pazzi devotee

As if they could replace the smell of her mother’s gingerbread cookies baking in the kitchen back in Arlington. Or the feeling of sitting by the stone fireplace with eggnog warming her hands, surrounded by friends and family. Or the giddy rush of racing her brothers down the stairs on Christmas morning, shoving each other aside to see who got to rip open a present first.

They can’t. They don’t.

And if the decorations aren’t reminder enough, the ache in her chest is.

She’s homesick.

It’s been weeks now, and her phone has stayed stubbornly silent. No call from Paige, though Azzi isn’t really expecting one. Still, she finds herself thinking about that day more than she should. More than makes sense for a chance encounter with a stranger she bribed into coffee so she could have a real conversation without stumbling through her mostly fluent German.

Yet Paige lingers in her mind.

Her laid-back energy, unmistakably Californian. The way she spoke animatedly about her work, her life. The way Azzi found herself hanging onto every word, far more engrossed than she had any right to be. And that grin, tucking into the apples of her cheeks, that had sent a flush creeping up Azzi’s neck more than once.

It was just the heat in the cafe. 

Obviously.

Even knowing Paige was married, Azzi can’t quite shake the pull she felt. Not romantically. She’s not that kind of person and never will be. But in a quieter way. A craving for another conversation. Another walk through Munich’s streets. Another coffee shared across a too-small table in a too-loud cafe.

No matter how platonic it had to be.

It wasn’t just the easy conversation, either. Or the way Paige lit up when she talked about the things she loved. It was the way she listened, truly, like she had nowhere else to be. She never rushed to fill silence or nodded absently while waiting her turn. There was something grounding about her presence, which Azzi hasn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe that’s why the memory still lingers.

For a few weeks, Azzi lets herself think about it. About the woman who never called. It’s almost funny how much space Paige takes up in her head. But time does what it always does. It dulls the edges, and eventually, the memory fades enough that it feels like it never happened.

Almost.

Maybe that’s because Azzi has something else demanding her attention now.

Munich FC doesn’t feel like home anymore.

It isn’t bad, exactly. It’s just… different. She’s poured nearly four years into the team. Endless practices. Brutal matches. A dislocated shoulder. A torn ACL. A whole lot of heart. A piece of her fell in love with the country, and another piece was lost to it forever.

But at training the other day, she realized she didn’t laugh as much anymore. She went through the motions, played hard and kept her head down, but something was missing.

Even her teammates noticed. One of them joked that she was turning into a grumpy old veteran, and that’s when it really hit her.

She isn’t just missing home. She’s missing herself. Who she used to be, at least. Someone who is full of joy and living for the love of the game.

Curled up on the couch now, wrapped in a thick wool blanket to fight the chill in her small drafty apartment, Azzi stares at the laptop balanced on her legs. She rereads the screen, letting the words settle.

The National Women’s Soccer League.

It’s real. 

And this time, it won’t fold in a few years like the leagues before it. This time, there’s real funding. Ten teams spread across the country. Salaries high enough to sustain a career without picking up second jobs on the side.

Her eyes land on one name.

Washington Spirit.

It feels like a lifeline she didn’t realize she was desperate for.

Her agent told her the national team officials want her back stateside. They need big names to help sell the league, draw eyes, and make it stick. That almost guarantees she’ll go to her first choice.

Which means she could go home.

Not just home as in the U.S., but home as in Arlington. Where she grew up. Where she played youth soccer. Where she had her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first heartbreak. Where she figured out who she was. Where she spent an entire summer running a lemonade stand with her brothers just to buy the flashy cleats her parents refused to get her because she already had a perfectly good pair.

Going home feels obvious, but is she running toward something—or away from it?

Still uncertain, Azzi pulls her phone from beneath the blankets and types out a message.

Azzi: You hear about this new league they’re forming?

KK: I did! Don’t tell me the magnificent Azzi Fudd is thinking of gracing the NWSL with her presence?

Azzi: Haha. I’m thinking about it. I miss home. What do you think?

KK: Well, I know how much your family would love to have you back. Me too! But can you even get out of your contract with Munich FC?

Azzi: Yeah, I signed for a year with an additional player option, so technically, I just have to request it.

KK: Well, it’s up to you. You know I’d love having my favorite defender back in the States! Although, I doubt you’re going to want to come play for the Chicago team with me since I see there’s a team in D.C.

Azzi: Yeah, you got me there lol. 

KK: I’m running to training, but I’m sure whatever you decide will work out just fine.

Azzi: Thanks for the chat!

KK: Anytime!

In the end, it doesn’t feel like much of a decision at all.

Azzi digs her phone out from under the blanket and dials her agent’s number, asking about the release from her Munich FC contract. Then she scrolls down the email, eyes settling on the section marked team preferences.

#1: Washington Spirit.

She leaves #2 and #3 blank.

Call her selfish, but after years of missed birthdays, weddings, baby showers, and holidays, she wants to go home.

 ***** *** *****

As expected, Azzi gets her wish.

The night before she leaves the apartment, and the city she’s called home for the past four years, she sprawls out on the bare floor of her living room. A familiar shoebox sits in front of her, small and unassuming, like it hasn’t been quietly holding the weight of her entire heart.

The walls of her flat are stripped clean now. No photos, decorations, or proof that a life ever existed here at all. And yet, this box contains more memories than any wall ever could.

Azzi hesitates, staring at it.

She could leave it untouched, just like she has for the past year. Buried beneath old shoes and forgotten sweats in the darkest corner of her closet. She shoved it back there for a reason. To forget.

But some memories don’t stay buried. At least not ones that run as deep as this. 

Everything else is packed, labeled, and ready to be shipped back to Virginia, where she’ll play for the Spirit. The fresh start should feel exciting. Instead, it feels unfinished. The furniture is gone. The cupboards are empty. The floors are spotless, scrubbed clean with bleach and carpet cleaner that did a decent job erasing the red wine stains.

Unfortunately, the stain on her heart didn’t respond the same way.

Azzi exhales slowly.

She’s ready. She thinks.

She lifts the lid.

The first thing she sees is a piece of paper, tri-folded like it once belonged in an envelope that was never addressed. Her breath catches as she unfolds it. Her own handwriting stares back at her, black ink smudged where tears once fell.

Lucina,

As I sit here trying to process all of this, I’m left with more questions and fewer answers than when I started. The only thing I know for certain is that I loved you more than I ever thought possible. I gave you my heart, and for a long time, I believed I held yours in return.

But now I’m here, alone in what used to be our home. Germany feels too big. The fall nights, too cold without you beside me. And I keep wondering what happened. What could I have done to drive you away? Into the arms of someone else? My love for you was pure, honest. And I tried so hard to show you that every day.

I remember the first day I met you. I was lost, wandering the streets of Munich with the confused expression that only a fresh college graduate in a foreign city could have. I must have looked pathetic enough for you to take pity on me.

You were kind. You assured me that “not all who wander are lost” with a warm smile as you guided me where I needed to go. But as I wander through the memories of our time together, I am lost. So utterly and completely lost.

I remember the stories you told me as we walked through Munich, the church where your father led your family every Sunday, the schoolhouse where you had your first kiss, the bakery where your mother bought your favorite pastries. And then there were our places, where we made our own memories. Ones that I will never forget.

I came to Munich ready to take on the world, but I was young, naïve, and completely unprepared. I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t know the customs. And I sure as hell would have starved that first week had you not walked me into that cafe and ordered me a proper meal.

We were strangers. Then friends. Then… so much more. I don’t know how it happened, how you swept in like the tide and stole my heart, but you did. And it felt so easy. Somewhere between the moonlit walks, the intimate conversations, and the stolen kisses, I fell for you. And even now—knowing what I know, seeing what I saw—a part of me still wants to believe that you fell for me too.

I never saw it coming. Never saw the cracks forming. Maybe they weren’t really even there. Or maybe I was too blinded by love to notice. But I feel them now. I feel them in my heart when our song plays, in my lungs when I try to take a deep breath, and in my tears when the nights get too quiet.

I started writing this letter hoping it would help me let go of my anger. That it would help me heal. But sitting here, scribbling my pain onto a piece of paper, I realize nothing will help. Because I still love you. Despite what you did. Despite what I saw. Despite everything. I still ache for you. My skin still craves your touch. My lungs still burn with the need to share your breath. And every time I look down at my hand, a tan line reminds me of a ring that no longer resides there.

I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this. I’d like to believe I will. But right now, the pain is too real. The heartbreak too strong. Maybe one day I’ll understand why you left. Maybe I’ll find peace with the questions that will never have answers.

Maybe.

But for now, all I can do is be thankful. Thankful that you came into my life when I needed someone the most. Thankful that you showed me the beauty of being free. Thankful that, for a time, you loved me. But most of all, thankful that you broke my heart. Because in doing so, you shattered the illusion of fairy tale love.

You made me stronger. Tougher. More focused. And for that, I thank you.

No matter where we go from here, a part of me will always love you. And I hope, when you look back, you remember what we had. And that, for at least some fragment of time, it was real.

As I move forward, trying to find my way out of the darkness and back into the light, I will remember the words you once said to me.

Not all who wander are lost.

All My Love,

Azzi

Azzi stares at the letter long after she finishes reading. Her fingers trace the smudged ink, the words never seen by the person they were meant for. It feels like it was written by someone else. Someone younger, who didn’t know yet how deeply love could wound.

She sets it aside and digs through the box.

First, she pulls out a dried, crushed rose from their first date. Then a small teddy bear that Lucina won at the fair, one eye missing after a month trapped beneath the recliner. A Munich University shirt she never returned, soaked through with too many tears from countless nights.

And finally, at the bottom, a small leather pouch tied tightly with a cord.

She doesn’t need to open it.

Her fingers trace the circular shape beneath the leather.

Azzi swallows, tucks the box under her arm, and steps out into the cold night.

She could have done this months ago. Years ago. Every time she thought she was ready, she found another excuse. Another reason to hold on.

But tonight, standing on the bridge, staring down at the dark, rippling water, the maybes disappear.

It’s time.

She throws the box forward with everything she has left. It spins once through the air before hitting the water with a dull splash. She watches as it sinks, swallowed whole by dark ripples.

Then she exhales a deep, shaky breath.

She always knew she wouldn’t stay in Germany forever, but now she understands this isn’t just about leaving. It’s also about letting go.

This city has changed her. It gave her victories, defeats, friendships, heartbreak. And now, as she turns away from the bridge, she realizes that she’s ready.

She’s moving on. 

She’s starting over. 

The moment they step inside, the heat sinks into Paige’s bones, the cold loosening its grip as the door shuts behind them. After a beat, they both shed their coats, draping them over the hooks screwed into the stucco wall beside the booth they settle into.

Paige flexes her fingers, trying to work the stiffness out of them. They ache as circulation returns, burning but it’s reassuring she won’t need them amputated. Across from her, Azzi unwinds her thick wool scarf but leaves her hat on. Paige assumes it’s to hide whatever damage the wind did to her right black curls.

As they settle, Paige realizes she’s watching Azzi.

Not creepily staring or anything. More so appreciating. Noting the way Azzi’s cheekbones soften under the café’s dim lighting. How her eyes scan the room, lips pursed in quiet concentration. She looks comfortable, and her ease puts Paige at ease too.

She startles slightly when a waitress appears with two menus. Azzi takes hers first, offering a quick, effortless “Danke,” before sliding the other one across the table.

Paige nods in thanks, very deliberately not attempting German. She’s embarrassed herself enough for one evening.

She lifts the menu and immediately feels Azzi’s gaze drift over. Paige imagines she’s clocking the damp snow melting into her hair, the pink flush still lingering in her cheeks. She suddenly feels exposed, acutely aware of herself under Azzi’s unreadable brown eyes.

She exhales and studies the menu anyway, tracing unfamiliar words with her finger like that might help.

It does not.

Hopeless, she thinks.

Eventually, she drops the menu onto the wooden table and leans back.

“I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” she mutters, adding a small, playful whine for good measure.

She gives up and looks around instead. The café is small, but the reclaimed wood floors, chipped paint on the high-backed chairs, and black-and-white photographs lining the walls make it feel cozy. And after the day Paige has had, she’ll take it. 

A particular photograph catches her attention. 

It’s a snow-covered parking lot where cars are buried under massive drifts, icicles hanging from every possible surface like frozen daggers. 

Her stomach sinks.

Azzi follows her gaze. “That was from a storm twenty years ago,” she says. “It’s not usually that bad. You just caught us in a cold snap.”

Paige exhales, tension easing from her shoulders. “Us?” she asks, lifting the menu again even though they both know she can’t read it. “Do you live here?”

She’d assumed Azzi was a student or just passing through. For some reason, she doesn’t quite peg her as someone who’s put down roots.

Azzi sets her menu aside. “Yeah. I live here.”

Before Paige can ask anything else, the waitress returns. She’s wearing a flour-dusted black apron, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear as she pulls a pen from behind the other. The notepad in her hand is wrinkled and folded over from a full day of use.

Azzi orders without hesitation while Paige stares at the menu again, willing the words to cooperate.

They. Do. Not.

Azzi leans forward slightly. “Do you like whipped cream?”

Paige blinks. “Uh, yeah?”

That seems to be enough. Azzi orders for her, adding two pastries. “Trust me,” she says as the waitress scribbles it down. “They’re to die for.”

The waitress disappears toward the kitchen.

“Anyway,” Azzi continues, “I’ve been here about four years.”

Paige’s eyebrows lift. Not just at the information, but at the small, proud smile Azzi wears when she says it.

“Really?” Paige asks, folding her hands together. “What brought you here?”

She’s usually a fidgeter. Napkins. Table edges. Anything within reach. But she’s still now, completely drawn in.

Azzi’s smile widens. “I play futbol for Munich FC,” she says. “After college, there weren’t many options for female soccer players in the U.S., so I packed my bags and moved here.”

“That’s so cool,” Paige blurts, a little louder than she means to.

A few patrons glance over and she winces, offering a quick, “Sorry.”

Azzi just grins. “Everyone in here acts like it’s a library. There’s nothing wrong with a little excitement.”

Paige relaxes, not really caring what any of the strangers but the one in front of her thinks. “Since you know my story now, want to take a guess at what brings me to Munich?”

Azzi studies her, lips curving slowly. “You don’t seem like a tourist. Too put-together.”

Paige laughs. “You didn’t see me wandering aimlessly for an hour.”

“Fair,” Azzi says. “So…work?”

“Bingo,” Paige replies. “Thankfully, I’m only here for a little while so my wife isn’t too annoyed. This freezing weather and the language barrier aren’t exactly my style.”

The waitress returns with their coffee and pastries.

“Danke,” Azzi says.

Paige nods in thanks, and doesn’t waste a second once the waitress excuses herself. She digs into the coffee cake, too hungry to be polite about it. The first bite is warm and sweet and perfect. A soft moan slips out before she can stop herself.

Azzi rolls her eyes. “Told you so.”

Paige shrugs and takes another bite before answering. “I’m an architect. The firm I work for is based in California, but we have a German client who wants to invest and build there. So I got sent here to go over plans with them.”

Azzi looks impressed. “Sounds like you’re pretty important.”

Paige lifts one shoulder. “Depends who you ask.”

Azzi finishes her pastry, licking a stray crumb from her fingertip without noticing what she’s doing.

Paige notices and immediately looks away.

“Uh, yeah,” she continues, clearing her throat. “I wish the client had come to us. It would’ve been easier to show him the site. And I wouldn’t have had to leave home.”

“And your wife?”

Paige smiles, still slightly caught off guard by the bluntness. She’s starting to think it has less to do with German culture and more to do with Azzi herself. And honestly? It’s kind of refreshing.

Paige has always been a say-what-you-mean person. Back home it’s often mislabeled as rudeness. Or worse, when you work in a field dominated by men—being a bitch. She’s just never seen the point in dancing around things.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s nice coming home to a cooked meal and Netflix queued up.”

Azzi laughs, but something in her expression shifts. She dips her head, fingers curling tighter around her mug.

Paige hesitates. “What about you? Do you have someone to come home to?”

Azzi shakes her head. “No,” she says quietly. “I don’t.”

She doesn’t elaborate, but there’s a heaviness in her voice that lingers in the space between them. Azzi’s fingers drift to her left ring finger, but there’s nothing there. 

Before Paige can decide if she should ask, Azzi sits up straighter, the moment passing as quickly as it came.

“So,” Paige says, sensing the need to change the subject, “how’s your team looking this year?”

Azzi exhales, visibly relieved by the pivot. “Pretty good actually!”

She perks back up and leans forward, wrapping both hands around her coffee mug as she continues, posture animated now. “We had a strong season last year, and we’re building off it this preseason. I just came back from knee surgery, so honestly, I’m just happy to be playing again.”

Paige swirls her coffee absently, watching the last dollops of whipped cream dissolve into the dark liquid.

“That’s good to hear,” she says, taking a sip. The warmth spreads through her chest before she adds, “I actually played back in college at Stanford. I wanted to go pro, but I couldn’t stay healthy. After two knee surgeries, I just couldn’t get back to that level. I’m glad you didn’t face a similar fate.”

The words taste bitter, even now.

It isn’t really regret. Paige loves her career. Her wife. The quiet life they’ve built together. Still, there’s a persistent ache that shows up whenever she thinks too long about what might have been. Soccer was supposed to be her way out into the world but fate had other plans.

If Azzi hears the regret tucked beneath her words, she doesn’t call it out. Instead, all Paige finds in her warm brown eyes is understanding.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Azzi says sincerely, setting her mug down. “But trust me, being a professional soccer player isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Long bus rides, constant time zone changes, missing important life events for a small paycheck and a handful of fans in the stands.” She lets out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t get me wrong. I love playing, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But sometimes… it gets lonely. Sometimes, I wish I could come home to a girlfriend, a home-cooked meal, and Netflix queued up.”

Paige registers the word girlfriend immediately.

Well. That answers that. Not that it changes anything.

“I can believe it,” Paige says.

She thinks about long tournament weekends. The strange loneliness of hotel rooms. The way even short trips made her feel unmoored. And that was just college. The idea of uprooting everything for a career—another country, another language, teammates who might not even speak English—makes her head spin.

Across from her, Azzi exhales and rubs a hand over her face. The slight sag of her shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed.

Paige hesitates. “I should let you get home,” she says, even though she’s not quite ready for the conversation to end.

Azzi chuckles softly. “That obvious, huh?”

“Just a little,” Paige teases, nodding toward the droop in Azzi’s eyelids.

Truthfully, Paige is ready for bed too. She flags the waitress down for the check, and when it lands on the table, she grabs it before Azzi can react.

“Don’t even think about it.” She pulls her wallet from her bag. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be wandering the streets. Buying you a coffee is the least I can do.”

Azzi exhales at that, shaking her head but letting it go. Paige glances at the total, still not fully trusting her German, and looks up after laying out a few bills. Azzi gives a quick nod.

Outside, they bundle up again.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Azzi says as she zips her thick black parka to her chin and winds her scarf tight.

Paige adjusts her leather jacket—stylish, yes, useful, absolutely not—and immediately regrets it when they step back into the cold. The Munich air cuts straight through her layers, drawing a sharp shiver from her.

As they walk, a sleek black BMW parked at an angle catches Paige’s eye. Its headlights flash as Azzi pulls her keys from her pocket.

“That’s a nice car,” Paige says, raising an eyebrow.

Azzi smirks. “The local BMW dealership sponsors our team, so they hooked me up.”

“Right,” Paige says dryly, running her fingers over the smooth hood. “Sounds like a real struggle.”

Azzi laughs and yanks the driver’s door open, needing an extra tug to free it from the cold. Inside, the car fills with warmth, heat blasting through the vents. Paige exhales, sinking gratefully into the heated seat.

The drive to the hotel is quiet, but easy. Conversation drifts without effort—soccer, work, random stories—no pressure to fill the silence.

When they pull up, Paige unbuckles but lingers.

“Thank you again for rescuing me off the street,” she says after a moment, eyes fixed on a frayed thread on her sleeve. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

Azzi shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciated the company. I was going a little crazy without having a real conversation in English, so honestly, you helped me just as much.”

Paige looks up then, meeting her eyes.

There’s something there. Something quiet and unspoken. Like, in some small way, they both needed this.

“I guess we both lucked out then, huh?” Paige says.

“I guess so,” Azzi replies, a tired smile splitting her face.

She rummages in her bag, pulls out a slip of paper and a pen, scribbles quickly, and hands it over. “If you’re ever in Munich again and need to be rescued, here’s my number.”

Paige hesitates just long enough to feel the brush of their fingers. It’s just a number. Still, she tucks it into her pocket carefully.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Azzi nods, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. 

“Thanks for the company, Paige,” she says softly. “And the coffee.”

Paige pauses before stepping out. “Thanks for the ride.”

She closes the door behind her and heads toward the hotel, boots careful on the ice.

Azzi doesn’t pull away right away. Paige doesn’t look back.