It takes the Barcelona captain a long, long time to pull herself out of bed on days off. 

Not… dreadfully slowly. She’s incapable of that, as much as she wishes otherwise. Years of alarms before sunrise and training schedules carved too deep into her bones for that. But slowly enough that when she finally opens her eyes, the room is bright already, with sunlight spilling through the thin gap in the curtains in one golden line across the floor. 

09:43AM.

“Hm.” 

Her voice comes out rough with sleep as she squints at the clock on the bedside table. Not even ten in the morning. Disgusting.

She stays there another minute, warm beneath the sheets, one arm tucked beneath the pillow.

Mid-season days off are strange things. Too rare to waste but too infrequent to know what to actually do with once they arrive.

Alba is with her girlfriend’s family. Her mother is on a beach somewhere, probably already ordering a variety of overpriced cocktails. Her friends are all working, she’d already asked weeks in advance if they were free, but alas not. And as far as she’s aware, everyone on the team is off doing their own thing.

And you–

Alexia’s hand moves for her phone before she’s fully conscious of doing it.

Blank lockscreen. No notifications from you.

Her brows pinch together. Weird.

Normally by now there’d already be at least four messages waiting for her. Some utterly pointless observation you’d had whilst trying to fall asleep. Maybe a photo of your breakfast since you always woke before her. Links to videos you found funny at unreasonable hours of the night.

But there’s nothing. 

No good morning, no nonsense, no running commentary from inside your head spilling directly into her phone like it belonged there.

Alexia stares at the screen another second. Then another.

“Hm.”

This one comes out more suspicious.

Because it isn’t as though the two of you are casual. Not really.

Casual people do not end up with designated sides of each other’s beds. They do not automatically reach for the other person’s hands during movies, or knowing which takeaway to pick up on the way to the one’s place without asking, or having an accidental stash of hoodies with the other’s perfume stashed in your wardrobes. 

Casual people definitely do not spend entire nights together beneath soft amber lamplight with half their clothes missing and absolutely no intention of putting them back on any time soon.

Though, it’d never properly… been given a name.

It had grown between you quietly over months instead. Something careful and warm and strangely precious, lit by a spark that’d struck after a short trip to Mallorca with Patri and Jana and a few others the previous summer. 

You were teammates. Friends first. Entangled now in ways that mattered more than either of you had figured out how to say without risking either the loss of it, or rocking the boat of the team dynamic. 

So instead, the two of you hovered happily in the space just before certainty.

Close enough that Alexia knew the sound of your sleepy voice at midnight. Close enough that you absentmindedly wore her clothes home. Enough that she sometimes caught herself imagining six months ahead before sharply stopping herself there.

But apparently not close enough to know why you’d vanished overnight.

Her frown deepens. The house suddenly feels too quiet. 

By half ten, she’s given up on waiting for her phone screen to light up and forces herself into motion instead.

She connects her phone to the speakers in the ceiling all over her house, and showers. A mixture of genres and languages so horrifying she’d been banned from controlling the locker room music after just one chance. After already being banned for two seasons before that. 

Music follows her through the house after that as she moves through the morning. She isn’t really paying attention to it, though, as she waters plants and folds laundry and wipes down kitchen counters that are already clean.

Every few minutes her eyes flick back to her phone where it rests face-up on the marble counter.

Still nothing.

She presses her lips together.

Ridiculous.

She is thirty-two years old. Captain of FC Barcelona. One of the best footballers in the world.

And somehow being ignored by you for twelve hours has turned her into this. 

Time ticks on until it reads 11:18 on her phone, which had gathered a few notifications, but none under the one name she was after. 

The house, despite all its cleanliness, has begun to feel stale around her somehow. Every room carries the faint sense that she is waiting for something. Or someone.

Alexia decides she needs air before she ends up checking your chat for the hundredth time like a teenager. 

So she pulls on the first clothes she finds– faded blue jeans, black trainers, a slightly oversized white shirt, and a fleece gilet that Alba once told her made her look like a middle-aged farmer from Girona. 

Alexia had pointed out that Alba owned the exact same gilet in beige; in fact, they had bought them in the shop together. Alba had replied that it was different because she was actually stylish. 

Alexia had hung up on her.

She grabs her keys from the counter on the way out, shoving her phone into her pocket with one last glance at the dark screen first. Still nothing.

The street outside is empty at the weekday’s midday hour, would be peaceful if it wasn’t for the silly amount of hedge trimmers going off at once. The first day of sun in a week or so always sends the gardeners mad.

The brunette goes to turn left out of her gate, before she pauses, then heads to her neighbour’s house across the street. Knocks twice in the familiar rhythm she’s used for the last few months.

There’s a shuffling noise from inside, followed by several high-pitched barks. 

The door swings open.

“Ah, Ale!” Her elderly neighbour, Beatriz, beams up at her immediately with a hand pressed to her chest. “Just you today?”

Alexia blinks once. “...Sí?” 

The older woman leans to the side, peering dramatically around Alexia.

“Where is that lovely new girl of yours?”

She nearly chokes on absolutely nothing. Heat flushes embarrassingly fast across her face as she palms awkwardly at the back of her neck.

“She’s– uh, busy today.”

The woman narrows her eyes in a way that makes Alexia feel strangely as though she’s being interrogated by a disappointed aunt.

“You haven’t messed it up, have you?” 

“W-what?”

“I quite like that one,” Beatriz continues, ignoring her completely. “Much better than the other girl.”

Alexia stares at her. “What other girl?”

“That brown-haired one who convinced you to go blonde. Terrible decision.” Beatriz scoffs. “I’m glad you became my neighbour when you were basically back to brunette again. I would’ve put hair dye in your shampoo.”

She closes her eyes briefly. Lost for words.

“It’s looking good now though. Much healthier. Keep it that way or I’ll stop giving you fresh tomatoes.” 

“I will, Beatriz, thank you.” She exhales through her nose, fighting the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth at the lack of filter. 

Another sharp bark erupts from somewhere deeper inside the house, followed by the frantic clicking of nails against the tiled floor.

“And no,” She says finally, softer this time. “I haven’t messed anything up, as far as I’m aware.”

The addition slips out before she can stop it. Beatriz catches it immediately, of course.

“Aha!”

“No– there is no aha.”

“There is always an aha.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “We are both just doing our own things today. Does Boni need a walk?”

The tiny white dog comes skidding around the corner at the sound of her name like a possessed mop.

Unlike every other small dog Alexia has ever encountered, Boni behaves as though she is approximately the size of a small military tank. She launches herself directly at Alexia’s legs with startling confidence, barking furiously before demanding to be picked up.

“She is spoiled.” Alexia mutters, scooping the little dog into her arms anyway.

“And whose fault is that?”

Alexia chooses not to answer.

Five minutes later, she is back out on the street with Boni trotting at her side on a pink lead covered in tiny strawberries.

The contrast between them is ridiculous.

Alexia, all long limbs and composed athleticism beside a dog small enough to lose in a handbag.

Boni doesn’t seem bothered by this; she struts down the pavement like she is the celebrity. 

They walk without much urgency in the pleasant Spring weather, this particular route to her go-to cafe away from the tourists and also not yet touched by the lunch crowds. Light glints gold against house windows, somebody nearby is playing music through open patio doors, and vespas buzz through the streets like angry insects.

Every now and then people recognise her– a couple walking past smile politely in that restrained way locals often do around the players, not wanting to intrude. A little boy nearly walks straight into a lamppost because he’s staring at her instead of where he’s going.

Her phone stays stubbornly silent in her pocket. 

It’s not like she’s waiting for you to text her. She’s just… aware that you have not. There is a difference.

The air is warm enough that Alexia shrugs her gilet open as she walks, sunlight settling delightfully against the back of her neck. 

Usually, on mornings like this, you’d somehow end up appearing beside her halfway through.

Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes because one of you would call saying things like ‘What are you up to?’ before simply meeting up wherever either happened to be.

You liked walking with her. Said the city felt different with Alexia by your side. 

She’d rolled her eyes at that, even though she’d liked hearing it more than she should have.

Her chest tightens strangely at the thought now. Still nothing.

Hm.

The café near the little square is busy in the comfortable way all Barcelona cafés seem to be busy. Not loud or chaotic, just full, hearty.

Alexia pushes the door open with one hand, Boni trotting impatiently ahead of her like she owns the place. Which, considering the reaction from the staff, she may as well.

“Boni!” The girl behind the counter abandons steaming milk mid-pour to lean over and fuss the tiny dog, who accepts the attention with the solemn dignity of royalty greeting her subjects.

“And Alexia,” The girl adds a second later, glancing up. “You too, I suppose.”

“How kind of you.”

The girl grins. “The usual?” “Yes. And whipped cream for the cute, little rat.” 

“Alexia!”

She steps back outside a few minutes later balancing a latte in one hand and a tiny paper cup of cream in the other.

The terrace is dappled with sunlight beneath broad beige umbrellas, warm air drifting lazily through the square. She chooses a small at the end, settling into the chair with a quiet exhale as Boni immediately hops onto the empty seat opposite her. 

Spoiled.

Alexia slides the cream cup across the table anyway. “There.”

Boni plunges in face first, of course. Alexia shakes her head fondly before leaning back in her chair, fingers curling around the warm takeaway cup of her latte.

For the first time all morning, she properly relaxes. Even if there is still a faint restlessness beneath her ribs she can’t quite shake. But her shoulders do loosen slightly as she watches the square around her.

A cyclist weaves lazily between pedestrians. Two elderly men argue passionately over cards at a nearby table, giving Beatriz competitiveness at cards a run for their money. Alexia should give them her number.

Barcelona in late morning always feels softer. Sun-warmed and sleepy around the edges. 

Her phone stays in her pocket for almost six entire minutes. A personal best.

Though, habit eventually wins.

She unlocks it one-handed beneath the table, thumb automatically opening instagram without much thought. Mostly background noise more than anything else. Something to occupy the part of her brain still irritatingly aware of your silence.

A few stories flick by. She barely registers any of them, eyes drifting absently across the screen as she drinks her coffee. 

Then your close friends story appears. She pauses automatically.

A photo. Patri stands grinning at the camera somewhere bright and expensive-looking, Kika beside her mid-laugh with one arm slung around your shoulders while you smile between them.

There you are. Alive.

Interesting.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

So you do still know how to use your phone.

She almost taps past the story before something else catches her attention.

Flowers. White ones. Large arrangements spilling over tables in the background. People dressed formally behind you. A large manor house, decorated with elegant white ribbons and such.

Her thumb stills, but the next story loads automatically. And Alexia as a whole goes very, very still.

It’s you again. This time standing beside another woman.

Who is very clearly a bride. There’s no mistaking it.

She is very obviously wearing a wedding dress, elegant and fitted, all soft white fabric and delicate satin, bouquet tucked against her waist as she leans into your side laughing. 

And you–

Alexia sits up straighter.

You;re dressed in light colours too. Cream maybe. Or white. Something bright enough that, under the sunlight, it blends almost seamlessly beside the wedding dress.

One arm wraps around the bride’s waist. The bride’s arm rests around your shoulders.

And the two of you are looking at each other. Not posing for the camera.

Looking. 

Laughing properly. Heads tipped close together like there’s no one else around.

“...What?”

Alexia frowns harder at the screen.

No.

There had to be some explanation for this. 

A family member. A friend. Or–

Her thumbs moves before she can finish the thought, tapping onto Kika’s story instead.

A video this time.

The camera shakes slightly with laughter as it pans across the gravel yard in front of the house, music playing in the background, people gathered waiting for photos with champagne glasses in their hand.

The camera lands on you and her stomach drops.

You are standing beside the bride again, close enough that your bodies brush from shoulder to hip. The woman says something that gets lost beneath the music and chatter around you.

You lean in automatically to hear her better.

Too close.

Your mouth brushes near her ear as you say something back.

The bride laughs immediately, head falling against your shoulder for a second before she nudges you lightly with her bouquet. You laugh too– soft and familiar enough that Alexia feels it somewhere beneath her ribs like physical damage.

Then your head tips towards her again, foreheads nearly touching. 

Comfortable. Intimate. The kind of closeness built over time.

Alexia chokes violently on her coffee.

Latte goes down entirely the wrong way, hitting the back of her throat hard enough that she has to cough into her fist, eyes watering instantly as coffee splashes down the front of her white shirt and on her jeans. 

Boni startles so hard she nearly falls of the chair. The tiny dog stares up at Alexia with huge black eyes, whipped cream still smeared around her mouth. 

Alexia coughs again. A shadow appears beside the table.

Without a word, one of the café workers drops a thick stack of napkins beside her drink with the exhausted expression of somebody who has seen enough public romantic crises to identify one on sight.

There’s mild disgust there, but mostly exasperation.

Alexia looks up briefly, mortified. “...gracias.”

The worker glances once at the phone still clutched in her hand, then at the coffee all down her shirt. He sighs like it confirms something deeply unfortunate about humanity and walks off.

The midfielder grabs a handful of napkins, dabbing uselessly at the spreading stains across her abdomen and dotted over her thighs. 

Her heart is beating far too fast. The video has looped by the time she looks down again.

You laughing. The bride touching your arm. Your heads leaning together.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her mouth goes dry. A horrible heavy feeling settles low in her stomach all at once, sick and dizzying.

No texts, no calls, no mention of any of this. 

Wedding. Bride. White outfit.

The thought crashes into place so suddenly it makes her feel stupid for not seeing it right away.

“Oh my God.”

Boni barks once; Alexia barely hears her.

She recognises the venue. Not from being there, just from research.

From nights months ago spent half-curled on her sofa with her notes app open while you slept against her shoulder, mindlessly saving things she liked without really thinking about why.

Venues and flowers and names and–

Ridiculous things. Tiny, impossible domestic fantasies she never let herself linger on for too long afterwards.

And this place? This exact manor house with its ivy-covered brick walls and enormous garden terrace?

It is sitting somewhere inside a locked note on her phone.

She feels abruptly nauseous. 

“No.” She mutters. 

Stares at the screen one last time. Then she stands so quickly the metal chair scrapes harshly against the pavement, scaring the life out of Boni.

“Ay, lo siento– come here.” 

Alexia scoops the tiny dog into her arms before she’s even finished her cream, grabbing the lead and her phone all at once in a frantic movement. The abandoned latte rocks dangerously on the wobbling table behind her.

Her pulse is hammering now. Because surely you would have told her if you were getting married. 

Wouldn’t you?

Boni spends the entire walk home yapping grumpily from Alexia’s arms, unaware that her temporary dog walker is currently experiencing what can only medically be described as a complete psychological collapse.

Her brain is moving too fast.

Wedding. Bride.

How long had this been happening? How had she missed it? Had everybody known except her? Was that why Patri had been weirdly smug lately? Was that why Kika kept making those cryptic comments about her needing to ‘say things before it’s too late’?

“Oh God!”

The tiny dog wiggles as Alexia unlocks Beatriz’s gate with fumbling hands.

The elderly woman opens the door before she can even knock. “Oh! Back already?”

“Yes.” Alexia thrusts the dog gently but urgently into her arms. “Emergency.”

Beatriz gasps. “What kind of emergency?” 

Alexia opens her mouth. Closes it again. 

Braces for a lecture.

“Romantic.”

Beatriz lets out the most dramatic gasp the brunette has ever heard. 

“I knew it!”

“I have to go, sorry!”

“Alexia Putellas Segura!” Beatriz calls after her as she’s already halfway down the path. “If you ruin things with that lovely girl, I will haunt you!”

“I know!” 

Then she’s gone.

She jumps into her car with the grace of a bull in a fine china shop. 

And the drive feels endless.

Every single red light in Barcelona appears specifically engineered to destroy her. Until she finally gets out of the city, just for the traffic on the highway to be dreadful. Though it only teases her, as she gets to a mile away from her junction and it all clears up like nothing ever happened.

She grips the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles ache, coffee-stained shirt sticking uncomfortably against her skin while her thoughts spiral further and further into insanity.

The more she thinks about it, the worse it gets.

You’d said it was a family thing today. 

A family thing.

Not ‘I’m attending a wedding’.

Not ‘I'm in a wedding’.

And certainly not ‘by the way, I might be the person getting married’.

Her stomach twists violently.

“No,” She says out loud to the empty car. “No, no, no.”

The worst part is that she can suddenly see it. All of it. The silence and the white outfit and the venue and the way you looked at the bride.

Her brain stitches it together with horrifying efficiency until it becomes something terrible and impossible to ignore.

Maybe you hadn’t told her because you thought whatever existed between the two of you wasn’t serious enough to require it.

 Maybe to you, this had all just been–

No.

Her jaw tightens sharply.

No, because you looked at her like it was her you pictured your life with.

Another vicious twist to her stomach; how can she assume that when you hadn’t even labelled whatever was between you?

She takes the turn towards the countryside roads too fast. 

The manor house appears eventually through rows of tall trees, all pale stone walls and sprawling gardens behind wrought iron gates.

Alexia recognises it instantly– it looks exactly like the photos. Which somehow makes everything worse. 

“Madre de Dios.” She utters in awe.

Cars line the gravel entrance in neat elegant rows.

Alexia’s does not.

She parks at an angle so catastrophic it would probably get her arrested if she wasn’t on private land, barely remembering to kill the engine before shoving the door open and climbing out.

The late afternoon air hits her immediately, warm and carrying the distant sound of music and conversation drifting from somewhere deeper into the grounds.

Her heart is pounding now, hard enough to hurt. 

The gravel rocks crunch violently beneath her trainers as she rounds the front gardens.

Then she sees you. Standing outside near the tall entrance doors with Patri and Kika.

You’re laughing at something Patri is saying, sunlight catching against the pale fabric of your outfit while guests drift around behind you with flutes of champagne.

You look beautiful.

The thought lands with devastating force. 

She slows for half a second, enough for panic to properly catch up with her. 

Because this is real. It’s happening. You’re here, dressed like that. And if she doesn’t do something right now–

“No!”

The words tears out of her without inhibition.

Several heads turn immediately as she begins to run up the driveway.

You blink in confusion whilst Patri’s face goes blank and Kika lowers her drink.

“Please!” She calls desperately.

She’s still moving toward you across the long gravel driveway, every step slipping slightly against the loose stones beneath her trainers so that it feels absurdly cinematic, like she’s running through wet cement, in slow motion.

A few nearby guests stop talking altogether now. A few remove their sunglasses.

You stare at her.

“Alexia?”

She shakes her head immediately, breathless from the run and the panic and the sheer catastrophic momentum of this entire situation. 

“No. No, please don’t do it!” 

Patri looks genuinely alarmed now, your first time seeing that expression on her face in all the years of your friendship. 

“...do what?”

Alexia finally reaches the last stretch of gravel before the tiled path leading to the door, chest heaving as she looks directly at you.

At your pale outfit, the flowers, the wedding guests.

Then at the woman standing just inside the doorway in a wedding gown.

Her face crumples.

“Don’t marry her.” 

Silence crashes down around the front yard.

Well, not complete silence, because further inside the house music is still playing and guests are murmuring about the soap opera playing out before them, but enough that she can suddenly hear her own breathing.

Every single person within a twenty metre radius is staring at her.

A waiter has frozen mid-step with a tray of champagne. One man lowers the canapé he’d just been about to eat with a grumble at the request of his wife. Even the children had stopped their games to watch.

You blink at Alexia. Look at Patri and Kika. Then back to Alexia again. 

“What on earth are you saying?”

Her dark hair is windswept and her shirt is still stained with coffee in a way that would horrify her under any other circumstances. 

Right now though she barely notices because you still haven’t denied it.

“Please,” She says again, softer this time. Undeniably desperate. “Please don’t marry her.”

The bride standing in the doorway looks utterly baffled.

“Me?”

Alexia finally looks at her for the first time, properly.

Then at you.

And suddenly, something changes.

Tiny details begin slotting into place, her panic-riddled brain finally slowing down enough to process everything correctly.

Your outfit– not white. Cream. A soft, prosecco-coloured satin thing.

Formal, yes. Beautiful, devastatingly so, yes. But not bridal. 

Your hands– no ring. 

Bouquet– not bridal. 

And the woman in the doorway, Alexia’s eyes flick past her. Straight through the open doors of the manor house where a huge decorative sign sits in the hallway. Beside it, the actual groom. Who is incredibly concerned. 

She stops breathing for a second. 

Oh no.

Her face drains instantly of what little colour remained in it.

Next to you, Patri’s face changes in real time as understanding dawns across her face.

“Tía,” she says slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Kika’s mouth falls open.

“Are you okay, Capi?” She asks, visibly fighting laughter. “Do you need an intervention?”

Alexia doesn’t know what to say. You stare at her with an expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“You thought I was getting married?”

The sentence hangs there for exactly four seconds. 

Patri looks at Kika, Kika looks at Patri. 

Both of them turn toward Alexia’s stricken face and…

…immediately burst into laughter.

Loud laughter. The kind that takes people out at the knees. 

Patri doubles over so fast she nearly spills champagne down her chest, one hand clutching Kika’s arm as she wheezes helplessly. Kika outright cackles.

“No– no, wait–” She gasps between laughs. “She thought– she seriously thought–” 

“You drove here?” Patri chokes out. “You came all this way?”

Alexia remains frozen in place, still breathing too hard, humiliation beginning to crawl through her with devastating speed. 

“Oh my god!” Kika cries. “You were trying to stop the wedding!”

“I was not–”

“You literally shouted ‘don’t marry her!’”

“I panicked!”

It only made them laugh harder. Several nearby guests join in with them too.

Meanwhile you are still staring at Alexia.

Then, your face begins to change too. Confusion melts first, then the disbelief.

Something dangerously fond takes center stage instead.

“You thought I was getting married.” You say whilst biting back a smile.

Alexia wanted the gravel to open up beneath her feet and consume her whole. Colour floods her face so quickly it reaches the tips of her ears.

It is deeply unfortunate that she cannot sprint away now without making this even worse. 

“You idiot,” Patri laughs. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life.”

Alexia glares at her, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact she still looks mildly panicked and has coffee down the front of her shirt. 

You laugh too, then. Not like Patri and Kika are laughing, not cruelly. Just soft amusement spilling out in little bursts as you gaze at her.

And that is somehow worse. She would almost prefer being publicly executed.

“Alexia,” Kika says, wiping beneath one eye dramatically. “You came here to stop a wedding.”

“It was a miscommunication.” She feebly tries to defend herself.

It only sends Patri into another fit of laughter. “Wait until the team hears this. Wait until Vicky hears this.”

“No.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

“No, Patri–”

“You thought she had a secret fiancée!”

Alexia drags a hand down her face. Because when they say it out loud like that?

Dear god.

You finally step forward then, now smiling to yourself as you gently shove Patri backwards by the shoulder.

“Enough,” You tell her through your own stifled laughter. “Leave her alone.”

“She interrupted a wedding!”

“She interrupted my cousin’s wedding.” You correct her.

“Exactly!”

You ignore her, eyes returning to Alexia instead, who is impossibly more red at the reveal of whose wedding it was.

The teasing softness in your eyes makes something twist in her chest.

“What made you think I was getting married?” You ask, trying to keep your laughter out of it but ultimately failing.

Alexia looks away. The gravel shifts beneath her shoes as she shuffles awkwardly against it, suddenly deeply interested in the ground.

“I saw things on Instagram.” She mutters defensively. “You looked like a bride.”

“A bride?”

 “You are wearing white!” She argues, shoulders up to her ears in a shrug.

You laugh gently, “I’m wearing cream, Ale.”

“It looked white in the photo.” She grumbled as you stepped closer. “And you were wrapped around a woman in a wedding dress.”

“She is my cousin!”

“How was I supposed to know that?!”

You stare at her again. Then laugh, quieter this time, shoulders shaking. 

“Alexia,” You say, grinning. “I’m the maid of honour.”

Her eyes flick over your outfit again now that her brain is functioning at least marginally better.

Definitely cream. Definitely no ring. 

Zero actual signs that you were the one getting married. 

“...oh.”

“Yes, oh.” You tease, taking another step toward her.

“You’re sure?” 

You gape at her.

“Yes!” You say incredulously. “I’m pretty fucking sure I’m not getting married!”

Kika makes a strangle noise beside Patri, leaning half her weight on her as she laughs silently.

“I just thought–”

“What exactly did you think?” Patri interrupts immediately, delighted. “That she forgot to mention a wife?”

“You said it was a family thing!” Alexia shoots back at you.

“It is a family thing!” 

“Well… well, you failed to specify there would be brides!”

You roll your eyes as you come to stand before her. “There was only one bride, and she is my cousin, as I said.”

Patri has tears streaming without a care in the world for her makeup. A guest openly snorts into his champagne.

You press your lips together hard as you tilt your head at her, trying and failing not to laugh yourself as Alexia continues spiralling.

Well, not spiralling really, more attempting to dig her way out of the ever-growing hole of embarrassment she was in.  

“You were looking at her like–”

“She was telling me her fake eyelashes were falling off.”

“–and you leaned your heads together.”

“It was loud!”

“You looked happy!”

You pause at that. The air shifts slightly as your expression softens.

“...well,” You say carefully. “I am happy.”

Alexia’s face turns red again.

Kika looks between the two of you, laughter beginning to fade into something more suspicious.

“Wait…” 

Patri straightens too.

Alexia visibly realises, a second too late, that she may have revealed too much already.

You fold your arms. A smile pulls slowly at your mouth.

“Alexia,” You say softly. “Were you jealous?”

“No.” She responds immediately.

“You drove an hour on your day off to stop me from marrying someone.” You drawl with a smirk.

“There was traffic on the way here, it took a bit longer than it should’ve.” 

“You were upset.” You tease, taking another step closer, the gap too small for the just teammates facade you’d been holding previously. 

Alexia looks for something to say but comes up empty. 

“You thought I was with someone else,” You continue, one hand rising to play with her coffee-free collar. You look up from her shirt to meet her eyes, clearly trying not to smile too much. “And you lost your mind.” 

She exhales sharply through her nose, gaze dropping away from you for a second toward the gravel again. 

Then she mutters under her breath quietly, trying to speak just for you.

“Of course I did.”

Judging by the noise Patri makes, she was not quiet enough. 

Alexia manages to ignore her and looks back up at you. Her eyes bore into yours as she speaks.

“I don’t want you with anyone else.” 

For once, nobody interrupts. Even Kika goes quiet.

You gaze at Alexia, something gentler flickering across your face beneath all the amusement.

“Ale…”

“What?” she grumbles instantly, defensive again now that the sentence exists outside her head. “You asked.”

“We’ve never even–”

You stop yourself, smile growing ever so slightly.

“We’ve never actually talked about what this is,” You land on instead. “And you’re already showing up to stop me marrying people?”

Alexia’s blush deepens to the point it looks painful.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds dramatic.” 

“It was dramatic.” Kika comments. “You ran up the driveway like somebody in a telenovela.” 

You laugh again, arms folding loosely across your chest as you look at her.

“So what exactly was the plan here, hm?” You question. “You were going to stop the wedding, and then what?”

Alexia stares blankly as you wait for her answer.

Admittedly, she had not thought that far ahead. Patri clocks it.

“She didn’t even have a speech prepared!” She exclaims, sounding far too pleased.

“I was panicking!” Alexia snaps at her.

You’re still looking at her though. Still smiling. 

“Ale,” You murmur. “You realise this is insane behaviour for someone who supposedly isn’t my girlfriend.” 

Alexia glances between Patri and Kika, who are both openly staring back.

Kika looks seconds away from combusting and Patri seems as if she’s already got a storytime voicenote brewing for the groupchat.

A few months ago, hell, even a few weeks ago, that would’ve been enough to make Alexia retreat back into herself. Brush it off, laugh it away, pretend.

But standing there now, coffee stained and breathless and publicly humiliated after driving across Barcelona because she thought she’d lost you…

Something in her just gives up. Or maybe gives in.

The truth is already standing between you anyway, broad as daylight. And judging by the looks on Patri and Kika’s face, it is not exactly being received with horror.

The brunette exhales slowly. Then lifts her chin slightly.

“And so what if I want it to be us getting married here someday?”

Silence as everyone stares in shock again. 

Neither Patri nor Kika speak for a full minute which for those two is honestly concerning. 

Until they both shriek simultaneously–

“What?!”

Several nearby guests turn again, this time with rather disapproving looks on their faces. 

Alexia seems as if she wants to launch herself directly into the Mediterranean and never resurface again.

Patri grabs Kika by both shoulders violently. “I knew it!”

“You said they were just sleeping together!”

“Clearly I was wrong!”

Kika turns to Alexia, and the captain gulps. “You planned a whole marriage before defining the relationship?”

“She has a venue!” Patri yells to back her up.

Alexia freezes. You narrow your eyes.

“You have a venue?”

“...no.”

“Alexia.”

“It’s not important.” She argues futilely, because you were not one to let things go. 

“You have a venue.” You repeat, eyes crinkled with the smile that’d taken over your face.

She grumbles something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a Catalan curse, which was basically a yes. 

Kika doubles over, nearly dragging Patri down with her. 

A nearby bridesmaid appears beside you looking deeply concerned. “Do you want me to remove them?”

You glance at the two of them, who were now arguing loudly over which one deserves credit for predicting this situation first. Then back at the bridesmaid.

“Yes, please.” You say with a polite smile.

They let out cries of outrage and disappointment, but eventually allow themselves to be dragged away. Mercifully, they disappear into the manor house, and their voices fade.

The nearby guests return to their conversations too, intrigue gone now the public emotional crisis appears mostly resolved.

Quiet rests around the two of you. Private, somehow, despite the wedding still happening around you.

You turn back toward Alexia and immediately soften at the sight of her.

She still looks wrecked. Flustered, pink-cheeked, coffee-stained, hair a mess from running across half the property like an emotional tornado. 

Beautiful. Ridiculous. 

Yours, if you wanted to be brave enough to call her that. 

“I think,” You start. “There are probably a few steps between whatever this is now and us getting married, don’t you?”

Alexia huffs through her nose. 

That was another thing that would’ve sent her retreating back into embarrassment again. Another joke or deflection.

But now there’s no audience. Just you.

The afternoon sun catches gold against your cream outfit as the breeze stirs gently through the gardens around you. Alexia gazes at you.

And god. You really are beautiful. Not just now– always.

But especially like this, softened by sunlight and laughter, eyes still bright from amusement as you look back at her with that expression she’s become quietly addicted to over the past months.

“I know,” She says finally. “I know that.” 

Alexia glances away briefly, jaw shifting slightly like she’s trying to organise thoughts that had not originally intended to leave her mouth today.

“I just…” She exhales. “I saw you there and everyone dressed up and you looked–”

“Bridal?” You offer unhelpfully with a grin.

Alexia glares at you.

“You looked like somebody else’s.” Your grin shifts into a small smile. “And it scared me.” 

No dramatics now. No panic.

Alexia swallows once before continuing, voice quieter when she speaks again.

“Because I realised I never asked for any of this properly.” 

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She gestures vaguely between the two of you. “You just sort of became part of my life before I had the chance to decide what to call you.”

You stare at her as she keeps talking.

“You’re just there all the time now.” She frowns slightly, like this is deeply inconvenient for her. “In my house. In my routines. Alba asks about you before she asks about me. Beatriz has already decided that you’re the one for me.” 

You laugh softly, but Alexia looks scared.

“She threatened to haunt me if I mess it up.” 

You hum, pleased to have the elderly woman on your side when she didn’t take to people too easily. “Good.”

“And every time something happens, you are the person I want to tell first.” Alexia says it quieter now. “Even stupid things. Especially stupid things.”

Something in your eyes changes. Alexia notices it and begins to panic.

“I’m explaining this badly.”

“No,” You say quickly, smiling uncontrollably. “No, keep going.” 

Her ears turn pink again and she looks away for a second, before murmuring:

“I just think maybe somewhere along the way, you became…” She hesitates. “…home, a little bit.”

Your breath audibly catches. Alexia gets flustered again.

“Not in a weird way!” She rushes out. “I mean– not that it would be weird if– you know what I mean.”

You laugh under your breath.

“Oh my god.” She groans, covering her face with her hands. “I sounded so much smoother in my head.”

“I would hope so.” 

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Hm, a little.” You offer with a glint in your eyes.

Alexia peeks at you through her fingers, and the look on your face nearly kills her on the spot. 

You look… smitten. Slightly astonished by her words and perhaps even caught off guard with how much you adore her. 

“What would you have done if I had been with someone else?” You wonder in a quiet, curious voice. 

All the joking melts away at once into something awfully sincere. 

“I think it would’ve broken my heart.”

The confession comes so simply that it nearly steals the air from your lungs.

Alexia looks startled by her own honesty afterwards, but she doesn’t take it back. Just stands there in wrinkled clothes and coffee stains and the aftermath of public embarrassment, gazing at you like she’s finally too exhausted to pretend any differently.

Your hand brushes her forearm, before sliding down to link your fingers with hers. “Ale.”

She shakes her head once. “I know this is an insane way to do it. And I know we should've talked about all of this like normal people before I interrupted somebody’s wedding.”

“My cousin’s wedding.”

“-but apparently I am very stupid when it comes to you.”

You stop for a second. Take in her honesty. And grin helplessly. “That much is clear.”

“And I don’t…” She trails off with a small shrug. “I don’t want this to stay undefined forever.”

Warmth slowly blooms out from your chest and across your body.

“So what are you saying?”

Alexia immediately looks scandalised, ears seemingly permanently pink. “You know what I’m saying.”

“Well, I want to hear you say it.” 

She scowls at you like a toddler.

She’s the one that came all this way, made herself a laughing stock in front of at least forty people, and she has to say it?

You wait, very patiently. 

She groans under her breath like this is cruel and unusual punishment. 

Then, finally, with burning cheeks…

“I am saying that maybe, eventually, perhaps one day, hypothetically, I would quite like to marry you.” 

You burst out laughing, even if your heart skips a concerning amount of beats as your stomach flutters like you’re a teenager again. 

“You’re not supposed to laugh at that.” She complains, though watches you with a smile. 

You compose yourself after a few moments, both hands coming up to cradle her face and tilting her head down slightly.

“I’m laughing at how ridiculous this all is,” You tell her. “And how ridiculously happy it’s making me.” 

“Oh,” Alexia says, a small, shyer smile pulling at her lips. “Well… me too, then.”

She’s still looking at you like she’s waiting for the ground to correct itself. Like if she blinks too hard, you might disappear back into uncertainty and almosts.

Your hands stay on her face, her skin warm beneath your palms.

You let your thumbs brush lightly along her cheeks, slow and grounding, like you’re trying to convince her that everything that’d happened was indeed real. Even if there were some things she’ll omit in her memory of the day. 

“Hyopthetically.” You murmur with a pleased grin. 

She exhales a laugh, small and defeated, as her hands settle at your waist like she’s been doing it forever and just forgot to admit it out loud. 

Her gaze shifts then, less panic, more certainty finally finding its footing. Her eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second, then back up again, asking permission without words.

You don’t answer with words either. You just lean in. 

It’s soft at first, careful too. But Alexia melts into it soon after, one hand tightening at your waist, the other sliding up to the back of your neck as if she’s decided she’s not letting you go anywhere again, mistaken wedding be damned.

It deepens unhurriedly, no panic left to rush it. The faint, sweet taste of her sweetened latte mixes with the champagne on your tongue, and Alexia exhales a breath into you like she’d been holding it for months. 

When you finally pull back, it’s only by a fraction. Her forehead rests against yours. And you look, unmistakably, like hers in a way she hasn’t had words for until now.  

“I would’ve loved to have come along with you to this, you know.” She states a short while later. You lean back in slight confusion.

“As my plus one?” She nods like it’s obvious. “Nobody knew about us though.” 

She lets out a noise of acknowledgement, though doesn’t look like she even remotely cares about that. So you continue.

“What was I supposed to say?” You ask. “‘Hi, this is Alexia by the way, we cuddle during movies, sleep together, and accidentally act married sometimes but haven’t actually discussed it yet’?”

Alexia mutters something in Catalan beneath her breath that sounds offended at how you worded it. Though she couldn’t argue, because you were right. There was no way prior to this exact moment where whatever was between you could be trimmed down to a neat, proper explanation. 

She didn’t speak for a while, and neither did you.

You’d missed her the night before and had been too busy amidst all the wedding prep to get a chance to text her. So, her showing up was a nice surprise. A near perfect surprise, if she hadn't caused so much commotion. 

Her mind seems to go to the same place, for she groans suddenly. 

“What?” You blink up at her. 

She buries her face in your neck. “Patri and Kika saw all that.”

Your grin returns immediately, unable to resist hugging her tighter against you. 

“And they absolutely loved it. They’ll probably talk about it for the rest of their lives.” 

“Que dios me ayude.” She grumbles into your shoulder, then leans back. Smiles as you laugh.

Thinks she would probably interrupt a hundred weddings if it meant hearing that sound. 

Pinches the bridge of her nose nevertheless, already exhausted by the teasing torture awaiting her in the future.

“Why,” She mutters dramatically. “Did I have to fall for someone whose best friends are the two most annoying people on earth?”

You gasp in mock offence, which makes her roll her eyes. “You love them.” 

“I tolerate them. For you.” 

You can’t help your smile at that. She adored them anyway before, but even more now that they’re her people for the person she loves. 

“You know,” You start, and Alexia braces herself. “There is absolutely no way the team doesn’t find out after this.”

Alexia stills for a second.

Once upon a time, that had been the fear, hadn’t it?

Not shame– never shame. 

You were teammates first, friends first. Part of something delicate and tightly woven together inside that dressing room, the atmosphere that was the foundation for all the success. Neither of you had wanted to risk making things awkward or complicated.

Alexia looks past you absently toward the manor doors where Patri’s laugh echoes loudly from somewhere inside.

Then she thinks about the look on her and Kika’s faces. 

Shock first, then surprise, then delight. 

No judgement, no discomfort. Only happiness. 

Apparently everyone had seen this coming long before either of you did. 

The thought took a while to arrive, but it finds a place to land quickly. 

She shrugs one shoulder.

You frown at her slightly. “That’s it?”

She gazes at you. At your flushed cheeks from laughing, the crinkles beside your eyes. The way you’re standing close to her now, in her arms, without even thinking about it. 

Alexia smiles softly. “You’re my girlfriend now, no?” 

The word is new enough to make her heart swell as it crosses her mind.

Your face changed instantly at the word, shy but bright around the edges. You nod once.

“Yeah,” You agree quietly. “I am.”

She reaches up asbentmindedly, brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. 

“I think if they laugh, it will only be because we apparently made this difficult for absolutely no reason.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Probably.”

“And if they are happy for us…” She shrugs slightly again. “Then I don’t care anymore.” 

Your throat tightens ever so slightly at her honesty.

Because this is Alexia. Careful Alexia, private Alexia.

Alexia who holds her heart so closely protected most of the time. 

And she is standing here in front of a wedding full of strangers looking at you like she’s finally decided being loved openly by you matters more than being afraid of it. Stained shirt, and all.

You’re about to kiss her again when a shout suddenly erupts from the door.

“Come on, stop making out and party with us!” Patri yells.

“We deserve it after the show you put on!” Kika adds unhelpfully. 

Alexia sighs so deeply it sounds spiritual. Straight from the soul.

You giggle at her reaction and it instantly sends her lips curling upwards again. 

“Come on then, you heard them.” You say warmly, offering her hand as you step back. “Let’s go meet my family.”

Alexia’s face rapidly turns to one of horror. 

“In this?!” She gestures at herself. 

You rake your eyes deliberately over her once and decide you still think you’ve won a lottery no one else could ever win. Even with the current wild state of her.

You smile, slow and meaningful. “Exactly like that.”

“They’ll think I’m insane!”

You give her a pitiful look. “I think they probably already do, Ale.”

She stops her arguing. At the reminder of the events that’d led to this point, and the many people that had witnessed it… yeah, there’s no point trying to defend herself.

She exhales once. Glances towards the door where the party awaits. 

“I’m going to need champagne for this.”

You raise your eyebrows at her. “It’s mid-season.”

“Yes.”

“You never drink during the season.”

“Please don’t be offended by this,” She starts with a fearful expression. “There is absolutely no way I survive meeting your family after this without alcohol.”

You laugh brightly, unbridledly, and wrap your hand around her upper arm before beginning to guide her towards the door.

“Well, good news for you, girlfriend,” You say grinning up at her. “My cousin has an open bar!”

—

Alexia is making you practice penalties. Over and over again. Boots off to feel the contact of the ball, street and beach football coursing through the connection of skin and leather. Leather is skin. You look down at the ball and consider it once being made of something real, some sacrificed animal who died for entertainment. Some things are lost with time. Synthesised.

It’s madness to train like this. The grass is hot under the soles of your feet. The sun is burning, light blinding you as you squint at the goal, at Alexia in the goal, her lips held taut as she goads you, “go on, de nuevo.” 

De nuevo. She doesn’t try to save it – she’s not a goalkeeper – but her head turns as the ball rolls into the left side of the net. Powerful, sure, but not lifted. 

Can’t have this be the penalty she passed down. 

De nuevo. 

You sigh, throat dry and minty, bones aching. Five more minutes wasn’t enough. You’re tired, so tired, but Alexia is detached from tiredness, spent too many years being dog-tired and now that has become part of her routine, and therefore it has become part of your own. There’s a certain resilience to that, and you admire it. You know you’re lazy. You hold that over her head, sometimes, in moments of hatred and resentment. You have never had to practice like this, de nuevo de nuevo de nuevo de nuevo, relentless until the ball is bullied to bend to your will. It has always come naturally. Alexia had that too, but ‘natural’ has never been enough. Something above that, of course: divine. She needs you to be divine too. 

Regardless of your scorn, you’re still here, still kicking. This one hits the top corner. Perfect. Perfection must be replicated. 

“One more and then we’ll take a break, alright?” She senses your frustration. Lets you tip off the edge but never, ever has left you to freefall off it. Holding your hand and letting go, letting you feel the drop and the terror of that promise, but no, she won’t allow that to happen fully. Too dangerous and unpredictable for that. 

As you drain the bottle of water, disgustingly warm from where it has been left to cook, she gently passes a towel over your forehead, dabbing the sweat. “Gross,” she says but does it anyway, using the same towel for herself before folding it neatly and dropping it to the floor. A useless action as it unravels but she does it with intention, a snide comment about caring for one’s possessions. 

“This sucks,” you tell her decidedly, licking your lips. The bottle bounces on the grass from the force of your throw. 

“I thought you loved football?” 

“Not this much.” Your shrug makes her jaw tense, veins throbbing. She probably has a headache now – her brain rebels against this kind of slander, as incomprehensible as a made-up language. Nonsense all the same. “I mean, I do like it. It’s my job.” This is prodding the beast and the beast is growling quietly, staring at you with fire in her eyes, and she looks like she might hit you but she won’t. “Football brought me you.”

She smiles at that. 

Now is the time to ask. “So, can we go home now?”

Later, in the shower, Alexia’s lips on your neck, hands skimming down your hips, something so good about this feeling despite the deep ache in your muscles and the soreness in your bones. The water is too hot – the only thing cold about Alexia being Alexia herself, always needs to be burning up to compensate, always needs external warmth – and there is so much steam, enough to make your vision hazy. It’s good for recovery. The time passes quickly with Alexia, anyway. 

Then she has a meeting and she makes you sit to the side of her, not on camera but very much present, a shadow ready to learn. You’re yawning, sighing, rubbing your eyes, and that’s annoying, of course, because it takes a certain level of petulance to seem so apathetic about something so important. Can’t fuck a teacher and have fun all the time, you suppose. Teachers have to teach. She doesn’t seem to care much when you pull out your phone, scrolling through the text messages that sprouted in the early afternoon (when your other teammates had woken up). With a grumble of jealousy, you read through the group chat you have. You, Vicky, Salma, Jana, Kika. Jana could leave the club but couldn’t bring herself to leave the chat. Ever the comedian, she replies with a thumbs down to the invitation to a bar tonight. 

You consider Salma’s request, eyes flicking over to where Alexia frowns at her agent, arguing that no one cares if she does a campaign for juice and that filming an advert in Madrid will take time out of her training schedule. A static memory of being promised dinner and a movie tonight. Maybe it came yesterday? After the match? 

The thudding close of the laptop makes you jump. 

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Alexia murmurs, groaning. You stroke a hand down her shoulder. She pushes it off, then takes that same hand into her palms, holding it in her lap. “I’m sick to death of his bullshit. I think we should switch agencies.” Her decision to make.

… 

It’s your first season at Barça. 2023. Every time you swallow there is pride at the back of your throat. Guilt, too. You still haven’t worked out whether this has been a meritocracy – haven’t yet decided if that even exists – or if it had been your stepfather, wrought with grief for the life he interrupted and trying to repent. He’s not an unkind man. He is just not yours; neither are you his.

The city is just how you remember it. Barcelona is a city of ghosts – your own and not, some just wandering aimlessly until their gruesome place in history is forgotten and something is rebuilt on the ruins of their memory. 

You’re not alone, which is a feeling that is almost new, almost foreign. In America you were exotic. In Germany you were unusual. In Valencia you had been temporary, liminal, cautiously held onto with a bit more effort than normal from the club because they had known you were too good for them. It didn’t take much for that resolve to be bought out, though. Put a price on a name and it’s yours. Barça can do that. 

Barça is a giant. 

Jana nudges your shoulder as you hesitate at the polished door of the training facility. Birds fly into glass doors because they see the reflection of the sky. They see the promise of comfort and freedom and then they die. You wonder how many have hit this one, unaware and instantly dead – it’s a morbid thought. You shake it from your head. 

“What? You’re nervous?” Jana asks, reaching disbelief before remembering for as much as she thinks she knows you and counts you as another product of her club, she doesn’t and you are not. A weird twist of fate. It feels almost unnatural for that to have been the case. Wrong in all senses of the universe. Her voice softens, “you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough.” 

“I know that I am good enough,” you reply without arrogance. A fact. You have looked at your highlight reel, at the profile your agent distributes, and you are humble but not in denial.

“Come on,” she says. “You can’t be late on your first day.” 

…

You’re lounging around, letting the sun fall westwards in the sky. The sofa is soft under your bare legs. Alexia is on her laptop, scrolling through emails. 

A thought occurs: “what if I don’t want to move agencies?” 

Her head turns, just slightly, tension in her jaw. Her fingers don’t stop swiping the touchpad. So many emails – so many people wanting a piece of her. 

“Like, I don’t know, why are we even moving? And why do I have to move as well?” 

Her fingers stop. 

The room feels different now. Not colder, because it’s still warm from the blaze of the midday sun, but tighter, like the air has begun to seep out into nothingness. This apartment is laced with trigger wires. There are so many of them but they are almost invisible, and it is easy to forget that they exist. But they do exist. You’ve just tripped one.  

“You don’t have to do anything,” Alexia says carefully. She has decided you’re wrong and she’s trying to figure out how to express it without this blowing up. You don’t like being told you’re wrong. She doesn’t like being disagreed with. Things are good when they’re good but life doesn’t work that way, does it? “You can stay with an agency that treats you like shit.” 

The thing with Alexia is that she is made vulnerable by her love for you. Loving someone gives them the capacity to see you at your worst – to know that side of you – and once the ugliness is exposed, it is hard to shove it all back down. 

She wants to be subtle but she cannot. She doesn’t understand why you are pushing back. 

“They’ve done so much for you, Ale,” you remind her. “And they got me that Nike contract.” 

“I got you that Nike contract.” Nepotism there. 

“They got you the contract, then,” you say, not giving up. Your legs have prickled and the sofa no longer feels so safe. It’s always scary delving into the time before Alexia was la Reina. She’s not accessible to you in that way, a part of herself that she has shut off, as if it is wrong to think about her being anything but what she is now. “Why do you always make me follow you around?” 

The question hangs there. You hadn’t meant for it to sound like it did, like she had picked you up and held on tight and pulled you along with her. It’s not cruel but it’s a sensitive topic for her. It falls under the jurisdiction of the Age Gap. Not uncharted waters but a Bermuda Triangle of sorts, in that anything that ventures there gets mysteriously lost along the way. 

You watch her face for a reaction. 

She gives you nothing. 

“I thought we’d discussed this,” she says, closing the laptop with a soft click. She sets it on the coffee table beside your empty Redbull can, turning to face you properly. Her knee brushes yours and you don’t move away, magnetised by the contact even if you can feel the argument brewing. Better soak up what you can get now before one of you storms off. “Your contract is up for renewal next summer. The club is in debt. If you want to negotiate a better salary you’d be at risk of them selling you. Or pulling out of all future plans with you.” She can’t say the same for herself. Alexia plays a game of chicken with Barça and it’s clear she is not the bird. “I want you to have an agency capable of doing that. I want them to keep you here.” 

“What about what I want?” 

She raises an eyebrow. A reaction, at least. 

It sends a jolt of fear down your spine. Or, no, not fear, but shame. Shame to have even entertained the thought. You cast your mind to Jana, exiled in London, eager to come back and that is what makes Alexia proud: she is dedicated to a club that couldn’t even find a spare euro to keep her home. You want her to be proud of you like that. 

“You’re starting almost every match.” 

“I’ve been looking at other leagues.” 

“Other leagues don’t have Barça.” 

You watch her carefully, examining the threatened look she is fighting off. This is her legacy slowly slipping away from her. “Barça doesn’t have competition.” 

Her jaw tightens at that complaint. It’s one that never fails to annoy her. It’s something that she’s been asked about in the media and even then she can’t keep her irritation at bay. What a stupid notion. A pedestal and an insult to come with it. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, confused. Disappointed, maybe. 

“Doing what?” A shoddy defense. You always tremble. You always need to warm up to the sport of arguing with Alexia. You can see the darkness cloud her face as she gets moodier by the second. 

“This.” She gestures between you, a small and frustrated motion. “You’ve been off all day. You’ve been somewhere else and now you’re picking a fight about something you’ve never even mentioned before.” 

“I’m not picking a fight.” 

“You are.” 

“Maybe I just don’t want to be told what to do.” 

She laughs, then. Actually laughs. “Mentira.” The venom comes out with endearment. She has heard this before, has let you have this tantrum. Sometimes she wonders how so much talent fits in your body and how there is any room left for petulance. It makes no sense.

“I don’t, Ale,” you protest, lowering your voice in the hope of giving yourself some kind of credibility. She’s not taking you seriously anymore though. Frustration itches at your fingers. “You always assume what I want. You’re so fucking controlling.” 

“You lack discipline,” she fires back without missing a beat. She knows this scene, knows these lines, and it’s getting a bit old but what can she do? Sacrifices must be made. Someone would have done it for her. (Not true because Alexia never was this unruly as a teenager, never had the luxury of being so, but she is generous for the sake of it.) 

“I don’t need to be disciplined. You’re not my prison warden – you’re my girlfriend.” 

“And I love you, and I care about you, and someone needs to be there to keep you focused.” 

“Focused on what?” You cross your arms, leaning into the grumpiness of adolescence. You’ve been demoted to that already. 

“Your career. The one you’re about to see go swirling down the drain by ignoring my advice. But if that’s what you want…” 

“This is over a juice,” you say all of a sudden, sitting up. You’re glaring and she’s glaring back. Her cheeks are flushed and the heat is oppressive and the air conditioning should have turned on but hasn’t. You need to get out of here. You need to gain perspective. You need to figure out what you want and who you are. You need Alexia, really, to guide you in that but you can’t have her do that because of right now and this argument. “They want you to do a brand deal with a juice company and you don’t like it so you’re firing them. That’s so unlike you. You’re so understanding. You’re so nice! This is over a juice, Ale.” 

She doesn’t move but you can see her legs twitching, wanting to take her somewhere else. Sometimes it’s like that when you argue – a heady, unsatisfying almost-fight that leaves you both miserable and uncomfortable. There is no catharsis in that. 

“It’s over a distraction,” she says. Her voice is firm. She wants you to see where she is coming from, and while she is a little impatient that you haven’t yet caught up, maybe there is a teaching moment buried somewhere in all this. “It’s not the juice. I know it’s a triangle, sport-sponsorship-media, but come on, don’t you see? What could be wrong with it?” 

You pause. “Filming in Madrid? You’d miss training?” 

“I can’t miss training, can I? Not for an ad.” 

“You could train in Madrid.” 

“But then who would keep an eye on you in drills, eh?” She means to make a joke. You look at her and see the truth in her eyes. 

…

Alexia doesn’t know why she can’t get the thought of you out of her head. She closes her eyes and sees sweat rolling down your neck, down into your collar, as you squat in the gym. 

She doesn’t stop thinking about last season. You, drunk, in her car. In her home. In her bed. 

It’s not clear whether this obsession is the groundwork for her usual fixation. She thought about Pina lots when she mentored her, constantly going over things to tell her in her head, always watching clips of her and analysing each and every mistake. And with Jana, she spoke to her, never stopped speaking to her. She wanted them to be the best and it seemed to work. 

A few months into the season, you already own most of Alexia’s attention. She watches you in drills, she watches you in the gym, she’s always correcting. She’s always thinking about it. She’s always there, beside you. 

Irene is the only one who is brave enough to warn her. It comes after dinner at hers. Mateo is in bed and Lucía doesn’t really want help cleaning up in the kitchen – even if she did, she can see on her wife’s face that there are other priorities tonight. 

The sofa in the living room is soft (until one finds a stray Duplo block or a figurine) and Alexia lets it swallow her up, sinking back into it under the wash of her singular glass of wine. She imagines the alcohol seeping into her blood. She remembers your hands on the window of the taxi. 

“She’s not like the others,” Irene says. It’s what she chooses because she thinks the best way to lure Alexia into this conversation will be to take her by surprise. 

Alexia nods, something professional overtaking her expression, a mask that covers entirely unprofessional feelings. “Incredible. She’s so talented and she hardly works for it. Lets it flow to her naturally. No discipline at all.” 

Irene doesn’t respond immediately. The silence stretches. Lucía drops a fork in the sink and clatters, metal against metal. Somewhere upstairs, Mateo is sleeping. Alexia swallows down the domesticity with a sip of water to calm her growing unease. 

“You’re not listening to me,” the defender says finally. 

“I’m listening,” comes Alexia’s instant response.

“You’re hearing words. You’re not listening.” Irene shifts on the sofa, tucking one leg beneath her. She tries to make it seem casual but the way her gaze is fixed on Alexia exposes it for what it really is. “I’ve known you for a long time, Ale. I’ve seen you be a referente – perfect for them. Inspiring. A good leader. A captain who cares and pushes and wants them to be great.” 

A surge of pride rushes through her. She’s humble, yes, but some things do get her, do stick with her more. Her success rate as a captain-coach is one of them. But Irene’s hesitation makes her wary. She wants to get defensive. She wants to leave before a topic is broached that she has no interest in explaining to anyone but herself. 

“And?” 

“And this is different, Ale.” Her voice comes more gently now, soothing the wound. Alexia can’t look at her. She focuses on the title of a book on the table instead. Travesuras de la Niña Mala. She’s never heard of it. Didn’t pay enough attention in school to know. “There’s a difference between mentoring someone and… fixating on them.”

“Fixating.” The word feels foreign. It doesn’t belong in her mouth. 

“What else would you call it?” 

“I call it doing my job.” The job past playing and passing and scoring. The one where an armband is both power and powerlessness. How can elastic change everything? “I’m not doing anything wrong.” 

Irene nods, as if her agreement is so lacking that she must physically compensate. She won’t mention how the others have started to notice. There is a time and a place for these things and Alexia’s already unsettled. She won’t poke the bear when the bear is already on the brink of anger. “But she comes over, doesn’t she? She has dinner with you.”

“We talk about football.” 

“I don’t doubt that.” 

“And I…” She’s not sure if she wants to confess her non-crimes. She has never done anything. She has never acted on it, never let it manifest past a fantasy in her mind. “I’m not going to do it. I’m trying not to.” 

She fights the desire to run right out the door, away from this conversation, staying until Lucía says, “don’t you guys have an early meeting tomorrow?” In her head, she wins because of that. 

When she gets home, infected by your youth, she is subjected to twenty minutes of scrolling on her phone, bum going numb on the toilet as she is thrown down your rabbit hole of Tiktoks. So many videos. She watches them all.

how was dinner? is the message that awaits her like a prize at the bottom of the seemingly endless links. 

She replies: It was good. I just got back. 

You open the message and begin to type something. She shouldn’t be surprised – you’re always on your phone, addicted to the thing like its crack and you need it to feel. 

it’s late capi q mal ejemplo das

Laughter bubbles out of her. The action reminds her to get a move on with her night routine. She’s soon in bed, stretching out in a space meant for two (ignores how lonely that makes her feel sometimes), still texting. 

Her phone rests against her stomach, the screen lighting up her face in the dark. She’s constructing a response to a stupid emoji you’ve sent, typing out something to reestablish her authority, but then your message comes through first. 

no duermes nunca o qué

Alexia huffs softly, shifting onto her side, pulling the duvet up higher like it might somehow steady her.

Soy tu capitana, I’ve got to make sure you’re getting enough rest

The reply is instant. 

mentira. estás despierta x mi

She stills.

It’s ridiculous. Cocky. Too sure of itself. Exactly the kind of thing she should shut down immediately. But her thumb hovers. 

Qué confianza tienes, she types back. It’s safer, lighter, an attempt to steer it somewhere less dangerous. 

There’s a pause this time. Longer. She imagines you smirking at your screen, stretched out wherever you are, probably still half dressed from training today, hair a mess and your skin still warm. She wonders briefly what you do of an evening. Whether you visit your mother. Or go out. No – she knows you do go out, whenever it suits you, but you would have told her if that had been the case tonight. Another thing to add to the pretense of professionalism. 

don’t pretend that you don’t think about me

She reads the message twice and realises that she has no one left to lie to other than herself. Deep down, she regrets recommending you to be scouted. Further, there is a part of her that is deeply satisfied by the result. 

…

The argument stagnates when Alexia puts an old match on the TV. It’s new, this TV, because she’d broken the last one when you’d been playing two-touch together and the game got too competitive. It’s so big that you have no other option but to watch.

She keeps on pausing the footage just before you score. The build-up plays in reverse as she drags you back through the passes it took. She counts, calmly, and then makes you identify the most important player. 

Her, of course. She touches the ball five times before it’s slotted through the defence to find your feet.

“Do you see?” she asks, her voice still carrying the edge from earlier but now smoothed over with a sheen of authority. It’s so settled into her being that it is hard to separate it from her normal self. Sometimes she looks in the mirror and she doesn’t know if she can see Alexia behind the hardened exterior of la reina. Sometimes it’s why she needs you the most – for all your insubordination, at least you remind her that she is just a human. “The goal starts here, with me. Not you.” 

You nod. The tension hasn’t gone anywhere. You feel as if you’re watching a forest fire. You can feel its heat, can see the flames, but it’s not close enough for you to be scared. 

If it had been up to you, you wouldn’t be sitting in purgatory. But Alexia has decided that the argument is over and Alexia usually gets what she wants. 

She pauses the frame again. Your body is frozen mid-stride, arm raised to receive the pass. The way you have scraped your hair back into a ponytail makes your face look tighter, younger. 

“Watch it again,” she says. 

“I’ve watched it five times.” You let out a loud sigh. She doesn’t look at you. 

Her disinterest sparks a challenge. You could just storm off and tell her what you think of watching even more football on your one free day from its clutches. You could respond to the friends who have messaged with questions about bars and clubs tonight. Or you could get revenge. 

The third option is always the most alluring. 

Alexia is sitting on the edge of the sofa, the remote in one hand, her posture rigid. You move. You push her chest back. You swing a leg over her hips and settle into her lap, straddling her. Her thighs are tense as your knees brush their sides, sinking into the cushions of the sofa. 

Her breath hitches. Just barely. You smirk, because it’s nice to have an effect on her. 

But her gaze stays fixed on the television, on your frozen body on the screen. Must be weird to see something and feel something all at once – both the same and different, frozen and burning hot. 

“Did you need something?” she asks. Her voice is deliberate and steady. You almost laugh.

She doesn’t touch you as you settle deeper into her lap, although her hands twitch at her sides. On the plus, she isn’t pushing you away. Back when you first did this – years ago now – she would have tipped you off, told you to behave. Maybe she has since learned that it is hard to force you into obedience. 

The remote is still in her hand. She clicks play. 

The footage resumes. The pass arcs through the air and, on screen, you control it with your left foot (your weaker foot, the one she’s been forcing you to train), and boot it into the corner of the net. The goalkeeper had no chance. Probably shat herself when she saw you coming, anyway. 

“Good goal,” Alexia does concede. She doesn’t yet drop her gaze from the pixels. Even if the real deal is right here, waiting for her. Some things will always take precedence. 

Your hands find her shoulders. You can feel the tension there, the hard knot of muscle beneath her hoodie tender as you dig your fingers in. She flinches, just slightly. 

“Ale.” 

“Watch the replay.” She clicks the remote. The goal reverses, your body moving backwards, the ball returning to her feet.

You don’t watch. You lean in, close enough that your lips brush the shell of her ear. “I don’t give a fuck about the replay.”

“You should. Your first touch was terrible.” 

“It wasn’t, though.” 

She pauses it. Her free hand spreads out against your back. “Could’ve been better.” 

“You could’ve passed earlier and I would have been more ready,” you counter, not needing to have watched anything because you remember every assist Alexia has ever gifted you. You have a good memory like that. 

“You weren’t free.” 

“I was.” 

Her hand presses harder into your spine. She smiles, rolling her eyes. “You’re free about thirty percent of the time. The other instances are just you being cocky enough to think you can get past the defender.” 

“Which I can.” 

“Qué arrogante eres.” 

“¿Y tú qué? ¿La más humilde?” You hum, as if it requires any thought. Also unforgettable: sex with Alexia. “You like me to fuck you like you’re a goddess.”

Her hand stills against your spine. The remote hangs loose, dangling from her other side. 

She’s blushing. She hates it when you’re crass. 

“Shy?” you tease as her eyes run from yours and try to focus on a screen that isn’t playing anything. “Where did all that captain's bravado go?” 

“You can’t even focus,” she mutters, as if she’s annoyed. She probably still is. She’ll hold the grudge of the juice and the agent for a while, and she hasn’t even begun to process the thought of you going to a different team. No, that was instantly discarded – not even something to be considered. It won’t happen. Alexia gets what she wants and what she wants is for you to stay with her, after her, and then she won’t feel so far from playing when the r-word becomes her reality. 

When you open your mouth for your next retort, you’re shocked to find Alexia’s lips covering the space your sound would have filled. Her grip tightens on your hips, both hands there now, and she pulls you closer, tongue sliding against yours. Naturally, you grind down and the remote clatters to the floor as she gets infected by your lack of fucks for how many times the number eleven must be praised for being the greatest midfielder alive. 

This is still a fight. It doesn’t take many therapists to agree that the bedroom (as a concept, not a place) is a popular battleground. And if it is, you’re glad to be fighting somewhere mythical, like Troy, with a goddess as your enemy. Sing of the wrath of Alexia. 

…

Alexia’s body is a furnace beside yours. It’s so hot that the sweat has stuck to your skin and you can’t ignore it even though she has moved to the edge of the bed. Your fingertips trace the wrinkled sheet in the gap. 

It’s been an hour. She has granted you an hour of dignity but you can feel her working up the courage to kick you out. You’re not an idiot – you knew you wouldn’t be staying the night. 

You’re surprised that she caved this early. 

It has been four months of unrelenting attention; extra sessions on the weekends, low conversations over the phone when she can’t sleep and needs someone to distract her from the constant ache in her chest. She deletes your text thread every other week, just out of fear. 

Tonight it seems that Alexia stopped caring. Just for a moment. Just long enough to tell you to come over under the pretence of showing you her trophies, which you’d been begging her for. 

She slings her arm over her face in embarrassment. So weak, she thinks.

You turn over to look at her and even in the darkness you can see the hard curve of muscle, toned from so much training at the World Cup and the Champions League before that. It’s the kind of stuff she can never shed, so deeply carved into her being, as good as marble or stone on a sculpture. Eternal, in that sense. Some things about Alexia, about football and Alexia, will never, ever die. 

You reach out, wanting to touch her even more, addicted to what she has let you do to her. It will never be enough, now. You’ve had a taste. 

The thought pounds in her mind: enough. 

“I should take you home.” Her voice is strange and flat. Post-sex tiredness isn’t an excuse for it. You’ve stripped away her armour. It’s an achievement but now she is at her most vulnerable. 

And so are you. Not that you care. 

“It’s 3AM.” 

“I know.” A light blooms on her bedside table as the sheets rustle, falling down her torso as she sits up. You look and then look away. She pulls on the t-shirt she’d taken off hours before, as if that will rewind the clock. Sighing, “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you apologising?” you ask, but you feel small and childish and now, with Alexia moving about and undoing everything that has just happened, you want nothing more than to just disappear. She has that effect: she makes you feel invincible, she makes you feel defeated. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, as if that is a good explanation. When you next allow yourself to look at her, she has your clothes gathered in her hands. 

She leaves the room as you redress. 

When she comes back, you are prepared for the inevitable. But you can’t let it go. 

“Do you regret it?” You smirk. You can’t help yourself. “I’ve been told that I’m quite good.” 

She raises her eyebrows. 

You scoff. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself, capi.” 

Better than any medal is the achievement of unravelling Alexia Putellas. Someone so untouchable, unreachable, now raised up higher but not as far away. You’ll be proud of that, always. Making Alexia come. Making her feel good. It’ll be the death of you, you’re sure.

“I’ve had better,” she says, a singular engagement in your cockiness. She wants to make it clear that you have a lot to learn. You’re young. That’s the point of being young. 

“I bet I’m up there, though. Or…” You’re overstaying your welcome now, because she begins to gently herd you to the door. “Ale, how many people have you slept with?” 

“I thought I told you.” At times, she has to admit the content of your text exchanges. It’s not all professional. She’s no liar. 

“Yeah, but, like, that was a month ago.” 

You reach the door. She checks her phone; there’s an Uber waiting outside the building for you.

It’s natural for her to want to minimise the duration of her embarrassment. It’s logical. 

She spends the night halfway between tears and ecstasy, so happy to feel loved like this yet preemptively mourning what she’ll lose by leaving. The decision has been turned over in her mind thousands of times by now, so many questions surrounding its value, the opportunities she gains and loses. But then again, who turns down Barça? And it will be exciting, she’s sure. 

The consequence of such mixed emotion, however, is a small frown forming on her lips. Almost imperceptible. Her friends are too drunk to notice by now. 

She swivels around instantly when she feels a tap on her shoulder. Jumpy. Surprised that anyone has noticed, definitely. And she doesn’t recognise the face before her, which is even more confusing, because she hasn’t had that much to drink so her memory should be fine and – who even is this? 

“Hi,” you say, smiling. She notices a bit of an accent, vowels brighter than the drudge Portuguese should have, the innate saudade and misery. 

“Hi?” Kika replies, not meaning to be so defensive but crossing her arms over her chest regardless. She had assumed that the club had been rented out, what with the sheer amount of people inside being there for her, but maybe it hasn’t been. Or maybe you’re a plus one? Or a mutual friend? But she’s sure she would’ve remembered your face. So maybe not. 

“I was wondering,” and you’re speaking in English but that isn’t natural either, “if you’d seen my friend? She has dark hair and she’s in a pink dress? I need to find her.” 

Her eyes scan your features a bit too intently for you to not blush. Friend be damned. Not one to back down, to shy away, you meet her where she stares, falling into depths of light brown. 

Eventually, Kika clears her throat. It feels like an age has passed. Maybe it has. There’s certainly a different song booming out of the speakers now. 

“No, no. I haven’t seen her.” She swallows. “Sorry.” 

Your shrug is light, absent-minded. “Maybe she is talking to someone. She always runs away when we go out to party.” 

That brings a laugh, which you see more than hear in the deafening noise. Clubs are the worst place to have a conversation at a respectable distance. Luckily for you, Kika draws closer, saying, “that’s not very nice for her to do.” 

“I know.” You exhale and she feels the warmth of your breath, close enough for that. Very close, actually. 

“And you? Do you run away too?” 

A fleeting thought passes through Kika’s mind. She’s set to fly to Barcelona in a week. Hawaii was great. The Lisbon summer is yet to taper but a different city calls her and she has fitness tests to get to, pre-season training, preparation to prove herself at a better team. The thought is one that precedes many a bad decision: why not? And this decision, its spark in her mind, doesn’t even seem that bad. 

She knows that her friends have shown up for her tonight. Some would have cancelled other plans, made arrangements, spent time organising a perfect farewell. But they won’t notice if she leaves, surely? There’s so many of them. And they’re going to have to get used to her absence anyway. 

“Sometimes,” comes your response, your smirk clear. You practically bat your eyelashes at her. 

Fingers curl around your wrist. Kika is forward, you’ll give her that. She tugs you gently through the crowd, through smiling faces that squeal at her presence, through hordes of drunk dancers. The fresh air swarms you outside the club but Kika’s hand is still connecting your bodies, and it carries on until the music fades and the yellow light of Lisbon’s night settles over your figures. 

A wall presses into your back. Close enough that the uneven stone kisses your shoulder blades, close enough that the night suddenly feels achingly quiet compared to the roar you’ve left behind. Kika is still holding on, thumb resting against your pulse. Strong hands, you think, and you’d recognise the attitude anywhere. You’ve spent your life around these egos, this confidence that they all seem to exude. And perhaps you did make a promise once upon a time to not get tangled up with people like her, but you have no real confirmation and that’s enough deniability for you. 

Kika tilts her head. The frown from earlier hasn’t disappeared but it’s softer now, its edges blurred by curiosity. By want, too. 

You swallow, smile crooked. “I don’t usually make out with strangers I meet in clubs,” you say. 

She huffs a laugh immediately. Rude. She steps closer, so that there’s barely any space left between you. 

“Why do I not believe you?” she asks, eyebrow arching. Her fingers slide from your wrist to your forearm, slow and deliberate. “You look very practiced.” 

“Uf,” you murmur. “I’m offended.” 

“Liar,” she says lightly. 

“You say I look like a slut?” 

Kika shakes her head, not falling into that trap. She’s composed about it too, which is rather unsettling. You like to make people squirm. She seems to be immune. “No, not a slut. But you’re very good at flirting in your second language.” 

“Third,” you correct. 

Her mind saves that information. “I’m Kika,” she says suddenly. “Not a stranger anymore.” 

You hum at that. Kika. Nice name. A little familiar, but not something you’ve heard too often. A friend had a cat named Kika, once, which you are beginning to think of before human-Kika’s other hand drops to your waist.

“So, Kika, do you make out with strangers at clubs a lot?” 

Her forehead presses to your shoulder as she giggles. Then she looks back up at you. 

“We haven’t made out yet.” She says it and then she’s already moving. 

It’s Kika who leans in first, a decisiveness in that action that has grown from leading you out of the club and completely ignoring your search for your friend, and her mouth finds your with irritating confidence. It’s not a rushed kiss, nor sloppy. Nothing like drunk men who think with their dicks and straight girls in the mood for an experiment. No, this a woman who kisses with certainty, who doesn’t have an interest in pretending she doesn’t know where this is going. 

Her hand at your waist tightens, pulling you closer until your bodies press together, and then pushing so that the wall is solid at your back, cool against your bare skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Kika’s skin and mouth. She tastes of mojitos. Mint and citrus. Summery. 

You kiss her back properly now, slower, letting it linger. She hums softly, almost approvingly, and tilts her head to deepen it, thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. All time is suspended and Kika is patient, isn’t worried about the declining minutes approaching her biggest life-change yet. She’s caught up in this moment with you. 

When she finally pulls away, it’s only to catch her breath. Her nose brushes yours. You chase her lips for a peck and soon it’s a trail, a path wandering down the sharp line of her jaw, leading to her neck.

“Now we have.” 

You pause, lips hovering over tanned skin that’s enticing but not so much that your surprised cannot be voiced. “You call that ‘making out’?” 

“And you said you were a saint.” 

“I never said that.” 

“Okay,” Kika says. You’ve tripped over a wire and if you were a rabbit, this would be your death. Silly you. “How about we get in a taxi and go to my apartment… and you prove me wrong.” 

“What if you murder me, Kika?” 

“Then the last thing you do before you die is have mind-blowing sex.” 

There’s hardly any time to overthink it. 

Soon you’re in a taxi, cramped into a space that’s too small for how aware you are of each other. The city slides past the windows in streaks of colour, folding in on itself as the car pulls away. Kika’s knee brushes yours. Then presses. Then stays there. 

Her mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and while still not sloppy, it deepens quickly and with little patience. Your hand slides into smooth brown hair, anchoring there as though the road might jolt you apart. Everything seems to melt into it, into the connection, hands on your thigh, tongue sliding between your lips and swirling around your own, sucking and absorbing the sound you make at that. 

She shifts closer, thinking momentarily about how embarrassing it would be for her to never make it to Barcelona by getting into a car crash without her seatbelt on with the sole prerogative of being too invested in the kiss to wait. Her balance is kept by one hand braced against the window, the glass cool beneath her palm. Your mouths move together, breaths tangling, foreheads bumping. 

The taxi goes over a pothole and she laughs into your mouth. Her head hits the ceiling. The driver might lose his insurance if he were to be pulled over, but it’s an awkward thing to break up this moment between you and ask for safety. He glances into the rearview mirror and decides that you’re both quite sensible. He writes this off as a one-time thing. The next time he picks two people up from a club, he’ll tell them to sit safely before they jump each other in the backseat. 

By the time the car slows, you’re both breathless, hair mussed. The driver pointedly ignores this as you get out. Kika thanks him quickly, handing him a hefty tip. She nudges you towards the door of her building insistently after that. 

You realise you have no idea where you are so Kika very much is able to murder you if she so wished. You doubt she will but… 

“Can I have your address?” 

Big sisters get in your head about these things and you know what yours would say if they heard about you hooking up with a stranger before prioritising your basic safety. 

Kika twists her key in the lock but you hesitate at the threshold. She shrugs and types it into your phone. There’s a swoosh as that text message gets sent off to your friend. You quickly add that you’ll be back in the morning. 

“I’m not going to murder you,” Kika states, very serious despite the act of pulling your hips into her rickety lift and wrapping her arms around your body. 

“But you did promise me mind-blowing sex.” You raise your eyebrows. The lift doesn’t move. “Did you press the button?” 

Kika snaps out of her daze and doesn’t grant you a response, hand slamming onto a button until the lift beeps and begins to ascend. That’s embarrassing but whatever. She’ll make you forget about it, she’s sure. 

When the doors finally grind open, she all but drags you out. 

Her apartment is spacious. Too spacious. The lights flick on and cast long shadows across stacked cardboard boxes, half-labelled in thick black pen. Cozinha. Livros. Prêmios. You take in the categories of her life nosily. An interesting way to live. 

“Sorry,” she says a little breathlessly, offering a vague gesture at everything. “I’m moving out.” That would explain it. “I haven’t packed my bed yet.” 

“Where are you moving?” She looks surprised that you’ve asked, as if the comment about the bed should have been enough to satisfy the explanation and allowed you to continue with getting to the mind-blowing sex she has indeed promised. But you seem genuinely interested. 

“Spain,” Kika answers. “Barcelona.” 

“Not Spain,” you counter. 

“Anti-Catalan?” 

“Independentista.” 

“¿Eres de Cataluña?” she tries in Spanish, despite that going against your revelation. But this is good for her to practice before she touches down. “No lo sabía.” 

“Why are you moving?” comes your next question. Kika rolls her eyes. This is killing the vibe and now she can see you in clear lighting and she wants you even more. 

“Work.” 

The one-word answer is an obvious hint to get back to it. You shake your head quickly, as if to get rid of your curiosity, and then Kika is on top of you again, backing you into something plush (must be her sofa) until you're flat against it. 

Kika’s mouth crashes into yours with renewed urgency, like the questions have only wound her tighter. That’s true; they have, because now her plans have been delayed. She kisses you insistently, her hands everywhere, and you don’t usually submit so easily but it seems Kika has subverted your usual dominance. Not that you mind, as her body presses into yours, knee parting your legs and nudging at your crotch, at the growing wetness there. Her biceps are flexed as she holds herself up, bulging as they bracket your head. Work, she said. You can make your guesses. 

You begin to grind your hips into her muscular thigh, skirt bunching up as though its existence has been willed away. Her teeth catch your bottom lip, surprised by the movement, but it’s welcomed quickly as she pushes against you with more force. You moan and she is right there to hear it. Strangers in a club and now about to fuck on a sofa. What a night. 

The leverage of Kika’s body is used well, aware of the effect she’s having, and it’s good enough – she’s good at this – that your mouth opens and the kiss becomes messier, more just exchanged breath as you find the perfect amount of friction to get you where you need to be. Her hands pin you in place, fingers digging into the sofa on either side of you as if she’s holding herself back from doing more. As your head lulls to the side, you press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. 

Nice hands, you think. 

“Kika.” 

She finds your eyes, doesn’t stop the pressure of her thigh but continues with slightly more trepidation, ready to abandon this and let you run away. 

“Kika,” you rasp again, because she hasn’t replied. 

“Yeah?” 

“Use your fingers.” The instruction is needy; a little bit pathetic but not enough for you to care. You don’t care. Right now, you have a one-track mind. 

Her hand doesn’t hesitate as she shifts to keep herself upright. Fingers slide where you’ve been awaiting them, moving quickly and precisely beneath the elastic of your underwear. Your breath hitches and that’s all she needs to grin against your mouth, teeth clashing against yours as you gasp. 

She circles your clit once, twice, gathering the wetness – “you’re so wet” – before she slips a finger inside. Your hips buck up into the space where her thigh has retreated, the space she made to give you what you wanted. 

“More.” 

“Mandona,” she murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck before grazing her teeth against the same spot. You can’t hold back the shuddering moan that spills out, loud enough for it to echo in the emptiness of her living room.

Her finger moves faster, slick and confident, driving you higher. She traces a hot line from your jaw to your ear, nipping lightly, leaving trails of fire where she touches. 

You arch into her, chest pressing to hers, nails digging into the firm muscle of her back. Each movement is unrelenting and yet you still need more. 

As if she hears that thought, that ache inside, she adds another finger, perfectly timed with the grinding of her palm into your clit. You can’t do anything but give yourself over entirely, breath catching, body shivering with need. Her control is absolute but in the best way: you’re lost in it. 

She kisses you again, tongue sliding against your own in sync with her fingers. It’s overwhelming – she’s all you can feel, and that’s addictive. Impossibly so. The sofa exists in the apartment, yes, but it’s also on a cosmic plane, something different to anything else, and you think for a moment, wow, I wonder what she can do in a bed. Maybe ‘mind-blowing’ wasn’t just her ego talking. 

You come quicker than usual. It must have been the build-up. And her skilled movements. And her proximity. 

She works you through it with gentle diligence, extracting her fingers only when your hips stutter to a halt, forehead resting against yours as she watches you. She wants to commit that expression to memory. With a satisfied smirk, eyes dark and wild, she pushes herself upwards, sitting back on her haunches. 

“Good?” she teases. There’s no mercy in her grin. She is far from finished. 

“You’re impatient. I’m not even naked.” 

“As if you’re complaining.” 

You fold your arms over your chest, top hardly out of place. “I was promised ‘mind-blowing’.” 

“I think you woke the neighbours up,” she retorts. Your legs tingle as she stands up, free of her weight but missing it instantly. “That must be mind-blowing.” 

“I’m just loud.” 

“Mhm.” She’s not convinced. 

You roll your eyes. “Where is your bedroom? Get naked and I’ll show you ‘mind-blowing’.” 

Her laugh is light and soft and you like that sound a lot. She grabs your hand and takes you past more boxes, past a room with only a shelving unit left, towards the door at the far end. 

“Here’s where that grand tour ends,” she says playfully. She swings the door open to reveal a space that’s still mostly empty, but the bed is made up enough to expose its purpose. You have to step over a guitar case to get inside. Her smile grows sheepish. “It’s messy, sorry.”

“I’m not your mother,” you tell her, shrugging. 

“I’d hope not.” 

You laugh at the horror on her face. As a distraction, you rid yourself of your top. It’s a nice top and you hear the fabric stretch at the force but that’s a problem for later. 

Kika’s jaw goes slack as your bra gets thrown onto the pile. Not that she’s a prude. Or that she’s never seen a naked woman before. In fact, she’s seen lots of naked women, in both sexual and non-sexual contexts. Like in changing rooms. And stuff. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you ask, infuriatingly smug. 

She realises she has visibly malfunctioned, standing statue-like in her bombsite of a bedroom. And now she’s blushing because she has been staring at your boobs instead of doing something – anything – and now the bravado from before has dissipated completely. You, topless, have reduced the ego to zilch.

Kika blinks, then shakes herself, and she is soon all movement, back to her confident self; hands in your hair, mouth on yours, hips pressing into you as though she’s determined to erase that blunder. You’re lying on the bed before long, her hands tracing your ribs until a thumb brushes your hardened nipple. 

“You too,” you whisper in her ear as she palms your breast, tugging at her own top. You’ve wiggled out of your skirt already. “I want to see.” 

She’s not shy – she’s actually very proud of how she looks – and so that is something she can indulge you in, stripping and launching her clothes halfway across the room before she returns to your body. She’s about to have even more fun but your palm presses into her stomach, splaying across the divots of her abs, and she pauses. 

You’re frowning. She wonders why. Her answer comes in the form of a decisive: “can I eat you out?” 

Kika freezes for a fraction of a second, brows lifting, but then her lips curve into a grin. Daring and hungry. “You can,” she replies, voice low and teasing, “but don’t take forever.” 

That earns another eyeroll and if you couldn’t tell from the way she really hasn’t finished packing, you’d assume her flight to El Prat is in two hours. You slide your hand up her back, guiding her as you switch positions, your legs either side of her hips as you tilt her head to the side and kiss down her neck. 

She moans softly, skin tensing under your mouth, fingers tangling in your hair as you explore. 

And explore you do; down to her collarbones, her breasts, her sternum. You part her legs and move your body between them and then you lick down her navel, shamelessly tasting the saltiness of the sheen of sweat covering her skin. Her hips cant upwards insistently. 

“Prisa,” she says. Funny. This is a weird time to have a Spanish lesson. 

“Date prisa,” you reply. “How you say it.” 

You feel her indigance. “Date–” 

She’s cut off by her own gasp as your tongue sweeps over her clit. Her thighs press together, trapping your head, but death-by-hot-woman might be an acceptable thing to add to the obituary. You’d happily suffocate here. 

You drag your tongue over her in deliberate, relentless strokes, and she shudders, hips jerking against you, gripping onto your head for leverage. Her gasp shatters into a low, ragged moan, the sound vibrating through your chest as you lap and flick with careful precision. 

Kika tries to shift, tries to grind against you, but your hands pin her hips down, holding her in place as you control the rhythm. She arches as you make one more pass over her clit before thrusting your tongue inside her, hips fighting you until you pull away pointedly. She stills, begrudgingly, noticing that only one of your hands has returned. She traces your arm until she realises that you're touching yourself. Her head drops back onto the pillow. 

“Don’t stop,” she pants, voice husky. It’s not necessary – you’re not planning to/ You already know what she wants, what she needs. You’re a fast learner. 

You increase the pressure, circling, flicking, teasing just enough to make her squirm desperately, drawing out every gasp and shudder she has to give. Her hips jerk again but you’re insistent on her stillness so she tries to contain herself, clenching her jaw before another moan breaks free and she abandons any notion of having control over herself. 

And when she comes, you’re also groaning into her, and that feels a bit like the stars aligning. Or something equally poetic. She hopes your friend stays lost forever. 

… 

“So…” The morning sunshine is blinding as it pours in through the windows. Kika forgot to close the blinds last night, preoccupied with other things. Things that are currently naked in her bed right now. 

Your voice is husky from sleep, accent thicker now. 

“So?” Kika echoes. You kick her lightly. She wraps her arms around you, hot from being so close but wanting to be close anyway. 

“Lloro,” you grumble.

“Are you going to finish the sentence?” 

You wiggle free of her grip, satisfied by the ache between your legs but also slightly afraid that touching her will soon make you insatiable. Your phone lies dead on Kika’s bedside table. You groan. 

Kindly, she reaches an arm over you, plucking up the glorified brick and putting on charge on her own side. 

“Thank you.” 

“Nada.” 

You spread out, starfishing across the mattress, kicking off the covers. The shock of the air against your naked body is jarring but it’s also very refreshing. You sit up. 

“Bon dia,” is the first thing you really want to say to Kika, happy to find yourself in her bed. That’s not always the case with strangers you meet in clubs. “Not ‘mind-blowing’ but it was a good try.”

She scoffs. “The neighbour hit the wall at one point!” 

“Good you are moving, eh?” 

Kika swings her legs out from underneath where you have invaded her space, planting both feet on the floor. She reaches out for a t-shirt folded on the top of a pile near collapse. She hands it to you and you thank her, because you may be annoying but at least you’re polite. And Kika is very sweet. You’ll give her that. 

“There are some good things about moving,” she agrees. Then she looks around at the bedroom she has lived in for years. Not the first place she has been since moving out of her parents’ house but definitely the one that has felt most like home. “Bad things too.” 

“Like what?” you ask, not because it isn’t obvious but because you’re interested in the list she’ll cultivate. 

“My family lives here. My friends. My club.” 

“Club?” 

“I play football,” she explains. The confirmation makes you feel smug internally, because at least your radar is calibrated and functioning. “Professionally. For Benfica. Do you know Benfica?” 

You could tell her that football has been forced into your life from the moment you were born. You could tell her about Alexia. And Barça. And let it dawn on her that she’s just slept with her new captain’s younger sister, which definitely isn’t the best foot to get off on with Alexia because Alexia is very protective. But some things you just want to keep to yourself. Some things don’t deserve to be complicated by football. 

“I’ve heard of it,” you answer neutrally. Then, to shed yourself of the bad karma that comes with lying by omission, “mi hermana mayor está obsesionada con el fútbol. Y a la otra, le interesan más las jugadoras.”

“Family trait,” Kika says, looking you up and down with a lazy smirk. 

You puff out a breath of denial. “No, no. I do not look for footballers. And you flirted with me.” 

“You flirted back.” She shrugs and you watch the muscles of her back flex as she reaches out to grab a t-shirt for herself. It spoils the nice view of her topless but you’re not going to let that thought surface. “I have a sister too,” she says then, continuing the conversation as she stands up and stretches. “Do your sisters live in Barcelona?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you do not?” She pulls on a pair of shorts but after that, she climbs back into bed. However, she now sits cross-legged in front of you, smiling but seemingly very awake. You bet that Kika is a fucking morning person. 

“I graduated a month ago and I want to travel. I was doing surfing in Porto but my friend lives here. I visit her.” The English muddles in your brain and this is a bit like an oral exam but you push through it, forcing yourself to wake up. Not that you will ever achieve Kika’s level of spriteliness before midday at least.

“No te gustan las mañanas,” Kika deduces somehow. Maybe from your pout and the way you rub your eyes. And your comfortable position in her bed that makes it clear you’re not planning to get out of it soon. 

“Ven aquí,” you murmur, relieved. Good on Kika for learning Spanish. Your arms open up as she crawls towards you. “I sleep more.” 

She nods into your chest. “Voy a hacer… breakfast.” 

“No,” you whine. “Quédate.” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“You eat me?” you suggest. 

“You are asleep.” She glances at your soft smile, the curve of your cheeks, the crinkle between your eyebrows. You’re beautiful. She wants to kiss you. She almost does. Instead, she gets up despite your protests and slinks off into the kitchen. 

When you next wake up, you’re alone in bed. You pat the other side of the mattress and feel the cold sheets and Kika has no clock so the only way to check the time is by staring at the sun or braving your phone. You choose the latter. Your friend, Sara, can’t be that annoyed with you. 

The messages come as soon as you type in your password. 

Where have you gone? 

What are you doing? 

What the fuck is this address??? This is so far from my place!!!!

Yeah, so maybe not the most pleased. A groan rumbles in your throat as you see it’s almost midday. 

You send Sara a message confirming that you’re alive. She replies instantly, asking who you went home with. You leave that message on read, unwilling to spread the word just yet. 

After a detour to the ensuite attached to the bedroom, you pad out into the hallway, minty and mildly victorious about the discovery of a brand-new toothbrush still in its plastic wrapper. There’s something intimate about Kika leaving it there for you, but you pocket that feeling, ignoring the warmth growing in your chest. You follow the sound of commentary coming from the living room. 

Kika is on the sofa, legs stretched out, one ankle hooked over the other. She’s wearing different clothes now, linen shorts and a tank top, hair damp against her back. There’s a coffee mug balanced on the arm of the sofa, empty. The TV is on low volume but you can tell from her posture, the intensity with which she watches the screen, that she is invested in it.

Highlights from the Olympics. Yawn. 

“Who do you want to win?” 

She jumps at that, having not noticed your presence. You dart forwards to catch the mug that falls from its precarious position, setting it down on the wooden floor. Kika lets out a shuddery laugh, folding her legs underneath her in an invitation for you to sit down. You accept, glancing at the goal being shown on the TV. Jenni, against Colombia. You’d seen your family group chat with each relative’s opinions on the match. It went to penalties. 

“Me?” Kika asks, as if there are any other people in this room. You nod. “Brazil. Spain. I like Brazil… but my new teammates are playing for Spain. The atmosphere will be very bad on the first day if they lose.” 

“It’s not their fault,” you tell her, wincing slightly at your ability to carry the conversation. Stupid Alexia and her forcefulness of football onto your childhood. And strong Alexia, you suppose too, because she works so hard despite the odds being stacked against her. “Bad manager.” 

“It’s hard when it’s like that. You can’t do much when you have a bad manager.” Her breath hitches as she watches a Colombian player take a penalty and miss. “I hate penalties.” 

“Stressful,” you murmur in agreement. Her feet brush your thigh and you’re most focused on that, but Kika is adorably engrossed in the match and doesn’t seem to care. 

Your stomach makes a sound and that seems to snap Kika out of it. You blush, embarrassed.

“We can get food after this finishes? I was making you breakfast but you were dead to the world so I thought we could get some when you woke up.” 

Enticed by food, you’re tempted to spoil the match’s outcome but then you’d be exposing knowledge that you want to keep separate from her. Amongst the many reasons to go to Portugal after university, one of them was distance from football. Football has engulfed your family, dictating almost everything, and while you’re proud of your sister, you also want some agency in your own life. While Alexia and Alba are happily rooted to Barcelona, to the same streets and cafés and people, you have grown bored. You want to experience more than just the comfort of your home. 

Kika turns the TV off once the highlights end, stretching her arms over her head with a satisfied hum. “Okay,” she says, “let’s go.” 

You glance down at yourself, then back up at her. The borrowed t-shirt from earlier is gone; you’re back in last night’s clothes, creased and spangly and very clearly meant for a dark club at two in the morning, not a sunlit street in the afternoon. “I can’t go out like this.” 

She tilts her head, assessing your outfit. A smirk spreads out onto her lips. “You look fine.” 

“This looks like a walk of shame,” you counter. “It is. But still.”

“Come.” She stands and offers you her hand, and you go back to the bedroom. She rifles through the piles of clothes on the floor, pulling out a pair of similar shorts to the ones she is already wearing and a loose t-shirt. She presses them into your arms without ceremony. 

You raise an eyebrow. The t-shirt has a crest on it, which you can only assume to be Benfica’s. 

“What?” she asks with faux innocence. 

“Really?” 

She shrugs at your question.

You change while she pretends not to watch and very obviously watches anyway. The shorts sit low on your hips, the top is too big, hanging on the edge of your shoulder. It smells like her, like the freshness of the apartment, and you find that to be weirdly comforting. 

Kika’s expression shifts when you turn back to her. Not dramatic, but full of intent. She steps closer, fingers brushing the cuff of your sleeve and then sliding up your arm. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “We are going.” 

“I know.” She kisses you anyway.

You lean into her without thinking, hands finding her waist, and for a moment everything goes very quiet, holding its breath. Her lips part as you deepen the kiss, your grip slipping to the curve of her bum, pulling her into you. And then she pulls away. 

“Vámonos.” 

Rude. 

You blink and soon you are outside. The street is bright and alive, pavement baking under the sun, people walking past without hurrying. A few faces linger on Kika beside you, whose fingers brush yours but never intertwine, and you can feel the pride that she exudes at that. You pass an advert with her face on it, too, and Kika nudges your shoulder. 

It’s hard to pretend to be surprised. You’re used to images of your sister following you around Barcelona, watching your every move, but to entertain it you ask Kika, “are you famous?” 

She laughs. “No.” Very humble. “They just like me here.”

You grow pensive as she steers you towards a bustling café with shaded tables scattered on the street. 

“Why leave?” 

Kika turns, having been distracted by finding a seat and greeting the waiter who clearly knows her. It takes a moment for her to respond, biting her lip as she thinks about her answer. Your fingers drum against the metal table. 

“You don’t reject an offer from Barça.” Neither of you are satisfied with that PR response. She sighs. “I guess I want more experiences; different opponents, different leagues. It’s a different level of football. It’s the best.” Her hesitation comes in the form of holding two fingers up at the friendly waiter, who doesn’t look surprised but raises his eyebrows at her before disappearing inside. “I am… worried. Worried that I won’t be good enough. But you can only get better by playing with better players.” Brown eyes find yours. “Why do you want to travel?” 

The question reminds you that you’re yet to break the news to your family. You make a mental note to call Mami later and talk to her. 

“I think the same. Different experiences. I have lived in Barcelona my whole life but there is so much more to explore.”

“Where do you want to go?” Kika asks with genuine interest, hardly breaking eye contact even when the waiter brings out two coffees with a plate of pastries.

You shrug. “Everywhere.” 

She likes the sound of that. She finds you very intriguing actually. Relaxed and confident but not outwardly, just at peace with yourself. She knows you’re clever, has deduced that from the degree you’ve just earned, and you’re pretty, too, and if it weren’t for her moving countries, she’d be a lot more invested in making last night a longer thing. 

But you’re two trains passing, swapping stations. It’s unfortunate but such is life, and Kika accepts that with a touch of disappointment but the awareness that there isn’t much she can do to change the situation. Trust her to meet a Catalan she likes who is moving away from Barcelona before she can even get there. 

It settles in her chest like a doomclock but she tries to ignore it. 

Food turns into a walk around her neighbourhood, which turns into a movie at her place, which turns into even more sex. And then you’re waking up in her bed again, now resigned to wearing her clothes, and you’re helping her finish packing and giving her lists of things to do in Barcelona and she lends you her laptop to look for flights to Madeira, because you’re planning to hike around the island before embarking on more adventurous travel. 

You’re having breakfast, lunch, and dinner with her, teaching her Catalan words, absorbing a bit of Portuguese to help you on your travels. You call Mami from her balcony, with Kika sitting there watching you, unable to take her eyes off you even though the conversation goes straight over her head. And then when you’re crying about it, suddenly terrified by the prospect of being alone, never having been allowed to feel that why because of the sacrifices your loved ones have made to protect you, Kika is the one to pull you into her arms and tell you that it will be alright. “Just do it anyway,” is what she says. 

“I’m scared,” you confess, sniffling as the tears subside. Kika doesn’t move, doesn’t let go. You feel safe in her arms and it’s ridiculous, really, because this is your fifth day of knowing her, but sometimes you just… click. And that’s good. “I realise I don’t know anything about the world. I don’t travel on my own. This is new for me. My sisters have always been there to help me.” 

“You can call them, text them… You’re not completely alone.” 

A wet laugh bubbles out of you. “You don’t understand. You don’t know my sisters.” Part of you aches to tell her, but with how Alexia has reacted to your travel plans has been enough of an indicator that you are not leaving on the best terms with her. 

Kika hums softly, not pushing but shifting just enough so you’re both sitting back against the balcony wall, knees bent, Lisbon stretching out beneath you. 

“You can tell me,” she says. Her voice comes out gentle and smooth and a little Portuguese, but she is speaking to you in Spanish. 

You pick at a loose thread on the hem of her shorts, breathing in. You exhale. The words sit heavily on your chest but they have been there your whole life, a gloomy shadow that has followed you around. A story that everyone in Barcelona knows before you get to tell them. 

“My dad died when I was ten,” you say finally. It’s plain, routine. It has become a bullet point in the description of why you are the way you are. 

Kika’s arms tighten around you instinctively. She doesn’t interrupt. 

“My oldest sister was eighteen,” you continue. “Barely an adult. But suddenly she was everything. She helped Mami with bills, appointments, household chores. Mami was devastated. He didn’t die quickly – he suffered and he was ill and it took its toll. So Alex was the one who took me to school. She helped me with my homework. She had to deal with me and my sister’s pain before she could even process her own and she hasn’t changed.” 

You feel Kika’s jaw clench and unclench, as though she recognises this, as though she’s felt it. Everyone makes sacrifices. Everyone can see themselves in anyone’s suffering. 

“When I say I’ve never really been alone, I mean it. Someone has always been there to catch me. And now I’m telling them I want to leave and Alex, she just doesn’t understand.” You think of Mami’s measured story, of how she promised to deal with it and reassured you that she, as your mother, trusts you to do what you think is best. “I’m worried she will think I’m betraying her. I’m… rejecting everything she has ever done for me. She thinks it’s her job to stop me from getting hurt.” You chuckle but it comes out humourless. “You should have seen her talk to my first girlfriend.” 

Kika decides she’s not looking forward to that conversation, then. Even if you’re going away, she will find you again. She is sure of that. 

Her chin rests on the top of your head, 

“That’s not a bad sister,” she says. 

“No,” you agree. “That’s the problem.” 

Silence hangs between you. Somewhere below, a dog barks. You can hear the distant rattle of the tram. Children playing football on the street, laughing. 

A hand cups your cheek, Kika’s eyes shining and warm. “I know I’m technically a stranger,” she starts, nodding when you shake your head, because she doesn’t feel like that anymore, “but I don’t think you’re running away from them. You’re running towards something else. Something for yourself.” She speaks these words from experience, from her own battle that grappled with leaving everything she has ever known. There was a moment where she almost declined the offer, but someone else, back then, had given her a similar talk.

“Your sister protected you because you needed it. That doesn’t mean you need it forever.” 

You swallow. Part of you is tinged with guilt about telling her this. Whatever fantasy Kika has of keeping in touch will stay as such, because she can’t know all of this about Alexia and still be her teammate. You can’t compromise Kika’s professionality by giving her a sob story about your sister’s slightly overbearing nature. Not when you know just how much people worship her. She exists on a different plane. You do not want to bring her back down to Earth and ruin the illusion for Kika. 

But you like Kika. So much. It adds another ache to your heart. 

Your flight to Madeira isn’t long. You read a book you pick up in the airport. You’ve given Sara the things you haven’t wanted to bring and now you feel like a traveller, backpack and all. And you’re ready for it. You’re ready to take on the rest of the world.