop up on her cheek and freeing something warm like joy from the deepest part of me.
âVale, ya te sigo. Lead the way.â
When we entered the apartment, my confusion had changed into something urgent. I had the ominous feeling Misa would disappear if I turned or blinked, but when she elegantly dropped my stuff on the wooden floor of the entrance and helped me pull off my coat, the fog of quiet bliss settled back around me. Then she faced me, her timid smile replaced by a striking melancholy as she watched me with an intensity that left me breathless.Â
My hands fell onto her nape as I pulled her close. I felt her heavy breathing against my chest, holding in my arms the woman who broke my heart, and also her own, and I shivered when her lips brushed my ear.Â
âI want you backâŠâ she mumbled, so low it was barely audible.
âShhh,â I whispered, eyes closed, sinking a little more into our embrace.Â
I didnât want to talk. No, it was more like I wasnât able to talk about what was happening. I just felt a strange quiet peace, being in her arms, breathing in her sweet perfume as my lips grazed the column of her neck.Â
âEh⊠I just have to tell you Iâm flying to Gran Canaria tomorrow at 10 am. Iâll wake up at six, Iâll try to be quiet,â Misa said.
A soft moan escaped my lips, taken aback by the prospect of her leaving so soon, and I squeezed her a little harder.
âLetâs go to bed then.â I said, hiding my confusion.Â
I released her and headed to the bedroom. I undressed messily, abandoning my clothes onto the floor, and putting on a large T shirt. When I had finished I glanced at Misa, waiting in underwear, nibbling at her lips.
âCan I borrow something to wear for the night ?â She asked, embarrassed.Â
âYepâ I replied, biting my lips as well as I opened the cupboard. I knew I still had the few clothes she had left. I didnât rummage in it for long before finding one of her T-shirts. âHere, youâre lucky. Iâve never liked this one, it got very close to ending up in the trash bin,â I said, throwing her a cream oversized printed T shirt.Â
âWhat? But itâs a Scuffers!â Misa took offense.Â
As she put the improvised pyjamas on, I couldnât help but think how badly I had missed her whole, unbearable personality. But I was in no state of showing it. I was still floating in another world. Shrouded by her presence, I took her hand nevertheless, in need of a constant physical contact, and dragged her to the bathroom.
âIâm sorry but your toothbrush didnât survive, hereâs a new oneâ I indicated.
The young goalie sized up the brush and wet it under the tap.Â
âThatâs far more acceptable than the Scuffers T shirtâ she mumbled, her mouth full of toothpaste.
I stared at us, brushing our teeth, in the mirror reflection. We looked tired, what we both probably were. Misaâs shoulders appeared bigger, the muscle volume nicely filling the T-shirt sleeves. Compared to her, I seemed lost in the fabric of my large pyjamas.Â
Readied for the night, we rejoined each other in bed. I turned off the light, letting the streetlight paint the room with its yellowish tint as we reached out for each other under the duvet. We locked eyes, getting accustomed to the darkness, and slid toward the center of the mattress until there were no inches left between our bodies. Inside of me, a light had been switched on. My hands fell on her face, the skin dry from countless hours of training in the winter wind. My fingers traced the thick shape of her eyebrows, her eyes leaving mine only to blink a few times. I studied her nose, noticed something was missing.Â
âYou took off your nose ring,â I remarked.Â
âSi, I grew tired of taking it off and on.âÂ
âI like your nose. Itâs cute.â
I delicately brushed the spot on her nostril before the tips of my index finger skimmed over her smiling lips. Her mouth relaxed and she held me a little tighter in her arms. My own mouth replaced my fingers playing with her lips. I sunk into the kiss, pressing, pulling, tasting more of Misa in the quietness of the longest night of the year, as a cold moon appeared in the cloudy sky. The room turned bluish with the winter lights, glazing the brunetteâs hair with silver.Â
Our lips parted, an inch or so, just enough to drink in each otherâs gaze.Â
âI canât stop loving you.â I confessed.Â
I barely registered the silver flickering in the goalieâs eyes before I nested against her and closed mine.Â
They were right you really did have a goalkeeper obsession.
Word Count 900
Warnings-None
Masterlist
AN- Just reposting old fanfics.
There were many hazards playing forward for the Spanish national team.
But for you, the greatest hazard at Las Rozas was currently wearing oversized neon, diving through the air, and screaming at the top of her lungs.
Actually, there were two of them.
"Youâre staring again."
You jumped slightly, tearing your eyes away from the penalty box. Claudia was standing next to you by the water coolers, arms crossed, looking at you with a deeply judgmental smirk.
"I am analyzing the defense," you lied, taking a sip of your water. "I'm a striker. I have to study the keepersâ weak points."
"You are studying the way Misaâs thighs look in those shorts," Claudia corrected bluntly. "And ten minutes ago, when Cata caught that corner kick with one hand.Itâs embarrassing, YN."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Claudia snorted. "Please. Itâs the worst kept secret in the squad. You are an absolute embarrassment around the Number 1s. Broad shoulders, crazy reflexes, loud voices... you have a type. A very specific, unhinged type."
You opened your mouth to argue, but at that exact moment, the whistle blew to signal the end of the shooting drill.
Over in the six-yard box, Misa popped up from the grass after a spectacular diving save. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and her eyes were blazing with pure adrenaline. She beat her gloved fists against her chest, letting out a loud, triumphant shout.
Right next to her, Cata just chuckled. The Barcelona keeper casually caught a stray ball on her chest, bounced it off her knee, and caught it in her gloved hands with effortlessly.
Both of them turned their heads. And both of them locked eyes directly on you.
You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very overheated.
Claudia patted your shoulder sympathetically. "Good luck surviving the week"
â â â
Thirty minutes later, the pitch had cleared out. You had volunteered to collect the training cones, mostly to avoid the craziness of the locker room. You hauled the heavy mesh bag of equipment into the dim hallway of the storage room.
You had just dropped the bag onto the floor when a shadow filled the doorway.
"You were holding back on your shots today."
You turned around. Cata was leaning against the doorframe. She was still in her keeper kit, looking incredibly relaxed. She reached up, using her teeth to rip the velcro strap of her right glove open. The completely effortless action sent a hot spike of electricity straight to your core.
"I wasn't holding back, Cata," you said, your voice betraying you by coming out slightly breathless. "I was just trying to place them."
"Mhm," Cata smirked, pulling the glove off and tossing it onto a shelf. She took a slow step into the equipment room, closing the distance between you. "I think you were distracted. You kept looking at my hands instead of the ball."
"I was notâ"
"Is she bothering you, chica?"
A second, much sharper voice cut through the air.
You looked past Cata. Misa had just walked in and she looked like she was ready to go to war. Her eyes snapped from you to Cata, instantly flaring with that intense, territorial rivalry that defined El ClĂĄsico.
Cata didn't even flinch. She just threw a lazy glance over her shoulder. "We were just talking about my save percentage, Misa. You know, the one thatâs higher than yours."
Misaâs jaw locked. She stepped fully into the small room. "Your save percentage only looks good because your defense does all the work. When itâs one-on-one, she knows who the real wall is."
Misa didn't stop walking until she was standing right beside you. She reached out her hand wrapping securely around your upper arm, pulling you a half-step closer to her side. The heat radiating off her was intoxicating.
"Don't let the Barcelona ego bore you, YN," Misa says, her voice dropping low her eyes looking down at you with possessiveness. "Si quieres un verdadero desafĂo, ven a entrenar conmigo." (If you want a real challenge, come train with me.)
Cataâs easygoing smirk vanished, replaced by competitiveness.She stepped forward, effectively boxing you in between the wall and the two women.
Cata reached out with her bare hand, her long fingers gently catching your chin, tilting your face toward her.
"No le hagas caso," (Don't listen to her) Cata whispered, her thumb brushing slowly over your lower lip. She leaned in closer. *"You don't want a goalkeeper who just yells all day. You want someone who knows how to handle things... with their hands."*
Misaâs grip on your arm tightened instantly. She leaned down on your other side, her breath hot against the shell of your ear.
"I can show you exactly what my hands can do," Misa growled, the raw, unfiltered hunger in her voice making your knees actually buckle a fraction of an inch. "I promise you won't be thinking about her when I'm done with you."
You were completely trapped.
To your left was Misa, intense, passionate, and dominant, staring a hole into the side of your head. To your right was Cata, reckless, arrogant, and radiating confidence, her thumb still resting on your jawline.
Both of them were looking at you, waiting for you to make a choice. The air in the tiny equipment room was thick with tension.
You looked back and forth between the two keepers, your heart pounding.You literally couldn't speak.
They were right,you thought dizzily, your back hitting the metal shelving as Misa and Cata stepped even closer, completely caging you in.You really did have a goalkeeper obsession.
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If you would of made a list of all your guesses of what your girlfriend would have got you for your birthday a concussion wouldn't have been one of them.
Word Count 1.2k
Masterlist
đ Birthday Special Masterlist đ
If you had made a list of all your guesses of what your girlfriend would get you for your birthday, a concussion wouldn't have been on it.
You had guessed a watch. You had guessed a surprise trip to the Canary Islands. You even briefly entertained the idea that she might have bought you a puppy.
But a football directly to the forehead at forty miles an hour? That wasn't on the bingo card.
It was supposed to be a relaxing Saturday afternoon. You had gone with Misa to a private pitch because she claimed she wanted to "film a cute birthday video" for your Instagram. The concept was simple Misa was going to hit one of her long range distribution passes right to you. You were supposed to catch it, smile at the camera, and it would be adorable.
The flaw in the plan was that Misa only operated at one speed 110 percent.
"Okay, ready?!" Misa had yelled from forty yards away, bouncing on her toes, her goalie gloves strapped on tight.
"Ready!" you shouted back, holding your hands up. "Nice and easy, Misa!"
"I got you Catch!"
Misa dropped the ball from her hands and swung her right leg through it with the power of a woman trying to clear her lines in the 90th minute of El ClĂĄsico.
The ball sounded like a missile.
You froze. Your brain registered that the ball was coming directly at your face, but your reflexes were nowhere near fast enough to raise your hands in time.
*THWACK.*
The world exploded into a burst of white light as you hit the grass flat on your back.
The last thing you heard before your ears started ringing was a terrified yell from across the pitch.
"JODER! YN!"
â â â
"Please don't be dead. Please, please, por favor, look at me, baby, open your eyes."
You groaned, your eyelids fluttering. The pounding in your skull was unbearable.
You opened your eyes to find Misa hovering directly over you. She looked completely unhinged. She had ripped her gloves off and tossed them on the ground. Her hands were touching your face,and her eyes were wide with panic.
"Misa," you mumbled, wincing as the sunlight hit your retinas. "
"I'm so sorry," she babbled rapidly,her voice full of panic. "Soy una idiota. Soy la peor novia del mundo.I hit it too hard. Oh my god, I gave you brain damage on your birthday."
"I think Iâm okay," you lied weakly, trying to sit up. The world tilted slightly to the left. "Nope. Never mind. The earth is spinning."
"Don't move!" Misa commanded, as she gently pushed your shoulders back down into the grass. "I am carrying you to the car. I am taking you to the hospital. If you forget who I am, I will never forgive myself."
"I know who you are, babe," you sighed, reaching up to rub your throbbing forehead. "You're the woman who just tried to assassinate me."
"It was an accident!" Misa whined, carefully scooping her arms under your knees and your back. With effortless strength, she lifted you off the grass. "I just wanted the pass to look cool on camera!"
"Well," you muttered, resting your aching head against her shoulder as she speed walked toward her car. "I'm sure the footage is hilarious."
ââ â â
Three hours, one hospital visit, and a diagnosis of a "mild concussion" later, you were lying on the sofa in your shared apartment.
The blinds were drawn tight to keep the light out. You had an ice pack on your forehead.
Misa was treating you like you were made of glass.The competitive, loud, aggressive goalkeeper had vanished, replaced by an incredibly guilty, hovering golden retriever.
"Do you want more water?" Misa asked, appearing in the living room for the fifth time in twenty minutes. She was holding a tray with a glass of water, some ibuprofen, and a bowl of grapes. "Are the grapes too crunchy? Should I peel them?"
"Misa, I have a mild concussion, I didn't lose my teeth," you laughed softly, immediately wincing and holding the ice pack tighter. "Stop hovering. Come sit down."
Misa set the tray on the coffee table and carefully sat on the very edge of the sofa near your feet. She looked at the huge red mark currently on your forehead and visibly cringed, hiding her face in her hands.
"I can't believe I did that," she groaned into her palms. "I ruined your birthday. You're supposed to be drinking champagne right now, and instead, you're icing a hematoma."
"Hey," you reached out, kicking her thigh lightly with your foot. "Come here."
She crawled up the sofa, being ridiculously careful not to jostle the cushions, and lay down beside you. You lifted your arm, and she immediately tucked her head under your chin, wrapping her arm securely but gently around your waist.
"It's fine," you promised. "I mean, it hurts like a bitch, but it's fine. It's a memorable birthday, at least."
"I had a real present for you," Misa mumbled against your collarbone, her voice laced with guilt. "Before I turned you into a human target practice."
"Oh?" you raised an eyebrow, ignoring the throbbing behind your eyes. "Is it a helmet?"
Misa let out a huff of laughter, pinching your side gently. "No seas graciosa." (Don't be funny).
She shifted, reaching into her pocket, and pulled out a small, velvet box. She opened it and held it up so you could see it without moving your head. Inside was a stunning, delicate silver ring with a small, embedded sapphire.
"It's beautiful, Misa," you whispered, genuinely touched.
"I was going to give it to you at dinner tonight," she sighed, taking the ring out and carefully sliding it onto your finger. She brought your hand to her lips, kissing your knuckles softly. "Itâs to promise you that I love you. And to promise that I will never, ever pass you a football again as long as we live."
"I think that's a very solid promise," you smiled, admiring the ring.
Misa shifted closer, her dark eyes looking up at you with heavy, apologetic affection. She leaned in, pressing a incredibly cautious kiss to your lips.
"Happy birthday," she whispered. "I'll make it up to you. I'll be your nurse all weekend. Whatever you want."
"Whatever I want?" you asked, a slow smirk forming on your lips despite the headache.
"Anything."
"Great," you said, closing your eyes and settling back into the pillows. "Because my head really hurts, and I need you to go to the kitchen and peel those grapes for me."
Misa stared at you for a second, realizing you were completely serious.
She let out a heavy, defeated sigh, kissing your cheek before carefully sliding off the sofa. "Yes. Right away."
As she walked to the kitchen, you smiled into the dark room. Concussion aside, having the fiery Real Madrid goalkeeper at your absolute beck and call wasn't the worst birthday present after all.
pairings â misa rodriguez x reader, barca femeni x teammate!reader
word count â 5.5k
summary â you go back to the day you first met real madridâs goalkeeper
notes â this is circa 2016/2017 so a throwback! THIS IS 18+
read more masterlist series masterlist
collab with @maeshoneyles!
You watch as the water in the small pond ripples upon the impact of the rock you skip, relishing in the soft plip-plap echo that reverberates in your ear. It skips once, twice, three times before sinking, and you track each ripple until it disappears completely.
You crouch a little lower at the edge, selecting another stone carefully from the dirt. This one is smoother, making your lips twitch up briefly.
You run your thumb over its rough surface six times. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. You pause for a moment. Seven. Eight.
Your shoulders loosen as you skip it across the water with ease. You watch as it dances longer than the last.
âOye, nena,â a familiar voice draws you out of your trance.
You blink, startled, turning your head just slightly instead of your whole body.
Jenni stands a few feet away, hands on her hips, a crooked grin on her face. Beside her, a few steps back, Alexia finishes a serious-sounding phone call, her brows knitted tight.
âLas rocas van a contraatacar algĂșn dĂa si sigues lanzĂĄndolas,â Jenni teases with grin. [The rocks are going to fight back one day if you keep throwing them.]
You glance back at the pond. âThey donât have arms.â
Jenni snorts. âThatâs not the point.â
Alexia ends her call and strides forward, slipping her phone into her pocket. âÂżDĂłnde estabas?â she demands, worry bleeding into irritation. âWeâve been looking for you. This isnât Barcelona.â
You flinch at her tone, shoulders instinctively tightening. You stand up too quickly and brush invisible dirt off your palms.
âSorry,â you say, quieter than you meant to.
Alexia exhales sharply. âYou canât just disappear.â
âAle,â Jenni cuts in gently, stepping closer to you, âsheâs an adult.â
âShe just turned eighteen!â
âExactly. An adult.â Jenni rolls her eyes before turning to you and offering her hand. âCome on. Itâs almost time to get ready. And if youâre late, Ale will actually combust.â
âI will not combust,â Alexia mutters, though she doesnât deny it fully.
You take Jenniâs hand and let her pull you up the rest of the way, dusting your jeans off in precise strokes. You glance once more at the water before following them.
The three of you walk in silence for a moment, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You keep your eyes on the ground, counting your steps without meaning to. Eight per breathâinhale, exhale.
âWhere did you even find this place?â Jenni asks, bumping her shoulder lightly into yours.
You shrug. âI asked the front desk lady.â
Jenni falters, her smile dropping. âYou asked theââ She turns to Alexia. âWe could have asked her if she had seen you.â
Alexiaâs lips press into a thin line. âWe were too busy worrying.â
âShe was,â Jenni corrects, nudging you playfully. âI was calm. Completely relaxed. Zen, even.â
âYou were not,â Alexia deadpans.
You hum mindlessly at their bickering, the sound low in your throat as you slip into the backseat of the rental car. You sit directly in the middle, despite how uncomfortable it feels. It feels symmetrical that way.
Jenni slides into the driverâs seat. Alexia gets in beside her, twisting slightly to look back at you.
âWhatâs wrong?â Alexia asks quietly now, her voice softened, stripped of its earlier edge.
You look down at your interlinked fingers. You wiggle them slowly, feeling the familiar stretch between your knuckles. You avoid her eyes at first, focusing instead on the seam of the seat in front of you.
âI guess Iâm nervous,â you say. You pause, recalibrating. âI think.â
âYou think?â Jenni echoes gently as she starts the car.
âI donât know,â you admit. âMy stomach feels tight. And my head keeps replaying training. I missed two shots yesterday. One shouldâve been near post.â
Alexia sighs, turning fully in her seat now. âYou scored four.â
You brush it off. âThatâs not the point.â
Jenni glances at you in the rearview mirror. âYou are going to do great,â she says softly. âYou are one of the best forwards Iâve seen developing at this pace.â
You shake your head almost immediately. Your thumb begins tracing the outline of your opposite fingernail. âBut itâs not enough.â
âNot enough for who?â Alexia asks.
âFor⊠for this,â you gesture vaguely. âFor the expectations.â
Alexiaâs jaw tightens. âIt is more than enough, nena.â
You swallow. It doesnât feel like it, you canât help but think.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and the vibration makes you jump slightly. You pull it out to see notifications from the England group chat, but you lock the screen without reading it fully.
Jenni notices, hearing the custom group chat buzz. âTheyâre excited for you.â
âThey expect things,â you reply.
âThey expect you to be good,â Jenni corrects. âBecause you are.â
You look out the window as the hotel comes into view, the building looming taller than you remembered.
âI donât want to mess it up,â you say, barely audible.
Alexiaâs expression softens in a way she rarely allows others to see. âYou will mess up,â she says simply. âEveryone does.â
You blink at her.
âAnd then,â she continues, âyou will fix it. Thatâs what makes you different.â
Jenni nods. âYou train like the world is ending every day. Thatâs why youâre here.â
The car jolts as Jenni pulls into the parking lot, parking quite awfully across the line. She doesnât notice but you stare at the crooked angle.
Jenni turns and pats your knee, pulling you out of your trance. âMira,â she says firmly, making you lift your shiny eyes to meet hers, even though it feels overwhelming. You hold eye contact for three seconds, almost four before you look at her chin instead.
âYou are a generational talent,â she continues. âI know that. Ale knows that. The team knows that. Even the media knows that. Only person that doubts you is you.â
Your throat tightens instantly. Bile rises up your esophagus, leaving a burning trail and a harsh taste in your mouth. Compliments feel like pressure, like a god awful weight you canât shake. You reach for the door handle, ready to escape.
âHey,â Alexia calls gently. You pause but donât look back. âBreathe,â she says.
You inhale for eight counts then exhale for eght counts.
âI am breathing,â you reply quietly.
Jenni sighs as you step out of the car a little too quickly, adjusting your hoodie sleeves over your hands. You smooth your shirt down twice then an extra time when your hands twitched.
Alexia watches you walk toward the hotel entrance, posture straight, shoulders tight.âSheâll understand one day,â Alexia murmurs, resting her hand briefly on Jenniâs arm.
Jenni keeps staring at the space youâd occupied in the backseat, at the perfectly aligned imprint you left behind. âIâm not too sure about that,â she says softly.
Misa sits in her cubby, music booming through the locker room speakers. Someone had connected their phone to the Bluetooth the moment they walked in, and now the bass rattles faintly through the metal benches. Laughter echoes off the wall as boots scrape against tile and tape tears somewhere across the room. But somehow it all fades into the background.
She plays mindlessly with the wraps around her wrists, tightening them, loosening them, smoothing the fabric down with slow, practiced movements. Her fingers are quick, methodical with years of repetition.
Across the room someone shouts about shin guards. Another player complains about the referee from their last match. Someone else starts arguing about whether Barcelonaâs midfield is overrated, but noise blends together for Misa.
âBarcelona today,â Ivana, her captain, speaks up from the cubby beside her. Her voice cuts through the rest of the room easily. âAre you nervous?â
Misa snorts softly, not even looking up. âNever,â she replies without a thought.
Ivana glances at her. âYou didnât even hesitate.â
âWhy would I?â Misa shrugs, still focused on the tape around her wrist. âTheyâre eleven players. Weâre eleven players.â
Ivana hums like sheâs not entirely convinced but doesnât push.
Across the room, someone speaks up. âHave you seen their number eight?â
Several heads lift.
âLa niña?â Ivana clarifies, raising an eyebrow. âThe English one?â
âThatâs the one,â a defender says from the far bench, tying her boots aggressively. âSheâs a beast.â
Another player scoffs immediately. âPlease. Sheâs easy to read,â she claims. âSheâs not as talented as Barça and England want her to be.â
âExactly,â someone else chimes in. âMedia loves a prodigy story. Especially a foreign one.â
âI know, right?â another voice adds, leaning back against the lockers. âI was watching film the other day and sheâs an open book. Makes the same runs. Same body shape before she shoots.â
Misaâs hands pause for a second on the tape. Across the room the conversation keeps rolling.
âAnd sheâs weird,â the defender continues, lowering her voice like sheâs sharing something confidential. âNever celebrates her goals.â
A few girls laugh.
âMaybe she thinks sheâs above it,â someone says. âLike scoring is just expected.â
âOr maybe sheâs trying to look cool,â another teammate shrugs. âYou know⊠mysterious superstar energy.â
Ivana smirks faintly. âYou all sound jealous.â
âJealous?â the defender scoffs. âOf her?â
Ivana just shrugs.
Misa finally lifts her head slightly, her gaze drifting down to the tiled floor between her boots.
Number eight. The English golden girl. Sheâs seen the clips of all the goals. All the slow-motion analysis on sports shows and commentators talking about âvisionâ and âinstinctâ and âgenerational potential.â You are just another privileged, manufactured forward who thinks they run the game. Exactly the type of player Misa despises.
âOye,â Ivana says suddenly, leaning slightly toward her. âWhat are you thinking about?â
Misaâs fingers tighten the tape one last time around her wrist before she presses it flat.
âNumber eight,â she replies simply.
Ivana waits for Misa to continue.
Misa finally looks up, her dark eyes sharp now.
âI want to break her down,â she says calmly. âI will break her down.â
Ivana blinks, momentarily rendered speechless by the quiet certainty in the younger goalkeeperâs voice.
Across the room someone overhears. âAhĂ! ÂĄEse es el espĂritu!â a teammate laughs, walking past and clapping Misa hard on the back. [Thatâs it! Thatâs the spirit!]
Another girl whistles. âCareful, Misa. Sounds personal.â
âItâs not personal,â Misa mutters. âI donât knwi the girl.â
But she doesnât look away from the floor. In her mind sheâs already building the game.
The angle of your runs, your body positioning, your foot preference. Where you look before you shoot, where you donât look.
She wants to win. And if that means crushing youâsome system-made, Barça-built prodigy who the football world keeps crowning before sheâs earned itâso be it.
Her jaw tightens slightly as across the room - staff member calls for them to start warming up.
Boots slam into lockers and jerseys are pulled on, spiking the energy in the room.
Misa pushes herself to her feet slowly, rolling her shoulders once.
âHey,â Ivana says quietly as she stands too. âDonât underestimate her.â
Misa smirks faintly. âI donât underestimate anyone,â she replies.
Then she grabs her gloves. âBut I do enjoy proving people wrong.â
You have an odd pregame routine. It has been the same since you were a kid, with only minimal tweaks over the years.
You sit quietly at your cubby, the stadium noise filtering faintly through the concrete walls. The locker room hums around youâteammates talking, boots knocking against tile, someone laughing too loudly at a joke you didnât quite catch.But you focus on your process.
First, your hair. You pull it back slowly, carefully collecting it into a tight bun before securing it into a slick back. Not a single flyaway is allowed. You smooth the sides with gel again⊠and again⊠then once more for good measure then itâs perfect.
Next come your boots. You place your right boot on first and then your left. But you tie the left boot before the right. You always have. You tried reversing it once when you were thirteen and played terribly that match. Since then, the order has never changed. You tighten the laces firmly, tugging twice on each knot.
After that comes the granola bar, your favorite one. You break it exactly in half. No crumbs scattered and no uneven break. If it is, you have back up ones and Ona usually eats the defects. Half of the bar goes into your mouth while the other half stays wrapped in the foil. You chew slowly, counting each bite without realizing it.
Then you wash it down with orange juiceâpulp, no added sugar. The texture settles your stomach in a way nothing else does.
A few lockers down, Jenni watches you with a fond sort of amusement.
âYouâre eating half again?â she asks.
âYes,â you reply simply.
âYou know you could just eat the whole thing.â
You glance at her. âThat would be incorrect.â
Jenni laughs quietly, shaking her head. âFair enough, nena.â
Next comes the book. You pull it from your bag carefully, sliding the bookmark back one page. One chapter. No more, no less. Your eyes move steadily across the page, absorbing the words even though your brain keeps drifting back to the film youâve watched. When the chapter ends, you close the book immediately.
Finally, you slip your headphones on and scroll to the same song you have listened to before every game since you were eight. Getâcha Head in the Game from High School Musical. You know it is strange, but also know it is necessary.
Your teammates never questioned it. At least not seriously. They cared about one thing: your performance on the field.
And when the whistle blows, routine complete, nerves buzzing under your skin, you jog onto the pitch.
The stadium is loud, bright, and alive. But once the ball starts moving, the world narrows.
You receive the ball just outside the box. For a moment, you have a clear view of the goal.
You swing your leg back and propel it forward, striking the ball cleanly. The instant it leaves your foot, something feels wrong.
You know it. The angle paired with the timing was far too rushed. You just didnât expect it to go straight into Madridâs goalkeeperâs hands.
Across the box, Misa catches it easily, the ball settling securely into her gloves.
Her eyes snap onto your figure immediately. The intensity of her stare is sharp enough that you feel it before you fully process it.
You look up and for a brief moment your eyes meet. Her gaze is unwavering while yours falters almost instantly, dropping to the grass.
âBetter luck next time, superestrella,â Misa says, her voice dripping with condescension, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
You donât seem to hear her. Or at least, you donât react. You reset your position slowly as your thoughts begin spiraling. I should have angled it. Or waited half a second. Or gone near post. Orâ
âHey.â Alexia appears beside you, her voice calm and steady. âIt was just one shot,â she says quietly.
You nod, though the words pass through you more than they settle. âI will get the next one.â
Alexia studies your face for a second longer before jogging back into position.
And then, lo and behold, your next opportunity arrives.
From across the field, Leila sends a long pass slicing through the air. The ball drops perfectly at your feet and you donât waste a second, taking off.
Your defender reacts a beat too late as you accelerate forward, boots digging into the grass as you close the distance to goal.
The world narrows again and you glance up once. Only once this time, then you strike. It was a soft, controlled this time, only striving for accuracy and precision.
You tap the ball into the net, rolling it cleanly past an unprepared Misa who dives a split second too late in an attempt to save it.
The net waves at you just as the Barça crowd explodes. Chants erupt from the stands as your name mixed with the clubâs anthem being chanted.
You exhale a breath you didnât realize you were holding. You turn away from the goal immediately.
Behind you, Misa remains on the ground, propped up on one elbow, staring at you with burning intensity.
Your teammates swarm you before you make it three steps. Jenni sweeps you up into her arms with a loud laugh.
âÂĄVamos!â she shouts, squeezing you tight. âThatâs how you do it!â
You let a small smile grow on your face, brief and shy.
âYou see?â Alexia says as she pats your head once. âNext one.â
Meanwhile, Misa pushes herself up slowly, jaw clenched. She stays there longer than she needs to just watching you.
You arenât some lucky, goody two-shoes player. You can actually play. And for some reason, that realization makes her blood boil.
Later, when you score a second timeâanother precise finish that slips just beyond her reachâMisa feels like her skin is on fire, burning with fury.
How could someone like you score on her twice? And then again, like the superstar everyone claims you are, you donât celebrate.
You just let your teammates clamber around you, laughing and shouting as they drag you into another group hug.
She hates it.
You single-handedly break through Madridâs defensive line again and again throughout the match, forcing Misa to throw herself into risky saves just to keep the score from climbing higher.
By the final whistle, her gloves are slick with sweat and grass stains.
Misa rips them off the moment the whistle blows, tossing them down beside the goalpost before turning away.
Sheâs sweaty, irritated, and, though sheâd never admit it out loudâhonestly intrigued. You are supposed to be an arrogant pain in the ass. The kind of golden girl she loves knocking down a few pegs. But you are the exact opposite. And somehow, that bothers her even more.
âJust go without me,â you insist, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like if you stay still enough the night will pass without you.
âNot an option,â Patri, your roommate for the weekend, replies from across the room, already half dressed and fixing her earrings in the mirror. âEveryone is meeting downstairs in twenty minutes. If I donât come down with you, there are already talks of Jenni coming up here herself and dragging you out.â
You groan loudly, dragging your hands over your face before throwing the duvet off of you.
âShe wouldnât actually do that,â you mutter.
Patri turns, raising an eyebrow. âYou want to test that theory?â
You sit up immediately. ââŠNo.â
âThere we go!â Patri cheers, clapping once as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and shuffle toward your suitcase.
You unzip it carefully, pulling out something simple and familiar, jeans and a nice top.
Patri watches you for a second. âYou know this is a club, right?â
âYes.â
âYouâre dressing like weâre going to dinner with Alexiaâs family.â
You pause, looking down at your outfit. âThis is appropriate.â
Patri snorts. âYouâre unbelievable. Donât worry, we bought you something early and you will be wearing it, or else.â
The next hour or so is a blur with numerous taxis to fit all of you and voices overlapping, including Jenni yelling something from one car to another through an open window.
You sit pressed against the door, counting streetlights as they pass by. Eight⊠sixteen⊠twenty-four.
By the time you arrive, the music is already thumping through the walls of the club. You often forget that you are technically celebrities, so it catches you off guard when the bouncer immediately recognizes the team and waves everyone through with a grin.
âBuenas noches, chicas.â
The owner practically beams at the sight of you all, greeting the team like honored guests and ushering you toward a reserved section.
Purple and red lights flash as the bass resonates in your core You sit awkwardly on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, with Ona and Laia next to you, both deep in an intense debate.
âStracciatella is objectively the best,â Laia insists.
âNo, pistachio,â Ona counters. âAnd itâs not even close.â
âIt tastes like grass.â
âIt does not taste like grass!â
You blink between them. âI like mango,â you offer quietly.
They both turn to you, incredulous looks on their faces.
âThatâs not even in the conversation,â Laia says as Ona pats your shoulder.
You nod. âOkay.â
âDrink?â a bottle girl asks, leaning close so she can hear your order over the music. You visibly gulp at the proximity, shoulders tensing as you lean back slightly.
âUh, just a Shirley Temple for me, please,â you say. âSin alcohol.â
The woman smiles warmly. âClaro,â before turning away.
You let out a breath you didnât know you were holding, shoulders dropping.
Jenni raises her hands in surrender, laughing as she grabs another shot from the table. âIâm just saying, you looked like you were about to combust.â
âI was not.â
âYou were,â Ona mutters under her breath.
âI was not,â you repeat, more quietly this time.
âWelcome to the party!â Patri suddenly shouts over the music.
Your headâalong with several othersâwhips toward the source of the commotion. Numerous Real Madrid players filter into the club.
Some of the Barça girls cheer, greeting familiar faces. National team overlaps blur the rivalry just enough for nights like this.
You stay seated, your eyes drift across the group until you accidentally meet hazel eyes that are already on you.
Misaâs gaze is steady and intent, holding something reminiscent of amusement.
You flinch instinctively, looking away too quickly, focusing instead on the condensation forming on the table.
Misa smirks to herself before turning her attention to Patri, slipping into easy conversation like nothing happened.
Later in the night, you realize, with a sinking feeling, that you are going to be babysitting your extremely drunk teammates as you watch Jenni drunkenly sing along to the song playing that didnât have any lyrics. That alone makes you crave another Shirley Temple.
You slide off the couch and make your way to the bar, weaving through people carefully, avoiding unnecessary contact.
You stand there, hands clasped in front of you, staring at the bottles lined up behind the counter.
The lights are too bright and music is too loud. Thereâs much too many voices and movements to allow you to feel calm. You focus on your breathing, trying to ground yourself.
âYouâre quieter in person, you know.â
The voice from beside you makes you flinch for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
Your head snaps toward herâtowards those same hazel eyes, studying you up close now.
âMy name is Misa,â she says, extending her hand casually.
You hesitate for half a second before taking it, your grip polite but brief. âMisa?â you repeat, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
After all your years in Spain, nicknames still confuse you. Hell, your own nickname confuses you.
âMarĂa Isabel,â she clarifies. âBut everyone calls me Misa.â
You nod once. âNice to meet you, MarĂa Isabel.â
âMisa,â she corrects immediately.
You cringe slightly. âNo.â
Misaâs eyebrows lift in surprise, a slow grin spreading across her face.
âAlright,â she says. âKeke.â
You squirm almost instantly at the nickname. Itâs what the fans chant sometimesâpulling from the first sounds of your middle and last name.
You donât like it and immediately Misa notices, though she pretends not to.
âYou donât celebrate,â she says instead.
Your face scrunches. âYou mean drinking? I donât drink. Iâve taken the job of making sure everyone gets back safely.â
Misa huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
âNo, no es de eso de lo que estoy hablando,â she says. âTus goles. No celebras.â [No thatâs not what I am talking about. Your goals. You donât celebrate.]
You accept your drink from the bartender with a quiet, âGracias,â before turning back to her.
You shrug, taking a small sip. âEs mi trabajo anotar.â [Itâs my job to score.]
Misa hums, watching you carefully. âParecĂas bastante decepcionada cuando anotaste,â she says. âÂżSabes?â [You looked rather disappointed when you actually scored, you know.]
Your jaw tightens immediately. âBecause I missed the first shot,â you reply, like itâs obvious.
Misa tilts her head slightly, like sheâs trying to solve something. Or rather like youâre something to figure out.
âWell,â she says casually, leaning a little closer, âinstead of staying here, drinking your very red drink and taking care of your teammates⊠why donât you come with me to mine?â
You blink. âItâs called a Shirley Temple,â you say automatically. âThis one is ginger ale instead of Sprite, which I donât mind butââ
You stop yourself. ââŠWait. Like your house?â
Misa smirks. âWhere else?â
Your eyes widen slightly. âOh. UmâI donât thinkââ
âItâs fine,â she interrupts, already straightening up, nodding toward the exit like itâs already decided. âLetâs go.â
You hesitate, glancing back toward your teammates. No one is looking at you, all too distracted in the moment.
You look back at Misa and sheâs already walking. For some reason beyond youâyou follow.
The drive back is a void, filled with a charge you canât quite name. Misa is silent, her focus on the road absolute, leaving you to drown in the echo of your own heartbeat. You donât remember her parking. You donât remember the walk up to her loft. You donât remember your dress slipping off, a silky pool on the floor.
All you remember is the weight of Misa on you on the sofa, the heat of her body pinning you into the cushions, and the taste of her her lips was a cooling mint, clashing with your bright, citrus lip gloss. Her hands, rough from years of goalkeeping, find your waist, pulling you flush against her until your hips align, until you could feel the hard line of her thigh pressing into your core.
Misaâs mouth is relentless. It moves from your lips, down your jaw, tracing the frantic pulse in your neck, then lower, across the slope of your breast, her teeth grazing your nipple in a sharp shock. You gasp, your hands fumbling at her shoulders, unsure whether to push or pull. She doesnât give you time to decide.
Her lips travel down your stomach on a slow, devastating conquest. You are trembling and your mind a blank screen of sensation. And then Misaâs there, between your legs, her breath hot against your damp skin.
She looks up at you, from that intimate vantage, her usual bemused smile replaced by something focused, almost reverent. Then she lowered her head.
The first touch is a soft, open mouthed kiss against your inner thigh, teasing you. Then her tongue finds you with a slow, deliberate stroke, from bottom to top, a flat, wet pressure that makes your entire body jolt. Your back arches off the sofa. Her hands tighten on your hips, holding you down for her.
Misa works with a methodical intensity that steals your breath. Long, languid licks that coat you in her saliva, followed by focused, circling attention on your clit. Misaâs very thorough, intently learning the shape and response of you with each movement. Her tongue flicks, presses, rubs in tiny, devastating circles. The pleasure built in a steady, mounting wave, a tension coiling deep inside your belly.
You are panting, your fingers now tangled in her long, dark hair as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. Your eyes are shut tight, the dim light of her loft a distant concept to you. All that existed was the wet, slick sound of her, the smell of your own arousal mixed with her perfume, the overwhelming rightness of her mouth on you.
Misa shifted, one hand left your hip and you instantly feel the blunt pressure of a finger, probing, testing your entrance before it slid in without resistance, a smooth, full intrusion that made you cry out.
She doesnât stop her tongue, and keeps working your clit while her finger pushes deeper, then curls, sending a sharp spark of sensation that ripped a moan from your throat. She curls her finger again, pressing up into that spot, and her tongue presses down on your clit simultaneously.
The duality is unbearable to you. The internal fullness, the external friction. The pleasure wasnât a wave anymore, but rather a crackling current of electricity inside circling within you. She maintains the rhythm, finger curling, tongue circling, her breath coming hard against your skin.
âMisaââ You manage to choke out something in between a warning and a plea.
She hears it, as her movements became more urgent and more insistent.
You are hit with a white hot burst of release floods out from that curled finger, washing over every nerve. You shudder, your legs clamping around her head, your hips bucking against Misaâs hold as her tongue softening to gentle, soothing strokes as you come down, trembling and spent.
Misa slowly withdraws her finger before rising from her position. Her face glistening, looking utterly satisfied, her cocky smile back on her lips as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
âSuperestrella,â Misa murmurs, her voice rough. âYou taste like victory.â
You are still dazed, floating in the aftermath. She airs back on the sofa, legs spread, an open invitation in her posture. The look in her eyes was a challenge. Your turn.
A spike of pure anxiety pierced the haze. You move clumsy, sliding off the sofa to kneel on the floor between her legs. The reality of the moment crashes into you. The musky scent of her arousal, the confident way she watches you.
âIâve⊠Iâve never done this before,â You whisper, looking at the floor between her knees.
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then Misaâs hand comes down, right to the back of your head. Her fingers threads through your curls, a firm, grounding grip. âI know,â she says, simple, direct. âJust follow my lead.â
You press your face against the inside of her thigh first, a mimic of Misaâs own start. Then you look up to meet her heavy, imploring gaze. You find her center, starting tentatively, with a closed mouth kiss. Then you open your lips, let your tongue extend to taste her.
You copy what Misa did to you: a long, slow lick from base to tip. She exhales sharply, a hissed âFuck.â Her fingers tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding.
You repeat the lick, then focused on her clit, tracing the firm little bud with the tip of your tongue. Misa groans, her hips shifting. You find a rhythm, alternating broad strokes with tight circles, listening to the sounds she makes, feeling the way her thighs tensed.
Her guidance becomes more active. She pushes your head slightly when she wants more pressure, or tilt it to change the angle. âRight there,â she grunts, and you obey, locking onto that spot.
You lose your nervousness in the mechanics of it, in the feedback of her body. You experiment, sucking lightly, then flicking faster. Her breath becomes ragged, her grip in your hair almost painful.
You double your efforts, tongue and lips working in concert, driven by a sudden, fierce desire to win this, to make her fall apart. Her thighs began to shake. A series of short, sharp gasps escape her.
Then she freezes, her whole body locking for a second before a deep, guttural cry tore from her throat. Her back arches off the sofa, her hand still clenched in your hair, holding you firmly against her as she convulses. You feel the pulse of her climax against your mouth, the hot rush of it, and keep gentle, lapping motions until her shuddering subsided.
She collapsed back, breathing heavily. Her hand fell from your hair, sliding down to cup you cheek. You look up, lips wet, and your heart pounding.
She stared at the ceiling, a faint, stunned look on her face. âEstoy corregido,â she breathed. âYou are a prodigy.â [I stand corrected.]
You crawl back onto the sofa, lying down beside her. You donât touch, just breathed in the quiet, dark room. You stare at the ceiling, the textured plaster blur in your vision.
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pairings â misa rodriguez x reader, barca femeni x teammate!reader
word count â 5.5k
summary â you go back to the day you first met real madridâs goalkeeper
notes â this is circa 2016/2017 so a throwback! THIS IS 18+
read more masterlist series masterlist
collab with @maeshoneyles!
You watch as the water in the small pond ripples upon the impact of the rock you skip, relishing in the soft plip-plap echo that reverberates in your ear. It skips once, twice, three times before sinking, and you track each ripple until it disappears completely.
You crouch a little lower at the edge, selecting another stone carefully from the dirt. This one is smoother, making your lips twitch up briefly.
You run your thumb over its rough surface six times. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. You pause for a moment. Seven. Eight.
Your shoulders loosen as you skip it across the water with ease. You watch as it dances longer than the last.
âOye, nena,â a familiar voice draws you out of your trance.
You blink, startled, turning your head just slightly instead of your whole body.
Jenni stands a few feet away, hands on her hips, a crooked grin on her face. Beside her, a few steps back, Alexia finishes a serious-sounding phone call, her brows knitted tight.
âLas rocas van a contraatacar algĂșn dĂa si sigues lanzĂĄndolas,â Jenni teases with grin. [The rocks are going to fight back one day if you keep throwing them.]
You glance back at the pond. âThey donât have arms.â
Jenni snorts. âThatâs not the point.â
Alexia ends her call and strides forward, slipping her phone into her pocket. âÂżDĂłnde estabas?â she demands, worry bleeding into irritation. âWeâve been looking for you. This isnât Barcelona.â
You flinch at her tone, shoulders instinctively tightening. You stand up too quickly and brush invisible dirt off your palms.
âSorry,â you say, quieter than you meant to.
Alexia exhales sharply. âYou canât just disappear.â
âAle,â Jenni cuts in gently, stepping closer to you, âsheâs an adult.â
âShe just turned eighteen!â
âExactly. An adult.â Jenni rolls her eyes before turning to you and offering her hand. âCome on. Itâs almost time to get ready. And if youâre late, Ale will actually combust.â
âI will not combust,â Alexia mutters, though she doesnât deny it fully.
You take Jenniâs hand and let her pull you up the rest of the way, dusting your jeans off in precise strokes. You glance once more at the water before following them.
The three of you walk in silence for a moment, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You keep your eyes on the ground, counting your steps without meaning to. Eight per breathâinhale, exhale.
âWhere did you even find this place?â Jenni asks, bumping her shoulder lightly into yours.
You shrug. âI asked the front desk lady.â
Jenni falters, her smile dropping. âYou asked theââ She turns to Alexia. âWe could have asked her if she had seen you.â
Alexiaâs lips press into a thin line. âWe were too busy worrying.â
âShe was,â Jenni corrects, nudging you playfully. âI was calm. Completely relaxed. Zen, even.â
âYou were not,â Alexia deadpans.
You hum mindlessly at their bickering, the sound low in your throat as you slip into the backseat of the rental car. You sit directly in the middle, despite how uncomfortable it feels. It feels symmetrical that way.
Jenni slides into the driverâs seat. Alexia gets in beside her, twisting slightly to look back at you.
âWhatâs wrong?â Alexia asks quietly now, her voice softened, stripped of its earlier edge.
You look down at your interlinked fingers. You wiggle them slowly, feeling the familiar stretch between your knuckles. You avoid her eyes at first, focusing instead on the seam of the seat in front of you.
âI guess Iâm nervous,â you say. You pause, recalibrating. âI think.â
âYou think?â Jenni echoes gently as she starts the car.
âI donât know,â you admit. âMy stomach feels tight. And my head keeps replaying training. I missed two shots yesterday. One shouldâve been near post.â
Alexia sighs, turning fully in her seat now. âYou scored four.â
You brush it off. âThatâs not the point.â
Jenni glances at you in the rearview mirror. âYou are going to do great,â she says softly. âYou are one of the best forwards Iâve seen developing at this pace.â
You shake your head almost immediately. Your thumb begins tracing the outline of your opposite fingernail. âBut itâs not enough.â
âNot enough for who?â Alexia asks.
âFor⊠for this,â you gesture vaguely. âFor the expectations.â
Alexiaâs jaw tightens. âIt is more than enough, nena.â
You swallow. It doesnât feel like it, you canât help but think.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and the vibration makes you jump slightly. You pull it out to see notifications from the England group chat, but you lock the screen without reading it fully.
Jenni notices, hearing the custom group chat buzz. âTheyâre excited for you.â
âThey expect things,â you reply.
âThey expect you to be good,â Jenni corrects. âBecause you are.â
You look out the window as the hotel comes into view, the building looming taller than you remembered.
âI donât want to mess it up,â you say, barely audible.
Alexiaâs expression softens in a way she rarely allows others to see. âYou will mess up,â she says simply. âEveryone does.â
You blink at her.
âAnd then,â she continues, âyou will fix it. Thatâs what makes you different.â
Jenni nods. âYou train like the world is ending every day. Thatâs why youâre here.â
The car jolts as Jenni pulls into the parking lot, parking quite awfully across the line. She doesnât notice but you stare at the crooked angle.
Jenni turns and pats your knee, pulling you out of your trance. âMira,â she says firmly, making you lift your shiny eyes to meet hers, even though it feels overwhelming. You hold eye contact for three seconds, almost four before you look at her chin instead.
âYou are a generational talent,â she continues. âI know that. Ale knows that. The team knows that. Even the media knows that. Only person that doubts you is you.â
Your throat tightens instantly. Bile rises up your esophagus, leaving a burning trail and a harsh taste in your mouth. Compliments feel like pressure, like a god awful weight you canât shake. You reach for the door handle, ready to escape.
âHey,â Alexia calls gently. You pause but donât look back. âBreathe,â she says.
You inhale for eight counts then exhale for eght counts.
âI am breathing,â you reply quietly.
Jenni sighs as you step out of the car a little too quickly, adjusting your hoodie sleeves over your hands. You smooth your shirt down twice then an extra time when your hands twitched.
Alexia watches you walk toward the hotel entrance, posture straight, shoulders tight.âSheâll understand one day,â Alexia murmurs, resting her hand briefly on Jenniâs arm.
Jenni keeps staring at the space youâd occupied in the backseat, at the perfectly aligned imprint you left behind. âIâm not too sure about that,â she says softly.
Misa sits in her cubby, music booming through the locker room speakers. Someone had connected their phone to the Bluetooth the moment they walked in, and now the bass rattles faintly through the metal benches. Laughter echoes off the wall as boots scrape against tile and tape tears somewhere across the room. But somehow it all fades into the background.
She plays mindlessly with the wraps around her wrists, tightening them, loosening them, smoothing the fabric down with slow, practiced movements. Her fingers are quick, methodical with years of repetition.
Across the room someone shouts about shin guards. Another player complains about the referee from their last match. Someone else starts arguing about whether Barcelonaâs midfield is overrated, but noise blends together for Misa.
âBarcelona today,â Ivana, her captain, speaks up from the cubby beside her. Her voice cuts through the rest of the room easily. âAre you nervous?â
Misa snorts softly, not even looking up. âNever,â she replies without a thought.
Ivana glances at her. âYou didnât even hesitate.â
âWhy would I?â Misa shrugs, still focused on the tape around her wrist. âTheyâre eleven players. Weâre eleven players.â
Ivana hums like sheâs not entirely convinced but doesnât push.
Across the room, someone speaks up. âHave you seen their number eight?â
Several heads lift.
âLa niña?â Ivana clarifies, raising an eyebrow. âThe English one?â
âThatâs the one,â a defender says from the far bench, tying her boots aggressively. âSheâs a beast.â
Another player scoffs immediately. âPlease. Sheâs easy to read,â she claims. âSheâs not as talented as Barça and England want her to be.â
âExactly,â someone else chimes in. âMedia loves a prodigy story. Especially a foreign one.â
âI know, right?â another voice adds, leaning back against the lockers. âI was watching film the other day and sheâs an open book. Makes the same runs. Same body shape before she shoots.â
Misaâs hands pause for a second on the tape. Across the room the conversation keeps rolling.
âAnd sheâs weird,â the defender continues, lowering her voice like sheâs sharing something confidential. âNever celebrates her goals.â
A few girls laugh.
âMaybe she thinks sheâs above it,â someone says. âLike scoring is just expected.â
âOr maybe sheâs trying to look cool,â another teammate shrugs. âYou know⊠mysterious superstar energy.â
Ivana smirks faintly. âYou all sound jealous.â
âJealous?â the defender scoffs. âOf her?â
Ivana just shrugs.
Misa finally lifts her head slightly, her gaze drifting down to the tiled floor between her boots.
Number eight. The English golden girl. Sheâs seen the clips of all the goals. All the slow-motion analysis on sports shows and commentators talking about âvisionâ and âinstinctâ and âgenerational potential.â You are just another privileged, manufactured forward who thinks they run the game. Exactly the type of player Misa despises.
âOye,â Ivana says suddenly, leaning slightly toward her. âWhat are you thinking about?â
Misaâs fingers tighten the tape one last time around her wrist before she presses it flat.
âNumber eight,â she replies simply.
Ivana waits for Misa to continue.
Misa finally looks up, her dark eyes sharp now.
âI want to break her down,â she says calmly. âI will break her down.â
Ivana blinks, momentarily rendered speechless by the quiet certainty in the younger goalkeeperâs voice.
Across the room someone overhears. âAhĂ! ÂĄEse es el espĂritu!â a teammate laughs, walking past and clapping Misa hard on the back. [Thatâs it! Thatâs the spirit!]
Another girl whistles. âCareful, Misa. Sounds personal.â
âItâs not personal,â Misa mutters. âI donât knwi the girl.â
But she doesnât look away from the floor. In her mind sheâs already building the game.
The angle of your runs, your body positioning, your foot preference. Where you look before you shoot, where you donât look.
She wants to win. And if that means crushing youâsome system-made, Barça-built prodigy who the football world keeps crowning before sheâs earned itâso be it.
Her jaw tightens slightly as across the room - staff member calls for them to start warming up.
Boots slam into lockers and jerseys are pulled on, spiking the energy in the room.
Misa pushes herself to her feet slowly, rolling her shoulders once.
âHey,â Ivana says quietly as she stands too. âDonât underestimate her.â
Misa smirks faintly. âI donât underestimate anyone,â she replies.
Then she grabs her gloves. âBut I do enjoy proving people wrong.â
You have an odd pregame routine. It has been the same since you were a kid, with only minimal tweaks over the years.
You sit quietly at your cubby, the stadium noise filtering faintly through the concrete walls. The locker room hums around youâteammates talking, boots knocking against tile, someone laughing too loudly at a joke you didnât quite catch.But you focus on your process.
First, your hair. You pull it back slowly, carefully collecting it into a tight bun before securing it into a slick back. Not a single flyaway is allowed. You smooth the sides with gel again⊠and again⊠then once more for good measure then itâs perfect.
Next come your boots. You place your right boot on first and then your left. But you tie the left boot before the right. You always have. You tried reversing it once when you were thirteen and played terribly that match. Since then, the order has never changed. You tighten the laces firmly, tugging twice on each knot.
After that comes the granola bar, your favorite one. You break it exactly in half. No crumbs scattered and no uneven break. If it is, you have back up ones and Ona usually eats the defects. Half of the bar goes into your mouth while the other half stays wrapped in the foil. You chew slowly, counting each bite without realizing it.
Then you wash it down with orange juiceâpulp, no added sugar. The texture settles your stomach in a way nothing else does.
A few lockers down, Jenni watches you with a fond sort of amusement.
âYouâre eating half again?â she asks.
âYes,â you reply simply.
âYou know you could just eat the whole thing.â
You glance at her. âThat would be incorrect.â
Jenni laughs quietly, shaking her head. âFair enough, nena.â
Next comes the book. You pull it from your bag carefully, sliding the bookmark back one page. One chapter. No more, no less. Your eyes move steadily across the page, absorbing the words even though your brain keeps drifting back to the film youâve watched. When the chapter ends, you close the book immediately.
Finally, you slip your headphones on and scroll to the same song you have listened to before every game since you were eight. Getâcha Head in the Game from High School Musical. You know it is strange, but also know it is necessary.
Your teammates never questioned it. At least not seriously. They cared about one thing: your performance on the field.
And when the whistle blows, routine complete, nerves buzzing under your skin, you jog onto the pitch.
The stadium is loud, bright, and alive. But once the ball starts moving, the world narrows.
You receive the ball just outside the box. For a moment, you have a clear view of the goal.
You swing your leg back and propel it forward, striking the ball cleanly. The instant it leaves your foot, something feels wrong.
You know it. The angle paired with the timing was far too rushed. You just didnât expect it to go straight into Madridâs goalkeeperâs hands.
Across the box, Misa catches it easily, the ball settling securely into her gloves.
Her eyes snap onto your figure immediately. The intensity of her stare is sharp enough that you feel it before you fully process it.
You look up and for a brief moment your eyes meet. Her gaze is unwavering while yours falters almost instantly, dropping to the grass.
âBetter luck next time, superestrella,â Misa says, her voice dripping with condescension, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
You donât seem to hear her. Or at least, you donât react. You reset your position slowly as your thoughts begin spiraling. I should have angled it. Or waited half a second. Or gone near post. Orâ
âHey.â Alexia appears beside you, her voice calm and steady. âIt was just one shot,â she says quietly.
You nod, though the words pass through you more than they settle. âI will get the next one.â
Alexia studies your face for a second longer before jogging back into position.
And then, lo and behold, your next opportunity arrives.
From across the field, Leila sends a long pass slicing through the air. The ball drops perfectly at your feet and you donât waste a second, taking off.
Your defender reacts a beat too late as you accelerate forward, boots digging into the grass as you close the distance to goal.
The world narrows again and you glance up once. Only once this time, then you strike. It was a soft, controlled this time, only striving for accuracy and precision.
You tap the ball into the net, rolling it cleanly past an unprepared Misa who dives a split second too late in an attempt to save it.
The net waves at you just as the Barça crowd explodes. Chants erupt from the stands as your name mixed with the clubâs anthem being chanted.
You exhale a breath you didnât realize you were holding. You turn away from the goal immediately.
Behind you, Misa remains on the ground, propped up on one elbow, staring at you with burning intensity.
Your teammates swarm you before you make it three steps. Jenni sweeps you up into her arms with a loud laugh.
âÂĄVamos!â she shouts, squeezing you tight. âThatâs how you do it!â
You let a small smile grow on your face, brief and shy.
âYou see?â Alexia says as she pats your head once. âNext one.â
Meanwhile, Misa pushes herself up slowly, jaw clenched. She stays there longer than she needs to just watching you.
You arenât some lucky, goody two-shoes player. You can actually play. And for some reason, that realization makes her blood boil.
Later, when you score a second timeâanother precise finish that slips just beyond her reachâMisa feels like her skin is on fire, burning with fury.
How could someone like you score on her twice? And then again, like the superstar everyone claims you are, you donât celebrate.
You just let your teammates clamber around you, laughing and shouting as they drag you into another group hug.
She hates it.
You single-handedly break through Madridâs defensive line again and again throughout the match, forcing Misa to throw herself into risky saves just to keep the score from climbing higher.
By the final whistle, her gloves are slick with sweat and grass stains.
Misa rips them off the moment the whistle blows, tossing them down beside the goalpost before turning away.
Sheâs sweaty, irritated, and, though sheâd never admit it out loudâhonestly intrigued. You are supposed to be an arrogant pain in the ass. The kind of golden girl she loves knocking down a few pegs. But you are the exact opposite. And somehow, that bothers her even more.
âJust go without me,â you insist, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like if you stay still enough the night will pass without you.
âNot an option,â Patri, your roommate for the weekend, replies from across the room, already half dressed and fixing her earrings in the mirror. âEveryone is meeting downstairs in twenty minutes. If I donât come down with you, there are already talks of Jenni coming up here herself and dragging you out.â
You groan loudly, dragging your hands over your face before throwing the duvet off of you.
âShe wouldnât actually do that,â you mutter.
Patri turns, raising an eyebrow. âYou want to test that theory?â
You sit up immediately. ââŠNo.â
âThere we go!â Patri cheers, clapping once as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and shuffle toward your suitcase.
You unzip it carefully, pulling out something simple and familiar, jeans and a nice top.
Patri watches you for a second. âYou know this is a club, right?â
âYes.â
âYouâre dressing like weâre going to dinner with Alexiaâs family.â
You pause, looking down at your outfit. âThis is appropriate.â
Patri snorts. âYouâre unbelievable. Donât worry, we bought you something early and you will be wearing it, or else.â
The next hour or so is a blur with numerous taxis to fit all of you and voices overlapping, including Jenni yelling something from one car to another through an open window.
You sit pressed against the door, counting streetlights as they pass by. Eight⊠sixteen⊠twenty-four.
By the time you arrive, the music is already thumping through the walls of the club. You often forget that you are technically celebrities, so it catches you off guard when the bouncer immediately recognizes the team and waves everyone through with a grin.
âBuenas noches, chicas.â
The owner practically beams at the sight of you all, greeting the team like honored guests and ushering you toward a reserved section.
Purple and red lights flash as the bass resonates in your core You sit awkwardly on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, with Ona and Laia next to you, both deep in an intense debate.
âStracciatella is objectively the best,â Laia insists.
âNo, pistachio,â Ona counters. âAnd itâs not even close.â
âIt tastes like grass.â
âIt does not taste like grass!â
You blink between them. âI like mango,â you offer quietly.
They both turn to you, incredulous looks on their faces.
âThatâs not even in the conversation,â Laia says as Ona pats your shoulder.
You nod. âOkay.â
âDrink?â a bottle girl asks, leaning close so she can hear your order over the music. You visibly gulp at the proximity, shoulders tensing as you lean back slightly.
âUh, just a Shirley Temple for me, please,â you say. âSin alcohol.â
The woman smiles warmly. âClaro,â before turning away.
You let out a breath you didnât know you were holding, shoulders dropping.
Jenni raises her hands in surrender, laughing as she grabs another shot from the table. âIâm just saying, you looked like you were about to combust.â
âI was not.â
âYou were,â Ona mutters under her breath.
âI was not,â you repeat, more quietly this time.
âWelcome to the party!â Patri suddenly shouts over the music.
Your headâalong with several othersâwhips toward the source of the commotion. Numerous Real Madrid players filter into the club.
Some of the Barça girls cheer, greeting familiar faces. National team overlaps blur the rivalry just enough for nights like this.
You stay seated, your eyes drift across the group until you accidentally meet hazel eyes that are already on you.
Misaâs gaze is steady and intent, holding something reminiscent of amusement.
You flinch instinctively, looking away too quickly, focusing instead on the condensation forming on the table.
Misa smirks to herself before turning her attention to Patri, slipping into easy conversation like nothing happened.
Later in the night, you realize, with a sinking feeling, that you are going to be babysitting your extremely drunk teammates as you watch Jenni drunkenly sing along to the song playing that didnât have any lyrics. That alone makes you crave another Shirley Temple.
You slide off the couch and make your way to the bar, weaving through people carefully, avoiding unnecessary contact.
You stand there, hands clasped in front of you, staring at the bottles lined up behind the counter.
The lights are too bright and music is too loud. Thereâs much too many voices and movements to allow you to feel calm. You focus on your breathing, trying to ground yourself.
âYouâre quieter in person, you know.â
The voice from beside you makes you flinch for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
Your head snaps toward herâtowards those same hazel eyes, studying you up close now.
âMy name is Misa,â she says, extending her hand casually.
You hesitate for half a second before taking it, your grip polite but brief. âMisa?â you repeat, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
After all your years in Spain, nicknames still confuse you. Hell, your own nickname confuses you.
âMarĂa Isabel,â she clarifies. âBut everyone calls me Misa.â
You nod once. âNice to meet you, MarĂa Isabel.â
âMisa,â she corrects immediately.
You cringe slightly. âNo.â
Misaâs eyebrows lift in surprise, a slow grin spreading across her face.
âAlright,â she says. âKeke.â
You squirm almost instantly at the nickname. Itâs what the fans chant sometimesâpulling from the first sounds of your middle and last name.
You donât like it and immediately Misa notices, though she pretends not to.
âYou donât celebrate,â she says instead.
Your face scrunches. âYou mean drinking? I donât drink. Iâve taken the job of making sure everyone gets back safely.â
Misa huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
âNo, no es de eso de lo que estoy hablando,â she says. âTus goles. No celebras.â [No thatâs not what I am talking about. Your goals. You donât celebrate.]
You accept your drink from the bartender with a quiet, âGracias,â before turning back to her.
You shrug, taking a small sip. âEs mi trabajo anotar.â [Itâs my job to score.]
Misa hums, watching you carefully. âParecĂas bastante decepcionada cuando anotaste,â she says. âÂżSabes?â [You looked rather disappointed when you actually scored, you know.]
Your jaw tightens immediately. âBecause I missed the first shot,â you reply, like itâs obvious.
Misa tilts her head slightly, like sheâs trying to solve something. Or rather like youâre something to figure out.
âWell,â she says casually, leaning a little closer, âinstead of staying here, drinking your very red drink and taking care of your teammates⊠why donât you come with me to mine?â
You blink. âItâs called a Shirley Temple,â you say automatically. âThis one is ginger ale instead of Sprite, which I donât mind butââ
You stop yourself. ââŠWait. Like your house?â
Misa smirks. âWhere else?â
Your eyes widen slightly. âOh. UmâI donât thinkââ
âItâs fine,â she interrupts, already straightening up, nodding toward the exit like itâs already decided. âLetâs go.â
You hesitate, glancing back toward your teammates. No one is looking at you, all too distracted in the moment.
You look back at Misa and sheâs already walking. For some reason beyond youâyou follow.
The drive back is a void, filled with a charge you canât quite name. Misa is silent, her focus on the road absolute, leaving you to drown in the echo of your own heartbeat. You donât remember her parking. You donât remember the walk up to her loft. You donât remember your dress slipping off, a silky pool on the floor.
All you remember is the weight of Misa on you on the sofa, the heat of her body pinning you into the cushions, and the taste of her her lips was a cooling mint, clashing with your bright, citrus lip gloss. Her hands, rough from years of goalkeeping, find your waist, pulling you flush against her until your hips align, until you could feel the hard line of her thigh pressing into your core.
Misaâs mouth is relentless. It moves from your lips, down your jaw, tracing the frantic pulse in your neck, then lower, across the slope of your breast, her teeth grazing your nipple in a sharp shock. You gasp, your hands fumbling at her shoulders, unsure whether to push or pull. She doesnât give you time to decide.
Her lips travel down your stomach on a slow, devastating conquest. You are trembling and your mind a blank screen of sensation. And then Misaâs there, between your legs, her breath hot against your damp skin.
She looks up at you, from that intimate vantage, her usual bemused smile replaced by something focused, almost reverent. Then she lowered her head.
The first touch is a soft, open mouthed kiss against your inner thigh, teasing you. Then her tongue finds you with a slow, deliberate stroke, from bottom to top, a flat, wet pressure that makes your entire body jolt. Your back arches off the sofa. Her hands tighten on your hips, holding you down for her.
Misa works with a methodical intensity that steals your breath. Long, languid licks that coat you in her saliva, followed by focused, circling attention on your clit. Misaâs very thorough, intently learning the shape and response of you with each movement. Her tongue flicks, presses, rubs in tiny, devastating circles. The pleasure built in a steady, mounting wave, a tension coiling deep inside your belly.
You are panting, your fingers now tangled in her long, dark hair as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. Your eyes are shut tight, the dim light of her loft a distant concept to you. All that existed was the wet, slick sound of her, the smell of your own arousal mixed with her perfume, the overwhelming rightness of her mouth on you.
Misa shifted, one hand left your hip and you instantly feel the blunt pressure of a finger, probing, testing your entrance before it slid in without resistance, a smooth, full intrusion that made you cry out.
She doesnât stop her tongue, and keeps working your clit while her finger pushes deeper, then curls, sending a sharp spark of sensation that ripped a moan from your throat. She curls her finger again, pressing up into that spot, and her tongue presses down on your clit simultaneously.
The duality is unbearable to you. The internal fullness, the external friction. The pleasure wasnât a wave anymore, but rather a crackling current of electricity inside circling within you. She maintains the rhythm, finger curling, tongue circling, her breath coming hard against your skin.
âMisaââ You manage to choke out something in between a warning and a plea.
She hears it, as her movements became more urgent and more insistent.
You are hit with a white hot burst of release floods out from that curled finger, washing over every nerve. You shudder, your legs clamping around her head, your hips bucking against Misaâs hold as her tongue softening to gentle, soothing strokes as you come down, trembling and spent.
Misa slowly withdraws her finger before rising from her position. Her face glistening, looking utterly satisfied, her cocky smile back on her lips as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
âSuperestrella,â Misa murmurs, her voice rough. âYou taste like victory.â
You are still dazed, floating in the aftermath. She airs back on the sofa, legs spread, an open invitation in her posture. The look in her eyes was a challenge. Your turn.
A spike of pure anxiety pierced the haze. You move clumsy, sliding off the sofa to kneel on the floor between her legs. The reality of the moment crashes into you. The musky scent of her arousal, the confident way she watches you.
âIâve⊠Iâve never done this before,â You whisper, looking at the floor between her knees.
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then Misaâs hand comes down, right to the back of your head. Her fingers threads through your curls, a firm, grounding grip. âI know,â she says, simple, direct. âJust follow my lead.â
You press your face against the inside of her thigh first, a mimic of Misaâs own start. Then you look up to meet her heavy, imploring gaze. You find her center, starting tentatively, with a closed mouth kiss. Then you open your lips, let your tongue extend to taste her.
You copy what Misa did to you: a long, slow lick from base to tip. She exhales sharply, a hissed âFuck.â Her fingers tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding.
You repeat the lick, then focused on her clit, tracing the firm little bud with the tip of your tongue. Misa groans, her hips shifting. You find a rhythm, alternating broad strokes with tight circles, listening to the sounds she makes, feeling the way her thighs tensed.
Her guidance becomes more active. She pushes your head slightly when she wants more pressure, or tilt it to change the angle. âRight there,â she grunts, and you obey, locking onto that spot.
You lose your nervousness in the mechanics of it, in the feedback of her body. You experiment, sucking lightly, then flicking faster. Her breath becomes ragged, her grip in your hair almost painful.
You double your efforts, tongue and lips working in concert, driven by a sudden, fierce desire to win this, to make her fall apart. Her thighs began to shake. A series of short, sharp gasps escape her.
Then she freezes, her whole body locking for a second before a deep, guttural cry tore from her throat. Her back arches off the sofa, her hand still clenched in your hair, holding you firmly against her as she convulses. You feel the pulse of her climax against your mouth, the hot rush of it, and keep gentle, lapping motions until her shuddering subsided.
She collapsed back, breathing heavily. Her hand fell from your hair, sliding down to cup you cheek. You look up, lips wet, and your heart pounding.
She stared at the ceiling, a faint, stunned look on her face. âEstoy corregido,â she breathed. âYou are a prodigy.â [I stand corrected.]
You crawl back onto the sofa, lying down beside her. You donât touch, just breathed in the quiet, dark room. You stare at the ceiling, the textured plaster blur in your vision.
Been seeing a lot of people saying that Misa didnât deserve the rating she got after the game yesterday.
Letâs get one thing straight - sheâs not the problem in that team. If anything, sheâs the reason the scoreline wasnât higher than it was.
14 shots on target and she saved 8âŠ
Her defenders let her down time and time again.
Cata barely has to do anything because our defense actually defends.
Misa was the only player on that Madrid team that actually showed up and didnât crumble under the pressure.
She and Caicedo are talents that are being wasted to a club that doesnât invest time, money or effort into their womenâs side and itâs heartbreaking to see it as a football fan.
Summary: A new season begins for Nicky, the newly promoted photography director of Real Madrid. Navigating her new responsibilities while maintaining her secret relationship with Misa is not easy on a daily basis, especially when the unpredictability of life keeps making things even more complicated.
WC: 5K words
TW: angst, claustrophobia
Chapter 12Â âș Better and bitter
Chapter 13 âș Dangerous steps
Chapter 14 âș The fall
Fall was drawing towards its end. The icy cold wind bit the trees and scared away the rare pedestrians of the Ciudad neighborhoods. The strong wind infiltrated everywhere, its gusts galloping through the alleys, punishing even the mighty ones daring to venture outside, leaving them numb and battered.
Sheltered by the thick concrete walls, the smoke of my cigarette rose in the air. The volutes danced and spiraled, indifferent to the wind knocking over the grass just ahead of the smoking area of the womenâs training pitch. I took a drag from my cigarette. My gaze traveled over the mistreated shape of the treeâs foliage. Someone shouted in the distance, excited. A couple of panicked birds flew away, perhaps in hope to find of more welcoming place. I inhaled again, the poised smoke a swift relief through the slumber.Â
Numbness was my best friend. It had helped me pull myself back together and I wasnât asking for more nowadays. Although, today, I tried to pull numbness back to me like air through my cigarette.
I couldnât deny it. It was hard. Seeing her again. After a whole month. After all my efforts to avoid it, though Iâd always known I would be on my way to the pitch sooner or later, seeing her had been hard.Â
The voices drew closer and the first players came off the training pitch a few feet away from me. Hayley waved to me as she exited toward the parking lot, a quick and brief hello before she looked back at her phone. She had tried to reach out to me when it happened but I had dismissed her. She was part of it somehow, part of the hurting part. Like the rest, hanging with Hayley would have been unbearable.
I pulled at the end of the cigarette, telling myself I should go back inside before she went that way too. But it was so tempting to see how I would feel, her being that close.Â
Blowing out smoke, my chest tightened. Numbness gone, I remembered that night so vividly. That night⊠when time had stopped.
Life frozen.Â
I had dragged myself to bed. I had been lying down, unable to sleep, unable to stop crying. The couple of minutes during which I didnât cry had been spent staring blankly at the ceiling.Â
I relived so strongly how my body had seemed to be floating, heart ripped out, the bare flesh exposed to the unwavering truth. The realization was the worst part of a break up. The acceptance had been impossible. The pain never eased.Â
When we had broken up, her absence had suffocated me. Her presence lingered everywhere in my small home, her toothbrush waiting in the bathroom, a few clothes and underwear laying in my closet. Special ingredients for her diet were remaining safely stored in the kitchen. Her stuff had been where she had left them, where they belonged. Where she belonged, at home, the only acceptable truth to me. But the very fabric of reality had changed that night.
The night Misa went out of my life.Â
The night I had realized there would be no more calls, no more talking for countless hours. No more cuddling when the harshness of life would leave me raw and unsettled. No more football lessons, nor drawing classes. No more of anything we had grown to love together. A chill walk in the park. A quick jog along the stream. Listening to her heartbeat, my head resting on her chest, lost in my thoughts.Â
How was I living without her soft, warm brown gaze on me? How? Was it worth it then, keeping on being the photography director of Real Madrid? Was it worth it when nothing remained? Of course not. But it hadnât been about me for once. We had broken up for her. And that was the hardest part to process.
I remembered so vividly that my sadistic mind had pictured her smile with her dimple on her left cheek and I that I had fidgeted, twisting the bedsheets to make the image go away. That night, I wouldnât fall asleep for anything. I had known too well I would be dreaming of her holding me close as soon as I had closed my eyes.Â
I had tossed and turned in bed, my eyes burning from all the tears. I remembered how hard I had prayed she was slouched in the sofa, wasting the night on her phone before joining me in the bedroom. I had prayed so hard she was about to come, needy before sleep, as usual, to wake me up from this nightmare.Â
And in spite of my efforts, I had sunk into a troubled dream where I looked for her in a thick dense forest, the hard sun filtering through the foliage above. The young goalie had been far away, smiling as she hid behind a tree. When I finally had approached her in my dream, Misaâs broad smile had disappeared completely and I had woken up with a jolt. My arm had probed the bed for her comforting body and had fallen onto the cold flatness of the mattress. Â
I closed my eyes. The pain was so vivid from the memory. Mechanically, I lit up another cigarette.Â
It hadnât eased for days. A sour suffocating pain had inhabited my chest when I had gone back to work.Â
I had cried in my car, parked at the opposite side of the parking lot, some low trees and bushes granting me the privacy I had needed to recompose myself. But it had been no use. I had barely set foot into my office, fresh tears had rolled onto my cheeks. I had locked myself inside. Turning on the computer had not helped me, the numerous tasks filling my to-do list as the device had synchronized. Stress had been taking over me, accentuated by an emotional exhaustion. Her presence had leaked everywhere here too. From the field in the distance, to the photo studio, the Ciudad was where everything had begun, the witness of our friendship and attraction slowly turning into love and care. The Ciudad was her as much as she was Real Madrid. Somehow, the Ciudad was now the ghostly reminder of my gone happiness.Â
I had tried to focus back onto work. I had really tried my best. But I hadnât been able to avoid what was bound to happen. A few days had passed and I had received a new batch of photos from my assistants. My eyes had immediately filled with tears seeing her features. Once again, she was everywhere, even in the very content of my work, having me trapped in an infinite sadness as more pictures of her had downloaded. I had quit my office to get some air, but mostly to smoke the cigarettes I had bought that day. Obviously, smoking hadnât appeased me in the slightest and I had ended up in the closest restrooms, sobbing in despair as I had grasped the thin lace bracelet I hadnât had the strength to take off yet.
Angela had helped me a lot. I had spent countless hours on the phone with her, smoking like a fireman, intoxicating myself with regrets as my best friend had tried to help me navigate through guilt and resentment. I had cursed myself for not seeing it coming. What had I been thinking dating a woman like her? What had I been thinking believing this could work? I had genuinely thought I could have made her happy. I was still convinced we were happy somehow. So when did it go so wrong? Had it been it my accident? Or work? How many times had I wished I could go back in time?
Time had not rewound but had passed, and time had helped. I had started to get better day after day. Not to say enjoyable, but life had seemed livable again. I had got used to the faded taste not leaving my mouth, smoking not helping, the cold gray weather of November matching my mood. But it had been the thing I had dreaded the most that had relieved me the most in the end: photography. The lights, the frame, the energy⊠through the lens, all my negative emotions were turning into beautiful frozen spectacles. Nothing really appealed to me anymore apart from taking pictures. Things happened or did not and I didnât care and I clung to that remaining sparkle of energy photography was to me.Â
During that month, I took thousands of photos, through numerous walks in town and countless nights in clubs. Dancing people had been growing on me. Their joy fascinated me, inaccessible, a mask hiding their own bruises. We were all bruised. It made me feel less bad knowing you could be bruised and beautiful. Bruises donât show when you dance, let alone when you create something beautiful out of bruised dancing people. My camera had snapped restlessly the swirl of colorful blurry shapes and wild bodies. I had become a recognizable customer among the few lesbian clubs of the capital. I had met people, could have slept with some, except that I had no interest in hookups. I had not interest in anything else than capturing the frenzy of the night that swallowed everything.Â
Being a photographer during the night had slowly helped me reconnect with my passion for sport photography during the day. I had realized I could turn the pain into vivid visual emotions there too. Moreover, my first exhibition was still up. So, work had turned back into the creatively challenging place I needed so much. Like a therapy, I hadnât counted the hours, selecting shots, retouching, imagining the exhibition, the scenography⊠The players were just models. She was just another model, a particularly pretty model, nothing more. Almost.Â
But today, in bone and flesh, jumping and diving even better than she did, she had been more. So much more than a model. Misa had made my numbness dissolve in a heartbeat. It had been a whole month and I felt so lost, smoking in the concrete corner. The last players exited the gray building as I waited, alone, for what exactly? To see her? She had to go out from a different exit because I hadnât seen her.Â
I exhaled the smoke deeply. Was I relieved? Disappointed? I didnât know. What I did feel was the leap of my heart when the door opened once again, and the goalkeeper went outside, wrapped up into the clubâs puffer jacket.Â
She paused, looking all around her, until her eyes fell on me. My heart was caught in my throat, my hand frozen with the cigarette a few inches away from my mouth. She was nibbling at her lower lip. Obviously she was uncomfortable. But to my surprise, Misa started to walk toward me. I blinked just to be sure I wasnât seeing things. I suddenly became aware of the coldness of the air. The wind messed her hair up until she joined me inside the shelter smoking area.Â
She stopped in front of me, her hands in her pockets, looking at her feet.
âHeyâ, she said. Â
I had not heard her soft, roughened voice since then. Our goodbyes on the phone had been the last words exchanged.
âHeyâ, I answered, amazed.Â
âEh⊠I have something to tell you. Itâs been a couple of weeks since the whole team guessed the âmisacertijoâ. Everyone is convinced itâs you I was⊠seeing. I havenât confirmed it, I said weâre just friends.âÂ
âOh, you said we are friends?â I replied, an ironical smile stretching my lips. Misa lifted her gaze up. How weird it was to be that close to her and to look into her eyes. âI mean, itâs obvious that weâre not even friends anymore, right?â I pointed out.Â
Of course everybody had guessed who Misa had been dating. We stopped seeing each other from one day to the next. The conclusion hadnât been hard to make.Â
âEh⊠no. But you donât speak to Hayley either. I said you took your distance with players. I wanted to tell you but you never showed up onto the pitchâŠâÂ
Something wriggled in my body as I searched about what to answer. I took a puff of cigarette. A gust of wind swept her hair and hauled her smell to me. I closed my eyes, the pain growing back, prickling. I couldnât stand it. She had to go.Â
âHum⊠ok. Thanks for telling me.â I acknowledged and Misa furrowed her brows.Â
âYouâre not worried about it?â
âWhy should I worry? Itâs over.â I replied more bitterly than I wanted to.Â
Misa gaze grew so intense it made my throat tighten. She had to stop looking at me like that. I took another puff, the only possible respite to avoid her penetrating look. She shifted her weight.Â
âI heard your photo exhibitionâs getting ready?âÂ
My breathing quickened slightly. What was the fuck she was playing at, engaging in small talk as if nothing had happened.Â
I looked away, uncomfortable.Â
âYes it is. It will take place near Gran Via. The opening night has been scheduled on the holidaysâ eve.âÂ
âWell done, Iâm happy for youâ, she said.Â
I could feel her gaze burning on my face and I dared to glimpse at her. She looked unsure andâŠsad. Something hot and growling in my stomach stirred again. I could feel numb, or hurt. But I couldnât feel sad again. Sadness was a forbidden feeling for me. Although, if there was something worse that feeling sad, it was seeing my own sadness on her face.Â
My heart was screaming in pain. I had to make sadness go awayâŠ
âThanks,â I said, hoping the sound of the wind hid the trembling of my voice. âCongratulations to you too. Todayâs practice was something. You seem to be doing great.âÂ
Misaâs lips drew into the beginning of a smile, her brown eyes back onto mine.
âIâm working very hard, thanks.â
We locked eyes a moment, a moment while there seemed to be thousands of things going on inside her head. She opened and closed her mouth several times as I kept on smoking to hide my confusion. Of course, she was giving it all. She had always given it all. It was one of the things I loved the most about herâŠ
âWhat about that?â Misa asked finally, pointing at my cigarette with an evident disgust.Â
It made me furious, suddenly, completely. I didnât know at first, exactly why. I pursed my lips, my face hardening. I got it: her judgment about what I was doing with my life, a life she had chosen not to be part of, was the last thing I needed. Moreover, I was smoking again because of her!Â
I looked away.Â
âThis is none of your businessâ, I replied coldly.
I crushed my roach in the ashtray, taking the path to the parking lot without another glance.Â
And of course, back at home, I cried again for hours, like the whole month had been nothing. Like we had broken up yesterday.
***
That was it! I had just got the last batch of framed photographies, the only missing pieces for the exhibition! The opening was tomorrow and everybody had feared that the five large photos would never arrive. Due to the extremely short timing, I had gone fetch the frames myself at the printing company to keep them safely in my office at the Ciudad. I still had a few things to check with Eneko before going to the gallery. With the exhibition going on I had not been very present. The short filmmaker had been under a lot of pressure and I wanted to make sure he was going to be all right with all the tasks. Christmas time was a busy period. Everybody wanted their funny Christmas special challenge, their ugly jumper photo shoot or their corporate best wishes announcement, all of that on top of the exhibitionâs install. Inma, Eneko and I couldnât rest.
Phew! At least I had the prints now! I exhaled in relief and effort as I pulled the large frames out of my car. They were heavy and I struggled to find a good grip while being able to see where I put my feet. The glass doors of the building opened automatically, letting me inside and I managed to press the elevator button by touch. With my claustrophobia, I had genuinely wondered if I would risk my life more by taking the elevator than climbing the stairs with ten kilos of sight-blocking-forty-inches frames in my hands. The elevator had won.Â
I stepped inside walking backward and felt movement near me, followed by the dialing sound of a button pressed. I could see nothing but I knew someone had entered as well. The doors closed themselves and the person spoke.Â
âBuenoâ diaâ, a cual piso va? Puedo ayudarle?â
The voice and the accent were unmistakeable, leaving me wordless. My hands began to slip along the craft paper wrapped frames and the weight lightened suddenly. The frames slid aside, revealing our faces. Misaâs surprise was so manifest I felt my heart leap again.Â
âErâŠHi. Thanks.â I stuttered. âI guess you know what my floor isâŠâ I added with an embarrassed smile.Â
She smiled back mildly, her brown eyes resting on my face a second before she freed a hand to press the said floor button. Once again, I was totally confused by her proximity, but at least, I wasnât focusing on being inside the elevator.Â
Misa grabbed the frames back, lifting the weight off me completely.Â
âItâs very heavyâ, she simply said as I let her take the package.Â
I bit my lip. She hadnât changed, playing the good knight like I was some sort of fragile lady.Â
I sighed heavily, getting more upset. Why was she doing that? Charming me? She was the one who broke up and obviously she was doing fine without me. Her goalkeeping performances were back on top.Â
âEh⊠Nicky?â She asked from behind the frames, sending a jolt through my body. I hadnât heard her saying my name since two months now. âCan I⊠no, perdon⊠Are you okay if I come at the exhibitionâs opening?â
The elevator stopped suddenly and everything went dark.Â
No, no, no! Not that!Â
âMierdaâŠâ
I rested my back against the cabin wall. I couldnât see a thing. All my senses were gone with a growing dread freezing my body.Â
âNicky! Donât panic! Itâs just a power cut.âÂ
There were rustling sounds of paper, punctuated by swear words, and a light appeared from Misaâs phone. I had not moved. I could not move, putting all my focus onto my breathing.Â
Youâre not trapped in the elevator. Breathe. Youâre not trapped in the elevator. Breathe. Youâre not trappedâŠ
But I sensed it coming. My hands were getting numb and my legs started trembling. I knew I was going to have a panic attack in a few seconds.Â
âPlease, letâs sit down.â Misa had leant the frames against the wall.Â
She was close. So very close. I swallowed nothing. My chest hurt with the suffocating feeling of imprisonment. With no reaction from me, Misa took my hand. Her moves were gentle. I needed gentleness. I told myself to breathe again but I couldnât find any air and my teeth began chattering.Â
âI swear Iâm not cold!â I whined in panic.Â
âShhh, itâs ok. We sit down. It will passâ She said guiding me all along as I crouched and sat onto the cabin floor. Now freed from the duty of keeping me standing, my legs were shaking so much it was scary.Â
âIt will pass,â Misa repeated. Her thumbs brushed the back of my hands. I just realized I was holding hers like crazy.Â
âMisaâŠâ I muttered. I needed her. It was too hard. I needed her closer. âMisa, I canât breathe!â
I pulled at her hands as tears of panic rolled onto my cheeks.Â
The brunette slid closer and I grasped her strong arms, my breaths quickening.Â
âTake deep breaths Nicky, I promise it will pass.âÂ
And she wrapped her arms over me.
âTake deep breathes, like thisâ she repeated, filling her lungs with air and making her chest rise against me. My heart was pulsing in my ears, making me feel more disoriented but I mimicked her, inhaling deeply.Â
âVery well, now we blow out.âÂ
Again Misa exhaled. The smell of her breath reached me as I mirrored her. My face fell against her neck. Her smell wrapped another layer of herselfness all over me. It was working. My breathing had slowed and my chest felt less tense, but my sobs were unstoppable. Lost in her embrace, I just couldnât stop crying. I didnât even know why I was crying anymore. I just wanted to spill whatever needed to go out from my body.Â
âItâs only a moment,â Misa said softly, her palms brushing my back in an attempt to soothe me. âIâm sure weâll be out soon now.â
But was I wanting it to be over soon? My hands had stopped shivering. I had closed my eyes. We could be anywhere now. We could be anytime. Maybe we were still we. It would make sense given that we were holding each other like we always did. But the power did go back on that instant, blowing up my desperate thoughts. The lights filled the tiny space, dazzling and the elevatorâs automatic message announced blankly: âSystem launched successfully. Restart may take a few minutes."Â
Frozen against Misaâs chest, I didnât dare to move.Â
âItâs over, youâve been great.â The goalie patted my shoulder.Â
I pulled back, wiping the tears from my eyes, breathless like after a run. I felt so drained I was unable to quit the shelter of her arms. Misa didnât rush me. My eyes fell on hers, filled with their usual intensity, and travelled down to her mouth. Her lips were inches away, parted, waiting⊠Her eyes went shinier as I brought my face closer forgetting everything I had ever told myself since we broken up. I felt her hands pulling me closer and at that precise moment, when our lips were about to brush, the elevator motioned upward again.Â
We parted in haste and got up just in time for the doors to open on the next floor. A lot of people were chatting in front of the cabin, they had probably met here when the power went down and were going back to their business.Â
Shaky, Misa and I took the frames out of the elevator.Â
âIâll be ok. Thanks.â I told the goalkeeper. After what had nearly happened, I needed my space now more than ever.Â
âDe nada. Oh, about the opening night⊠what do you think?â Misa asked in a low voice. She was back to peering at her feet.Â
I hesitated, in no ability to clear my confused thoughts.Â
âSee you tomorrowâ, I replied finally with half a smile.Â
***
Champagne and cocktails flowed freely while lounge music filled the vast reception hall. Bottles were opened and poured in stemmed glasses at an enticing rhythm, the loud pops creating a funny addition to the quiet notes in the background. But despite the wonderful decor, I was nervous.Â
Of course, I was nervous. I wasnât used to being under the spotlights, moreover in a foreign country, at a party of the most famous football club of the world. Ana was eagerly twitching beside me. It had been her idea to pair the exhibitionâs opening with the traditional Christmas party. Every year the club organized a special event for employees, members and a well selected guest list. For this edition, the pairing had led them to choose a gallery in the center of the capital, with a vast reception room adjoining to it where the party would take place later. It was meant to be quite a show. On her side, Ana had been very attentive to be seen as the thinking head of all of this. But for now, she, Inma, Eneko and I, were standing in a neat line facing the entrance to welcome the guests.Â
The first ones to arrive were a group of employees from the commercial department, quickly followed by some of the players. Everybody had put on their best outfit in a demonstration of good and not so good taste. Olga was in a rather odd dress-suite but Maelle wore a smart sparkling skirt and a white shirt.
As for me, I had spent hours deciding what to wear for that prestigious occasion. I didnât want to be too formal but not too relaxed either. Thus, I had sent dozens of very doubtful selfies in front of the mirror to Angela.
âNicky, we talked about this a hundred times, youâre not wearing a shirt!â, Angela had said on the speaker.Â
âI have nothing else! All the tops I have are shirts or T shirts!â
âGo for a dress then! The dark blue one, you look stunning in it!â
âBut I never wear dresses, I feel weird in a dressâŠâ I had moaned, searching the pile of clothes.Â
âYou said you didnât want to wear pants either, that it was too common! You said you wanted to stand out but in a good way⊠That were your precise words and we both know what you want deep downâŠâÂ
I had rolled my eyes. âWell, I donât! You do?âÂ
âYou want to be sexy as hell so you can impress everyone this eveningâ, she had answered.
My brain had instantly pictured the face of the goalkeeper gagging, looking at a very attractive version of me. My lips had stretched into a smile and I had surrendered, âOk, Iâm trying the blue one again, but Iâm not putting stilettos. I hate stilettos⊠What about boots?âÂ
âHumm, with heels if you want your outfit to remain chicâŠ.â
I had dug out a pair of ankle high varnished black boots with medium heels I had had probably bought for some kind of party and worn two or three times in my life. I had put them on, shoved my hair to the side and sent a photo of my reflection to Angela.Â
âYouâre stunning Nicky! itâs giving an Im-good-on-my-own-boss-girl-and-look-at-what-you-lost vibe. I say perfect.â
âPerfectâ, I had echoed.Â
So here I was, wearing a silky dark blue dress and heeled boots, casually chatting with people, a cup of champagne in one hand and a small bag in the other, giving a very worldly version of Nicky to the now crowded place. I didnât know where to look, everybody greeted me, congratulated me. I shook hands of people I had no idea who they were, explained my work dozens of times and emptied several glasses far too quickly.Â
An hour or so had passed and I was in a long conversation about my vision of sport photography with a journalist named Franck when Misa arrived. She hadnât overdressed. She was wearing simple brown suit pants and a silver long sleeve top. I followed her from the corner of my eyes, watching her looking around, clearly searching for something or someone in the crowd.Â
She took a glass, her moves unsure, and looked a moment at the photographs hung on the walls. She was getting closer when she turned her head. Our eyes finally met. Her lips parted slightly before she closed them again and looked away. Misa had always been pretty bad at hiding her emotions.Â
A second later she had disappeared into the crowd and I excused myself to Franck, unable to talk or listen anymore. Knowing Misa was there had troubled me, a now usual feeling. I quickly exited the hall to the terrace to light up a cigarette, took a few puffs and breathed in relief the sweet poison filling my lungs. It was a pitiful compensation. I had not felt the satisfaction I had expected when she had seen me. I didnât know anymore what I wanted her to feel. Impressed? Angry? Sad? She had definitely seemed sad rather than impressed or angry.
As a matter of fact, so was I now, smoking on the terrace on my own. Back then, I had dreamt to celebrate the opening of my first exhibition with her.Â
With herâŠ
I pulled at my cigarette, forcing my mind to go blank again, my now well known strategy to retain some of my sanity, when I heard a soft voice close by.
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Summary: A new season begins for Nicky, the newly promoted photography director of Real Madrid. Navigating her new responsibilities while maintaining her secret relationship with Misa is not easy on a daily basis, especially when the unpredictability of life keeps making things even more complicated.
I was caught in the fog and I didnât really get why Hayley was entering my hospital room. I could see her face clearly though and it was betraying her anxiousness.Â
The bright vivid lights tinted the place with a gloomy atmosphere, an ironical contrast with the poster of a child playing at the beach hung on the wall. My eyes had fallen on the frame each time I had woken up, the random boring picture was now printed on my retina. My phone had died long ago, probably while I was taken to the block and with no charger I could only wait for someone to visit me and bring me the precious device that could connect me to the world.Â
Anyway, I had slept the whole time, barely awake when nurses had come to check on me every now and then. Everything was going good. My wounds had been stitched and the test results showed no sign of head trauma or broken bones. I had been appeased to know the clinic had contacted my parents to reassure them as well.
Fortunately I was in no state to be stressed out, the drugs doing more than their job. I had felt a little helpless, shaken by my accident, but sleep had taken me back as soon as I had started to wonder how things were going for the team and for Misa.Â
I couldnât fight sleep. Even now as I blinked and swallowed, trying painfully to find my way through the fog, my mouth dry and my limbs heavy. Hayleyâs visit was lighting my gloomy bedroom with her friendly presence, although coming alone, she was revealing the absence of the person I wanted to see the most.Â
âHere you are Nicky!â My friend greeted me, smiling mildly.Â
âHey.. yeahâ, I replied in a slurred voice as the Aussie came at my bedside.
âSweetie, in what a state you areâŠâ, she said patting my shoulder with a pout. âI fell on the doctor. Seven stitches on the arm and three on the left side of your waist, she said. Nothingâs broken and the scannerâs good too. Youâll probably count the bruises tomorrow thoughâ Hayley broke a smile. âI already knew you were all right, of course. You can imagine we called the clinic as soon as the match ended.âÂ
I remembered Misa's distress suddenly. Her anxious face too was printed in my mind. I opened my mouth but Hayley went on before I could speak. âWe lost. 1 to 3â.Â
Silence filled the room as we gazed at each other, our looks heavy with what the score implied.Â
âWhereâsâŠâ
âMisa.â The winger finished. âHum, everything has been hard for her, she⊠itâs too risky for her to come right nowâ, Hayley answered, taking my hand in hers.Â
I fought the fog taking me again, my mouth parched.Â
âHayley, tell me what happenedâŠPlease.â
The winger sighed but her voice was calm, âWhen they took you away, well, Misa did her best to act normal. We were all shocked and scared for you of course but she cares about you like a girlfriend does and she had a really hard time refocusing on the matchâŠâ
I closed my eyes. My head was spinning and I reopened them at once, shifting my position onto the bed. I grasped my wrist in a reassuring gesture, feeling the Canarian bracelet under my thumb. Iâm really spoiling everything, I thought sadly.
Hayley seemed to hear my silent despair. âNobodyâs mad about you Nicky, Misa the least!âÂ
âWhy didnât she come with you?â I asked, not getting why I was being left alone when I needed her here so badly.
âTo protect you Sweetie. Leaâs figured it out about you two. Misa told me. She got it as soon as Misa rushed at your side and looked completely panicked when she saw you lying on the floor covered in blood. She really tried to hide it when you were gone but a close friend could tell she was upset. During the game, Misa did some pretty bad mistakes, and on that part, anybody could tell it wasnât her night. Misa and I met shortly in the empty staff room after the game ended and we agreed Iâd visit you not to draw more attention to her. I had to skip the debrief to be able to come during visit hours. She wants to call you soon though â speaking of thatâŠâ Hayley pulled a charger out of her bag and dropped it onto my bed table. âHere! You know when youâll be out?âÂ
âTheyâre going to check me tomorrow morning, I hope Iâll be free to goâŠâ, I sighed and blinked, Hayley helping me to plug my phone into the charger.
âGreat, Misa asked me to tell you sheâs going to pick you up. I know you want to talk to her but I think you should go back to sleep. You look terribly tired Nicky. Iâll call Misa to let her know youâre fine.âÂ
âYes, sleepâŠâ I stuttered, it was becoming really hard to fight it. My mind was back in a thick cloud. âTell Misa I miss herâŠâ
âI will. Take care, sweetieâ the Aussie brushed my hair affectionately.Â
Her footsteps sounded like a distant noise from somewhere far from the room. Sleep swallowed me back a heartbeat later.
***
Her almond eyes. Her cute nose. Her plump lips.Â
I blinked. Was she really here?Â
Her whole face was so close I could see the grainy complexion of her skin, showing with the soft reddish light of dawn that soaked the hospital room. I blinked several more times, dazed, the fog dismissing itself as I woke up properly for the first time since the accident.Â
âBuenos dias, Azucariâ she greeted me. Her lips fell and stayed onto my forehead.Â
âMisa!â I exclaimed reaching for her face. Immediately, pain awoke in various parts of my body.Â
âHe he, easy, mi Nicky,â she said. I winced. Her rough fingers stroked my cheek. Her brown eyes were on me. The pain didnât bother me. All I cared about was her smell filling my lungs.Â
âHow are you feeling?â she asked.
âMuch better than yesterday. Much better like this.â I confessed, rolling â not without difficulties â onto my side to snuggle against her.Â
Everything felt so right under her gentle caresses, and breathing in her scent, I was tempted to go back to sleep. As she didnât speak any more, I started to doze off, soothed, my body molded to fit the warm embrace of her arms.Â
Misa. I missed you so much.Â
Suddenly, I remembered what Hayley had told me about the game, about what had happened and a storm of guilt broke over my head, dismissing sleep as fast as a blink of the eye.
 âMisa! Iâm so sorry!â I mumbled, grasping her sweater.Â
âWhat are you taking about Nicky?â
Her smell was so appeasing, but imagining what she endured was stabbing like a thorn.
âThe matchâŠyou lost⊠because of meâŠâ I said, my face buried against her torso.Â
âYouâre not responsible Cari, I donât blame you.â
Her palms brushed my arm and she laid another kiss onto my forehead.
âYou know that I do, indirectly. Our whole situation does.âÂ
Misa stayed silent a moment while her large hands kept stroking me. Her smell. Her wonderful smell continued to smooth me even if my heart was beating faster, waiting for her to speak.Â
âIt was a little hard⊠Not what happened to you. I mean of course I was scared for you, but what was harder was to hide everything. I had no news for hours⊠I didnât know what to do. I just could do nothing. I couldnât deal with not knowing about you and faking to care about the rest...âÂ
She sighed heavily, and hugged me a little tighter.Â
âIâm so sorry babyâŠâ I repeated.
âDonât be. Youâre safe and thatâs all that mattersâ.
Three knocks echoed onto the door and, modest, Misa parted from me.
âBuenos dias!â The nurse entered with a breakfast trolley and various medical equipment. âWeâll do a complete check up today. How was the night?â
âI slept like a babyâ I confessed, straightening up.Â
âPerfecto! Give me your arm please.âÂ
The nurse took my tension, my temperature and examined the entire collection of my bruises. She ended up checking the wounds.Â
âYou have to change your dressings every two days. I can show you how to do it but it seems difficult for you to reach your scars. You can ask for a nurse to do it for you at homeâ
âPuedo hacerlo por ellaâŠâ Misa, who had been waiting by the wall, had stepped forward timidly.Â
âSi, por supuesto puedes! Te muestro. Please lie on your front.â She added toward me.Â
âWhat did you sayâ I asked her.Â
âI can change your dressing if youâre okay with itâŠ?âÂ
âOhâ I blurted out. Misa had the timid look on her face she always had when she was unsure of herself or out of her comfort zone. She was so adorable, and so caring I bit my lip to prevent myself from whining. âYou sure?â I inquired guiltily. I didnât know how I could deal with Misa taking care of me on the top of everything.Â
But her hesitation was gone. âIâm pretty sure about it. On your front!â
I rolled over to let them have a better access to the scar on my back.Â
âBueno, coges el vendaje muy delicadamente âŠ.â
They went on in full Spanish. I grasped a few words but it wasnât really paying attention to it. My mind was focused on the delicate touch of the brunette, and on her attentive listening. I took a glimpse of her concentrated features. My heart tightened and I closed my eyes, the scar prickling when she sprayed it with sanitizer. I was feeling safe under her care as her strong hands pressed the new dressing lightly as a feather onto the wound.Â
âMuy bien Senora. Una infermera de verdad.â The nurse told the footballer before speaking to me. âEverythingâs fine. I feel like youâll be free to go once youâve seen the doctor. Youâll be off work for two weeks.â
âWonderful⊠wait what?â I froze, remembering the huge amount of work waiting for me.
âYou canât work in your current state. The wounds have to heal.â
âBut but⊠I canât stay off work this long, not nowâ I stared at the nurse with disbelief.
âNicky, of course you can! What are you talking about?â Misa stepped in.Â
I shot her an accusatory glance. Why was she intervening? This was not even concerning herâŠ
The nurse laid a comforting hand onto my arm. âYouâve been sedated and the cuts are deep. You donât realize it now but youâll be very tired. Plus we advise minimum movement to ensure healthy clean scars and to avoid any infection. That comes with resting.âÂ
Her tone was full of compassion but I couldnât shake the feeling of being grounded like a child.
âAlright, Iâll send the doctor. Have a prompt recovery and most of all, restâ she repeated, glancing behind me.
âPuede confiar en mi â Misa answered.
***
âYouâre here at last!" I exclaimed when the goalkeeper crossed the front door. âDid you get my SD card?â
âYep, but first and foremost Iâve got lunch for both of usâ she cheered, shoving a craft bag in the air.
âGreat. Give me the card please, Iâm so late on this!âÂ
Dropping the meal onto the kitchen table, Misa huffed, âNo I wonât, Nicky!âÂ
âAre you kidding me?!â I freaked out, arms crossed.Â
Misa crossed her arms as well, her gaze burning.
âIâll give you nothing until Iâve changed those dressings and youâve eaten something!â
âCome on Misâ! Iâm weeks late with those visuals! I have to get them done tonight!â
But the brunette didnât move.Â
âYou know I strongly disapprove of you work during your recovery, so, if you want your SD card, you let me take care of your wounds. Iâll wash my hands. Lie on the couch.â
I moaned, frustrated, but obeyed, knowing deep down Misa was right, and I heaved myself onto the sofa. Moving was still painful, especially the affected arm. Misa sat beside me and put a box of medical stuff onto her lap. The smell of sweat and grass clung to her, witch led me to assume she had not taken the time to shower and had come right after training. Â
âVale, Iâll start with the worst oneâŠâ
She took my arm carefully and fiddled with the corner of the plaster.
âOw! You were softer last time!â, I whimpered as Misa tried to remove the dressing.
âPerdĂłn Nicky, but itâs stuck!â she apologized. She scratched the dressing from a different angle. âBetter?âÂ
I nodded. Both of us were relaxing, allowing her to slowly pull the piece of medical tape apart from the skin. When she had removed the old dressing, she put sanitizer on a cotton pad to clean the long cut.
âDoes it hurt?â she asked as she applied the cotton to the still fresh stitches.Â
âNo, itâs just a little sensitive now. Movingâs more painful.âÂ
âIt would be less so if you stuck to what the doctors told you. You shouldnât be working. Even from home.â
âWeâve talked about this. There are things to handle. The Copa de la Reina starts next month and we have nothing. And my photo exhibition? If nothing moves, Anaâs going to cancel it.â
The goalie continued to clean my wound in silence. I watched her brows twitch or lift now and then, her plump lips pinching like they usually did when she was focusing on something. After a couple of minutes of both of us saying nothing, she started singing absentmindedly.Â
âPorque desde que estĂĄs aquĂ
AquĂ cerca de mĂ
Que tĂș eres mi baby
Y ese recuerdo de tenerte sin ropa
Que no me deja dormir
Sigo pensando en ti
Que tĂș eres mi baby
Y ese recuerdo de tenerte sin ropaâ
I recognized the song from our holidays in Formentera. Her warm voice was like water, slowly running down, soothing me. Her voice was softer than most Spanish peopleâs. I focused on that, on her softness, her careful gestures, her worries about my state. I knew I had not been nice to her since she arrived tonight.Â
âMisa, can I ask you something?â I said, wanting to break the ice.
âSi, claro.âÂ
âWhy do I feel like you donât talk like other Spaniards? Do you have an accent?âÂ
The question made her chuckle.
âEs el acento canario! We skip a lot of letters like the letter S. For example, I donât say España but Eâpaña. âMas golesâ â more goals â is maâ goleââ. Come on, this dressing is done. Lie on your stomach, Iâll clean your backâs stitchesâ.Â
âOhh! Thatâs why I thought nothing was plural for you ahahah! Ouch!â I winced again, the scar on my back was still sore. âTell me something else about Canarias.â I inquired, curious about her birthplace and wishing to focus on something rather than the pain.
âYou already know my island is Gran Canaria, the round one. We have a microclimate in Canariaâ, itâs 25 degrees and sunny almost all year. Laâ Palmaâ is one of the biggest cities of Eâpaña.âÂ
Now that sheâd explained it, I noticed every missing S in her way of speaking.
âOh nice! Is there a metro or tramway in Las Palmas?âÂ
âNo but our wawa network works well!â Misa answered proudly.Â
I didnât understand what she was talking about so I repeated interrogatively, âWawa?âÂ
âJaja, yes, we call our buses Wawaâ and again Iâm not really pronouncing the letter G, you spell it G-U-A-G-U-A.â
âGuaguaâ, I echoed.Â
âI love mi iâla - my island - I love Madrid too but itâs not the same and my entire family is thereâŠâ
Misa started to put compresses and tape over my second wound with much care. But there was something else behind her concentration. Something sad about her. I realized I had not even asked her if she was okayâŠ
âHow things are going at the ciudad for you?â I said more quietly.Â
âFine.â She replied, nibbling at her lips suddenly, an evident sign of nervousness.Â
I fidgeted on the sofa.Â
âWhatâs wrong Misâ?âÂ
âStop wiggling Nicky, Iâm not doneâŠâÂ
But she was not going to get on with it. I deliberately shoved her away from my back.Â
âMisa, I can tell somethingâs not right. What is it?â I said softly but firmly.
âVale..â She agreed, lifting her brown eyes toward mine. âHumm, I suckâ she simply says.Â
âWhy are you saying that, baby?â
She took a deep breath.
âIâm not doing well enough, the coach told me. Iâve already been pushed out of the national team, I canât fuck it up at Madrid as well. Iâve nothing else to say, come on let me finish covering that cut, itâs not safe.âÂ
She made me lie back onto the sofa, chewing her bottom lips with more intensity.Â
âFuck baby, I didnât know it was this badâŠâ I began, I had been so obsessed about my own state and work I had been completely blind about Misa. I hesitated, guilt chocking me again, âYou do seem very nervous to me these daysâŠâÂ
She huffed, furrowing her brows.Â
âDioâ Nicky! Of course Iâm nervous! Do you realize what Iâm going through? Iâm worried sick about you since your accident! During the game, when it happened, I couldnât be there for you and nobody was there for me. The coach spoiled me during half time and the girls, they saw I was acting weird. Everybody got there was something going on between you and me but fortunately, itâs no secret that you, Hayley and I are friends and I think Hayley truly saved us by visiting you at the hospital⊠but that was so close! I thought weâd be caught and I didnât even know if you were ok in the first place! All I was hearing was how shitty my performance was! And now? Now my recovering girlfriend isnât healing well because she refuses to rest! Like her jobâs more important than her health! More important that anything elseâŠâ she concluded bowing her head, back to biting her lips. âCome on, this dressing is done. You can have your SD card if you wantâ.
I straightened up, swallowing what she had said.
âMisaâŠâ I began, taking her hands in mine. They were warm like always, her fingers tips twitching against my palms. My guts knotted themselves under the sad stare of the young brunette. âWe both know weâŠâ
The directive tone of my phone-ring split the silence, making both of us jump in fear.Â
I glanced at the screen.Â
No surprise.Â
Ana.
âI gotta answer,â I sighted apologetically, grabbing my cellular.Â
Misa sent the device a hard stare, âPor supuestoâŠâ Â
âHello Ana?â
âHello Nicky, thanks god youâve picked up! Iâve sent you a brief about La Copa de la Reina, we canât wait any longer to have some elements to work with. Of course Iâm not asking you to do it while youâre off but can you put one of your assistant on it? And there is a meeting at 11â tomorrow with the designer team I really think you should not miss, you could attend in Visio so it would not be too tiring for you. What do you think? And please tell your camera assistant to film with a wider angle before we go abroad on Tuesday. The last shots were close to good to nothing. Is it okay for you?â
âHum yes. Iâll do my best.â I said though I had barely registered what sheâd told me. I sensed a bad headache growing behind my temple.Â
âYouâre the best Nicky. I knew I could count on you. I canât wait for you to get back with us, we need you here. Take care of you.â
âThanks AnaâŠâ I answered weakly, fatigue weighting onto my shoulders with the furious look of the goalkeeper tracking me as I paced the living.Â
âOh Nicky, waitâŠâ Ana interjected before I hung up. â I have to ask you something. Iâve heard nonsense about you dating a player from the female football team. Thatâs rubbish, of course?â
âWâŠwhat?â I stammered.
My eyes founds Misaâs. Her confusion mirroring my silent panic.Â
âThe rumor of you being with one of our girls, itâs false right?â Ana insisted.
Breath. Nicky, breath. How she knew? Who had told her? Was it that obvious?Â
Misa straitened up, her gaze burning with incomprehension and I managed to react at last.
âNonsense⊠Yeah. I donât know where that comes from.â My own voice assured, distant and detached when my heart had doubled its beating.Â
âSomeone from the marketing department mentioned it when we were talking about you. Anyway great, Iâm relieved! Have a good evening, Nicky.â
I hung up, and stayed frozen in the middle of the room.
âShe just asked me if Iâm dating a player⊠They are rumors. In spite of all our efforts⊠she knowsâŠâ my voice broke.
âHey hey hey,â the goalie caught me in her arms as the first tears rolled down my cheeks. âItâs not that bad. She believed you, right?â
âI donât know! Iâm tired! Iâm so tired Misaâ! I cried, pressing against her chest.
âItâs okay Azucri, itâs okay⊠we donât have to deal with it now. Youâre off work. Nobodyâs going to ask you more questions about it!âÂ
I tried to speak but words were drown into sobs. Stress was saturating me, penetrating every inch of my body. âI canât! I canât deal with everything going on! Iâm so tiredâŠâ I managed to cry out.
âShhh. Estoy aquĂ Nicky, Iâm here. Let it go, youâre exhausted.â Misaâs slow and steady speaking channelled a part of my emotions. The strong smell of sweat that was so hers helped me to remain grounded here, in her arms, rather than swept away by panic.Â
She continued softly. âFirst, weâre going to eat something, vale? And then Iâll give you your SD card. Weâll take things slow. I can help you select some photos?âÂ
How was she doing, saying exactly what I needed to hear? Being anything I needed her to be right nowâŠ
âI love youâŠâ I sobbed, wrapping my arms around her. âI love you so much!â
Misa held me to her chest.
âShhh, I love you more.â She whispered.
My heart felt so heavy, its load barely bearable. Misa⊠I felt like she was going to be taken from me. I knew my heart wouldnât stand it⊠I had to quit Real Madrid. Yet I was about to make it in my photographer career. I only needed a few months but it looked like I wouldnât be granted this extra time. The more time passed the more suspected we were becoming. The conclusion left me inert, drained from turning things over and over in my head, trying to align the pieces of an impossible puzzle.Â
I snuggled against the brunette, taking in her beautiful face. Her sad eyes bore into mine when our lips met. The salty tang of tears penetrated our kiss.
âI love you so much,â I repeated, sadness and stress changing into desperation as my fingers dug into her training jersey.Â
She applied her lips to my temple âEstoy aqui, Iâm here!âÂ
I stayed a little longer crying against her, the sobbing easing with the delicate touch of the young goalie.Â
Panic was gone but had left me exhausted. Soreness burned in my chest as I kissed Misa again, fully, engaging my whole being into our making out, my hands trailing along her flanks in an attempt to pull her even closer. The brunette exhaled deeply, her hands grasping my face.Â
âTe quiero muchoâŠâ she murmured, her fingers gently wiping the tears away.Â
My lips fell on hers again, insistent, demanding, and I instinctively gripped the hem of her sweater to pull it upward.
âHummm?â Her wordless moan questioned against my lips.Â
I nodded, barely breaking our kiss, letting my body tell her what I needed. Her taste filled my mouth, hot, our kiss pausing only to let me pull off her jersey. It wasnât feverish, it was intense. I needed her, whole, and nothing else.Â
Misa pulled back, âWe shouldnât. In your current stateâŠâÂ
âI really donât careâ I yelped, swallowing her warning.Â
I straddled her lap, pulling off her sport bra which joined her sweater onto the floor. Her plump lips wrapped themselves around mine, her almond eyes casting their tender, intense, chestnut light on me.Â
Losing myself in her, my fingertips brushed the soft shape of her breast as my kisses grazed over the column of her neck and descended to her collar bone. Her skin was slightly sticky here, its smell intoxicating. I filled my lung with it, sighing my irrepressible need of her, and my nose grazed the flower tattooed along her sternum. The scar on my back itched as I bent over but I ignored it. I ran my lips over her breast, licking my way through her gasps, her hands losing themselves into my hair when the first aroused moans escaped her lips.Â
I sucked her nipples gently. She tasted of sweat. Its tang was salty and lasting in my mouth. It wasnât really good but it was hers, and right now, it was all that mattered to me. She pulled my face back to hers, our mouthes finding each other again in a twirl of kisses and sadness we couldnât shake off as we grasped each other desperately. We were not daring to stop our making out, committed in our kiss like we were about to be pulled apart at any moment.
âI love you,â Misa panted and slipped her hand under my pants.Â
 A shiver ran through my body at the sudden contact over my lips. How easy it was to forget myself into her touch. It was urgent, almost rushed, her fingers slipping through my folds as my tongue swirled against hers.Â
Misa. Her touch. Tears and pleasure. Everything was blurring so fast in my mind, love and enjoyment merging with sadness in a melancholic blend. I knew I was not going to last long but tonight above all night, coming without her was unthinkable.
âSlow downâ I whispered, my hand coming over hers. Her wet, questioning look glazed my face as I led my hand under the waistband of her training pants.Â
A small naughty smile curled her lips and she rose her hips to let me pull off her pants. We finished to undress each other slowly, careful not to mess with the two large plasters covering my wounds, Misaâs moves were infinitely gentle, slipping her hands under my T shirt and unhooking my bra. Then, she laid down onto the tiny couch to pull me over her. I couldnât tear my eyes from her face, soft, beautiful, and my fingers slid down her stomach as I watch her lips part and tremble.Â
She welcomed my caresses by a soft moan, her own hand mirroring me without delay. Her fingers circled my clit, her other hand falling onto the small of my back to pull me upward.
âMisaâŠâ I sighed, overwhelmed, her fingers pursuing their mission.Â
She opened her mouth but I silenced her with a new tremendous kiss, my thighs pushing against hers, seeking more of her hand to accentuate the pressure. An insatiable hunger had taken over me. Making love with her, we were knotting our souls together into one bundle nobody could tear apart and that thought made me feel insanely good. Still I needed more of her. I needed her own enjoyment. I needed her to fall apart like I was about to.Â
My fingers met her pussy again, wet, blazing, and she let slip a tormented sound inside my mouth. I found her clit and flickered it slowly, careful to brush that spot I knew she liked very much. A cry of longing inhabited the room. I loved that cry. It was both a reward and a way to the bliss.Â
âCry for me babyâŠâ I whispered against her neck, my index copying her circular moves, âIâm close. Come with me!â
Misa let out another loud moan.
âEspera un poco⊠Waitâ she asked.
Her hips thrust into my hand to set the right pace, a faster one which her own fingers followed as well, pressing slightly less onto my pussy.Â
âFuckâŠâ I sighed, sensing the waves of joy still approaching. âCanât waitâŠâ I warned.
Misa grasped my chin, breath short, sweat numbing her upper lips and her almond eyes locked onto mine.
âCome mi amor, just look at me.â She said, the softness of her voice unbearable.
Her thumb fell onto my clit as she slid two fingers inside. I didnât even need any of this, her loving eyes were more than doing there job.
âMisa!â I cried, the simultaneous sensations pushing me toward the release.Â
Her gaze snapped something inside me. I shouted her name several times yet I couldnât stop the pleasure from hitting me like a thunderstorm. My legs gave away. My body crashed onto the spaniard while moaning more obscene sounds.Â
When I was finally able to straighten up again, I found myself locked inside the arms of the goalie, her face hidden into the crook of my neck as I felt her chest trembling under my body.Â
âMisa?âÂ
The goalie stayed silent, her chest rose up as she took a deep breath.Â
âMisa!â I called again, fidgeting to free myself from her grip.Â
I pulled back discovering the goalieâs face stricken with tears.Â
âI came tooâŠâ She sobbed, hiding her face back in her hand. âPleaseâŠâ She added, pulling me back against her.Â
Taken aback, I nested myself back into her arms, pressing my forehead against her.Â
âI got you.â I said, pulling her closer.Â
 Her arms surrounded my waist and she hugged me tight, my fingers rubbing through her hair.
âAre you going to be alright on your own when Iâll be abroad with the team?â She asked. She sounded liked she had stopped crying but sadness hadnât left her face.
âIâll be fine, baby. Really Misa, do not worry about me, okay?â I insisted, dreading to be the reason of an other goalkeeping catastrophe.
âCan you promise me youâll rest?â
We straitened up on the couch and Misa glared at me, not bothering to wipe her wet eyes. Guilt surged inside me thinking how caring she was. What was I bringing to her apart from problems and worries? What choice did I really have about work? My boss counted on me and I secretly counted on my exhibition to really launch my career. Misa seemed to guess my unease and frowned slightly.
âI promise,â I lied.
She hugged me once again, sighing. âGraciasâŠâÂ
I held her tight, beating myself up for having lied to her. I focused onto my goal. My finger tips smoothed the furrowed brows of the goalkeeper who closed her eyes, my little touches on her face soothing her.Â
I will resign for you, Misa, I promise you I will. I just need to last four more months as photography director, a first exhibition, to prop up my CV. Iâll look for a new job then. Weâll be together for real. Weâll be happyâŠ
The warm voice of the goalkeeper pulled me out of my reveries. âPlease Cari, letâs eat. I donât know about you but Iâm starvingâŠâÂ
She just made me realize for the second time of the day how bad I was neglecting her.Â
***
A few days later, I settled in front of the TV with a backache from sitting all day. As expected, I had not been able to keep my promise of taking some rest. Ana had drowned my assistants with reviews, asking for adjustment after adjustment. In the end, I had had no choice but to come to their rescue and do the job myself. I suspected my boss of putting them through hell so I wouldnât dare to imagine extending my sick leave.Â
Anyway, I had finally put work aside to enjoy a quiet evening at home and was bracing myself for the kick off of the third Championâs League match: Juventus versus Real Madrid, a meal on my lap and fresh soda in hand.Â
The whistle blew and the match began nicely. Straight from the start, Caroline Weir rushed past the Italian defenders, aiming for Signe Brunn, Signe striking hard and sending the ball soaring. The ball rebounded off the fists of the goalkeeper Pauline Peyraud-Magnin, yet, Caroline had moved forward and was in the best position to recover it. Quick and precise, she managed to kick it right into the net before the goalkeeper had the time to dive for it.Â
The Madrid players and I burst into joy. I jumped from the sofa in triumph, too fast, awakening a prickling around the wound on my waist. I couldnât care less. All I wanted was the game making the team and Misa feel great again.Â
The match resumed and the ball was given back to Juventus. They lost it again a few passes later and the following minutes were a succession of lost balls and touches, both goalkeepers having very little to do.Â
On the 35th minute, Sofia Cantore managed to get in between Rocio and Olga and ended up doing a nice center, recovered by Cristiana Girelli who shot right at the left goal corner. Misa jumped high toward the ball but could do nothing but stare helplessly as it landed at the back of the net. Cheers from the crowd. Silence on the Madrid side. The shot had been neat and strong, really hard to stop but Misa pulled a face. Her clean sheet was gone. In need to prove herself after the catastrophe against Madrid CFF, I knew she felt it heavier tonight.Â
The occasion presented itself soon. When the Italian forward Sofia Cantore escaped on her own right after the goal kick, going back straight to the cage, Misa readied herself for the shot. At the last minute, she decided to come out of the penalty area, rushing at the footballer coming to her at full speed with the ball rolling at her feet. But it went wrong. Sofia dribbled the goalie quite easily and shot right into the cage. As such, Real Madrid took its second goal.Â
My stomach began to knot, Misa had completely mistimed coming off her line and her mistake had been hardly punished for having taking the risk of leaving her cage exposed. The whistle blew for halftime and the players walked toward the locker room. The camera lasted a moment on the goalieâs tense face, her jaw clenched, frustrated and angry. She knew that goal was on her and like every goalkeeper those goals were the worst to swallow.
Fortunately, the second half started much better, Caroline and Linda managing to score respectively at the 61th and 79th minute, but the wind clearly changed again past the 85th minute. Juventus managed to get a corner, shooting it nicely to the waiting head of Estelle Cascarino, her header aiming for the second goal post. Misa jumped, arms stretched to the maximum. The tips of her gloves hit the ball but the angle was unfortunate. The ball rebounded inside the cage. Misa had just conceded an own goal.Â
I shrank into the couch, afraid. Clearly, something was not right with the young goalie. I had not the time to dig on the taught though. Juventus had taken the ball back toward Misaâs cage, Misa bracing herself for another attack. Hopefully, Maelle Lakrar nicely tackled the Italian striker and the ball rolled to Olgaâs feet. But the defender was under the constant pressing of Cantore, stopping her to clear the ball away. After a few unsuccessful dribbles, Olga finally decided to pass it back to Misa. Girelli sprinted toward the goalkeeper, forcing Misa to do a rushed clearance to scare the danger away. However, Misa shot straight in front of the cage and her pass was intercepted by the midfielder Ariana Caruso, sending the ball high in the air. Misa followed the ball running backward, ready to catch it but it descended at hand level right behind her. She jumped. The tips of her gloves missed the ball only to see it coming down inside the net.Â
I didnât want to watch anymore. Misa was lying on the grass, the Italian player and crowd roars filled the stadium. The filming didnât allow me to see more of Misaâs despair. I didnât need it to know it was bad. She wasnât well at all.Â
I cleared the remaining of my meal and did the dishes, my mind clouded. I heard the whistle signal the game end. Three to four. Misa had taken four goals facing a clearly dominated team. Three of them could have been avoided at the least.Â
It was bad. I had never seen her play like that.Â
I didnât know what to do. Usually I was with her at the stadium, gathering my photography equipment before waiting for her in a desert corridor or at the parking lot. After a bad game, just a glance at the goalie would reassure or worry me. I would act depending on her state. I could read very well when Misa preferred to be left alone, or when sheâd seek the confort of a shared bedroom during the night afterward. But tonight, for the first time, I wasnât there and I felt like we were both on our own.Â
So, I waited for her call.Â
Minutes.Â
Hours. Â
It was nearly 1 in the morning and I had no call, no message. My heart sank.
At 2â o clock, I could stand no more. I grabbed my phone. The dialing sound lasted. Angst gripped my limbs as I wondered if she was going to pick up.Â
âHolaâŠâ
The goalie answered, finally. Her voice was so hoarse she couldnât be sleeping. Had she been crying?Â
âFuck Misa! I was so worried⊠you didnât call⊠I saw the match, I know youâll be brooding but please tell meâŠhow are you?â
âBuah, not very well I guessâŠâ she said before sniffing.
I sensed my saliva dry in my mouth. Silence settled between us as I waited for her to go on, however, she said nothing else, thus I inquired with caution, âSweetie⊠I know it must be hard. Is there anything I can do?â
I heard her sniff again.Â
âEh⊠no, I⊠weâŠâ
She sighted heavily and angst gripped me a little more.Â
âI canâtâŠâ she began but stopped to let a rasping breath.
My gusts knotted around themselves as I stayed floating in the awful quietness. I knew what was coming next. Dread crushed me. I muttered a voiceless prayer, not daring to speak, wanting nothing more than to stop the time and space so it wouldnât happen.
âI think we should stop.â
If only I could have been wrong.Â
Silence settled again and I could only hear the loud and fast beats of my heart. I swallowed almost nothing, my mouth dryer than after a run.Â
âWhatâŠ?â I asked stupidly.Â
âLo siento muchoâ, her broken voice sobbed through the phone.Â
âPleaseâŠdonât. Misa, please!â I didnât know what I was saying anymore. Nobody had ever saved their relationship by asking their partner not to break up during a phone call. But here I was, begging Misa with all being, begging her to keep me into the light because the sun was about to sink for good.
âPor favor Nicky⊠donât make it harder!â she cried. âI canâtâŠâ
ââŠgo on like this, I know,â I finished. Tears streamed from my eyes but my body was numb with shock. She had hit the point. I knew how she felt because deep inside I knew I was feeling the same way.
âYou⊠should get the chance to fulfill your work aspirationsâŠâ, she continued, ââŠand I need to focus back on mineâ
Her quiet sobs achieved to break my heart into pieces. I really couldnât breathe anymore, through air indeed went in and out of my lungs.
Sheâs right. I love her so much. But Iâm not doing her any good, Iâm even ruining her performancesâŠÂ
I shouldnât fight for this.Â
âOkayâŠâ I focused on the tiles of my kitchen, emptying my mind to gather the remains of my strength. âI guess Iâm going to hang up now⊠too hard.â I managed to articulate, my body fighting against the sobs pushing to come out.Â
âIâm so sorry⊠Please, take care of you Azu⊠Nickyâ
My chest shook uncontrollably for containing the sobs. I couldnât say anything, still I couldnât hang up after all. It would mean it would be over. Our relationship would end with the call.Â
But then it hit me.Â
It was over. We had just broken up.Â
I spoiled a minute trying to regain my ability to speak, my blurred sight composing the soft features of her face.
âIâll hang up, hum⊠byeâ Misaâs voice had regained some composure.
âTake care, just know youâre the bestâŠâ I finally stuttered in the middle of sobs.Â
âThanks⊠You tooâ
And she was gone.Â
Tears and sobs escaped madly.Â
I dropped my phone onto the sofa, fighting to retake my breath when crying took all over my body with an unimaginable strength.Â
Every inch of my being ached, my mind drowning in unbearable pain.Â
It was over. We were no more.
I was falling lower and lower and this fall was far more dangerous than my accident.Â
You donât suffer when you fall, the pain coming only when you hit the bottom.Â
But precisely, falling was excruciating, the floor never in sight.Â