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But then came the soreness, the ibuprofen, and that rather cryptic phrase she had said in the hotel room, the one you still hadn't quite worked out what to do with.

"You have to decide, torito. Your rules. If they still apply or not."

You sighed, shifting against the brick wall of the stadium park. You hadn't known how to process her words then, and you certainly didn't now. Instead, you had done what you always did and disappeared into your own head. 

The air was cold around you, while the setting sun washed the Sevilla sky in shades of pink and orange. You took a deep breath, but Alexia filled your thoughts the same way the ocean filled the lungs of unsuspecting swimmers – burning from the inside out, starving every cell of oxygen before leaving them to die an agonising death. 

The asphyxiating overthinking was precisely why you had needed thirty minutes to change after the final whistle. You had needed space away from the mistake you had made on the pitch, away from Alexia snapping at you, away from Patri and Kika's gentleness, away from the dangerous voice screaming in your head that Alexia detested you now.

And look where that logic had got you... Getting called out for letting Kika hug you, watching Alexia admit her jealousy with trembling lips before she kissed the top of your head and walked away, leaving you alone.

You wondered if she had done that to process everything that had happened.

"I do notice," her voice echoed in your brain. "When you're not there."

You closed your eyes, but instead of seeing Alexia, you saw the same image behind your eyelids for what felt like the sixteenth or seventeenth time since the final whistle.

The stupid (tiny!) gap you left right in front of the box. The Sevilla girl running. The goal that sealed the defeat.

Now, as you stood in the stadium car park watching a mechanic inspect the underside of the team bus, the scoreboard that no longer existed anywhere except the back of your mind still glowed one-nil. The old voice that you had spent months gradually learning to argue with had found its footing again after the match, and it showed no sign of leaving. 

You don't belong at a club like this. The voice was so calm and certain and fucking annoying. Today just reminded everyone.

You knew it wasn't true. You knew the voice in your head wasn't always right, that you shouldn't trust it, but it didn't matter. The thought had already dug its roots in deep, and it was going to require an exhausting amount of mental energy to pull it back out, perhaps days.

A loud and metallic sound snapped you back to the reality of the car park. You looked up just in time to see the mechanic lift an important-looking piece of metal that you were pretty sure wasn't meant to come out of the engine… but not that you were an expert in buses or anything.

The bus back to Barcelona had broken down right outside of the stadium after everyone had already climbed aboard. The plan had been to head back home right after the game; that was why everyone had packed their bags, but it seemed like a change of plans would be necessary. 

Marta, sitting near the front of the bus, had overheard the driver complaining about something and passed the news to Caro, who leaned across the aisle to tell Esmee. Within about thirty seconds, the information had spread through the entire bus in a broken-telephone manner. Which meant everyone had to haul their (heavy!) belongings back off the bus and out into the cool evening despite having spent ninety minutes running and fighting on the pitch. Unsurprisingly, everyone was tired and not particularly pleased with the situation.

"We broke down?" Ona asked, a childlike pout forming on her face. 

"We broke down," Marta confirmed.

"Yeah, of course we did,"  you muttered under your breath. This occurrence was so fitting for a day like today, almost poetic.

Pere appeared from the front of the bus, phone pressed to his ear, wearing the expression of a man who had already mentally checked out for the day hours ago and was operating on nothing but professional obligation. He held up a hand for quiet, finished his call, and looked over at the team.

"The bus is staying here tonight," he said. "And so are we. They can't fix it until tomorrow morning, so we have to go back to the hotel."

A beat of silence fell over the team.

"So… the hotel here in Sevilla," Vicky asked slowly, processing the news. "The one we just checked out of?"

"Yes."

"And we're staying another night…?" She continued 

"Yes."

"That's good, actually," Cata chimed in. "I forgot my good shoes in the hotel gym..."

"This whole trip is so horrible," Syd sighed. Her headphones were resting around her neck, spilling out a song far too melancholy for this situation.

"Maybe it's your fault," Clara said in a bored voice, her arms crossed over her chest. "Your horoscope was predicting all kinds of bad things, and we still agreed to let you come with us."

"Agree to let me come?!" Sydney shot back, exasperated. "It's not like I can just skip a match because my sun sign happens to be in a terrible position!"

"Yeah, yeah, but–"

"Enough," Alexia's voice cut through the air. "Both of you. Quiet."

They fell instantly quiet, and so did everyone else.

"Oh," Vicky said in a hushed whisper, nudging Kika's side. "Capi's mad.

And so… they waited. And waited.

The mechanic was still beneath the broken-down bus, poking and prodding while everyone waited for ubers. Needless to say, the whole squad was scattered in various forms of shared misery.

Cata was sitting on her travel bag with her headphones in, looking like she very much did not want to be bothered. The younger girls, meanwhile, had clustered around Alexia, the way they always did when something went wrong on a game day.

It was almost endearing from a distance. 

Alexia was visibly grumpy, yet as though drawn by some collective gravitational pull, the kids had gathered around her anyway. Aicha was perched on the low wall beside her, Vicky on her other side, Clara nearby, and Syd hovered just behind.

All of them were talking nonstop and overlapping each other, clearly discussing anything and everything unrelated to football just to distract themselves, or maybe distract Alexia. They didn't like it when she was in one of her so-called moods. 

At one point, Alexia muttered something short and dry, and the girls immediately laughed. Alexia looked faintly pained by how easily she had made them laugh when she was trying so hard to be unavailable and intimidating. 

You watched as she pressed her face briefly into her hands before looking up again. She was, you realised, trying very hard to project the image of a captain who was perfectly fine, the untouchable leader who certainly wasn't eating herself alive over the defeat.

Patri was right; Alexia was extremely competitive, far too hard on herself. 

A few meters away, Kika, Patri and Esmee were leaning against the side of the bus, sharing a bag of salty snacks.

"Look at her," Kika whispered, putting a chip into her mouth and motioning toward Alexia with her chin. "Ale looks like a stressed-out mother duck whose ducklings won't stop misbehaving."

"Do not let her hear you say that," Patri said teasingly. "She's five seconds away from making them run drills around the car park just to get some peace of mind."

Esmee shrugged. "That's totally on her, though. I bet she can't sleep until she's convinced every new blaugrana kid feels welcome… and then they grow attached to her."

"Like leeches," Kika said, watching Vicky shove a phone right in Alexia's face while Clara rested her head on Alexia's shoulder, eating a bag of biscuits and letting crumbs fall all over the captain's shirt.

"Like leeches," Patri agreed. "Very annoying leeches."

"She's miserable," Esmee added as Syd set up her phone to film a tiktok, making sure Alexia was unmistakably right in the middle of the frame. The catalan rolled her eyes, shushing Syd and shooing the phone away.

"Nah," Kika countered. "She's right where she wants to be."

Then their attention shifted to you instead.

Patri held up a hand to wave you over. Urgh, more socialisation, but you went over anyway. 

"Hi," you said drily, though you didn't hesitate to accept the chips Patri offered.

"Still upset?" Esmee asked nonchalantly.

"No," you lied.

Patri chuckled. "Yeah, right. You look like a puppy that's just been kicked out of its home, but of course you aren't upset."

"We'll recover from the loss, amiga!" Kika said cheerfully. "Don't worry about it–"

"I'm not upset about the game," you interrupted. It was a half-truth.

"What are you upset about, then?" Esmee pressed.

"Nothing," you said quickly, instantly regretting opening your mouth.

Patri and Kika shared a smirk "Let me guess," Patri began. "Problems in paradise?"

You glared at her. "There is no problem."

"Oh, but there is a paradise?" Patri teased back.

"This is exactly why I don't talk to you people," you grumbled, taking another chip.

"You are awfully private," Kika said dramatically, rolling her eyes. "That's soo rude! I literally tell people everything."

"That's kind of a problem on its own," Esmee murmured.

"Don't try to defend her," Kika shot back. "You two are way too alike. Why did we only find out you were dating on your three-month anniversary?!"

"Because I wasn't dating any of you," Esmee deadpanned.

Kika nudged Patri. "Can you help me out here?"

Patri chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Chica, you won't get any information out of Y/n or Esmee by asking. You have to observe."

You stood there stone-faced as they continued to analyse your supposed love life as if you weren't standing right in front of them. You took that as a clue to step back from their circle.

Your eyes drifted across the car park back to Alexia. You looked away before she could catch you staring, though deep down, a part of you wanted her to see you. You were used to hiding; it felt safe, but with Alexia, you wanted to be perceived. 

Yet she didn't look up; she turned to her phone instead. 

It is a joy to be hidden and a disaster not to be found.

Her uber notification must have come through, because she checked her phone and tapped the screen (rather aggressively) before looking around the car park. Her warm, honey-coloured eyes found yours.

She stepped away from her ducklings, who were practically breathing down her neck and walked the small distance between you.

"Hey," Alexia murmured, keeping her voice down so only you could hear as she held up her phone to show the app. "You're coming with me, right?"

You looked at the screen, then glanced past her. The kids were already lingering a few steps behind her, pretending they didn't care while obviously waiting for her to decide who was getting in her uber.

They were praying for a spot in the car. Cute. They really did admire Alexia like an older sister. 

"I don't think there's space," you said, gesturing to the situation with a tilt of your chin.

Alexia glanced over her shoulder quickly, assessed the kids, and turned back to you. 

"We'll meet at the hotel then," she said simply.

And that was it.

She turned, and without a single word, the girls simply followed, falling into step behind her in a loose cluster, their voices already rising in volume around her. Aicha said something that made two of them laugh, and even Alexia smiled a bit. She could pretend to be grumpy, but those girls were her ultimate weakness; she could never keep it up for long. 

You looked down at your own phone; your uber was four minutes away.

Another night in the hotel room, you thought. Another night with Alexia… maybe? 

You shook your head, trying to clear your mind. You shouldn't be thinking about this right now.

She seemed alright with you again – she had just told you she would meet you at the hotel, right? But what exactly does "meeting at the hotel" mean? Sharing a room again? Or going to separate rooms? Had the plumbing issue been fixed? Should you be asking to stay with Kika instead? No, better not; Alexia would have an aneurysm… So, maybe Esmee?

Patri couldn't fit in your uber ride, so she stayed behind to catch the next one with Cata and Pina. That left you sandwiched between Kika and Esmee in the backseat for the entire twenty-three-minute drive, during which Kika could not, for the life of her, shut the hell up.

By the time the car finally pulled up outside of the hotel, Kika had told so, soo many terrible jokes, and Esmee had rolled her eyes at every single one of them.

When you walked into the hotel, the first thing you noticed was how much quieter the lobby was compared to that morning. A few of your teammates were visible through the restaurant window: Clara and Aicha at a table near the back, Aitana sitting with Pajor right beside them, having an early dinner from the look of it. 

You continued to walk until you saw her.  

Alexia was sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the check-in desk; her travel bag was at her feet and her phone in her hand. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and her pink lips were set in a pout. She looked composed, but tired. You wanted to cover her face in soft kisses, to smooth out the exhaustion on her brow.

Alexia looked up the moment you stepped through the doors. Without saying a word, she stood, picked up her bag, and crossed the lobby toward you.

"Vamos?" she said simply. [let's go]

"I have to check in again," you said, looking at the front desk.

"I've already done it for both of us," she said casually. "Come on."

"Oh, alright… yeah," you said, caught slightly off guard by how seamlessly she had handled it.  "Thank you."

You followed her to the lift, and neither of you acknowledged the fact that she had been sitting in the lobby waiting for you when she could have already been upstairs beneath a scalding shower.

She had waited for you, you thought. 

The lift was empty when it arrived at the lobby. You stepped inside, and Alexia pressed the button. You watched the doors close and stood beside her. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable; it was just filled with exhaustion. The complete "emotional rollercoaster" of the day had drained you both. 

The floor numbers climbed and seemingly did not stop doing so. You were tired. You wanted to sleep, but your brain was already spiralling, waiting for the conversation about the room assignments to come.

Were you sharing again? Well, it was kind of obvious you were…. Unless she had only checked you both in because it was easier? Should you ask for a key to a separate room? Something in your gut told you Alexia would be upset if you did so. 

Before your thoughts could settle, her hand brushed against yours. She didn't take it; her fingertips simply rested against your knuckles for a second.

You loved her warmth, loved how soft her skin felt against you. An ache settled in your bones; it said you didn't deserve to touch her today; you didn't deserve her softness. Still, you didn't pull away.

When the doors opened on your floor. Alexia withdrew her hand and stepped out first. She walked down the hallway with familiarity, stopping in front of the exact same door from this morning. Alexia didn't make a big deal out of it; she just held the door open for you as if sharing space again was the most natural thing in the world.

You dropped your bag beside the bed and sat on the edge of the soft, queen-size mattress. And then, before your rational mind could even register the room, the walls, the mattress beneath you, or Alexia's proximity, the match began again.

It replayed behind your eyelids over and over. You saw every angle of it, every bad decision you made.

Alexia was standing in the middle of the room. She was never one to sit when she was thinking too much about something, so instead, she began moving around the room back and forth, moving from one wall to the other like a broken pendulum. 

"We were too passive after halftime," she said, her voice tight with frustration. "Don't you think?"

"I was out of position," you said to the floor.

"We just weren't pressing them enough in the second half… we weren't coordinated. Everyone was doing their own thing… I should have stepped up sooner and reorganised us."

"I read the run wrong," you muttered, ignoring her analysis to focus on your flaw. "I saw the forward making her move, and I waited a second too long… I never wait too long; I don't know what happened!"

Alexia kept pacing, making you dizzy. "We gave them too much space; they had their whole wings to themselves! What was I thinking when I told Esmee to focus on the centre?"

You ignored Alexia right back, locked in your own mind loop… Neither of you was listening to the other. Alexia kept pacing and pacing while you hadn't even taken your shoes off yet. 

"Honestly, it's all my fault," you said bitterly  "If I had been better positioned, a bit further to the left, that ball might never have reached Cata."

That finally made Alexia stop pacing. She turned to look down at you. "You can't blame yourself for–"

"I watched it back during the drive here," you said. "I was the only one between her and Cata–"

"Which means nine other players on that pitch – myself included – failed before she ever got that close to the goal." Alexia countered.

"But I am the full-back, Ale." Your voice came out flat. "If they score, that's on me. That's my job. That's what I'm here to do, you know? To defend, or well, try to. The game is on me."

Something softened in Alexia's expression, and suddenly she didn't look like a captain trying to comfort a teammate. She looked like… You weren't quite ready to name what she looked like.

"Tori, I was too hard on you," she said, her voice gentle. "I'm sorry."

"No, Ale, it was a fair point, okay?" you said, deflecting immediately. "You don't have to be sorry for–"

"Don't say I was just doing my job," she interrupted. "My job doesn't mean being rude to you."

You tilted your head, analysing her. "You correct other players too," you pointed out. "You don't tell them you are sorry."

She seemed almost confused by her own actions. "I-I, well, I always corrected them, yes, but I'm not half as harsh with them as I was with you…I'm not apologising for the note," she said slowly. "I'm apologising for how I said it. There's a difference."

You opened your mouth, but then closed it. The room felt awfully quiet. You wanted to scream into its void just to break the tension.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"I know," you muttered. "Me too."

She looked at the ceiling, then looked at the floor, rubbing her neck.

"I'm the defending midfielder," she said, beginning to vent, "If we don't score, if the press falls apart, if we can't hold possession… that's on me. The whole game is on me," she added, parroting your exact words back.

"Great," you deadpanned. "So we were both terrible at our job, huh?"

"Apparently."

"Wonderful," you said. "Really brilliant. Excellent day's work from both of us."

"Remarkable."

You got up from the mattress and walked past her, going to the window and pulling it open. You breathed in the evening air; it was such lovely weather for such a disaster of a day.  When you turned around a few moments later, Alexia still hadn't sat down. Her arms were crossed.

"I had it," she muttered, pacing again. "We could have the game under control; we knew their pattern… I knew their-"

"You can't track every run perfectly for ninety minutes-" you tried to reason.

"I almost always do," she rolled her eyes. 

"Almost is the word of the day," you said. "Honestly, we were all rubbish today. Stop putting it all on yourself."

"Stop being reasonable," she grumbled. "I just want to be annoyed."

"Then be annoyed."

"I am."

She let herself fall to the bed with a sigh. You wandered over and dropped down beside her, both of you staring up at the cream ceiling. 

"So, we both played badly, we're stuck in this hotel for another night because the bus decided to break down, and it has been a genuinely horrible day."

"Yes," you said simply.

"Good," she said, her side pressing slightly against yours. "So glad we agree on one thing."

"...Were we really just arguing about who failed more?" she continued.

"Yes."

Alexia was about to respond when a knock interrupted her.

Before either of you could even process it, the latch clicked, and the door swung open. In mere seconds, the two of you scrambled up, and by the time the door swung open, you were standing very stiffly near the foot of the bed while Alexia had somehow ended up leaning against the small wooden desk as if she had been there all along doing God knows what.

Vicky stood in the doorway, taking in the room with her sharp, brown eyes. 

"Irene sent me," Vicky announced, completely unfazed by the sudden intrusion she just made, "She said if you don't come down to get something to eat now, Capi, the dining room is going to close,e and you'll have to survive on the vending machine–"

Vicky cut herself off as her eyes shifted from Alexia over to you. She blinked once, her face shining with mischief. 

"--and apparently you too, Y/n," Vicky added, her tone dripping with amusement. "I didn't realise you two were sharing a room again. I thought the plumbing issue got fixed?"

You could feel your face burning under her gaze, your defensive instinct coming up all at once. 

Alexia stared at her, her captain's face locked in place. "Does Irene sending you mean you can just walk into people's rooms, Vicky?"

"Well… I knocked," she said innocently. "So that's not on me."

"Oh, you knocked," Alexia said sarcastically. "Does that mean you can just open the door unannounced?" 

"It wasn't locked!" Vicky argued, as if not really understanding what she did was wrong.

"Next time it will be. You can't just walk in."

Vicky's eyes moved around the room again with (very exaggerated) innocence. She took everything in more slowly this time.

She noticed the slightly rumpled duvet and the way both your bags were scattered around. Vicky looked at you, then Alexia, before locking eyes with you, her absolute favourite target. 

"Right," Vicky said, "Sorry. Well, I'm also here because I'm genuinely upset about the match. I need emotional support. I need my captain… por favor…? Or are you too busy with Y/n? Am I interrupting something crucial? Oh! Maybe Y/n need emotional support as well?"

"Go find Patri," Alexia cut in, pointing a finger toward the corridor before you could snap at Vicky. Now."

"Patri's not–"

"Patri is exactly as much a captain as I am right now. I'm off duty," Alexia interrupted. "Go down to have some dinner. Eat real food. Talk to Patri. Close the door behind you."

"What about your dinner?" Vicky pressed, taking one last look between the two of you. "Aren't you guys coming down?"

Alexia held the bridge of her nose. "Go."

Vicky lingered, just long enough to make it clear she was leaving on her own terms before pulling the door shut behind her. Her footsteps retreated down the corridor. 

Then, a moment later, her voice came bright and happy, echoing through the corridor. "Hey Serra, guess who Capi's in her room with–"

You sat very still, already dreading tomorrow morning's breakfast, when the kids would (undoubtedly) ask whether Vicky had really caught the two of you sharing a room again.

"Vicky knows," you said flatly.

"She doesn't know anything," Alexia replied.

You looked at her. "Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you are trying to make me feel better?"

"I want to make you feel better," Alexia deadpanned. 

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Ugh."

"It's okay," Alexia said, trying to offer you a smile. "She won't tell anyone."

You gave her a side eye. "She literally just shouted down the hallway about us to Clara."

"Yeah, but Clara won't say anything."

You groaned again. "Honestly… whatever. Patri knows. Esmee knows. Kika knows. Now Vicky and Serra know…"

"It's not that bad," Alexia countered.

"Do you want them to know about us? Knowing how they are going to tease us?"

Alexia shrugged. "You just have to glare at them, and then they stop. Problem solved."

"I can't glare at people! I get flustered and embarrassed! I'm not half as intimidating as you are." 

"I'll intimidate them for you," she smiled as if life was all unicorns and rainbows.

"Oh, you're so kind," you said, rolling your eyes. 

When Alexia spoke again, her voice had dropped all of its captain's authority.

"You know what… we should cuddle," she said seriously, which did not match her proposition. "It's been way too long of a day for us."

You studied her up and down. She looked soft and tired, and you needed her to want to touch you.

"Mhmm… okay," you agreed. "Come here."

Alexia shifted a little closer until her shoulder brushed yours. She was testing the waters, seeing if it was really okay. Physical intimacy between you was a rare currency when sex wasn't involved, after all.

After a brief moment, Alexia finally curled into your side, tucking her face against your collarbone as though she had been wanting to do it all day. You stayed very still, adjusting to her weight and her warmth. 

"I really didn't mean to snap at you," she said, her voice muffled

"I know," you said, "I'm serious, Ale. You can stop apologising; it's alright."

"It's not, though," she propped herself up on one elbow so she could look at you. "I won't do it again, vale?"

You chuckled. She was cute. "I hope you don't… you sounded a bit intimidating."

Alexia blushed, which was not the response you had expected from a two-time Ballon d'Or winner. You looked up at her, your mind slipping back into its familiar habit of picking every little thing apart. 

You found yourself thinking about the part of you that had been waiting, somewhere deep and private, for her to finally see you fail.

About how the correction on the pitch had landed like something you had been half-expecting ever since you had arrived in Barcelona, ever since you met Alexia. Somewhere in a tired, masochistic corner of your brain, there had almost been a sense of relief. 

Finally, there it is. Here is the flaw that was always bound to surface.

There was something oddly bittersweet when people were mad or upset at you.  Something strangely comforting about disappointing people. How fucked up have you chilhood been for you to feel comfort in that?

It felt safe to know you had made a mistake, because it meant people would stop expecting things from you. They would know you were incompetent, bad and imperfect... except Alexia wasn't looking at you as if you were any of those things right now. She wasn't looking at you like that at all. 

Weird. 

You didn't want to talk to her about it, though.

You kept those messy thoughts to yourself.  Instead, you let yourself stay with her, cuddling, sharing very sweet, absent-minded kisses that barely lasted longer than half a second. But right as you were beginning to melt into her body, to relax, Alexia made a strange face and pulled away.

"Hey, what–" Before you could ask what was wrong, she disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, murmuring about how she was going to be right back.

You frowned and sat on the bed, listening to the sound of running water. Should you go up and knock on the door? What had happened? You chose to stay put and let Alexia do her thing.

While you waited, your thoughts drifted back to the book you had been reading earlier that week – Madonna in a fur coat – when the water stopped, and the bathroom door opened.

Alexia stepped out, looking, somehow, even more grumpy than when she had gone in. She stood in the doorway and looked at you miserably.

"I got my period," she announced flatly. "I wasn't due for three days. This day needs to end. I'm serious."

You blinked up at her, sitting up a little as you abandoned Sabahattin Ali's universe. "Oh… your peri–"

"I think you're messing with my hormones," she added, crossing her arms. "I haven't been this early in years!"

You pressed your lips together.

"...I'm sorry? I didn't mean to mess with your menstrual cycle."

She pouted at you. "You don't sound sincere at all."

"I'm sorry I don't sound sincere," you said. You couldn't help but think she was rather adorable like this, all pouty. "Do you need anything? Want me to get your bag or–"

"I don't have anything with me, tori. Nada " She gestured helplessly at herself, as if to illustrate the full extent of the situation. "I don't have pads, tampons, nothing! We were supposed to be back in Barcelona by now. I didn't plan for this to happen!"

"Okay, baby, hold on," you said, walking to your own bag. "I'm supposed to have stuff here somewhere, just–" You unzipped your bag and started rummaging through it, searching for a pad, and while on it, you found medicine, one of your little notebooks, the good pen you had been looking for ages, and then, finally, you pulled out the pad. It was a bit creased, but it would do its job.

You walked over and held it out to her.

"I've got a few more if you need them," you said. "They are in the internal left pocket of my bag… and sorry, I don't have any tampons. I can go out for them if you want?"

"No, this is good enough, thank you," she muttered, the pout still holding strong.  "I'm just frustrated! I'm literally thirty-two, I should know by now to always carry tampons with me wherever I go…"

"Ah, come on, don't do that, Ale", you said gently. "It came three days early; you are allowed to be caught off guard, don't stress over it, yeah? Just get whatever you need from my bag. I'm sure the girls can help you out, too."

She nodded. "Thank you, torito." Then she walked back into the bathroom. 

When she came back out, you closed the distance between you without thinking. Your hands settled on her waist, and you felt her go less rigid beneath your touch, the tension in her shoulders releasing one layer at a time. She pressed herself back into you, her head on your shoulder. 

"Feeling a little better?" you asked.

"No, I'm devastated," She pouted into your neck. "And it's all your fault, tori."

"Devastated?" You teased her "That's a big word."

"You are not helping."

"Sorry… let me try again. How is it my fault you got your period?" you said, your voice sweet. "That doesn't make sense, sweetheart."

"You make my body go all wrong," she said.

"I do?"

"Uhum."

Your thumb traced slow circles against her waist as you gently guided the two of you back onto the bed. "You make my mind go all wrong. Guess we're even, then?"

Alexia was quiet for a moment, but then she spoke.  "So… I forgive you, and you forgive me?" she murmured. "For messing each other up?"

"Yes, bebé," you whispered, kissing her cheek.  "I forgive you, and you forgive me. You are such a good martyr," you said fondly. "Has anyone told you that?"

"Only when I'm on my period," she mumbled.

"Hm," you chuckled.

Alexia's breathing had slowed against your shoulder. You were waiting for the request, almost certain she was about to send you out for an emergency trip to buy her whatever she might need. 

"...I'm waiting," you said finally.

"Mhmm… for what?" she murmured.

"For you to send me out for a heat pad. Or ibuprofen. Chocolate. That's usually how this goes. Isn't it?"

She lifted her head enough to look at you; she was a bit tired, her eyelids were heavy. "I don't eat chocolate on weekdays. And I don't usually need heating pads."

You looked at her. "Ah, you don't get cramps?"

"I do sometimes, but they are very, very mild," she said. "I barely feel anything most of the time."

"Oh. That's great."

"Yeah, but I do get light headaches sometimes," she continued. "Barça's doctor told me it's because of low iron, so sometimes I have to take some tablets."

"Poor baby," you murmured, pressing another kiss to her temple.

"I'm waiting too," Alexia said after a moment, nosing at your skin. 

"For what?"

"For you to tell me about your period." She said, then she moved like a clingy cat and pressed her cheek against yours. "I just told you about mine; it's only fair, sí?"

"You think it's that easy to get information out of me, capi?" You smirked, teasingly. 

"No," she said, her hand drifting lazily up and down your side before coming to rest against your hipbone, and then she tucked her face against your chest. "That's why I'm asking nicely. Please. Be nice to me. I'm bleeding. I'm in pain."

"You just told me you're barely cramping."

"Yes," she said with great dignity, "but you said I was a good martyr. So this is me being a good martyr… Por favor? Tell me?"

You exhaled and looked at the ceiling, giving what she wanted. "Fine, Putellas. I get bad periods.

… Crickets. 

"Okay, and…? That's all you're giving me?" 

"Well, yes. That's it. I bleed a lot and have bad cramps. The absolute worst mood you've ever seen, too… I'm not exactly a joy to be around."

"Hmm," she sounded a bit suspicious. "Really? I've never noticed any of it, and we've known each other for what? A year?"

"I think I'm just very good at hiding it," you said proudly, but alexia didn't match your energy. 

Alexia looked up at you and didn't smile. "You say that like it's a good thing."

You blushed. "I thought it was."

"I don't think it is."

"Oh." You didn't really expect that answer.

Was there one thing you did in life right?

"I mean… I've never noticed you getting more sensitive around that time, or more emotional." She tilted her head slightly against your shoulder. 

"I would have thought I'd notice. I should've, shouldn't I?" She furrowed. "I pay attention to you… I even know when Vicky is on hers because she cries at literally everything, and she doesn't even have to tell me."

"Well, I don't get sensitive," you explained. "So that must be the reason why you never noticed. I don't really cry much."

"No?"

"No, I just get a bit angry, impatient. That kind of stuff."

"Angry how?" She asked.

Alexia had apparently decided that tonight was the night she was going to ask every single question she had been collecting for months. 

"Just… well, just angry." You said with a small shrug, searching for the right scientific term and coming up with nothing. "Everything irritates me, and tiny things suddenly feel much more urgent than they actually are. That kind of anger."

Alexia didn't say anything immediately, which meant she was thinking about it properly, turning it over in her head.

"So right now," she said slowly. "With the game, and the broken bus, and all of it… You aren't–"

"I'm not on my period," you clarified with a smile. "Unfortunately, this is just me on my good day."

She hummed. "So if you were on your period–"

"Today would have been exponentially worse," you confirmed. "Yes."

"Hmmm… " She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I'll make a note."

"Please don't."

"I'm your captain," she said teasingly. "I have to know these things for scheduling purposes."

"You don't schedule anything. Ever. That is literally not your job."

"As captain, I have a great deal of influence when it comes to scheduling," she replied proudly.

"Oh," you said flatly. "What do you do? Glare at people until they move training?"

"Do you always have to be this sarcastic?"

"Sorry."

"Anyway… tell me next time when you are due," she said matter-of-factly. "Actually… I have a better idea! We should share a period tracking app!"

"Absolutely not." You shook your head immediately. "Nope."

"But-"

"I will leave this bed right now," you threatened. "At once."

In response, she tightened her arm around your waist, pulling you closer to her. Alexia's breathing was even out against your shoulder again, before her voice cut through the silence. 

"You know what? Since we're in a talking mood…"

"You're in a talking mood," you interrupted her. "I'm definitely not."

"...you haven't talked about your ex since that night," she continued, ignoring you. 

Your stomach turned at that. "You're awfully curious tonight."

"I like getting to know people."

"Funny of you to say that," you said. "I'm pretty sure everyone on the team would tell me they don't remember the last time you played personal quiz with them."

"Okay," she said, without missing a beat. "Maybe I like getting to know you."

You smiled despite yourself, which she definitely felt against your shoulder.

"Oh, are you into me or something?" You teased. "That's so gay of you."

"You're changing the subject," she rolled her eyes, blushing. "Again."

"I'm trying to," you admitted. 

"Don't try." She moved, settling more firmly against your body, as if to make clear she wasn't going anywhere. "Let me propose an exercise, torito. One where you don't overthink every single word before it leaves your mouth."

You pouted. "I don't think my brain works like that."

"You can try."

You sighed in defeat. "I'll tell you about my ex if you tell me about yours."

Alexia chuckled. "That's not how it works. I always talk to you about myself, sí? I've already done my part. You're the one who drops a bomb in my lap every two weeks and then goes completely silent."

You rolled your eyes.

She won.

A/n: Hiii!! I hope you guys liked this chapter! I had lots of fun writing it hehehe; they are just so endearing and fucked up in the head!! I personally love how Ale goes all captain with the kids, and then she melts with Tori.

Come talk with me about it!! Talking about fic really helps me with motivation and ideas, hehe

At first, Alexia gave you space, you'd ignored one text, then another, then a phone call.

She told herself you needed time. After everything you'd learned in the space of a few weeks, after discovering exactly who she was, perhaps disappearing for a little while wasn't unreasonable.

She'd give you a couple of days, by the third day, she'd started asking Cata if she'd heard anything.

"No."

"You sure?"

"I've checked."

Alexia nodded and returned to her paperwork, she lasted all of seven minutes before looking back up, "...Call her again."

Day four, your phone went straight to voicemail, again and again and again.

Cata lowered the phone, "Still nothing."

Alexia drummed her fingers against her desk, "Coffee shop?"

"Not seen her there"

"Apartment?"

"I don't know where she lives"

"Lily?"

"Jana said Lily hasn't seen her."

Alexia frowned, "What do you mean she hasn't seen her?"

"They were supposed to meet for coffee, they didn't." A tiny knot formed in Alexia's stomach.

Day five.

The estate had started noticing, Patri wandered into Alexia's office carrying two mugs of coffee, "Still ghosting you?" Alexia didn't answer, Patri winced, "...That's a yes."

"I don't understand it."

Patri set the coffee down, "You scared her?"

"No."

"You sure?" Alexia looked up sharply, Patri immediately held both hands up, "I'm just asking."

"I know." Silence, then Alexia admitted quietly, "...Maybe."

That afternoon, "Cata."

"Boss?"

"Go and find her."

"I've already looked."

"Look again."

Cata nodded once, "Yes, Boss."

She checked where she would drop you off and pick you up from, nothing. She waited outside the coffee shop until closing, no sign of you.

She checked the marina, empty, she even drove past your parents' estate from a distance and there was nothing unusual.

Every evening she returned with exactly the same report, "I couldn't find her." Every evening Alexia's expression grew tighter.

Day six.

Dinner was unusually quiet, even Patri had stopped joking, Mapi looked between Alexia and the untouched plate in front of her.

"You haven't eaten."

"I'm not hungry."

"You always eat."

"I'm..." Alexia stopped herself, she wasn't hungry that was all, Mapi exchanged a glance with Ingrid, neither of them commented.

Across the table, Misa broke the silence, "We should assume the worst."

Patri looked horrified, "What?"

"It's been almost a week." Misa folded her arms, "Her father may of found out"

Nobody liked where that thought went, Alexia's fork landed quietly on the plate, "Cata."

"Boss."

"Tomorrow." She looked up, "I don't care how many hours it takes. Find her."

Cata met her eyes, "I've already spent thirty-one hours looking."

"Then spend thirty-two." Alexia wasn't angry, she was desperate. The room fell silent.

💪🏼

The next morning, Cata left before sunrise, she checked every route you normally walked, every café within three miles, every place she'd ever seen you.

Nothing, she called, no answer, texted, no response, by lunchtime she was sitting on the road where she suspected your apartment building was again, engine idling.

Still nothing, she sighed and pulled away, back at the estate Alexia was becoming impossible to miss. She couldn't sit still, she started reading reports only to realise five pages later she'd taken in none of it.

Chess pieces sat untouched on the board she'd pick one up put it back, walk to the window return to her desk, repeat.

Ingrid eventually wandered into the office carrying tea, "You need to stop pacing."

"I'm not pacing."

"You've walked past this window forty three times."

Alexia looked at her, "You counted?"

"I got bored." The mug was placed gently on the desk, "She'll turn up."

Alexia looked out across the gardens, "...What if she doesn't?" It was the first time she'd said it out loud, the first time anyone had heard genuine uncertainty in her voice.

Ingrid rested a hand briefly against her shoulder, "If something had happened" She chose her words carefully, "I don't think your instincts would be this restless."

Alexia didn't answer, she wasn't sure whether she believed that. All she knew was that for the first time in years she couldn't find someone and she hated how much that frightened her.

💪🏼

Friday evenings had become predictable at exactly half past six there would be three knocks on Lily's apartment door Jana would walk in without waiting to be invited usually carrying takeaway, always smiling.

"I brought Chinese," Jana announced brightly as she nudged the door shut with her hip, holding up two bulging carrier bags triumphantly. "And before you say anything, yes, I got the salt and pepper chicken."

Lily looked up from the kitchen with an approving grin, "I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

"I thought it was my personality."

"That too."

Jana laughed as she kicked her trainers off near the door, "You've had a rough week?"

"You could say that."

"Well..." Jana held the bags up again, "Nothing says emotional stability like enough fried rice to feed six people."

She rounded the corner into the living room and stopped dead, you had just wandered out of Lily's spare bedroom. The silence was immediate, Jana stared, you stared right back and neither of you moved.

Your left eye was surrounded by an angry purple bruise, swollen enough that it was only half open. A split cut ran through your bottom lip, a fading yellow bruise disappearing beneath the collar of one of Lily's oversized hoodies.

Jana's smile disappeared, "...Y/N?"

You closed your eyes briefly, "Don't." One word, barely above a whisper.

Jana looked like she'd forgotten how to breathe, Lily frowned, looking between the two of you, "...You know each other?"

Neither of you answered, Jana's eyes never left your face, "What happened to you?"

You looked away, "It doesn't matter."

"It clearly bloody does."

You shook your head, "Jana..." She was already reaching into her pocket, you knew exactly what she was doing before the phone even appeared. Your stomach dropped, "Jana, please."

She hesitated, phone halfway out thumb hovering over the screen, "I have to."

"No."

"I do."

"If you call her"

"She has been looking for you for a week." Your shoulders sagged, "You vanished. Nobody knew where you were." Jana looked genuinely torn, her thumb rested over Alexia's contact.

She looked at your face again the bruising, the split lip, the exhausted look in your eyes. "...Please." Your voice cracked slightly, "Not yet."

Lily looked between the two of you again, "What the hell is going on?" Neither of you answered.

Jana slowly lowered the phone, not putting it away, just lowering it, "Fine." Relief flooded your face, "But" She pointed the phone at you, "I need to know everything."

You let out a long, tired breath, Lily folded her arms, "I'd quite like to know everything too."

You looked between your best friend and one of Alexia's closest people and there was no getting out of this one. You rubbed carefully at your bruised jaw before giving the smallest nod, "Can we at least eat first?"

Lily looked at Jana, Jana looked at you, then down at the cooling Chinese takeaway, "Yeah." She placed the bags on the kitchen counter, "But after dinner" She met your eyes again, "you're talking."

The cartons of Chinese sat untouched between the three of you, steam had long since stopped rising from the rice nobody seemed particularly interested in eating anymore.

You sat curled into the corner of Lily's sofa, one knee pulled to your chest, absently worrying at the sleeve of the hoodie you'd borrowed.

Jana hadn't taken her eyes off you once, finally, you sighed, "It started after I met Alexia."

Jana's expression didn't change, "What started?"

You looked down at your hands, "I stopped pretending." The words came out quieter than you'd expected, "For years..." You let out a humourless laugh, "I'd done what Mami does."

Lily frowned, "What do you mean?"

"I ignored it." You shrugged, "Papa's business. Our surname. The people coming and going. The phone calls. The fact everyone in the city seemed to know who my father was." You looked up, "I just... didn't ask."

"Because you didn't want the answers?" Jana asked gently.

You nodded, and silence settled for a moment, "But after..." You glanced towards Jana. "after everything with Alexia..." You smiled faintly, "It became impossible to ignore. So I stopped."

You rubbed absentmindedly at the bruise beneath your eye.

"I started paying attention."

"What did you notice?" Jan asked.

"Everything." You laughed bitterly, "It was like someone had taken a blindfold off. The guards outside family dinners. The conversations that stopped when I walked into rooms. The coded language. The people Dad met with. The way everyone deferred to him."

You shook your head.

"It had always been there, I'd just chosen not to see it."

Jana leaned forward slightly, "You said you spoke to your brothers."

"I did, they've always known more than I have." You smiled sadly, "I told them, I suspected and I needed to know enough to keep myself safe."

That hadn't even been a lie.

"They didn't tell me everything, they wouldn't, but they did warn me about someone."

"Who?"

"My cousin." Your jaw tightened, "Marco."

Jana frowned, "I don't know him."

"You don't want to." You looked down at the coffee table.

"My brothers said Marco thought he deserved more."

"More what?" Lily asked.

"Power." You looked at her, "They said he wanted to move higher up, higher than Dad trusted him and..." Your voice became quieter, "they told me he'd do anything to get there."

You stared at the untouched carton in front of you.

"I didn't think much of it, I should have."

Jana's stomach sank, "Y/N..."

You closed your eyes, "I think he figured it out, this thing with Alexia. He broke into my apartment" Your fingers unconsciously found the split in your lip, "and he was just..." You searched for the word, "angry, he trashed the place."

Your voice sounded strangely detached now, like you were describing something that had happened to somebody else.

"He threw furniture. Smashed the television. Ripped drawers out."

Jana covered her mouth, "Oh my God..."

"And then..." You stopped, your jaw tightened.

Jana noticed your hands trembling, "You don't have to—"

"No." You shook your head, "I do." Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, "He wanted information about Alexia, I kept telling him I don't have any, because I don't. She summons me, we fuck and I go about my life until she pops up again, I don't know anything useful."

Your voice cracked.

"He didn't believe me, he kept asking, I kept saying I didn't know. So..." You gestured vaguely towards your bruised face, "...this happened."

Nobody spoke, Lily had tears in her eyes, Jana's face had gone frighteningly still.

"He eventually left, I don't know whether he believed me, I don't know whether he got bored." You rubbed at your forehead, "I just couldn't stay home, so I've been staying here."

Lily reached over without saying a word and squeezed your hand.

You squeezed back, "I've been hoping that Marco hasn't told my dad." The hope sounded painfully thin even to your own ears, "I figured if I stayed out of sight, if I let the bruises heal then maybe I could just go back to normal."

The words hung in the room, Jana stared at you for several long seconds, then she asked the question you'd been trying very hard not to think about, "Do you honestly believe Marco is just going to forget?"

You didn't answer, because you realised you didn't believe that at all. You raised your eyes to Jana, "You know if you tell Alexia it'll start something."

Jana let out a long breath, rubbing both hands over her face, "I know."

"No, I don't think you do." You leaned back into the sofa, "If Alexia finds out Marco laid a hand on me..." You shook your head, "she won't just let it go."

"No."

"And my Papa won't let that go."

Jana eventually spoke, "Worst case?" She sighed, "It starts a war."

The words hung heavily in the apartment, Lily stared at you both, "A war?"

You looked at her apologetically, "My family and Alexia's."

Lily looked as though she wanted to laugh, except neither you nor Jana looked remotely amused, "...You're serious."

"Completely."

Lily slowly sat back, "Oh, shit" She whispered.

You gave a humourless smile, "Exactly."

Jana leaned forwards, elbows resting on her knees, "So your plan was to hide here." She looked around the tiny apartment.

"For a while."

"And then?"

"I don't know."

"You were just going to... go home?"

"I was hoping" You sighed, "that Marco hadn't told my father."

Jana pinched the bridge of her nose, "Y/N."

"If he didn't" You continued quietly, "then maybe this just becomes something that happened." You gestured vaguely towards your bruises.

Jana looked at you with genuine disbelief, "He beat you."

"I know."

"He destroyed your apartment."

"I know."

"He wanted information."

"I know."

"And you're hoping he suddenly develops a conscience?"

You looked away, "No."

"Then what are you hoping for?"

Eventually you admitted, "that he decides I'm not worth mentioning."

Jana actually laughed, not because it was funny, because she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing, "You don't believe that."

"I want to."

"They're different things."

You didn't argue, because she was right, you rubbed tiredly at your bruised eye, "I can't drag Alexia into this."

Jana looked at you for a long moment, "Y/N she's already in this, the second Marco worked out there was something between you two, Alexia got dragged into it whether you wanted her to or not."

"I won't be the reason people die."

"You won't be."

"I could."

"You aren't listening." Jana's voice stayed remarkably calm, "If Alexia finds out because I tell her that's my decision and if she decides to do something..." Jana paused, "...that's hers. You don't get to carry responsibility for every decision other people make."

You opened your mouth, closed it again, because that sounded dangerously reasonable.

Jana quietly and without drama e reached into her pocket, your eyes immediately found her phone, "Jana"

"I'm not calling her." Relief flooded through you.

💪🏼

The living room had become unusually quiet over the past week, Alexia occupied the same arm chair every evening, one ankle resting across her opposite knee a glass of whiskey in one hand.

She was thinking or trying not to. The problem was every thought seemed to end in exactly the same place, you.

Another glance towards the front windows whenever headlights passed through the gates, another disappointed sigh when the door opened and you didn't walk in.

Around her, the others had settled into their usual routines.

Mapi was stretched across the opposite sofa, feet hanging over one armrest as football highlights played quietly in the background.

Ingrid sat beside her reading a cookbook she'd insisted she definitely wasn't buying.

Patri was losing badly to Pina at cards and insisting the game was rigged.

"It is rigged."

"You just forgot the rules."

"I absolutely did not."

"You asked if the queen beat an ace."

"...That doesn't prove anything."

"It proves quite a lot."

Even Alexia smiled faintly, then Ping, everyone's attention flicked up.

Alexia's eyes immediately landed on Cata's phone sitting face up on the coffee table it hadn't lit up. It wasn't you trying to contact Cata, her gaze shifted instead towards Misa.

The bodyguard glanced down at her own phone, Alexia took another sip of whiskey, "Who's that?"

Misa's expression didn't change, "Some girl."

Mapi snorted, "Some girl?"

"What?"

"You've never described anyone as some girl."

"I just did."

"Hm."

Misa ignored her, her eyes moved back to the screen.

Jana: I need you to meet me at the marina.

A second message appeared.

Jana: Bring a spare gun.

Misa's eyebrows drew together.

Jana: Don't tell anyone where you're going

Another vibration.

Jana: and definitely don't tell Boss.

Misa stared at the messages for another second before locking her phone.

She stood, Alexia looked over, "Where are you going?"

"Some girls."

Mapi looked up from the sofa, "At this time?"

"Apparently."

Alexia watched her closely, "Everything alright?"

"Yeah. She's just horny"

She reached for the jacket hanging over the back of a chair, Mapi called after her as she headed towards the hallway, "Use protection!"

Patri immediately burst into laughter, Ingrid sighed into her cookbook.

Misa didn't even turn around, "Fuck off"

The front door opened then closed, a moment later the sound of an engine drifted through the windows before fading into the distance.

None of them noticed Alexia watching the empty hallway for a second longer than necessary.

"...She took a gun," Alexia murmured.

Patri frowned, "What?"

Alexia looked towards the door, "Her gun was here, she took it"

The room grew a fraction quieter, Mapi sat up, "You think something's happened?"

Alexia stared at the closed front door, "I think..." She slowly set her drink down, "...Misa just lied to me."

And somewhere across the city Misa was driving towards the marina, completely unaware that Jana had dragged her into something she would never willingly be apart of.

💪🏼

The wind coming off the water cut straight through your hoodie. You folded your arms tighter across your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you stared out across the dark marina. Every passing set of headlights made your stomach tighten.

Beside you, Jana checked her watch for what felt like the tenth time.

Lily rubbed her hands together, "It is freezing."

You barely heard her, "Misa hates me."

Jana glanced sideways, "She'll come."

"How do you know?"

"Because I asked her to." She shrugged simply, "And she has absolutely no idea you're here."

You weren't nearly as convinced but a pair of headlights swung into the car park. The vehicle rolled towards the three of you before stopping a few metres away.

The bright beams left you squinting until the lights switched off. Your vision adjusted, Misa sat behind the wheel, she climbed out, slamming the door shut behind her. A smug grin spread across her face as she looked at Jana, "Boss is going to kill you." She started walking over, "...Seriously, dragging me out here with her when-"

Then she saw you properly, the grin vanished her eyes immediately landed on the bruising around your face, the swollen eye, the healing cut across your lip.

She stopped walking, "...What the fuck?"

Jana sighed, "I need you to give Y/N a very quick tutorial on how to use that gun" She reached for the holdall hanging from Misa's hand, "and leave it with her."

Misa's hand clamped down on the strap before Jana could take it, "Not until somebody tells me what's going on." She pulled the bag fully behind her, "I don't hand a Hernandez a gun without knowing why." Her eyes stayed on you, "Not even for you Jana."

Jana nodded, "Fair, Y/N needs it for protection."

Misa folded her arms, "From who?" Before anyone could answer er phone started ringing, she glanced at the screen, "...It's Boss."

Jana looked around quickly, "Where does she think you are?"

"Some girl's house."

Jana immediately turned towards Lily, "I need you to moan."

Lily blinked, "...What?"

"I need you to make it sound like she's fucking someone when she answers"

Lily stared, "Because that's obviously the only logical thing she'd be doing?"

"Please."

Lily sighed dramatically, "I cannot believe this is my life."

Misa answered the call, "Hey, Boss."

Before she could say another word, Lily rolled her eyes toward the night sky and let out an exaggerated, theatrical moan.

Misa had to bite the inside of her cheek, Alexia's voice came next, "Why did you take the spare gun?"

"What?"

Misa subtly jabbed Lily in the ribs, Lily giggled, then, committing far harder than anyone had expected, she called loudly, "Baby... come back to bed."

You covered your face with both hands, "Oh my God..."

Jana pinched the bridge of her nose, Misa somehow kept a straight face, "Sorry, Boss." She cleared her throat, "Bit distracted here. The spare needed cleaning and servicing." She glanced at Jana, "I figured I'd drop it off on the way, my girl's place is out that way."

Silence, "...Right." Alexia didn't sound entirely convinced, before Misa could say anything else, Lily stepped closer behind her.

"Oh, come on..." Her voice became ridiculously sultry, "I bought this underwear just for you, can this not wait?"

Misa had to physically move away to stop herself laughing, on the other end of the call there was a very long silence, "I'll... leave you to it."

When the line went dead, Misa lowered the phone slowly, the four of you stood there for exactly three seconds. Then Misa looked at Jana, "Who knew you were into freaks in the sheets?"

Lily gasped in mock offence, "I was helping!"

"You were winning awards."

Jana let out an exhausted sigh, "Lily" She gestured, "Misa." Then towards Lily, "...Misa, Lily."

The two women shook hands, "Pleasure."

"You too."

Misa looked back at Jana, "...Now where were we?"

Her expression became serious again, she shifted her attention to you, she dropped the holdall onto an old wooden crate.

"You ever fired a gun before?"

You hesitated, "Not properly."

Misa nodded, "So that's a no."

She unzipped the bag, revealing two pistols, several magazines and a box of ammunition.

Lily instinctively took a step backwards, "I'm suddenly very aware I work in a coffee shop."

"You'll be fine," Misa said absent mindedly as she picked up one of the pistols.

She checked the chamber, the magazine, safety, when satisfied, she held it out.

"First rule." You didn't take it, "Treat every gun as if it's loaded. Finger off the trigger unless you're shooting." Another nod, "Never point it at something you aren't prepared to destroy."

You finally accepted the pistol, it felt heavier than you'd imagined.

Misa adjusted your grip immediately, "No." She repositioned your hands, "Like this and relax your shoulders. Don't fight the recoil before it's happened."

She stepped back.

"There's an old buoy." She pointed almost fifty metres out into the water, "Shoot it."

You blinked, "...Already?"

"Theory's boring."

You couldn't argue with that, taking a slow breath, you raised the pistol exactly as she'd shown you, lined up the sights, exhaled, squeezed.

Bang.

The shot echoed around the empty marina, the buoy jerked violently, a fresh hole appeared through the faded orange plastic.

Silence, Lily stared.

"Did she just—" Jana looked from the buoy then back to you.

"...Lucky shot?" you offered

Misa frowned, "Again."

You adjusted slightly, another breath, another squeeze.

Bang.

This time the round landed barely an inch from the first, Misa's eyebrows climbed, "...Again."

Bang.

Another hit, "...Again."

Bang.

The buoy rocked once more, Misa slowly looked away from the target and towards you, "You said you'd never done this."

"I haven't."

"You sure?"

You lowered the gun, "My dad and brothers, they made us girls go clay pigeon shooting when we were kids with them"

Misa looked unconvinced, she held out another magazine, "Reload."

You pressed the release, caught the empty magazine before it hit the ground, slotted the fresh one in, racked the slide.

Ready again, Misa hadn't actually explained how, she blinked, "Who taught you that?"

You frowned, "My eldest brother. He said..." You smiled faintly, "'If you're going to know how to hold and shoot one, you might as well know how to reload it.'"

Misa folded her arms, "How long ago?"

"I was about fourteen."

"And you've never touched one since?"

"No."

She walked around you once, studying your stance, then unexpectedly reached out and nudged your elbow down half an inch, "There."

You fired again.

Bang.

The shot landed dead centre, the buoy gave another sharp wobble, Misa let out a low whistle.

"Well." Jana looked hopeful, "So..."

Misa ignored her, she was still looking at you, "You learn annoyingly fast."

"I just copy people."

"No." Misa shook her head, "I've trained bodyguards that needed three days to get that reload smooth." She looked at the pistol in your hands, "You watched me do it once after 14 years"

You looked down at it, "I didn't realise."

"I did." A slow grin spread across Misa's face, it wasn't amusement, it was appreciation. "You've got good instincts." She took the pistol back, cleared it, then handed it straight back to you, "This one's yours."

Jana blinked, "...Seriously?"

Misa nodded without hesitation, "If she's carrying it" She looked directly at you, "...I actually trust she'll know how to use it and look after it"

Coming from Misa that was about as high a compliment as anyone could receive. She gave you an amused shake of the head for the first time since meeting Misa, she was smiling at you rather than merely tolerating you.

💪🏼

Cata wasn't expecting to find you. She'd driven these streets for hours and hours over the past week, then there you were, walking alone beneath the streetlights.

She immediately pulled the Rolls Royce alongside you and lowered the passenger window, "Y/N."

You didn't even acknowledge her, you just kept walking.

"Get in."

Nothing, the car continued rolling beside you.

"Y/N."

Still nothing, Cata frowned.

This wasn't like you, normally you'd at least throw some sarcastic remark her way.

She accelerated slightly before stopping the car across your path on the pavement, the engine idled as she climbed out, she stepped in front of you.

"Y/N."

"Let me alone." Your voice was flat.

She looked at you properly for the first time, her stomach dropped, "...What happened?"

Your face looked worse than anything she'd ever seen, even in the dim streetlights she could see fading fingerprints climbing your neck.

You instinctively took a step backwards, "It doesn't matter."

"It clearly does."

"It can't." Your eyes met hers, "Alexia can't find out."

Cata stared at you, "What?"

"You can't tell her."

"Y/N—"

"I'm serious." Your breathing had started to quicken, "If she finds out everything gets worse." You tried to step around her, "I need to go."

Cata caught your arm before you could pass, you froze, "Please." Her voice had softened, "Come with me."

"No."

"Boss has been looking for you for days."

"I know."

"Then stop making her."

"I can't." You gently tried to pull your arm free, "Cata... please."

For just a second, she considered letting you walk away, then she pictured Alexia, the sleepless nights, the empty whiskey glasses, the constant pacing. She sighed, "I'm sorry."

You recognised the tone immediately, "Cata..."

"I'm just following orders."

You twisted to pull away but she moved quickly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders before you could break into a run, "Cata!"

"I'm sorry."

You struggled and she hated every second of it, you weren't trained, you weren't dangerous. You were simply frightened, but she also knew there was absolutely no chance Alexia would forgive her if she let you disappear again.

She managed to manoeuvre you towards the rear door.

"No!"

"I'm sorry."

"Cata, don't do this!"

She covered your mouth just long enough to stop you shouting down the quiet residential street, guiding you carefully but firmly into the back seat.

The heavy door slammed shut, the locks engaged automatically, Cata rested both hands on the roof for a brief moment, closing her eyes, "...I'm really sorry."

She climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and pulled away so aggressively it flung you around in the back of the car.

💪🏼

The gates hadn't even finished closing before you were throwing yourself at the door.

It didn't budge.

"Cata!" You slammed your palm against the window instead, "Please!"

Cata didn't answer.

She parked sharply outside the front entrance and was out of the driver's seat before the engine had fully died.

The rear door opened, you immediately scrambled backwards across the leather seats, "No."

"Y/N."

"No."

"Please don't make this harder."

"You don't understand!" She reached for you, you twisted away, "I am not getting out of this car!"

Cata let out a quiet sigh, "I'm sorry."

You knew exactly what that sigh meant, "Cata, don't"

She leaned into the car, hooking an arm carefully around your waist before you could climb across to the opposite door.

You kicked instinctively, "No!"

She absorbed the blows without complaint, "I'm sorry."

Your trainers scraped uselessly against the door frame as she lifted you bodily from the back seat, "Put me down!"

You thrashed again, panic making you stronger than she expected, one heel clipped her shin.

She grunted, "Sorry," you gasped automatically before immediately trying to wriggle free again.

Even now you apologised, Cata's heart sank, she tightened her grip just enough to stop you slipping from her arms.

Cata carried you the rest of the way, you fought every step, not because you thought you could escape, because panic had completely taken over.

"Cata!"

She didn't answer, the front door swung open she stepped inside, the heavy oak door slammed shut behind her. The lock turned, only then did she carefully lower you back onto your feet.

The second your trainers touched the floor, you swung your fist cracked across Cata's face.

The force snapped her head sideways a sickening crunch echoed through the entrance hall, blood immediately dripped from her nose onto the polished wooden floor.

Neither of you moved, your chest rose and fell in frantic breaths, "How could you do this to me!?" Your voice cracked, "I trusted you!"

Cata slowly lifted a hand to her nose, blood covered her fingers, she didn't even look angry

"I trusted you!" The words came louder this time, "I thought you actually cared about me!"

"I do."

"No you don't!"

The shouting echoed through the house as footsteps thundered from every direction.

Patri came skidding around the corner first, "What the" She stopped dead, Pina appeared behind her, Mapi emerged from the living room, Ingrid hurried from the kitchen, everyone froze.

Cata stood silently with blood running freely from her nose.

You stood opposite her, breathing hard, tears threatening to spill.

Patri looked between you both, "...Shit."

Mapi was already crossing the room, "Cata..." She gently caught her friend's wrist before Cata could wipe the blood away, "You've definitely broken it."

"It's fine."

"It isn't."

Patri looked sharply towards Pina, "Boss is in the gym." Pina hadn't even waited for the rest of the sentence, "Go get her. Now." Pina disappeared through the house at a sprint.

Meanwhile Ingrid slowly stepped forward, unlike everyone else she didn't look at Cata first, she looked at you with soft eyes and a gentle expression.

"Y/N..." She spoke so quietly it almost didn't fit with the chaos filling the entrance hall, "Why don't we calm down?"

You laughed, a broken, exhausted laugh, "I don't want to calm down!" Your voice echoed through the hallway, "I want to go!"

Ingrid didn't move any closer, she knew better, "Okay." She nodded slowly, "You want to leave."

"Yes."

"I understand."

"You don't."

She smiled sadly, "But" She gestured gently towards your face, "we're not going to let you leave in this state, are we?"

Your breathing hitched, "I don't care."

"I do and Alexia does." She took another careful step, "No one's going to force you to talk."

Your eyes flicked briefly towards Cata, Ingrid followed your gaze.

"No one's going to force you to talk." She repeated it with emphasis, "But" Her eyes softened further, "you look frightened."

You finally broke, the tears you'd spent days holding back spilled over, "I am."

The admission was barely audible, Ingrid's heart sank, behind her Mapi was still holding tissues against Cata's nose, Patri hadn't stopped glancing anxiously towards the gym waiting, because any second now Alexia was going to walk into the entrance hall.

You barely heard the footsteps, one second Ingrid was trying to calm you down.

The next, "What's going on?" Alexia, her voice carried effortlessly across the entrance hall.

You looked up.

She was still wearing training clothes, a dark T-shirt clinging to her shoulders, sweat dampening the hair at her temples from whatever she'd been doing in the gym.

Her eyes found you instantly, everything else disappeared, she saw your face, the bruising, the split lip, the fading fingerprints around your throat and the colour drained from hers, "...Y/N."

She took one careful step towards you, you immediately stepped back, "No."

The single word stopped her in her tracks, she frowned, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know."

"You don't look like you know."

"I said I know!" Your voice cracked so loudly everyone in the hallway flinched.

Alexia tried another step, you reacted instinctively, your fist flew towards her face.

It wasn't a calculated punch, it was panic, Alexia caught your wrist before it landed, the movement was almost effortless, "I don't think you meant to do that."

"I did, I hate you"

"Y/N." Alexia's voice had base to it but it didn't stop you, you swung with your other hand.

"Let go of me!"

She caught that one too, "I'm not fighting you."

"I don't care!" You kicked at her shin, she barely moved, "You don't understand!"

"I know I don't."

"Then let me leave!" You twisted violently, trying to wrench free.

Alexia shifted behind you instead, carefully trapping your arms against your sides without hurting you. It was more like holding someone back from running into traffic than restraining a prisoner. "You need to breathe."

"Don't tell me to breathe!"

"I'm trying to help."

"I don't want your help!"

You struggled harder, Alexia tightened her grip just enough to stop you hurting yourself, "Please..." Her voice dropped, "please stop."

"I trusted you too!" The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Alexia blinked, "...What?"

"You sent me away and look at me! And now you bring me back when I don't want to be here! You all keep deciding what's best for me I know whats best for me!"

Your breathing became ragged again.

"I can't" Your knees almost buckled, "...I can't...do this"

The fight left you all at once, one moment you were twisting desperately against Alexia's hold.

The next, something inside you simply broke, "I can't..." The words dissolved into a sob, your knees gave way beneath you. Alexia reacted instantly, loosening her grip rather than tightening it, giving you room instead of taking it away.

You turned before you even realised you had, folded into her, your forehead hit her shoulder with a dull thud.

Then the tears came, not the quiet ones you'd cried alone in your apartment, not the restrained ones you'd swallowed every night this past week.

These were ugly, violent, the kind that stole your breath and shook your entire body. You clutched handfuls of her T-shirt, Alexia's arms wrapped around you without hesitation, firm, steady, and protective.

One hand settled between your shoulder blades, the other cradled the back of your head. She didn't tell you to calm down now, didn't tell you everything would be alright, she simply held you while your body shook apart against hers.

Around you the hallway had fallen completely silent, nobody spoke or moved. Even Patri, who normally couldn't survive ten seconds without saying something, stood frozen. Mapi slowly lowered the tissues she'd been holding against Cata's nose. Ingrid looked away, giving you the illusion of privacy. Cata's heart sank another inch.

Alexia rested her cheek gently against the top of your head, "I'm here." Her voice was barely louder than your breathing, "I've got you."

"I'm sorry" You weren't even sure who you were apologising to anymore, "I'm so sorry"

Alexia frowned, "For what?"

"I've..." Another sob caught in your throat, "I've made everything worse."

"No."

"I have. My dad" Your fingers tightened painfully in her shirt, "...he'll never stop now."

Alexia closed her eyes briefly, there it was, the real fear not of her, but of what came next.

She looked over your head towards the others with just one look and they all understood, leave.

Without a word, Ingrid gently ushered Patri towards the kitchen, Mapi squeezed Cata's shoulder before guiding her away to finally deal properly with her broken nose. Even Pina quietly disappeared back down the hallway.

Within seconds, the entrance hall belonged only to the two of you, Alexia waited until the silence settled again and only then did she speak, “Can I pick you up?"

You didn't answer, but you didn't pull away either so she took that as permission, one arm slipped beneath your knees, the other around your back. She lifted you effortlessly, your arms instinctively looped around her neck.

Not because you wanted to, because you were simply too exhausted to hold yourself together anymore.

You buried your face against her shoulder, the steady beat of her heart thumped beneath your cheek slow and even, nothing like your own.

Alexia started towards the staircase, each step was careful and measured, as though she was carrying something fragile halfway upstairs you whispered something so quietly she almost missed it, “…Don't leave."

She looked down at you as she reached her bedroom, opened the door with one hand and crossed the room, pulled back the duvet. Then lowered you onto the mattress as though laying down something precious.

You immediately curled onto your side instinctively making yourself smaller, Alexia knelt beside the bed. She brushed a strand of hair away from your bruised face, her fingers paused just before touching the marks around your neck.

She couldn’t, not yet, she wasn't sure she'd survive hearing how they'd gotten there, “You should rest."

You caught her wrist before she could pull away, “Stay."

Alexia looked at your hand around her wrist, then back at your face, without a word she slipped off her trainers and climbed onto the bed beside you, but not underneath the duvet. Just sitting against the headboard close enough that if you reached out she'd still be there.

You shifted across the mattress until your head rested against her thigh, Alexia's hand settled gently into your hair with slow strokes. The tension gradually seeped from your body, your breathing steadied. The tears stopped, for the first time in days and you could finally let yourself feel safe.

Alexia stared out of the bedroom window into the darkness beyond the estate walls her hand never stopped moving through your hair and as your breathing grew heavier with sleep, one thought repeated over and over in her mind.

Whoever did this is already dead.

💪🏼

You woke slowly, for a few blissful seconds, nothing existed beyond the warmth of the duvet wrapped around you and the unfamiliar softness of the mattress beneath you.

Then reality returned, your eyes opened, Alexia's bedroom, you sat upright a little too quickly, wincing as every bruise complained at once. The room was empty, the side of the bed beside you had already gone cold.

You looked around properly, there was no sign she'd ever been there, only one thing suggested she'd even actually been there was on the chair beside the bed sat a neatly folded pile of clothes.

A soft grey hoodie, black joggers, fresh socks, even a toothbrush still in its packaging rested neatly on top. You couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at your lips, trust Alexia to solve a problem before you'd even woken up.

You climbed out of bed carefully, every muscle aching from the last few days, after washing your face and changing into the clothes she'd left, you caught your reflection in the en-suite mirror.

The bruises hadn't magically disappeared overnight, you swallowed hard before forcing yourself away from the mirror.

The smell reached you halfway down the stairs, butter, vanilla, coffee and something sweet voices drifted from the kitchen. You stepped into the doorway, Ingrid was standing at the hob, expertly flipping a pancake into the air before catching it perfectly in the pan again.

Misa sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, scrolling absently through her phone, both women looked up at the sound of your footsteps.

Ingrid's face immediately softened, “Morning."

You gave a small, uncertain smile, “Morning."

"Are you hungry?" She gestured towards the stack of pancakes already waiting on a plate, “I’m making pancakes."

You realised then just how empty your stomach felt, you nodded, "...Yeah."

"Thank you."

Ingrid smiled warmly, “Good."

She pointed towards the table, “Sit down. I'll bring them over."

You hesitated only briefly before walking over, the chair beside Misa scraped quietly as you pulled it out. You sat carefully, neither of you spoke, Misa reached across the table without a word.

She grabbed an empty glass, picked up the carton of orange juice filled it almost to the top, then slid it across until it stopped neatly in front of you.

You blinked, “…Thank you."

She looked up from her cereal, “No problem."

It was such an ordinary interaction, so wonderfully normal, maybe too normal, you wrapped your hands around the cold glass. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in filling the silence, the only sounds were the quiet sizzle from the pan and the occasional scrape of Misa's spoon against her bowl.

A minute later Ingrid appeared carrying a plate piled high with pancakes, she placed it carefully in front of you, "There we are."

The pancakes looked perfect, golden, fluffy, fresh berries arranged neatly on top, a small jug of maple syrup beside the plate.

You stared at them for a moment, “I…” Your voice caught unexpectedly.

Ingrid frowned gently, “What is it?"

You looked between the two women, “No one's made me breakfast since I moved out..” You trailed off, you weren't even sure how long, Ingrid didn't ask you to finish the sentence.

She simply rested a hand briefly on your shoulder, “Then eat." Her smile was kind, “We've got plenty."

You picked up the knife and fork with slightly shaky hands, cut off a small piece, the first bite almost melted in your mouth, you hadn't realised how hungry you really were.

Misa watched you quietly for a second before speaking, “…They're better than mine."

Ingrid looked over her shoulder in mock offence, “You've never made pancakes."

"I know."

"Then how would you know?"

Misa shrugged,” I’ve got a feeling."

Ingrid laughed, “You've got a feeling because the last thing you cooked nearly poisoned Patri."

"It was one time."

"It was pasta."

“You practically burnt the water."

You looked up, genuinely confused, “…How do you burn water?"

Misa looked completely serious, “I have many talents."

For the first time in what felt like forever you laughed, it was small and quiet, but real, the three women exchanged subtle glances, no one commented on it they simply let the moment exist.

Alexia paused outside the kitchen doorway, she'd come looking for you, instead, she stayed hidden just out of sight, watching you laugh over burnt pasta and pancakes. 

She saw a tiny piece of the woman she'd met in that bar and not the broken version of you and she wasn't about to interrupt it.

Alexia disappeared as quietly as she'd arrived, Ingrid returned to humming to herself while she washed the frying pan.

You stared into your mug, we need to talk, the words replayed over and over in your head, your stomach twisted.

Beside you, Misa pushed her chair back, the scrape of the legs against the tiled floor made you glance up.

She looked towards Ingrid, “I’m taking this one."

Ingrid smiled knowingly without turning around, “Don't scare her."

"No promises." Misa jerked her head towards the open patio doors, “C’mon."

You followed her outside the morning air was cool against your skin, the estate gardens were impossibly quiet compared to the chaos inside your own head.

Misa walked a little way from the kitchen before stopping beneath the shade of an olive tree. She checked over one shoulder, then the other, satisfied no one was nearby, she lowered her voice, "Listen carefully."

Your pulse immediately quickened, "What?"

She folded her arms, “Boss can’t know."

You frowned, “…Know what?"

"I met you."

Confusion spread across your face, “We've met loads of times."

"No." Misa shook her head impatiently, “I mean at the marina."

Realisation dawned, “Oh. I can’t believe you lied to her?"

"I omitted the truth."

"That's still lying."

"It's... professional editing." Despite everything, you almost smiled, Misa continued, "She cannot know Jana called me." You nodded slowly, "Especially..." She held your gaze, "about the gun."

Your smile vanished, you instinctively looked down at your hands, "The gun?"

"If Alexia finds out Jana organised that meeting" She exhaled quietly, “…she'll think Jana deliberately went behind her back."

"She did."

"Yes." Misa rubbed the back of her neck, “But Jana was just doing what she thought was best, she was trying to keep you alive."

Silence settled between you, you looked out across the gardens, “I never wanted anyone dragged into this."

"I know."

"I've already caused enough problems."

Misa snorted softly, “You've caused headaches." She looked back towards the house, “You haven't caused problems."

You weren't convinced, “What happens if she finds out?"

Misa was quiet for a moment, “Alexia" She chose her words carefully, "...doesn't like being lied to." Your stomach dropped, "Neither do I."

"I know."

"But this one's different." She looked you squarely in the eye, “It wasn't our secret to tell."

You swallowed, “So..."

"So if she asks..." Misa's expression became deadly serious, "...there was no marina. No Jana. No gun."

You stared at her, “I don't know if I can lie to her."

Misa sighed, “I figured you'd say that.” She leaned back against the stone wall, “Then don't."

"What?"

"If Alexia asks you directly" She shrugged, "tell her the truth."

You frowned, “But you just said"

"I'm telling you what I'd do." A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, “I’m also telling you I'm never going to volunteer the information. So if Boss finds out..."

She spread her hands innocently, “…it won't be because of me."

You couldn't help it, a small laugh escaped you, "You lot are exhausting."

"We're organised."

"That's not the word I'd have used."

Misa smirked, “It'll do."

The back door opened, both of you looked over, Patri leaned halfway outside, "There you are!"

She looked between the pair suspiciously, “Are you plotting?"

"No," Misa answered immediately.

"Definitely plotting," Patri concluded.

She pointed back inside, “Boss wants us all in her office.”

Your heart sank as Misa leaned closer one last time, "So." She spoke barely above a whisper, "Remember there was no marina."

She gave you a small wink before walking back into the house as though the conversation had never happened. You remained where you were for another few seconds, staring at the back door, trying to decide which frightened you more. Walking into Alexia's office or walking into it already keeping a secret from her

💪🏼

The office suddenly felt much smaller than it had the last time you were in it, you stepped through the doorway and stopped dead.

Everyone was there, Cata stood near the window, a fresh white bandage taped across the bridge of her nose. Misa leaned against the bookshelf with her arms folded. Mapi and Ingrid occupied the sofa, Patri perched on the armrest beside Pina, while Jana stood awkwardly near the back wall looking like she was reconsidering every life choice that had led her here.

Your eyes caught on Cata first, the bruising around her nose was already beginning to darken, guilt hit you immediately.

"Y/N." Alexia’s voice cut through the room, you looked away from Cata and found her behind the desk. She was seated this time, fingers loosely laced together in front of her, expression unreadable. No raised voice, no obvious anger, somehow that was worse. She waited until she had your full attention, “Sit."

You obeyed automatically, lowering yourself into the chair opposite her, the silence that followed stretched long enough for your pulse to become painfully loud.

Alexia finally spoke, “I need you to tell me who did this." Her gaze flicked briefly to your bruised eye, then to the fading fingerprints around your throat, “And why."

You looked around the room again, every face was watching you. Even Misa, who usually looked detached from everything, seemed focused entirely on your answer.

Your mouth felt dry, “My cousin, Marco," you said quietly.

The room changed, not visibly, but you felt it. Misa’s posture sharpened, Pina stopped tapping her phone, Jana closed her eyes briefly as if she’d hoped you would choose a different answer.

Alexia didn’t move, “Your cousin."

You nodded, “He came to my apartment." The words started slowly, but once they began, they kept coming. You told them everything, "He wanted information about you," you said, looking at Alexia. "About where you conduct business. Who works for you. What I knew."

"And what did you tell him?" Misa asked.

"The truth." Your voice cracked slightly, “That I didn’t know anything.” You swallowed hard, “He didn’t believe me."

The room remained silent, you forced yourself to continue.

"I thought if I disappeared for a few days... if the bruises faded... maybe he hadn’t told my father." A bitter laugh escaped you, “I know how stupid that sounds now."

Alexia’s eyes never left your face, “Why didn’t you call me?"

That was the question you’d been dreading, you looked down at your hands, “Because I know what my father is and I know what you are."

No one breathed.

"If I told you..." You finally looked back up, "I thought you’d go after him."

Alexia’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, “And if I did?"

"Then my father would respond." You shook your head, “And people would die because of me."

For the first time, Alexia looked away, only for a second, then she stood. The movement was quiet, but every person in the room instinctively straightened.

She walked around the desk and stopped directly in front of you, “Look at me." You did, “What Marco did was his choice." Her voice was low and controlled, "Not yours."

You opened your mouth to argue, she continued before you could, "And if your father chooses to protect a man who put his hands around your throat..." Something cold flickered behind her eyes, “Then that choice is his too."

The room was utterly still, Alexia took a slow breath, when she spoke again, her voice was almost gentle.

"The next time someone hurts you" Her hand came up carefully, stopping just short of the bruising on your cheek, “You call me."

You felt tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes, “Alexia—"

"No." Her gaze held yours, “You call me."

The conviction in her voice left no room for doubt, the silence in Alexia's office was suffocating, no one had moved since she'd told you that next time, you called her.

Then your phone vibrated, every head turned, you looked down at the screen.

Leon.

Your younger brother, you stared at it for a second too long, Alexia noticed, “Answer it."

Your eyes lifted to hers, she'd already moved back behind her desk, lowering herself into her chair with the same composed authority she'd worn since you'd walked into the room.

She nodded once, “Speaker though”

You swallowed, “…Okay." Your thumb slid across the screen, “Hey, Leon."

You pitched your voice as normally as you could, there was no greeting, no pleasantries, “Mami's losing her shit."

You couldn't help the tiny smile, “Why?"

"Because it's Sunday." He sounded genuinely baffled that you even had to ask, "And you aren't here." He paused dramatically, “And you weren't here last week."

You closed your eyes briefly, right you missed Sunday dinner, again, “Cover for me or something." You tried to sound casual, “I’ve covered for you before."

"I know, but—" Voices erupted in the background, male, loud and angry.

You couldn't make out the words, only the tone, your smile disappeared, "...What's Papa shouting?"

"Oh." You heard him glance over his shoulder, “Marco's here." Every person in Alexia's office became noticeably still, “He's got fucked up fists." Your stomach twisted, “Hes trying to figure out who he did a number on without being told to." You shut your eyes, “He won't say."

Almost under your breath, you muttered,”… Wonder why."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Another voice much closer this time deep and authoritative, the office seemed to grow colder, “Is that your sister?" Your father's voice, even through a phone speaker it carried weight.

Leon didn't answer quickly enough you could almost picture him standing at the head of the dining table still in his Sunday suit, one hand resting on the polished wood.

"Tell her..." His voice was calm, far calmer than shouting would have been, “I don't care where she is or what she's doing she comes home.” The calm finally cracked, “…Right now."

You didn't even realise you'd leaned back in your chair, "I heard that." The room stayed deathly silent, "I'll" You searched desperately for something believable, "yeah." Before he could say another word you ended the call.

The silence afterwards was somehow even louder, nobody spoke, nobody moved, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on Alexia's bookshelf.

Alexia hadn't taken her eyes off you once, her expression gave nothing away, but everyone in the room recognised that look. Boss was thinking, planning, calculating, her eyes briefly flicked towards the fading fingerprints around your throat before returning to yours.

💪🏼

The drive to your parents' house felt much shorter than it ever had before, every turn of the steering wheel seemed to bring the inevitable closer.

Alexia hadn't tried to stop you, she'd wanted to, everyone in that office had seen it, but this was something you needed to do, you needed to try and resolve this with the less repercussions to those you cared about.

The wrought iron gates rolled open at your approach, you rode slowly up the long driveway, for a moment you just stood there when you got out the car, looking at the house you'd grown up in.

It had always felt safe today it felt like walking into enemy territory, you took a steadying breath and opened the front door, "Mami?"

The hallway was quiet, then you heard footsteps, your mother appeared from the kitchen carrying a tea towel, she smiled instinctively, "There you ar—“ The words died instantly, her face drained of colour, the tea towel slipped from her hands, “Oh my God..."

She crossed the hallway almost at a run, her trembling hands reached for your face before stopping just short of touching the bruises.

"No..." Tears flooded her eyes immediately, ”No, no, no..."

"I'm fine, Mami."

"You are not fine!" Her voice cracked so violently it echoed through the house, “Carlos!" She turned towards the dining room, “Carlos!" Louder this time, “Carlos!"

The entire house seemed to come alive, doors opened upstairs, heavy footsteps thundered down the staircase. Your brothers appeared almost simultaneously, Leon first, then Mateo, then Luis.

He stopped dead the second he saw you,”… What the fuck happened?" He crossed the hallway in three long strides, both hands gently cupped your face, carefully turning your head from one side to the other. His jaw clenched harder with every bruise he found, “…Jesus Christ..."

Behind him your father emerged, his expression was unreadable, until he saw you something changed, he crossed the room slowly almost cautiously. As though he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly, “Princesa..." His voice was softer than you'd heard it in years.

He lifted one hand, resting it gently against your cheek, unlike Luis he wasn't assessing the injuries, he was simply holding your face, his thumb brushed carefully beneath your eye.

His gaze searched yours, “…Did Marco do this?"

The hallway fell silent, every one of your brothers looked at you, your mother covered her mouth with both hands, you held your father's gaze. Then you nodded, once, the muscles in his jaw flexed.

"...Why?"

Your eyes dropped briefly to the marble floor, “Don't make me say it... You know." Your father didn't speak, you looked back up, “I know he's told you."

Something dark flickered behind his eyes, “It's true then."

You swallowed, your voice was barely above a whisper, “It's just..." Your eyes filled again, “…sex, Papa."

The word hung in the air, nobody moved, your mother's quiet sob broke the silence first, Luis’ expression had gone from concern to disbelief, Leon looked completely lost, Mateo stared at the floor.

Your father didn't blink, "...Alexia." He didn't ask it, he stated it.

You nodded,” Yes."

Another long silence, then your father took one slow step backwards, his face became impossible to read. He looked towards the dining room, towards the open doors leading into his office. Then back at you, when he finally spoke his voice was terrifyingly calm, "...Leave us."

Your brothers looked at him, “Papa—“

"Now."

There wasn't an ounce of volume in his voice, it didn't need any, one by one your brothers obeyed, your mother lingered, "Carlos..."

He turned his head slightly, “Please."

Just one word, she looked between the two of you, then, with tears still streaming down her face she followed your brothers out. The hallway door clicked shut, leaving only you and your father.

He looked at you for a very long time, then quietly asked the question that mattered most, “Did he touch you because of Alexia" He paused, “or because you're my daughter?" He was trying to work out whether this had been business or personal, you weren't sure which answer would frighten him more.

You looked down at the marble floor, your father's question sat between you, "I don't know." Carlos didn't interrupt, didn't rush you, you took a slow breath. "He wanted information."

"What information?"

"About Alexia." Your father's face remained impassive, "Where she lives. Who works for her. "What she does, If I knew anything useful." Your laugh was hollow,” The problem was" You looked back up at him, “…I didn’t, I barely know anything, I still barely do."

Your father searched your face for any sign you were lying and found none.

"I kept telling him that." You rubbed unconsciously at the fading bruises around your wrist, “I told him I didn't know anything, Alexia isn’t stupid, why she spill all her secrets to some random girl she met at a bar. He just..." You swallowed, “…thought I was protecting her."

Carlos remained silent.

"He kept asking the same questions, over and over and every time I gave him the same answer." Your voice cracked, “Eventually..." You stopped, your father didn't need you to finish, he could see the bruises, see the fingerprints, see the split lip, “He wanted something I couldn't give him. I assumed" You shrugged weakly, "...he wanted to tell you, I figured if he turned up with enough information he'd move up your pecking order, Luis warned me about him, he said Marco wanted more, wanted your attention, wanted your approval."

Carlos' expression didn't change, but his fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side.

"So" You looked back at him, "I don't know if he hurt me because I'm your daughter, or because he thought I was protecting Alexia.” Another pause, “Maybe both, maybe he thought if he found out this bombshell and spun it as a great betrayal he’d get somewhere with you”

Carlos stared at you for what felt like an eternity, then he asked quietly, "Did he tell you not to tell me?"

You nodded, “He said" Your voice became barely audible, “…if I mentioned his name he'd finish the job and you would never believe me.

The words hung in the air, Carlos closed his eyes, only briefly, when they opened again the warmth you'd grown up with was gone. The father who kissed your forehead before school, who carried you upstairs when you'd fallen asleep on the sofa, who insisted on Sunday dinners no matter how busy everyone became, he disappeared.

Standing in front of you was the man the city whispered about, the man other men feared, his posture straightened almost imperceptibly and jaw settled. He walked past you without another word, opened the office door, your brothers immediately looked up.

Carlos' gaze settled on Luis, “Bring me Marco."

Luis stood first, "What do you want us to do when we find him?"

Carlos looked once over his shoulder, through the doorway at you, then back to his sons, his voice was calm enough to be mistaken for kindness, "Bring him to me." A heavy silence settled over the room

"Papa..." Your voice barely carried, he looked back at you, for just a second and the father returned, "I'm not doing this because of Alexia." His voice softened, "I'm doing it because someone thought they could lay a hand on my daughter." Then he looked back at his sons, “The rest" His expression became unreadable once more, "we'll discuss afterwards."

Within seconds the house erupted into motion, men grabbed keys, phones and weapons, orders were given in clipped, efficient voices and you stood frozen in the hallway realising you hadn't prevented a war, you'd merely changed its first target.

The house felt strangely quiet, not silent, never silent, phones still rang somewhere beyond the office walls, men still came and went down the corridor. Occasionally you caught fragments of hurried conversations, doors opening and closing, footsteps crossing polished wooden floors.

But inside your father's office there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock, he sat behind his desk. You occupied the leather chair opposite, for the first time in years it wasn't a room you were forbidden from entering or somewhere reserved for business.

Today you were simply his daughter, he poured two coffees, sliding one across the desk towards you.

You wrapped both hands around the mug, the warmth felt comforting, “…Does Alexia know who you are?"

You looked up, "Yes."

Your father watched you over the rim of his own cup, "And?"

You shrugged, “If it bothers her" You smiled faintly, "she hasn't said."

Carlos hummed thoughtfully, “I’ve always had a respect for Alexia."

That made your eyebrows shoot up, "You have?"

He nodded once,” Of course."

You blinked, “I thought you would hate her."

"Hate?" He almost smiled, "No." He leaned back in his chair, "She's intelligent. Disciplined. She built something very impressive." He took another sip of coffee, “And she keeps her word." Your surprise must have been obvious because he let out the smallest chuckle, “You think because we're competitors I can't admire competence?"

"I..."

"I've watched her for years.” His fingers tapped idly against the mug, "She's made decisions I wouldn't. I've made decisions she wouldn’t, but" He shrugged, "...there are very few people in our world I'd describe as honourable. Alexia is one of them."

You sat there processing that, your father respected Alexia.

"I still don't like the thought of her with my daughter."

You smiled despite yourself, “Would you like the thought of me with anyone?"

Carlos stared at you for a moment, then huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, “…Fair point." The smile faded almost as quickly as it'd appeared, he looked at your bruises again, “Does she know who did this to you?"

You nodded slowly, “…I told her."

"When?"

“I was telling her when Leon rang me”

Carlos was quiet, “She knows and Marco is still alive?"

You looked down into your coffee, “I think so."

"You think?"

"I don't think she's going to do anything."

That earned your father's full attention, “…Why?"

You looked back up, “Me."

"What do you mean?"

"I asked her not to." You shifted in your chair, “I told her I didn't want this to start something between you and her."

Carlos studied you for several long seconds, “And what did she say?"

You smiled faintly at the memory, “Not much. She just" You laughed softly, “looked annoyed."

"At you?"

"No."

"At the situation." You could picture her perfectly standing in her office, jaw tight, hands clenched, trying very hard not to promise violence, “I think she wanted to argue, but she didn't."

Carlos nodded slowly, “Because you asked her not to."

"Yeah."

Silence settled between you again, your father eventually set his mug down, “You know..." He looked almost amused, “That's probably the only reason Marco is still breathing."

You frowned, “You really think she'd—"

"Yes." He didn't hesitate, “If someone had done this to someone she cared about" He gestured towards your bruised face, “she would've retaliated. I don't believe she'd hesitate."

You looked away, “I don't want that."

"I know."

"I don't want anyone else getting hurt because of me."

Carlos sighed, “Princesa..." He folded his hands together, “You need to understand something." You looked back at him, “In our world people don't get to choose whether violence arrives." His voice was calm, "They only get to choose how they answer it."

You swallowed, “I don't want to answer it."

"No." He gave you a sad smile, “I know you don't." His eyes softened, “You got that from your mother."

"And you?"

He looked towards the office window for a long moment, “I’ve spent too many years making sure nobody mistakes kindness for weakness." When he looked back at you, the softness had returned. “I hope..." He paused, “you never have to learn why." A knock interrupted the moment, three sharp knocks, your papa looked towards the door, “Enter.”

Luis stepped inside his expression told you everything before he even spoke, “We found him."

The warmth disappeared from your father's face, “Alive?"

Luis nodded once, “Didn’t resist."

Carlos stood, slowly buttoning his suit jacket, “Good."

He looked at you one last time, “Stay here."

Then he walked towards the door halfway there, he stopped without turning around, “If Alexia calls" He glanced back over his shoulder, “tell her I'm keeping my promise."

Your brow furrowed, “What promise?"

"The one she doesn't know she made me." Carlos' mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, “My dispute is with the man who hurt my daughter." He opened the door, “Not with the woman who seduced her."

The door closed behind him leaving you alone in the office staring after a father you suddenly realised understood far more than he'd ever let on.

💪🏼

Alexia hadn't touched the whisky in nearly twenty minutes, for everyone else in the room, that was enough to know exactly how worried she was. She sat forward in the armchair, elbows resting on her knees, fingers laced together beneath her chin waiting.

Every few minutes headlights swept through the front windows, her head lifted immediately, every single time. Every car door, engine, crunch of tyres on gravel. She looked every time and every time it wasn't you.

The room had grown quieter as the evening wore on, Patri had long since stopped pretending to watch television. Mapi's book hadn't had a page turned in nearly half an hour, even Pina had put her phone down. Ingrid had made tea nobody drank, Misa stood by the window with the curtains barely parted, occasionally glancing down the driveway before letting them fall closed again.

Cata remained by the  door silent, watching Alexia as much as she watched outside.

Alexia finally looked at the grandfather clock, nearly eleven her jaw flexed, “You should call." It was Ingrid who said it.

Alexia didn't move,” No."

"What if—"

"No." The single word ended the conversation, Alexia rubbed a hand over her face.

"I told her" She exhaled slowly, “…I’d let her do this her way."

"So let her." Mapi spoke quietly.

Alexia gave a humourless laugh, “I am." She looked towards the windows again, “I just don't like it."

Nobody did, because everyone in that room knew exactly where you'd gone, nobody knew how it would end, but then another set of headlights sweeping across the front of the house.

Alexia looked up immediately, another car, the engine died and nobody spoke, a car door opened and closed. Alexia was already on her feet before the knock never came, the front door opened.

Cata had unlocked it remotely, cool night air drifted inside, you were stood in the doorway. You looked exhausted, empty, your eyes immediately found Alexia’s, neither of you moved.

The room held its breath, Alexia took one cautious step towards you, "...Y/N?"

You swallowed, for a second it looked as though you weren't going to speak, then, quietly, "Marco's dead."

The words landed like a gunshot, Patri's mouth fell open, Mapi slowly lowered her book into her lap, Pina's eyes finally lifted completely from her phone, even Misa looked stunned.

Alexia didn't react not outwardly, she simply looked at you, studied your face, trying to work out what those three words actually meant, “…Tell me." Her voice was calm, careful, “What happened?"

You looked past her towards nothing, you wrapped your arms around yourself, “Papa, he had my brothers bring Marco to him” You blinked hard, “I never saw him, I don’t think he knew I was, I was in my Papa’s office”

Nobody interrupted, nobody dared.

"My father asked him one question.” Your voice had become strangely flat, “’Did you touch my daughter?'" You looked down at the floor, “Marco said yes."

Alexia's expression remained unreadable.

"He didn't even deny it." You laughed once, a broken little sound, “He actually thought Papa would congratulate him for finding something useful."

The room stayed perfectly still.

"My father" You swallowed, “Asked him to go for a walk I wasn't supposed to hear, but" You closed your eyes briefly, "I did, the office window was open”

Your breathing became uneven, “He said..." Your voice almost disappeared, “’Nobody raises a hand to my daughter, not even family.'"

The words echoed through the room.

"I left." You looked back at Alexia, “I couldn't stay. I got halfway down the driveway..." Your throat tightened, “…when I heard the gunshot."

Alexia crossed the remaining distance between you slowly, “So..." She asked gently.

“your father killed him."

You nodded once a single tear rolled down your cheek, “He sent Luis to find me” You produced an envelope, “I was told to give you this”

The room seemed to still all over again, Alexia looked at the envelope before taking it. There was nothing written on the front, No seal or name.

Just a plain cream envelope, she turned it over once in her hands "He just" You looked briefly towards the floor, “said 'Give this to Alexia, she'll understand.'"

Alexia's thumb slid beneath the flap, Alexia pulled the contents free just enough to see them. She angled them instinctively away from you, you couldn't make anything out, only the white border of what looked like a photograph.

Alexia's eyes scanned it, nothing, not even the smallest change in expression, only her pupils narrowed.

She slid the photograph back into the envelope, folded the flap closed, then tucked it neatly into the inside pocket of her joggers.

You frowned, “…That's it?"

Alexia looked at you, “That's it."

"What was it?"

Her gaze held yours, for a brief second she considered telling you, you saw the thought cross her face, then disappear, "Something between your father and me."

You opened your mouth and closed it again, “…Okay."

She stepped closer, “You don't need to know." There wasn't any dismissal in her voice, only certainty, “And I don't want you carrying that."

You nodded slowly, “I wasn't going to ask again."

"I know."

Across the room, Misa caught the briefest glimpse of Alexia's face, it wasn't relief or satisfaction, it was understanding. Carlos Hernandez had sent a message, not a threat or a warning, a confirmation, a debt acknowledged.

Inside the envelope, hidden from everyone except Alexia, sat a single Polaroid, Marco, lying exactly where he'd fallen, eyes open. A single dark wound centred between them, nothing else, no note, no signature or explanation. None was needed,

Carlos Hernandez had handled it, the man who had laid hands on his daughter would never do so again.

Alexia rested her hand lightly against the pocket containing the envelope for the briefest moment before letting it fall away, “Thank you."

You blinked, “…For delivering a letter?"

Alexia smiled faintly, “No."

Her eyes softened, “For trusting me enough to."

You smiled tiredly, “I don't know if trust is the right word anymore."

"What is it then?"

You looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged, “…Choice I keep choosing you."

The words settled over the room, Alexia reached for your hand, threading her fingers gently through yours.

Her palm swallowing yours with a sense of rightness and towed you through the silent house. She didn’t let go, not even as you reached the foot of the stairs and she started up towards her bedroom.

She opened the door and stepped back, letting you enter first, she let go of your hand and moved to her closet, wordless, pulling out a soft, oversized t-shirt.

She tossed it to you, then nodded her head toward the attached bath, “Get ready for bed.” She said it like it was an order, but even now her voice was so careful you could almost pretend it was a question.

You went to the bathroom because you genuinely did not know what else to do. You closed the door behind you, stood in front of the mirror, and looked at your own face for a long time. The bruises had begun to yellow at the edges, the split in your lip had crusted over, and the marks on your neck had faded to the point where you might have been able to lie about their origin, if you’d wanted to.

You pulled off your jeans and hoodie, leaving your worn bra and underwear in a heap on the tiles, and slipped the tee over your head. It hung to your mid thigh, swallowing you whole.

When you emerged, Alexia was already in bed, one arm flung behind her head, the covers folded down to bare her shoulders. 

She looked up as you entered, eyes flicking over your body, then back to your face, she patted the mattress beside her. You crossed the room and slid under the covers without hesitation, 

You rolled to your side, curling into the dim light as Alexia reached out and flicked the bedside lamp off. The darkness closed over the room, for a brief moment, you stayed like that, the edge of the duvet pulled up to your chin, your back to her, sheets cool and slick against your bare thighs.

You could hear her moving, her low even breath, the subtle shift of weight as she turned toward you until you felt her settle behind you, the mattress dipping at the precise spot where her hip pressed into yours.

She traced her hand up your side, slow and lazy, fingers splayed beneath the hang of her t-shirt, and you laughed, a tired, unguarded thing in the dark. "You fucking love that strap," you said, voice muffled by the pillow.

Alexia's mouth found your ear, hair brushing against your cheek as she leaned in. "Not as much as I love it inside of you," she murmured, and her hand slid lower, knuckles grazing the edge of your pubic bone.

Something in your chest pinched tight and sweet, the kind of ache that had nothing to do with anything physical. You let yourself lean back into her, fitting your body to hers. Her skin was warm, her arm heavy and comforting as it wrapped around your waist.

Her hand stilled at your stomach, "We don't have to," she said, voice softer this time, the edge melted out of it. "You can just sleep, if you want."

You hummed, noncommittal, but you shifted against her, your muscles loose with exhaustion and the kind of relief that made everything feel raw. You pressed your hips back until you could feel her strap, real and hard against the swell of your ass, and her breath stuttered just a little.

"You're such a fucking liar," you said quietly, and her hand tightened at your waist. 

"Am I?" 

"You love this," you said. "You love me wanting it." The words felt dangerous and right at the same time. 

Alexia kissed the side of your neck, lips soft, and you shivered. She didn't answer, just moved her hand between your thighs to move them how she needed them. Slow and careful, she moved the strap up and down you until she found the heat of your entrance and pressed the tip of the strap to it.

You exhaled, a shaky little moan, and reached behind you, caught her thigh, pulling her closer. She curved her palm, pressing against your breast, and the world shrank down to the narrow slice of heat where her strap was inside of you.

You didn't talk after that. She slid in you, slow and careful, drawing out the first gasp, your breath catching at the stretch. She angled her hips up, your bodies slotting together. When she began to move, the rhythm was so slow it bordered on unbearable.

You gripped her thigh, grounding yourself, and her other arm found its way around your chest, holding you steady.

It was different this time. Not the frantic, bruising want that had pulled you together in the past, but something slow and hungry, the kind of slow burning hunger that could last all night and still not be satisfied.

You turned your face into the pillow to muffle your sounds, but Alexia found the spot just under your jaw and pressed her mouth there, biting gently, so that you couldn't hide from her even if you wanted to. You could feel her breath, every catch and tremble, and the delicious shiver that ran through her when you clenched around the strap.

She worked you open slowly, one hand anchored at your breast, thumb working lazy circles over your nipple until it peaked beneath her palm. The other hand wandered, up your thigh, across your ribcage, mapping the terrain like she was learning you for the first time.

You tried to keep quiet, but every drag of her hips, every glide of her cock against the spot inside you made you gasp, just a little. She was holding back for you, refusing to chase any finish, just letting you float in the deep end of her touch. Your body was pulsated with pleasure, not sharp and crashing but slow and molten.

She pulled your t-shirt up, baring you to the cool air and her hungry gaze. She splayed her fingers across your stomach, locked eyes with you in the dim light as her hand slid up, cupping the soft weight of your breast. Her thumb circled your nipple again, this time with intent, and you arched into her grip, needing more.

"Beautiful," she murmured, voice thick and reverent, and you could tell she meant it, that it was less a compliment than a simple fact. Her other hand found your knee and hiked it up, opening you wide, and she buried herself in you so deep you saw stars.

She slowed even further, drawing out, then pressing all the way back in. The fullness was overwhelming, and you bit your lip, not to hold back the sound but to anchor yourself in the here and now, this moment and this body and no other.

She kissed your shoulder, then your neck, then the corner of your mouth, and she didn't stop fucking you even when she rolled you to your back and hovered over you, arms braced to either side of your head. She held your gaze, pinning you open as she moved inside you with measured, echoing thrusts.

You clung to her wrist, tried to pull her closer, but she resisted, kept her distance just enough to watch your face as you moaned for her, as your body clenched around her, greedy for everything she gave and more. Every time you tried to speed her up, she shushed you, thumb at your jaw, then at your lips.

"Just let me," she whispered, and you did, you let her do anything she wanted.

She never let you tip over into orgasm, making you ride the edge until you forgot you even wanted to come. There was only sensation, the slow friction of her cock, the roll of her hips, the feeling of being held and known and possessed.

You lost track of time. At some point she shifted you again, pulling your leg up onto her shoulder, folding you open so she could fuck you even deeper. She kissed the inside of your knee, then the arch of your foot, then returned to your breasts, licking and biting until you were gasping for breath. 

Alexia took her time, as if she had all the hours in the world and no one else to fill them but you. Every smallest movement was deliberate, designed for the slow torture of your composure. She leaned into you, one arm propping her up, the other hand busy slowly working your t-shirt higher until your breasts spilled out over the hem, the fabric bunched up just under your chin. She pressed her palm flat above your sternum, pinning you to the mattress with a force that was less about restraint than about making sure you felt her, felt the shape of her hand, the climb of her heat.

She ducked her head, kissed the exposed swell with a softness that made you want to sob, then flicked her tongue at your nipple, sharp and clever, before sucking it into her mouth and biting, just barely. The jolt shot straight to your cunt, but she was already moving on, lavishing attention on the other side, not hurried but comprehensive, as if she needed to leave you marked in every way.

She rocked into you at a glacial, punishing pace, never speeding up, and the pressure of her cock inside you took on a dimensionless ache, less about pleasure than about being cracked open and filled with the certainty of her. Every time you tried to grind up or meet her, she used her grip on your hip to keep you still. "Let me," she said, and you did, and in her hands you became loose and boneless, nothing but nerve endings and wanting.

She bent and kissed your mouth with the same slow certainty, her tongue finding yours and then retreating, teasing, barely letting you taste her before she pulled away.

She hooked both your knees over her arms, folding you open, and the strap drove deeper than seemed physically possible. She never broke eye contact, not even once, and you thought you could drown in the molten amber of her gaze.

She shifted her grip, one palm sliding down your thigh, the other coming up to cradle the side of your face. Her thumb swept your cheek as she slowed, the strap withdrawn until only the tip pressed at your entrance. She stayed there, holding, waiting.

“Tell me how you want it,” she whispered, voice a low, velvet scrape, “Tell me how you want to come”

The request shocked you, not because you didn’t want it but because she never asked before. She just took, and you gave, and the rhythm of want was its own language. But this time she stilled, refusing to move until you said it.

You blinked up at her, the room lit only by the faint slant of city light through the curtains. Her eyes were wide, patient, a hint of uncertainty lurking just beneath the surface. She wanted you to choose, maybe needed you to.

You swallowed, the rush of air between your lips half gasp, half plea. “On top,” you managed, barely more than a whisper.

She blinked, the surprise clear, that you would ask for control. A slow, dangerous smile crept across her face, “Yeah?” Her grip on your hips loosened, allowing you to shift.

You pushed at her shoulders, making her fall back onto the mattress, strap pointing at the ceiling. Alexia laughed, a breathless, delighted sound, and reached for your waist as you crawled up and straddled her. Your thighs bracketed her hips, your cunt still wet and open, ready for her.

She ran both hands up your ribs, caught your jaw and pulled you down to kiss her, deep and hungry. You let her tongue fuck your mouth as you braced your knees on either side of her, reached down, and lined the cock up with your entrance.

She watched you as you sank onto her, watched the way your eyes rolled back, the way your breath fractured. The angle was deeper, hotter, the friction more intense. You started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips and grinding down. Her hands splayed over your thighs, then slid up beneath your oversized tee to grip your ass, helping you set the rhythm.

You rode her, planting your palms flat on her chest, using her body as leverage while you fucked yourself open on the cock. She held your gaze, never looking away, barely even blinking. Her breathing stuttered, a sharp inhale every time you rocked forward and took her deeper. 

You found the pace you liked, hips circling, then up and down, chasing the sensation with greedy, desperate intent. She let you, let you do whatever you wanted, following your every lead, her hands adjusting to wherever you needed pressure or support.

You pulled the t-shirt off, tossing it aside, needing her hands on your bare skin. She caught your tits, squeezing hard, thumbs working your nipples until you arched your back and moaned for her. “Fuck, you look good like this,” she said, voice gone rough.

You let your head fall back, hair spilling down your shoulders, hands braced on Alexia’s chest. She met your gaze, smug as anything, eyes dark and proud. “Look at you,” she said, voice thick with awe and filth at the same time. “Fucking yourself on my cock. You can’t get enough, can you?”

You shook your head, wordless, too high from the slow grind of your clit against her pelvis to do anything but move, move, move. The strap reached so deep it felt as if every nerve was tuned to it, every muscle in your thighs quivering. You rode her and she let you, her mouth open in hungry shock every time you bottomed out.

“Shit,” she groaned, “You’re so fucking tight. You gonna come for me like this?”

You almost laughed, the edge of wildness in your chest, “I want to,” you said, “Want to so bad.” You rocked down hard, grinding your hips, and she hissed in through her teeth.

“Do it. Come on, baby. Show me how desperate you are.”

You moved faster, chasing the swirl of pressure and heat that was building. Alexia brought her thumb to your clit, rubbing in firm circles, perfect fullness of her inside you and the relentless, perfect rhythm of her fingers.

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, but she cupped your chin, forced you to look at her. “Open your eyes,” she said, voice a low command. “I want to see you when you come.”

You did, and the look on her face was enough to shatter you. You came hard, body locking up and then splintering apart, vision going white at the edges. Alexia’s hands kept you moving, grinding you down onto her strap, drawing out every last aftershock, until you collapsed forward, trembling, breathless, your head on her shoulder.

She stroked your back, warm and gentle, her mouth at your ear. “Good girl,” she whispered. “So fucking good.”

You felt your whole body glow at the words, soft and uncontrollable and safe. You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to ever leave the arc of her arms, but Alexia had other ideas. She rolled you gently to your back, the cock still buried in you, and hovered over you, her hair falling down around your face like a curtain.

“You want to come again baby?” she asked, teasing, and you nodded, too blissed out to be embarrassed by how easy you were for her.

She kissed you, deep and lazy and self satisfied, then started to move inside you again, this time slow and shallow. You wrapped your legs around her, keeping her close, and let her fuck you through the aftershocks, surfacing only long enough to moan her name.

She made you come twice more before she let you rest, her hands never leaving your skin, her mouth always somewhere on your body cheek, neck, collar breastbone, wherever she could get her mouth.

“I could fuck you for hours” she whispered as she rested her weight on top of you.

"You do fuck me for hours," you corrected her, voice muffled by her shoulder, still too spent and drowsy to move much. You felt her laugh, low and proud, the sound vibrating through both your bodies like some private joke.

She shifted, the move careful and deliberate. The cock slid out slow, and you could feel the mess between your legs, sticky and hot, proof of what you'd just done.

She sat back on her heels, collecting herself, then ran both hands through her hair, twisting it up into a high, impatient bun. The movement was brisk, almost businesslike. She slid off the bed, the mattress sighing as it lost her weight, and padded to the door, leaving you sprawled across the sheets, bare and buzzing, still pulsing with the afterglow.

You waited, cataloguing your own body, the deep, satisfied ache in your hips, the sweat cooling along your neck and shoulders, the lingering throb at the base of your spine. The room was thick with the smell of sex, and you pulled the duvet across over your naked chest, suddenly self conscious in the absence of her gaze.

When she returned, she wore only a black sports bra and a pair of loose grey joggers, the waistband riding low, her stomach exposed and still sheened with sweat. She carried a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She set the glass on the nightstand and, without a word, knelt beside you and began cleaning you up, gentle and methodical.

She started at your thighs, the towel warm and rough against your skin, and worked upward, never hurrying, never making a joke of it. She wiped the inside of your knees, then between your legs, and you shivered, not from the cold but from the sudden tenderness of it. She dabbed at your stomach, your hips, the sticky patch at the top of your thigh, and for the first time in your life you thought you might understand what it meant to be cherished.

When she was done, she tossed the towel aside, grabbed the glass, and pressed it into your hand. Then she collapsed beside you, neither of you spoke for a long time. You took a sip of water, then another, and only when your heart stopped rattling in your chest did you set the glass down and burrow into her side. She smelled like sweat and coconut shampoo and the metallic edge of her own desire. She pulled you in, absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your bare shoulder.

You put the beer down.

It has been four weeks. Four weeks since the AC Hotel, since the blaugrana you left on the floor and Argentina-cabezona-ed your way through a morning DM exchange that ended with her saying casual back to you with the kind of patient kindness that should have, frankly, scared you off the entire enterprise.

It hasn't scared her off. That's the problem.

Alexia has not gone silent. She has done the opposite of silent — she has stayed in the small periphery of your phone for a month, watching your stories within ten minutes of you posting them, reacting sparingly to things in a way that you have come to recognize as deliberately calibrated. A fire emoji on a video of you nutmegging Lavogez in training. A single red heart on a picture of you on your couch with a glass of wine and your feet up. 

She is, you have realized over the last few weeks, interested. And not even in a quiet, private way. It’s open and in your face. She asks questions, she follows it up with more questions, she offers things about herself with no prompting. 

Alexia is, and it pains you to take notice for reasons you shall not investigate, sweet. Caring and kind.

You have not reacted to anything she has posted. You have watched every story she has put up within the first hour and you know she knows. Kills you a little to know that you may react to something and she would take forever to notice because there are other thousands of people claiming her attention too. And now this. When can I see you again?

You stare at the message. You stare at the beer, sweating slow rings onto your table. Your mother would tell you to be civilized and use coasters. It is a small act of rebellion to not do it.

You think — and it is the kind of thinking that you do not have to organize — that the safe answer is I don't know. Or maybe the safe answer is to not answer at all and then, in three days, pretend you have only just seen the message.

You type:

I'll be in Barcelona next week. That work?

You hit send before you can overthink it.

You see the Read indicator land. The three dots appear immediately.

@alexiaputellas: yes. weekend?

You exhale, insecurity pressing hard inside your chest.

Friday through Tuesday. Girls trip with Lu and some friends from home. We'll be around.

You add, because something in you has to have an out:

if you're around

@alexiaputellas: I’ll be around.

A second message follows.

@alexiaputellas: text me when you get in. She sends you her phone number. Alexia Putellas phone number. You could probably sell that to your clubmates for thousands. It’s a thrill that it is just yours though.

You set the phone down face up on the table and drink the rest of it in one long swallow.

Text me when you get in. The flat assumption that of course you are going to text her when you get in, that the entire reason you mentioned the trip was so that this could be arranged, that the casual frame the two of you have agreed to the last time you talked about it is just that — a frame.

You do not text back.

You let the yes sit there and do its work.

* * *

You take the morning train to Barcelona.

Lucía is already on it when you board — she has been visiting her cousin in Vitoria and got on at the previous stop — and she waves at you from a seat by the window with three cans of beer already lined up on her tray table.

"¡Argentina! ¡Vamos!"

"It is nine in the morning."

"It is vacation."

"It is — Lu —" You sit down across from her. She slides one of the beers across to you. You stare at it.

"You drink the beer, che. We are on a trip. The trip starts when you drink the beer."

She has a point so you chug.

Lucía's three friends from her hometown are meeting you in Barcelona. You have met them before, at one of Lucía's birthday things last year — three women in their mid-twenties who all knew each other from school, all of them fun in the specific way Lucía is fun, and it’s summer so why not?

Off season for you and Lucía, rare time to have and let go.

You arrive at Sants at one in the afternoon. The other three are waiting outside the station. Lucía screams when she sees them. They scream back. There is hugging, there is kissing, there is a full minute of overlapping Spanish where you stand off to the side with your duffel bag and let the reunion happen without you. One of them — Sara, you think? Pilar? — turns to you and pulls you into a hug as if she has known you forever, which you suppose she has, by association.

"La argentina," she says, beaming. "We've missed you."

“It’’s been a minute."

"She told me you scored on Barça this year."

"That is true, actually."

"¡Ja!"

Lucía is grinning. The five of you walk to the metro.

The Airbnb in Gràcia is small, top floor, four bedrooms with one double and three singles, a tiny terrace with plants on it, the smell of someone else's laundry still in the air. You drop your bag in the single room with the smallest window because you enjoy your privacy and Lucía has already claimed the double "in case I get lucky." The other three — Sara or Pilar, and her two friends Nuria and Marta — are unpacking and mixing drinks.

"What's the plan tonight?"

"Cenamos. Then we go out. Sara found a place."

"¿Qué tipo de lugar?"

"Un sitio bueno."

You shrug because anything goes.

You shower and change. Then you find yourself sitting on the small terrace with another beer and Lucía sits down beside you with a glass of wine and you both watch the sky over Gràcia turn the kind of orange that only happens in Spanish summer.

"Che."

"Hm."

"How long has it been?”

"How long has what been what?”

She wiggles her eyebrows in that silly way that always makes you laugh and you snort into your beer. You roll your eyes, face flushing with embarassement. 

"Lu."

"I am not going to ask. I am just saying. I know it has been a while. And we are in Barcelona, che, in July, and I am very prepared to leave the key under the doormat for you if needed. That is all I am saying."

“Please stop talking.”

“This is good for your performance, che. Trust me. Do not confirm or deny. I am simply — making logistical arrangements. As your friend."

You laugh. You can't help it.

"Como amiga?”

"Sí."

"You are gross."

"I know."

She reaches over and pats your knee, twice, brisk and matter-of-fact. Then she gets up and goes back inside to find her shoes.

You sit on the terrace for another minute, alone.

You do not text Alexia yet.

* * *

Dinner is in the Born. You eat too much. Sara has theories about every restaurant in the neighborhood and explains them at length, Marta and Nuria join her. Lucía is in her element — she is louder in this group than she is at the club, looser, less professional if you can ever describe her as such. You like to watch her. You are quietly fond of all of them.

After dinner you walk to a wine bar. After the wine bar you walk to the place Sara has been advertising all night, which turns out to be a club in the Eixample with a line out the door but it’s warm outside so it’s not a big deal.

Inside it is loud and crowded and dark in the specific Spanish-club way. The music is bad. The drinks are too expensive. Lucía is delighted. Sara and her friends disappear into the crowd within ten minutes, all three of them on the prowl in different directions. Lucía and you find a small high-top table near the bar.

You order a gin tonic. Then another. You pace yourself because you don’t actually want to be drunk if you…when you —

It is around eleven-thirty when you stop being able to ignore the message you have not sent.

You glance at the clock on your phone. Ten-thirty. Alexia is a professional athlete in mid-July off-season; she is probably in her apartment doing something slow and human, watching something, reading something, not on her phone.

You think about her saying text me when you get in in a voice you remember. A little raspy, accent underneath.

You could have texted her earlier, you should have. The small semblance of control of having the decision was a little high. You are ready to let go of it for a moment.

You go to the bathroom — the kind of nightclub bathroom that is too dark and smells like old piss and has someone crying in one of the stalls. You look at yourself in the mirror. Gin tonic glaze, a small smudge of mascara, your hair behaving better than it has any right to in this humidity. You look like a woman in a bar in who is about to do something she has been pretending not to want for six weeks.

You type.

hey. in barcelona. you up

You stare at it and shudder internally. That’s just horrible

You try again.

hey. in barcelona if you are around

You hit send.

The three dots appear quicker than they have any right to appear.

Alexia: yes

Alexia: where are you?

You type name of the club which is two blocks from the Diagonal. You add, but I can come over, and you hit send before you can think about it.

Alexia: yes. come over.

Alexia: I'll send the address.

She does just like that. God, Alexia’s phone number and address. You wonder, briefly, if you wandered into some kind of parellel universe. 

You wash your hands and leave the bathroom. Need to find your friends and ditch them clear.

Lucía is at the bar with two new drinks ordered and a girl with a septum piercing leaning on the stool next to hers, mid-conversation. You touch Lucía's elbow. She turns her head and sees your face — she does not need to ask.

"¿Te vas?"

"Yeah."

She nods, very slightly. Then grins wild, like you just handed her some prize.

"Key's under the doormat," she says. Mild. "Take your time."

"Lu."

"Andá, che."

You leave a kiss on her cheek. You weave back through the crowd toward the door. Sara catches your eye across the room, mid-laugh with someone, and waves. You wave back and keep moving. You do not see Marta or Nuria. You hope they are having a good time.

You step out into the Eixample night.

The air is cooler than inside the club but still summer-warm, the kind of night where the city has decided not to go to bed yet. People are smoking on every corner. A scooter passes too close. You order an Uber and do not have to wait more then 5 minutes to climb up into a random black car.

You watch Barcelona slide past the window. The mid-summer crowds, the orange streetlamps, the open doors of bars with people spilling onto the sidewalks.

You arrive at her building in eleven minutes. It is, as expected, a fancy building in a fancy neighboorhood with a doorman who looks you up and down.

There is a private landing and a single door, and the fact of that — that she has a whole floor, a whole hush, a whole life up here above the city that watches her — sits in your chest for a second and does not sit comfortably.

You knock anyway. You are already here. What is one more reality check.

Alexia opens the door in shorts and a soft old Barcelona training top, barefoot, hair loose, and there is the smell of something warm drifting out from behind her — a candle, incense, something. Her face is bare. Her hazel eyes are exactly as you remember them, which is the problem. She is smiling.

"Hi."

"Hi."

You walk past her. The apartment is— probably belongs in a magazine of some kind. The heavy one, that sits on waiting rooms in offices you could never get in. Open plan, a kitchen out of a showroom, a long low couch. Alexia closes the door behind you and the lock clics as you turn around.

She is leaning against the door, hands in her pockets, watching you take in the space. There is no tension in her face. There is no expectancy. She looks, somehow, like she has had no one over in a long time and is glad to have someone over now — not specifically you, just someone — and it is one of the most disarming things you have ever seen on her face.

"You want a drink?"

"Sure."

Alexia moves past you into the kitchen. You follow. There are already two glasses on the marble counter, you notice, and an open bottle of red breathing beside them. She has already poured one of the glasses. 

She picks up the bottle and glances at you. "Wine?"

"Yeah."

You look around the kitchen while she pours. There's a small bowl of olives on the counter. A board with cheese on it, a couple of slices of bread, cut. Small plates stacked. The whole arrangement says I was going to eat something, you arrived, let me share. 

But you have an inkling at the bottom of your stomach that this isn’t the case at all. That she set this up for you both. 

You take the wine glass.

"Salud," she says. Quiet.

“Salud." You clink your glass with hers and take a sip.

She is watching you over the rim of her glass. The candle smell is from somewhere else in the apartment — not the kitchen, maybe the living room, maybe further back — and the kitchen light is low, and she  is gorgeous like this. Just like this, comfortable and soft. "How's the trip?"

"Good."

"Where are you staying?"

"Gràcia. Lucía rented an Airbnb."

"Mm." Small smile. "You with her tonight?"

"Her and some friends."

"Sounds fun."

"It is."

A beat. Alexia is not pushing, you are not sure she is someone who ever does it. She is asking the way someone asks when they want to know, when the asking itself is the point, when the answer is less important than the small fact of having been told.

You drink more wine.

"You eat?"

"Yeah, we ate. Big dinner."

She nods. She looks down at the cheese on the board — maybe her dinner, you realize, that you have just told her you don't need it — and she does not move it.

"How was the day off?" you ask, because something has to be said. "Did you train?"

"Light. Just gym."

"Mm."

"How's Sociedad?”

"Pre-season's still far out. Everyone's bored."

"You bored?"

"A little."

She tips her head. "What do you do when you're bored?”

You don’t think Alexia means it to be flirty, even if sounds like it is. It’s worse because you think she is interested — truly. In you, in what you actually do when you are bored and that she would file that information away. Refer to it if needed. 

You don’t know what to do with that so you do the other thing instead.

You set your wine glass down on the counter and step toward her.

She watches you do it. Her eyebrow doesn't lift, exactly, but something moves through her face — ah. here, then — and she sets her own glass down beside yours, slow, and does not look away from you while she does it.

You put a hand on her hip.

"Come here."

You kiss her, and it is faster than the last time, and you let it be. Her mouth is warm and tastes of the wine. You push up into her and she meets you exactly where you are, no faster, and you walk her two steps back into the counter until the edge of it catches her hips. You kiss her harder than you meant to. Her hand slides up into your hair.

She breaks first, for breath.

"Hola." Soft. Half a laugh in it.

"Hi."

"You don't want to—"

"No."

"Okay." She doesn't push. Her hand smooths the hair back behind your ear like she is putting something away. "Bedroom?"

"Yeah."

She walks you down the short hall and the warm smell gets stronger — it is the bedroom, of course it is — and she pushes the door with her shoulder and you follow her in and stop.

Two candles on the dresser, already burning. The light low. The bed turned down — the corner of the duvet folded back the way they do in hotels, except this is her own bed in her own apartment and she has done it with her own hands. A glass of water on the nightstand. A clean towel folded over the chair.

She did all of this in the time between yes, come over and the buzzer. Between you typing can I come now from a club bathroom that smelled of piss and her opening the door to you barefoot.

You do not let your face do anything. You are good at that, at least.

She catches it anyway — glances back over her shoulder, a little unsure, her eyes already gone dark but a faint color rising in her cheeks. "Too much?"

"It's nice."

She watches your face half a second longer.

"Ven." She says, smile soft. 

Her hand finds the hem of your shirt and tugs. A question.

You step into her.

You kiss her again, slower this time — you cannot help it — and her hands come up to your waist and lift your shirt off over your head, and you let her. You strip hers off in return.

No bra. Again.

You have thought about her chest more than you would admit to a living person. In the four weeks of watching her stories you have thought about it in training, on the train, in the shower sometimes with your hand between your legs and your jaw set against making noise. And here it is, better than the memory — small, high, perfect, the candlelight pooling under the curve of each breast and catching her nipples already tight in the warm air. Her stomach below is flat and cut, a footballer's stomach, the muscle just visible, a line of shadow down the center of it. She is stupidly, unreasonably beautiful, and she is standing in her own bedroom letting you look, and you want to put your teeth in her.

You push her back onto the bed. She goes — falls into the pillows, blonde hair spilling loose around her face, thighs parting under you without being asked — and looks up and waits.

You climb over her.

You had a plan. Quick, efficient, get your mouth on her and take her apart, stay in the half of the night where you are the one doing and nothing is being asked of you.

Her mouth is right there. You go slow anyway.

You kiss her deep and unhurried and she opens under it, and she is patient with you — even now, after you turned down her questions and walked her in here — one hand coming up to hold your jaw, kissing you back like she is hungry still. It undoes something. You break it before it can undo more.

You bite along her jaw. Down her throat, to the hollow where her pulse is slamming, and you suck there, hard enough to feel her breath catch, hard enough to mark her if you stayed — and the thought of Alexia Putellas walking into pre-season with your mouth printed on her neck makes you clench around nothing. You drag your teeth down instead. Her collarbone. The soft skin under it.

You take one perfect pink nipple into your mouth and suck, and Alexia makes a sound too close to a whine to be anything else, and her spine bows up off the pillows to push more of herself into your mouth. You give her teeth, careful, and she gasps. "Ay — joder —" You flatten your tongue over it to soothe and she shudders under you, and her hand is in your hair now, gripping, nails dragging. You move to the other one. Draw it deep into the wet heat of your mouth and work it with your tongue and she keens, actually keens, the composed woman who gives nothing away in the mixed zone falling apart under your mouth over her own tits.

You pull off with a wet sound. Her nipple is stiff and shining in the candlelight where your mouth was.

"You're loud," you tell her, mouthing at the soft curve of her breast, pampering the skin there.

"Cállate." No heat in it. Her chest is heaving. "Sigue —"

You go lower before the tenderness climbing your throat can get its hands on you. Down over her sternum, over the flat of her stomach, and you drag your open mouth across the muscle there just to feel it flex under your tongue — she is all lean hard lines under the softest skin, and you take your time with the contrast, licking a slow path down the center of her because you can, because she is letting you, because no one else gets to. You press your mouth to her hipbone and bite it, gently, and she inhales.

The line of muscle cuts down into the waistband of her shorts. You hook your fingers into it and look up the length of her — past that flat stomach, past her heaving chest — and her eyes are already black, her bottom lip caught white between her teeth.

"Por favor," she says.

Alexia Putellas is saying please to you, and you have not even taken her shorts off yet.

You take them down slow, the underwear with them, drag them off those long legs and drop them off the side of the bed, and she is bare, thighs already fallen open for you, and she is soaked. Slick shines on the inside of both thighs. She has been like this since the door — since before the door, since the kitchen, standing there mild and pouring your wine with her thighs pressed together and all of this going on underneath the calm. The understanding lands hot and low in you.

You settle between her legs. You do not put your mouth where she wants it.

You kiss the inside of one thigh instead, high up, where the skin is hot and damp and tastes of her, and you drag your tongue through the slick smeared there and she makes a low frustrated sound and her hips tilt up, chasing, trying to put herself against your mouth.

"Argentina." Strained. "Don't — don't tease.”

"I'm not doing anything," you tell her, lips still against her thigh, kissing and nipping.

"Sí, lo estás haciendo —“

You lick another slow stripe up the crease of her, close, not close enough, and her hand comes down and lands in your hair and pushes — Alexia reaching for control the way she always will, the way she leads on the pitch, trying to steer your mouth where she needs it.

You let her move you exactly one inch. Then you resist, and you look up her body, and you wait until she looks back.

"Ask properly.”

Her jaw works. You watch her fight it — the pride, the composure — and you watch her lose, because she is too wet and too far gone to win it, and it is the single hottest thing you have ever done to anyone.

"Por favor." It comes out cracked. Her fingers tighten in your hair. "Put your mouth on me. Por favor, cariño — please —“

You reward her.

You put your mouth on cunt, flat and full, one long stroke of your tongue up through her, and the taste of her floods your mouth — tangy and sharp and, the taste you have not stopped thinking about for a month — and she moans loud, almost a mewel, no dignity left, nothing held back at all.

"Dios — ay, sí —“

You find her clit and you circle it, slow, and you stay. You meant to be messy and you have gone reverent instead and you cannot make yourself stop. Her hips chase up off the bed and you press her back down with a forearm across her stomach and hold her there, take her at the pace you set, and she groans at being pinned. She tastes like more the wetter she gets. You lap at her, suck her clit soft between your lips, let it go, and every change pulls a different sound out of her — a moan, a whimper, a high cracked thing when you suck — and you are cataloguing them, greedy, wanting the whole set for yourself.

"Más — more, right there, más —" She is directing again, hips straining under your arm. "Inside, put — cariño, por favor —“

She asked nicely enough.

You bring a hand up and press two fingers to her entrance, and you sink them in, and she is hot and gripping and slick to the knuckle, opening around you like she has been waiting. You curl up into the soft front of her and her stomach goes rigid under your forearm and she cries out, sharp and high.

"Ahí — there, ahí, ahí, no pares —“

You don't. You give her exactly that — the same curl, the same rhythm, your mouth steady on her clit — and you feel her start to come apart under you. Her thighs shake at your ears. Her whole stomach draws tight. Her hand leaves your hair and skids down blind across her own belly until it finds your other hand where it pins her, and she covers it and laces her fingers through yours and presses down, hard, like she needs somewhere to put all of it.

She comes with a long cracked cry that climbs and breaks in the middle, and then the language goes — the Spanish gone with it, and what spills out of her is Catalan, fast and soft and useless to translate and you do not need a single word. Her thighs seize around your head. Her hips buck up into your mouth. Around your fingers you feel her clench and pulse, hard, again, again, riding it out on your hand.

You stay with her through all of it. Then you gentle — your tongue going soft and slow, working her down and not off, licking through her and drawing another shiver up, carefully avoiding her clit now where she has gone too sensitive to take it. You keep going a little longer than you need to just because she lets you clean her up. Her sounds go small and whiny. Her hips sink back into the bed.

You ease your fingers out — slow, one last shudder out of her — and you bring them to your mouth and taste her off your own hand, unhurried, while she watches you do it through half-lidded eyes, and something flickers across her wrecked face at the sight of it.

You press one kiss to the inside of her thigh. It is too soft and you do not let yourself look too long at what that means.

You settle half over her, your face at her throat, and her arm comes up on its own and folds around the back of your neck, holding you there. Her heart is going hard and fast against your cheek, and you lie in the wreck of her breathing and feel it, slowly, begin to come down.

Here’s the part you can’t stand. The insecurity of it being all too much, too real.

You can do the sex. You can put your mouth on her and your fingers in her and bring her to a climax that has her going loud. You cannot do this. You cannot lie against her after and be there. You do what you know how to do instead. You lift your head off her and you want her again — harder this time, and you the one doing, back in the half of this where nothing is being asked of you.

"Ale."

"Sí." Rough. Wrecked. She drags her eyes half-open.

"You have a strap?"

Something moves through her face — interest, heat, and under it a flicker of something that is almost a question but stops. She lets it go.

"Sí." Her hand smooths down your spine. "You want me to—"

"No. I'll wear it."

She holds your eyes a second. Then she tips her chin toward the nightstand. "Drawer. Top one."

You roll off her and sit up on the edge of the bed and you open it.

It is right there. The harness and the strap folded clean on top of a bottle of lube, all of it set at the very front of the drawer — where a person lying in this bed could reach it without having to lean, without having to break from whoever they were reaching for. She keeps it where she can get to it in the dark. The heat that goes through you at that has nothing to do with what is about to happen, and you shut the drawer on it.

You stand and step out of your jeans — still on, you never got them off, too fast for that — push them down, and you are in your underwear at the side of her bed with Alexia watching you. 

You turn around with the harness in your hands.

Alexia is up on her elbows, hair a wreck of blonde across the pillow, cheeks still flushed from coming, thighs loose and open, watching you with a small private smile at the corner of her mouth that lands somewhere between I'm enjoying this and I'm not going to do you the favor of being shy about it. Naked and gold in the candlelight. The most composed woman you know, spread across her own bed like she has nowhere to be.

"Come here," she says, gesturing with her hand.

You climb on. She sits up and takes the harness out of your hands and works it onto you herself — both hands at your hips, quick and sure, the small efficiency of someone who has done this, and you make yourself not think about the someone. She pulls the last strap tight. Then she runs her palm once over the front of you, the shape of you in it, considering, and leans in and presses a kiss just below your navel that makes you clench tight against nothing.

She picks up the lube.

"Let me."

She slicks you slow — the warm drag of her palm down the length of the strap, her eyes coming up to yours while she does it — and you feel it mostly secondhand, the base of it pressing against your clit each time her hand moves, and it is enough to make your breath go short. She is doing it to watch your face. You know she is.

She sets the bottle on the nightstand and rises up on her knees and kisses you, and this one is deep and slow, her tongue in your mouth, and she catches your bottom lip between hers and sucks, filthy, until your hands tighten hard on her waist.

She breaks it. Her forehead drops against yours.

"How do you want me?"

Christ. Her, of all people, handing you that.

You cannot say it out loud. You put your hands on her hips instead and turn her, firm, until her back is to you.

"Like this." Low. "That okay?"

"Sí."

She goes down without making you ask twice — onto her elbows, then lower, chest to the duvet, hips tipped up to you, that long back a single line from her shoulders to where her hips meet her thighs, littered with tattoos you know nothing about. Her hair spills forward off her shoulders and pools on the bed in front of her face. Her thighs fall open. Her ass is round and perfectly lit in the candlelight and she is presenting it to you, Alexia Putellas face-down and lifted for you to take, and the sight of it lands hot and greedy.

You put a flat hand on the small of her back. Just to feel her under your palm. She makes a small needy sound at the touch alone and you clench again around nothing.

You bring your other hand down between her thighs. Still slick, still hot, wet smeared on the inside of her thighs. You drag two fingers up through her and circle her clit, slow, and watch her shoulders flex and roll. She groans into the duvet.

"You want it?" you ask.

"Sí — por favor —"

You sink two fingers into her instead, just to feel her take them, just to make her wait one more second, and she gasps and her hips press back into your hand.

"Cariño —" muffled, strained — "basta, no juegues — give it to me—"

You ease your fingers out. You line the strap up and press the head against her.

"Breathe."

You push in — just the head, the first inch — and she is tight, tight even like this, even soft and prepped, and you go slow because she is taking her time opening around you. Her breath stutters. You hold there and watch her back.

"Okay?"

"Más." She rocks back to take more of you.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No — dame más —"

You give her more. You sink another inch, slow, and feel her stretch to take it — feel it through the base dragging against your own clit as you press, both sensations at once, her opening around you and the dull good pressure against you — and it drags a low groan up out of your chest before you can stop it.

You push the rest of the way in.

She makes a long broken sound into the duvet and her hips press back flush against yours and stay there, and you hold still, both hands gripping her hips, and you look at where you meet — the base of the strap flush to her, the whole length of you buried in her. 

Alexia Putellas bottomed out on your cock on her hands and knees — and the heat of it is not secondhand at all. It is hard and full and mean and yours.

"Joder." It comes out of you low. "Look at you."

She whines.

"Taking all of it." You drag your palm up the line of her back. "You good?"

"Sí — sí, muévete — move, por favor —"

You pull back slow, almost all the way out — the drag of it a high of its own — and push back in, and the sound she makes is wet and shapeless.

You set a rhythm. Slow at first. You watch the way she takes you — the way her back arches, the way her ass gives against your hips each time you bottom out, the way her thighs shake when you go deep. The strap is shining with lube and her, the slick of it obscene and audible in the quiet, the wet catch of every stroke when it disappears inside her. Her hair is everywhere and her shoulder blades cut and shift in the low light.

You speed up. The bed gives a faint creak under it. She is moaning steadily into the duvet now, rough groans, the sound pouring out of her without shape, and you watch the muscle work in her back and the small jump of her ass every time you drive home and your own breath is going ragged, your stomach tight, the base grinding a dull ache into your clit with every thrust — good, not enough, never going to be enough from this and you don't chase it. You pour it into her instead.

"Más fuerte —" she gets out. "Harder — cariño, harder—"

You give it to her harder. You lean forward, brace one hand flat on the bed beside her, change the angle so you are driving down into her from above, and she sobs — sharp, surprised, the sound of a woman who did not know that angle was coming — and her hand shoots back blind and grabs your thigh and holds on.

"Ahí — right there, right there, no pares —"

You don't stop. Same depth, same rhythm, and you feel her start to come apart under you, her language starting to slip — the Catalan bleeding back in, fast and raw, and she is not translating it and you are not asking her to. You watch the damp curl of hair at the back of her neck. Her shoulders start to shake.

You bring your free hand up and push two fingers into her mouth.

She takes them. Takes them — sucks immediately, hot and wet, her tongue working the pads of them, moaning around your hand, and you feel yourself get drenched at the filthy obscene fact of it, her mouth full of your fingers and her cunt full of your cock and both of them yours at once.

"That's it," you breathe. "Dios, look at you."

She moans around your fingers. You pump them slow against her tongue, in time with your hips, and she is completely gone now, wrecked at both ends, and you could keep her exactly like this for the rest of the night.

But you want to see her.

You ease your fingers out of her mouth — she makes a small lost sound at the loss — and you pull back and slip out of her, slow, and she groans, and before she can grieve it you get a hand on her hip and turn her.

"Come here. On your back."

She rolls. Boneless, easy, letting you move her — hair fanning across the pillow, chest flushed pink from her collarbones down, mouth swollen, eyes gone black and glassy and finding yours. She is obscene like this, wrecked and open and looking up at you, and for one second the looking snags at something in your chest — her face, right there, no way to avoid it now — and you shove it down and hook a hand under her thigh instead.

You lift her leg, open her up, and press back into her in one long slow stroke, and you both groan.

Face to face is deeper. She feels it — her back arches off the bed, her hands come up and grip your forearms, nails biting in.

"Ay — joder, cariño —"

"Yeah?" You start to move, driving down into her, watching her whole body take it. "That deep enough?"

"Sí — sí, sí —"

You brace one hand on her thigh, keeping her open, and bring the other down between you and find her clit, swollen and hard, and circle it in time with your hips, and she keens — high and helpless, nothing composed left in it — and her hips buck up to meet you.

Then you stop. Buried deep, hips flush to her, everything held still.

She makes a wrecked sound of protest and tries to grind up against you, and you press your hand flat to her stomach, where she is full, and hold her down.

"Tell me you want it."

"Cariño —"

"Say it." You give her one slow stroke, all the way out and all the way back in, and then still again, and watch her fall apart at the loss of the rhythm. "I want to hear you."

"I want it." Cracked. Her hands scrabble at your forearms. "Te quiero — I want it, please, no pares —"

Not enough. You start moving again, shallow and unhurried, watching her chase it, keeping it just under what she needs.

"Want what?" Low. Mean. You do not know where this version of your voice comes from — only that having her under you, made to answer, is the closest thing to control you have felt all night. "Use your words, Alexia."

Her face does something — the pride, the pitch composure, the woman who gives nothing away — and you watch it break, watch her decide she wants this more than she wants to keep it.

"I want you to fill me." It spills out of her, wrecked, all the polish stripped off, her hands clawing at your hips, digging in. "Quiero estar — I want to be full, cariño, por favor — full, like this, dame —"

The captain saying the filthy thing out loud, for you, because you made her — it goes through you like a current, and something in your chest snaps its leash.

"Puta madre." You give it to her. Hard, deep, the way she asked — and the answer punches out of you now too, your own mouth gone as filthy as hers. "That what you wanted? That full enough — Alexia Putellas begging to get stuffed—"

"Yes — sí, sí —"

"Look at you take it." You are driving into her, watching where you split her open, watching her tits jump with every thrust. "Whole city thinks they know you. Nobody gets you like this. Wide open, dripping on my cock, begging for it—"

She sobs. Her nails rake down your forearms.

"—that's mine." It leaves you before you can stop it, rawer than the rest, truer than you meant. "Tonight that's mine."

"Tuya—" she gasps, "sí, tuya, cariño —"

You cannot hold what it does to you. You bury it in her — in the drive of your hips, in your fingers circling harder at her clit — and she is climbing fast now, faster.

It builds in her thighs first — you feel them start to shake around you — then her stomach draws rigid, then she clenches hard around the strap and the base grinds sharp against you, almost, almost, and you breathe through it and keep your rhythm and do not chase it because this is hers.

"Cariño — I'm — me voy a —"

"I know. Look at me." And she does, she drags her eyes to yours, black and wet and wide open, and you hold them. "Come on, Alexia. Give it to me."

She breaks.

She comes with her eyes on yours and then losing them, head driving back into the pillow, a long cracked cry breaking into Catalan halfway through — si us plau, si us plau spilling out of her, please, please, the last word she has left — her thighs seizing around your hips, her clenching around you in hard fast pulses under your fingers, and you fuck her through every one of them, slow now, gentling your hand, watching her come apart on your cock with her surrender in Catalan and nothing at all held back.

You ride her down. You slow your hips, slow your fingers, ease her through the aftershocks until she is twitching and oversensitive and pushing weakly at your wrist.

You still. You are still buried in her, both of you breathing hard, her chest heaving, sweat at her hairline, her eyes half-shut and glassy and finding yours again.

The base of the strap is a dull unfinished ache against you. You leave it there. 

You should pull out. Find your clothes. This is the part where you go.

Instead you remember — unbidden, clear — the first time, in that hotel room: how she'd made a small unhappy sound when you'd slipped out of her too soon after, how she'd said no, wait, quédate un momento, wanting to keep you inside a little while longer, wanting to stay joined. 

You had filed it away without meaning to. You have carried it four weeks without looking at it.

You lower yourself down onto her instead of pulling back — carefully, keeping the strap seated inside her, easing your weight down until you are chest to chest, her breasts soft against yours, her heartbeat slamming through both your ribs. She exhales like something in her has been waiting for it. Her arms come up around your back, pulling you in. Her thighs stay loose around your hips.

"You want me to stay in a bit?" Your mouth is at her ear. Quiet. A kiss to the side of her head. "I remember you liked it. Before."

She goes still under you. Just for a second. Something catches in her breath that is not from the sex.

"Sí." Barely there. Her arms tighten across your back, her own lips trace your cheek, not quite a kiss. "Quédate."

Stay.

The word echoes inside your ribs, that one soft word, and you press your face into the pillow beside her head so she cannot see what it does to you. You stay. You hold still, full weight down on her now, her hands stroking slow up and down your spine, and you let her keep you there — joined, close, the tender thing you can just barely stand to give because it is still, technically, you giving it.

You bring your face into her hair. Just for a second. Just because she cannot see you doing it. You breathe her in and you do not let yourself think about how much you remembered.

* * *

You stay like that for a long minute. Long enough that her breathing goes even under you and your own follows it without asking permission.

Then she moves — slow, unhurried — easing you up off her chest, and you let her slip the strap free and you both breathe at the loss of it. She reaches down and works the harness loose at your hips, and you lift up so she can get it off you, and she sets it aside on the floor without making anything of it.

She rolls you gently onto your back.

You go before you fully understand what it means — and then she is kissing down your throat, your sternum, her blonde hair dragging warm over your ribs, her mouth headed somewhere with clear intent, and everything in you locks.

You catch her jaw.

Both hands, gentle, clumsy with how fast you moved. You lift her face up off your stomach and bring her back up the length of you until she is level with you on the pillow, and your thumb lands on her cheekbone, and you have no plan at all for what to say now that you have stopped her.

Alexia blinks at you. Her face goes uncertain in a way you have never seen on it.

"Did I —" She stops. Starts again, quieter. "Is this not — did I do something wrong?"

"No." It comes out of you fast, too fast. "God. No. Ale, no."

"Because if you don't want —"

"That's not it." You are still holding her jaw. You make your hands soften. "That's really not it."

She looks at you a moment. Then her hand comes up and covers one of yours where it's cradling her face, and she turns her mouth into your palm and kisses it, and she does not let it go.

"Then let me." Low. Simple. "I want to make you feel good too. You did — cariño, you did all that. Let me."

And there it is: the thing that scares you worse than her body. She is not being polite. She wants it — wants to be allowed to give you something — and you can hear underneath it the fact that this matters to her, that it is not an even trade she is proposing, it is a feeling she is trying to hand you.

You cannot take it. Not tonight. Not sure you could ever.

"It was enough." You brush your thumb across her cheek, because it is easier than saying anything else. "Tonight. Just — that." You tip your chin down at her, the flush still on her chest, the mess of her hair. "I like watching you like this. Getting you like this. That was the whole thing I wanted."

She searches your face. She is not convinced. But something in her decides not to make you defend it, and instead a slow crooked smile arrives.

"You just want to hear me like that," she says, shy but with a teasing to it. It makes you shiver, the lit on her voice, the pride under it.

”Maybe." You feel your face go hot. "Is that allowed?”

"Mm." She settles her cheek back into your palm, considering you. "Very selfless of you, Argentina."

"I'm a giver."

"Claramente." She's fully grinning now, that private thing at the corner of her mouth, and she leans in and kisses you — soft, nothing behind it — and it is so easy to kiss her back that you forget, for a moment, to be careful.

She tucks herself into your side.

Her head goes to your shoulder. Her arm settles across your stomach. One bare leg slides over yours, and she goes loose and heavy against your side, and your arm has come up around her back without your permission at all. Her fingers move idle on your ribs, tracing little shapes. Yours have found the ends of her hair and you are combing through them slowly, over and over, without having decided to.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

Her thumb passes back and forth over your sternum. You feel the drag of her leg settling heavier across yours. She turns her face and presses her mouth to your shoulder, absent, not a kiss so much as a resting place, and her breath goes warm against your skin. Your hand moves down her back and follows the line of her spine, up and down, learning it. The candles tick.

It is so easy. That is the whole problem. Your body has gone unguarded and it is fitting itself to hers like it has been waiting the entire night to be given permission, and the stray thought arrives, horrifying in its simplicity: you could just stay.

You go rigid.

You feel it happen from the outside — the shoulder under her cheek turning to stone, the hand on her back stopping mid-stroke — and you cannot get it back.

"Maybe I should —" It's out before you've built the rest of it. Your voice sounds wrong. "I should probably —"

She lifts her head off your shoulder.

Alexia looks at you for a second, hazel eyes clear now. Whatever she finds there, whatever passes through her football brain, she does not chase it, and she does not let you finish the sentence either.

"Hey." Quiet. Her hand flattens warm on your chest, steadying. "Shower first. With me. Before you go."

Before you go. She hands it to you exactly like that — the exit folded right into the invitation, so you don't have to be the one to reach for it. You could kiss her for that. You don't.

"Yeah." It comes out rougher than you mean. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

You sit on the bed for one more second after she crosses to the bathroom.

Your hands are tacky with lube and her. There is sweat at the back of your neck and a small ache between your hips from the harness.

The candles are still burning on the dresser and you think you should put them out, but it feels too much like a ending so you don’t.

You get up and go to the bathroom instead.

The water is already running and you stop in the bathroom doorway. Through the fogging glass you can see her — back to you, head tipped into the spray, water sheeting down her shoulders, her hair still up in its loose knot. Steam climbs the mirror and makes everything hazy like the edges of a dream — which maybe this whole night is.

She turns. Through the glass and the steam, Alexia looks at you — water on her face, lashes clumped dark, one hand flat to the tile — and she smiles, inviting.

She lifts a hand. Come.

You step in.

The spray is heavy without stinging and the heat closes over you all at once, and your shoulders drop before you can think to stop them. She takes your wrist, gentle, and draws you further under, and then she turns you — both hands at your shoulders, not asking, just moving you — until your back is to her chest and the water runs down your front. Wet skin against wet skin, a closeness that makes you gasp. Her chin comes to rest on your shoulder.

She kisses the top of it. Once. Then her hands lift away.

You hear the small click of a bottle. The squeeze of it. And then her hands are in your hair.

You go still.

Her fingers are working at your scalp, slow circles at your temples, at the base of your skull, at the crown. She does it like she has done it before — finds a tangle and works it out without pulling. Her thumb traces small careful circles behind your ears.

You stand under the water with your eyes closed and you bring a hand up, blind, behind you. You find her hip and let your palm settle there. 

Her hands keep moving in your hair. "Tilt back."

You tilt your head back. She tips it gently the rest of the way, her hand cradling the base of your skull, and she rinses your hair under the spray. The water runs white and then clear. Her fingers comb through. You feel her thumb pass once over the soft place behind your ear.

She does it deliberately. You know she does.

"Conditioner now."

“Mm." You try to remember a time when you were this relaxed and come up empty.

The click again. She works it through the lengths, lifts the weight of your hair off your neck, combs it down with her fingers all the way to the ends. Her knuckles graze the top of your spine.

"Other way," she says softly.

You turn. Now the spray hits your shoulders, and Alexia is in front of you, close, her hands coming up into your hair from the front to work the conditioner to the roots. Your hand finds her ribs without being told to. Just there. Resting.

She is concentrating — brow faintly furrowed, lower lip caught between her teeth, wholly given over to the small task of washing another person's hair. Alexia is…too much. Too good for you. 

You close your eyes so you don't have to hold that.

You hear her shift closer. Then her voice, low, right against the wet at the side of your face:

"You're so beautiful like this."

Your eyes open.

She isn't looking at you. She's looking at her own hand in your hair, like the line came out of her without permission — like she'd been thinking it and her mouth said it before she could catch it back.

There’s a small pink tint to her cheeks and it’s not from the shower. Your throat shuts as you search for words that are as honest as what she just gave you and find yourself lacking — as usual.

So you you kiss her instead.

She makes a small startled sound against your mouth. Her hands go still in your hair. Then she kisses you back — open and unhurried — and one of her hands stays cradled at your nape, conditioner-slick, fingers spreading wide. The water runs down between your bodies. Your hand stays on her ribs the whole time and does not ask for anything more.

She breaks it first. Breathes out against your mouth — half a laugh, caught off guard, the little shy sound she makes sometimes. 

“Cariño."She exhales against your mouth.

She kisses the corner of your mouth once more. Then she steps back just enough to look at you, and her palm comes up to cup the side of your face, her thumb passing once across your cheekbone, and you let her.

She turns you again — gently, both hands — and rinses the conditioner out. Combs through one more time, which is not remotely necessary and you both know it and neither of you says so.

"There."

You open your eyes. She's smiling. Her own hair is still knotted up dry at the back of her head — she has done all of you and none of herself.

You lift your hand. You bring it to the wet hair at her temple, where a few strands have come loose from the tie and stuck to her skin, and you tuck them back, clumsy, your knuckles brushing her cheek. It is the only thing you can manage. It is nowhere near enough for what she has just done to you.

She turns her face into your hand for half a second. Then she reaches past you for the soap, easy, letting you off the hook.

"Turn around. Let me get your back.” Her hand finds your hip easily.

You let her.

You realize, standing there with her palms moving warm over your shoulders and the whole day rinsing off you, that you would let this woman do almost anything to you.

Almost. Not the last thing. Not reach your heart.

When she gets to your ass, she pauses. You don’t need to turn to know she is smiling, smug and satisfied.

"You did a lot of work tonight," she comments, fingers digging in.

"Yeah?"

"Sí." She pinches your side, a tease. “Strong core."

You snort, before you can help it.

She washes you the rest of the way down. Then she turns you again, slow, and she rinses you under the spray.

Then she steps back and she finally — finally — takes her hair out of its tie and steps under the water herself. She does her own hair fast. Methodical. Like she is making up for time she did not spend on it.

You think about asking if she wants you to do hers. The thought is its own decision.

She finishes. The bathroom is full of steam and quiet. She steps out, reaches for a towel, hands you one without looking. You wrap it around yourself.

Her eyes catch yours in the mirror. You smile without meaning to and Alexia smiles back.

You think you have been played, somewhat, and that maybe the sex would have been less intimate than this.

* * *

You find your clothes on the bedroom floor and dress fast, before the candles still burning on the dresser can say anything else to you.

She comes out to the living room after you, pours two glasses of water, hands you one. You drink half of it standing up.

She folds herself onto the long low couch with her own glass, one knee bent up, hair damp and dark on her shoulders, an old t-shirt on now and nothing you can see under it. She isn't looking at you. She's scrolling something on her phone with her thumb, easy, unbothered — too casual not to be performative, but you let it be.

You sit down beside her, thighs touching, catching her attention. She puts the phone to the side.

You lean over and kiss her once more, because Alexia is that addictive.

She kisses you back, once. Then a smaller one, a peck, and she tips her forehead against yours, arms wrapping over your shoulders.

"Stay," she says. Quieter. Not asking.

You close your eyes.

"I can't."

"Argentina."

"Lu's expecting me." Technically a lie. Nobody is expecting anyone anymore. "I told her I'd—"

"It's okay." Her thumb brushes along your jaw. She breathes out against your mouth, and you feel the sigh she doesn't voice. "Hey." She lifts her forehead away. "Podés irte."

The disappointment goes across her face so fast you almost miss it. Almost.

Then she smiles, small and real, and lets you off the hook for the second time tonight.

"Okay," you say.

You both stand.

You walk to the door together and she leans a shoulder against the frame beside it, arms loose, close enough that you can still feel the warmth coming off her. She waits. She is very good at waiting. It has been the whole problem from the beginning.

And you should say thank you, or goodnight, or I'll text you, or anything honest. Instead you hear your own voice come out light and easy and awful:

"This is — this is casual, right? We're on the same page?"

Her head tips.

Alexia looks at you for a long second. And you watch it happen — you watch her face close, the warmth going out of it, everything folding back behind the composed mild nothing she wears in public after a loss, or even a bad game. You have never had that face turned on you. You did that.

Then she pushes off the frame and steps away without a word. She walks down the hall to the bedroom and you hear a drawer slide open, and then she comes back into the hallway holding the blaugrana.

The same shirt. From the hotel. Washed and folded into a neat square.

She presses it gently against your chest.

You catch it on instinct, both hands.

"Sí." Steady. Her eyes on yours and nothing moving in her face at all. "Casual, Argentina."

"Right." Your voice comes out wrong. "Okay. Cool."

"Buen viaje."

You leave.

You don't quite notice how long the Uber takes to drive you back, just that it does.

You sit in the back with the blaugrana folded on your lap and your hand flat on top of it. You watch Barcelona pass the window and you almost convince yourself that you came out of it unscathed.

When the driver pulls up to the Airbnb, the key is under the doormat, as promised. The apartment is dark and silent when you let yourself in.

You pad to your single room with the blaugrana and sit down on the bed, putting it on the pillow beside you.

You bend over and put your face in your hands for a second. You get up because you can't stand yourself right now: your skin, cleaned by her, touched by her so tenderly, so carefully. You did not deserve it.

You cross the hallway and peek into Lucía's double, and she is alone in it. You slip in without a sound and curl up at her side. She opens her eyes slowly, bleary.

"Back from your little adventure, che?" she whispers, voice rough, pulling your arm over her side until you are spooning. "Didn't want to sleep over?"

"Hm, missed you too much." You let her pull you, teasing in your voice. It's easy with Lu; it's easy with lots of girls, because they don't matter as much as Alexia. "Didn't get lucky, Lu?"

"What do you mean?" she mumbles, already drifting off. "I've got a pretty thing in my bed right now."

And you let her soft snores lull you to sleep. * * *

You wake up in Lucía's bed with the light already high and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, and you lie there a while, and you already know how the rest of it goes. 

You will hook up with Alexia three of the four nights you have left in the city. You will fuck her. She will fuck you. You will not sleep over on any of those nights either.

The last night you will be at the club, drinking more than usual because it is the last night and everyone will be looser for it, and Sara — or Nuria, you won't even remember which — will tease you about your mystery Barcelona girlfriend, and something in you will come loose. Your chest will go tighter and tighter until you can't breathe around it. You will drink too much. You will kiss a random girl who looks nothing like Alexia, which is exactly entire point. You will wake up the next day with the worst taste in your mouth, still smelling of club and smoke and the cheap perfume of the girl you pressed into a bathroom stall.

Alexia will have texted.

you're not coming over tonight, cariño?

And then, later, smaller:

are you ok?

It will make you feel like shit, which, to be fair, matches the hangover. You will have earned every part of it.

You will text back and apologize. drank too much, lost track of time, you know how it goes.

She will answer that it's fine. That she was just worried.

Worried about you. Imagine that. Alexia Putellas, awake at two in the morning, worried about mediocre little you.

You will leave Barcelona telling yourself you are going to make it right. This season you are going to make all of it right with her.

Then Manchester City will come calling, and they will want you.

You. The insanity of it. The best moment of your career — and no Champions League, no group stage, no chance of ever drawing Barcelona — and you will think about Alexia. Briefly. Stupidly. While you are already saying yes, while you are already going.

You need it on the record that you thought about her.

People, as you had come to realise, all shared the same contradiction: humans were social creatures, dependent on one another to survive, and yet always eager to dissociate themselves from the group at the first opportunity. To be different. And not only that, but better.

You often wondered why this type of trait was chosen by evolution. What kind of survival value could it possibly offer?

The pitch was a good place for those kinds of thoughts, and, if you were feeling ambitious enough, you could drift into sociological questions too. Did people shape sports, or did sports shape people? Was football influenced by politics, or had football itself become political? You could think of at least five examples where the latter was true.

As it was clear, your mind was absolutely everywhere but on the ball at your feet, and not because the game was easy that you, as one of the defenders, were simply chilling beside Cata in the box. Quite the opposite, actually. Turns out, the discomfort you had experienced on the bus still clung stubbornly to your skin, and what made you feel better when you were mentally tired? Thinking. As controversial as it sounded.

Thinking was, admittedly, becoming a problem. A big one.

Maybe you should learn other ways to keep your mind grounded, preferably ones that don't risk losing your team a match.

It happened at the exact mark of 80 minutes, the big screen was shining bright with the number just as a brunette girl from Sevilla broke through the midfield with great acceleration that you did not remember seeing during analysis, despite having spent days studying her movements.

As both disastrous and splendid things in football , it all happened in the space of mere seconds. The girl's run wasn't catastrophic by any means; she didn't bring anyone down, the team was simply in a bad position, leaving great gaps, one of those gaps being you.

The striker made her run past Patri and Ona, and you read her heading in your direction. You saw it coming, and you also took the time to analyse the rotation of her foot to see whether she was setting up to shoot or not. Your body had learned to speak the language of the game before your brain could fully take in the afferent information and convert it into signals down your spine. Maybe that's why your movement was a bit clumsy, perhaps a bit careless, too.

The girl was faster than the tapes suggested; she was also faster right now than what she had been in the first half. You moved, of course you did, but it wasn't enough because you were a few meters out of place, and that mere gap was all she needed.

The ball went in, and the fans at the stadium all roared in unison. It was always a good sensation for the home team to score; right now, you hated their happiness and how it meant that you had failed.

You stood exactly where you were, your boots glued to the patch of yellowish, dry grass, staring at the empty space on the turf where you were supposed to be. Cata spat on the grass before slamming her gloves into the pitch. But milliseconds later, she was already up, already resetting, clapping her hands for the team, shouting that there was still time to turn the score around. She yelled your name, telling you to do something, but you barely registered her words. Then, her eyes moved, looking right over your shoulder, and you knew someone was approaching.

Around you, the game was reassembling itself (or trying to). Sevilla was still celebrating, taking advantage of a referee who was giving them too much time. Most of your teammates were going back into position. You could hear Pere's voice from the sideline in the tone you'd learned to recognise as controlled disappointment. Well… he was not the only one disappointed.

Then Alexia was beside you.

She hadn't run to get to you; you hadn't even seen her move. She was just suddenly there, appearing in your peripheral vision without any kind of warning. Her voice, when it came, was low, controlled, and (painfully) professional. You hated that tone on her; she was too soft to be throwing such cold words at you.

"Adjust your line," she snapped. She wasn't even looking at you; her lips were curled and her eyebrows drawn together. "You have been sitting way too deep since halftime. I've been shouting at you to get back into position, but it's like you decided to tune me out completely."

You hadn't listened to her; that much was entirely your fault. You had been too busy thinking about football and politics. You felt your cheek turn red in shame.

"She had all that space because you handed it to her on a plate," She continued in the same tone. "You're more disciplined than that. Do better."

Alexia wasn't screaming the words at you, but there was an edge in her voice that just usually wasn't there at all.

Your teammates, watching from a few meters away, would have taken it for nothing more than a captain making a tactical correction, but you were far too familiar with her cadence. You had spent months learning every gradient of it: the version she used in interviews and press conferences, the one in team meetings, the one that came out soft and private in the dark of her room. This was the version she used when her competitive side took over, and she decided that cold efficiency was the best response. It was a version she had never once used on you until now.

You were ready to argue, not against her but with her, because she was right, after all. But Alexia didn't give you a single second to reply; her words kept shooting from her mouth so fast she barely stopped to draw breath.

"You have been half a step behind the entire second half," she cut in, each word carefully enunciated, determined to make sure it landed. "I could see it from midfield. You were a step behind the whole time, and you didn't even bother to adjust!"

"We specifically talked about their number fourteen," she went on, stepping closer to you. "We spent days on the tape. We even said–"

"I know what we said."

"Well, it clearly didn't stick, did it?"

She didn't wait for you to answer. She was already turning her back on you to get back into position.

You could have pointed out that Ona had been slow to close her down as well, that the gap left wasn't entirely on you. But the thought didn't take root. Alexia was right, and looking for someone to share the blame with felt worse than the goal itself.

A few seconds later, you felt a warm hand settle on your shoulder, making you realise just how tight your trapezius muscles had been.

"Just take a deep breath, tía," Cata said, looking at you with a mix of pity and sympathy.

Maybe Alexia's reaction wasn't as private as you had thought. You realised Patri was looking at you too, her eyes darting between you and Alexia. She looked at you with sympathy, and at Alexia with a quiet reprimand, though you knew Patri wouldn't actually say anything to her, not right now at least. You hoped she wouldn't. In the end, Alexia was right.

You nodded at Cata, forced a small smile, reset your position and said nothing else. A sudden surge of bittersweet relief washed over you, and that was the strange thing. It was as though your subconscious had been waiting for this exact moment. A hidden part of you had been waiting for Alexia to finally see you get something wrong.

She had been watching you for months with that kind of attention that felt like belief, and belief, in your experience, had a habit of expiring. She had always looked at you as if searching for the good and finding it; even if you showed her the flawed parts of you, the bad and the ugly, she brushed them aside as if dismissing the sight with a shooing motion of her hand, wanting to see only the best in you.

But now? Now she had seen you fail. And thank god she had. She was mad, disappointed, and you couldn't help but feel like it had taken her long enough. You were glad she had seen it, and hated yourself for feeling that way. You were the reason your team was behind, the reason Cata lost a clean sheet. The reason, you would soon find out, that you lost.

You played the rest of the game with focus and precision. Every ball that came near you was met with a good, clean first touch. You closed down every striker. You had been half a meter too slow once, and your body made sure it wouldn't happen again.

And it didn't happen again, but it didn't matter, because the final whistle blew and the scoreboard was still one-nil. Alexia was already walking toward the tunnel before you even had a chance to look for her. You stood on the pitch a moment longer than necessary, sitting with the bitterness of defeat, letting it rest deep in your bones.

Maybe if you let yourself remember exactly how this felt, you would never make that mistake again.

You watched the tunnel Alexia had just disappeared into. She always waited to walk into the tunnel with you. She didn't this time; she disappeared into the dark without looking back, and you weren't sure if that was meant to sting or not. You weren't sure it mattered.

A hand came down on your shoulder, making you lose your balance slightly. It was Cata again; she stepped beside you, her white gloves tucked beneath her left arm.

"Come on, amiga," she murmured. "Let's go to the locker room. Yeah?"

You nodded, but let her walk ahead. As you finally turned towards the tunnel, a Sevilla player, Laura, approached you. You had played together for a few months back in Manchester; you weren't exactly friends back then, but it was nice to see a familiar face.

"Good game, Y/n," Laura smiled, her cheeks still a deep pink from all the running.

"Yeah… it could be better for us, though," you gave her a sad smile and patted her on the arm. "But you were very good. I bet you gave Kika a good headache."

You left after making empty promises of meeting for coffee once the season schedule allowed. Near the entrance of the tunnel, Patri was leaning against the plastic wall. Her chocolate eyes caught you as you approached; she took a step in to meet you.

"I don't know what Ale said to you back there," Patri started, her eyes everywhere but on you, "but don't read too much into it, okay?"

You tilted your head slightly, your defensive instinct flaring up. You were feeling oddly cornered, though you were careful not to let it show on your face.

"Alexia was right about every word she said," you replied simply.

"That's not what I mean," Patri muttered. "She's impossible after we lose, give her a few hours–"

"She doesn't need a few hours," you interrupted. "She has every right to be angry right now."

Patri tilted her head in return, studying you for a moment. "You are upset," she said, reading right through you. You hated it. "Come here–" she stepped closer, but you took a step back.

"It's okay. I'm okay. I-I just messed it up," you continued before she could speak or move any closer. "It's expected of Alexia to be mad. She's the captain. So if a player switches off and it costs us a goal, she's supposed to call them out, hold people accountable."

Patri sighed and clicked her tongue. "I'm not saying she shouldn't have corrected you. What I am saying is that it sounds like you are treating one mistake as if it rewrites the whole season."

"It did rewrite the whole season, though," you said quietly, furrowing your eyebrows in annoyance. "Now we need to beat Real Madrid if we want any breathing room! If we thought the next game against Valencia would be easy... well, now it's all ruined! We are going to have to--"

"We can lose three consecutive games and still be at the top," Patri said, deadpan. "You and Alexia… you've got this little miss-perfect thing going on. Mistakes happen. It's normal. It's just part of the game. Now take a breath and move on."

"I know it's part of the game. And I'm not Miss Perfect. I never said I was," you said, any ambition of not sounding defensive crumbling right at your feet. "I get stuff wrong all the time. Today it just happened to cost us points."

"Yeah… and that's completely okay. No need to beat yourself up over it," Patri said in a shrug. "You shouldn't be this upset. The loss is not on you. You were good... You are good. Maybe there was a small mistake, but I'm sure it won't happen again."

You stopped, looking at Patri as if she were speaking in an alien language. You gestured around, at the dark tunnel, at the scoreboard still shining, at the way the staff were all quietly packing up the equipment.

"It's clearly not okay," You said, completely ignoring everything else Patri had said. "We lost."

"Losing isn't the end of the world," Patri said softly in the same voice she used on the younger players. Great, now she was going to think you were childish.

"It is for me." You frowned, looking down. "

Patri shook her head, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she clicked her tongue once more. "Tsk, tsk. You and Alexia," she said, stepping toward the locker room door. "Cut from the exact same cloth, huh?"

"We're not–"

"Yes, you are," she cut you off "Awfully competitive. Even worse at forgiving yourselves."

You felt a slight surge of annoyance. "Did you give this whole speech to Alexia, too? Or did you reserve it strictly for me?"

Patri smirked, her hand already reaching for the old door handle. "Oh, I wasn't nearly as gentle with Alexia as I was with you."

She pushed the locker room door and walked inside, leaving you standing alone in the hallway for a minute too long.

You stood outside for a few minutes. Taking some deep breaths. Trying to ignore how it stung when Alexia shouted and when she left the pitch alone. You tried to ignore how you felt like an awful player.

Did you even deserve to be in a club like Barcelona?

Of one thing you were sure: Patri was one good co-captain.

The locker room was quiet; the girls were all unusually careful around one another. The room wasn't completely silent per se. There were still familiar sounds here and there: boots being dropped onto the white, dusty, concrete floor, someone's phone buzzing incessantly against a wooden bench, Maria, one of the staff members, talking on the phone outside. But all the conversations that existed were held in a very low voice.

Pere said what he needed to say, which wasn't much, and left almost immediately after. You thought it was a bit rude of him to leave like that, but deep down you knew it was the right call. It was better to be absent than risk losing his head. The players, or more specifically you, were already beating themselves up enough; no need for external help to do that.

Patri and Alexia were standing near the far corner of the room. They were talking rapidly and in a low tone, their heads bent close together, and their body language was rigid. Alexia stood with her arms crossed, her lips in a slight pout, while Patri was doing most of the talking; she was gesturing a lot, as she always did. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but the sight alone told you everything you needed to know: clearly Patri was finishing the conversation she had started in the tunnel.

Vicky chose that exact moment to start playing an upbeat Beyoncé song from her phone. The music lasted approximately fifteen seconds before both Alexia and Patri turned to her.

"Now it's not the time, Vicky," they said in terrifying synchrony, shooting the kid a look that could terrify anyone.

"Vale, vale," Vicky grimaced, hitting the pause button. "Perdón! It's not like I was throwing confetti around! Chill out! I just wanted to end this funeral mood we're all in."

"Clearly it was a bad choice," Clara muttered at her side, a pout on her face. She looked more sad because of the song's interruption than because of the defeat itself.

You, meanwhile, were sitting in front of the locker with your boots still on. They were too tight, you realised, digging into your foot, and you knew you should loosen up the laces, but you didn't. Maybe you deserved to feel this bit of discomfort.

Before you could let yourself go with your thoughts, Kika stepped right beside you on the bench. She looked down at you, wearing that characteristic mix of kindness and mischief you could only ever find in her face.

"I know you've got some deep emotional issues going on when it comes to affection," Kika said, wrapping her arm around your shoulders into a side hug, "but I'm going to hug you anyway. I think you need it, sim?"

You smiled and didn't push her away, choosing to lean into the hug and welcome the pressure of her arms. You even allowed yourself to rest your head against her side. "Do I look that bad that you thought I needed a pity hug?"

"Pity hug?" Kika gasped dramatically, squeezing your shoulders again. "Excuse you? This is a comforting hug. Preventive maintenance, if you want to call it."

"So… I look like I need preventative maintenance?"

"Yes, you look pretty bad," Kika said without missing a beat. "Mostly because you've been letting me hug you for more than two seconds. That's… deeply concerning."

"Thank you."

"For the hug?" she asked, looking down at you.

"No," you said. "For humbling me."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. You were glad you could make someone laugh today.

You were, although, even happier that the joke had shifted the focus away from your actual feelings. You didn't like that kind of attention on you; you didn't like that Kika had picked up on just how deeply the loss had affected you.

"Patri told me you weren't feeling your best," Kika said. "So I came to rescue you."

"Oh, you're working with a sad footballer in your free time, I see?" you teased her.

"Oh, shut up," Kika smiled. "I'm trying to be nice."

But the playfulness slipped from Kika's face a moment later. You looked up at her, and she (very subtly) tilted her chin towards the other side of the room. Your eyes followed her gaze, landing on Alexia, who was looking right at the two of you.

Alexia's face tightened, her whole jaw locking almost imperceptibly. Then, as if just suddenly realising she had been caught staring, she looked away and forced her attention back to Patri.

Patri, also not subtly at all, raised her eyebrows at Alexia before looking at you and Kika. She tilted her head, as if she was a cat analysing if she could squeeze in a small cardboard box or not, before turning back to Alexia with a terrifying knowing smirk.

Then, as if nothing had happened, the two of them resumed talking.

Kika cleared her throat at your side, a playful smirk on her lips "I don't think Capi liked me hugging her favourite full-back."

You tried to fight the pink tinting your cheeks, but it was a lost battle. "Shut up," you murmured embarrassedly. "Don't go around starting rumours."

Kika leaned in, her voice conspiratorial. "We don't need to start anything; you two give us more than enough evidence on your own."

Alexia chose that moment to step toward the centre of the room, bringing all the attention to her.

Kika stepped to the side and watched Alexia, not with her mischievous expression, but with the expression of someone ready to listen to their captain.

"Alright, let's gather up," Alexia called out. "Let's talk about the game."

Naturally, all the girls stopped what they were doing. Irene put her phone away, Marta and Caro halted their conversation in the far corner of the room, and all the younger kids immediately paid attention to the place Alexia stood.

Whenever a defeat could be traced back to one obvious mistake, something that could be pinned on a single moment or a single player, Alexia had a way of addressing it that made the person not feel bad, or, better yet, a way that kept the person from drowning in guilt. She never pretended it hadn't happened, and she never sugar-coated it either. Alexia just said a few words that made the weight of the mistake get distributed across the team rather than left crushing a single pair of shoulders.

Today, for the first time, you were that player. The one who got it wrong. The one responsible for the awful atmosphere in the locker room.

You kept your eyes on your boots when Alexia started speaking. She went on to talk about the second half, about the adjustments that hadn't come, and about how she could have done something about it from the midfield – because Alexia had a habit of taking responsibility for things that didn't belong to her alone. Maybe you two shared that habit; Alexia just carried it with a lot more grace than you ever managed.

Alexia's voice was even and measured; she spoke with certainty, so as not to let anyone misinterpret her true intent. She was always so, so careful with words. Not with you, though, not when you were alone. Not when you shared a mattress with her.

You listened to her without really absorbing the words; you were only half there, too busy letting the guilt eat you alive.

You should have done better.

You should have done better.

Be better.

By the time the voice in your head had quieted a bit, Alexia had stopped talking, forcing you to look up at her frame.

When you did, you saw her looking around the room: Ona sitting with her head down, Aicha staring blankly at the wall, and the three or four players whose minds were somewhere else entirely.

The attentiveness Alexia had needed from them wasn't there. She rolled her eyes, and despite yourself, your mind insisted on supplying the adjective beautiful to them. She then made the (wise) decision to stop pushing against something the team wasn't ready to receive yet. Maybe the loss was too fresh.

You chuckled to yourself.

You could see her mind turning as she tried to solve this locker room issue. Not knowing how to handle a loss was a problem only a few clubs had to endure. Was Alexia thinking of suggesting mandatory psychological sessions for everyone in the team? It would be a ridiculously Alexia thing to do. But maybe mandatory therapy was not a very smart move. People had to want to talk, right?

Back in the reality of the locker room, Alexia let out a puff of air.

"… Let's just get some rest for tonight," she said, her shoulders dropping slightly. She was tired and didn't want to hide it anymore. "It's clear our heads aren't in the right place. We'll look at the tape tomorrow, when we are rested and feeling like ourselves again."

You nodded automatically, and only then did you realise Alexia was still looking at you. Her eyes stayed on you for a second too long, and that was it.

You looked back at your boots. The room began to loosen after that. People started moving, undressing, the sound of the showers multiplying minute by minute. Patri was having a conversation with Pajor while Vicky peeled off her kit, murmuring about how damp it was and how maddening it was to wash a kit when you hadn't won. You could sympathise with that, but truly, defenders' kit got dirty no matter how the game went. You were well used to being covered in dirt, and grass and other people's sweat,

On a normal day you had a system for changing in the locker room: you found small reasons to delay, waiting until the room had thinned out enough that no one was left – no one except Alexia. It was a system that worked, mostly. Alexia knew about it, and sometimes she stayed, almost to provide cover.

But today Alexia was on the other side of the room, her back turned to you, and you found yourself wondering if the usual arrangement still applied.

You couldn't imagine Alexia wanted to deal with you any longer than necessary, and the last thing you wanted was to give her another reason to be frustrated with you. So you simply picked up your bag and left the locker room quietly, not really wanting to bring attention to yourself or to the reason why you were sneaking out.

The corridor outside was empty, and the one beyond it was too. You followed the signposts along dirty walls towards the bathrooms until the signs stopped making sense altogether, ending up in a part of the stadium that smelled like old paint, a place clearly not designed with visiting teams (or anyone, really) in mind.

You found a single-stall bathroom behind a door that required some physical force to open, then you changed quickly and spent a lot of minutes trying to find your way back. And by a lot, you meant a lot. The stadium was bigger than it had looked from the pitch.

You needed to go back to the locker room, but it felt like you were trapped in the minotaur's labyrinth.

You took one wrong corridor, and then another, and by the time you found the right one, your phone showed four missed messages from the team group chat about the bus. Kika had asked where you were; Vicky had tagged you in the messages saying everyone was just waiting on you. You sighed; you were already calculating how many minutes behind schedule you had pushed everyone.

The locker room was almost empty when you (finally) made it back. The showers had stopped running, and the room was a "clean mess", showing that people had been there moments prior. You thought you wouldn't find anyone still in there – you had only come back to take the water bottle you had left behind, but Alexia was sitting on the bench.

She was already showered and changed; her hair was wet, and her game bag was at her feet. She was looking at her phone, but she looked up the moment you came through the door, and your stomach dropped. The expression on her face was not the one you had been bracing for.

It wasn't cold, nor was it the detached expression she had worn while addressing the team. It looked more like relief, but beneath it you could feel the edge of anger that only came from worrying too much.

She snapped your name. "Where the fuck were you?"

You halted, your mouth parting in a surprise "o". "I went to find somewhere to change–"

She stared at you. "It's been thirty minutes."

"I know, I'm sorry." You crossed to your locker, keeping your voice even. "The stadium is... huge..I took a wrong turn, ended up in the wrong section, and I couldn't find my way back."

"You were wandering around a stadium you don't know," she said. "Alone."

"I wasn't wandering, I just—"

"For thirty minutes."

"Alexia." You turned to face her. I didn't mean to disappear. I just went out to change."

"Without telling anyone?" she pressed. "Without telling me?"

You clenched your hands. "Do I need to ask you for permission for every step I take? I'm fine."

"I know you're fine now", she snapped again. It dawned on you then that she must have been sitting here, staring at the door, waiting for you to come back. No shit she was mad. "But I didn't know that for the last thirty minutes because I didn't know where you were!"

"I'm just saying–" she continued, running a hand through her hair. "--that maybe next time you don't disappear for half an hour in a stadium you've never been to! Just… just tell someone where you're going!"

"I didn't think anyone would notice," you said. You meant it practically, logistically, but the words landed differently than you intended. "It was supposed to be quick."

Alexia let out a humourless laugh. "Well, I noticed," Alexia snapped then, taking a step toward you. "I notice everything when it comes to you, as pathetic as it sounds. Just like I noticed you being very comfortable letting Kika hug you!"

You blinked, completely thrown off by the shift of the conversation. "...what?"

"You had no issues letting her touch you," she said, her voice filled with frustration. "You let her hug you; you even leaned into it, but with me? You put up this entire wall the second we are around other people."

You stared at her, your mouth hanging open. "Alexia, what on earth does Kika hugging me have to do with me taking thirty minutes to change?"

"It has nothing to do with it," she blurted out, her cheeks flushing red.

Alexia looked angry, not just at you, but at herself for letting the words slip out. Alexia was usually the emotionally mature one between the two of you, but it seemed like you had a terrifying talent for reducing her to a jealous, flustered teenager.

"Kika gave me a side hug because I was upset. I was upset because you yelled at me," you said. "And that was it! You know we are just friends. You know I like you."

"Y-You just don't talk to me the way you talk to her!"

"Now you are being ridiculous," you said. "You are the person I've opened up to more than anyone in my whole life, and you know that! I've told you that! Me and Kika are friends–"

"And what are you and I?" Alexia cut in, her eyes burning. "We're not far from that either, are we?"

The words hit you like a slap to the face. Now you were angry, too.

"I don't know, Alexia," you said sarcastically, being as dense as her. "Are we? After everything we've talked about these last few days, do you honestly think we are just friends?"

Alexia looked at you, her neck red. Her bottom lip was out, and you could see she was fighting not to cry.

You took a deep breath. "Ale, I don't understand where this is coming from. I don't understand why you are feeling this way."

"Have you ever considered, just for a second, that you don't have to understand everything? Every feeling?" Alexia practically groaned, running her hand through her face out of pure frustration. "Have you ever thought that feelings can be valid even if you don't understand them?! Yo-you are so frustrating! You analyse everything. Why can't you just feel?"

Her words were a knife to an open wound.

"Not everyone is like you, you know?" she continued. "Not everyone can just… bury things over and over again until they disappear, or push stuff down until they convince themselves it's not there anymore!! Some people suffocate if they don't express how they are feeling."

"I am trying," you said, feeling your own throat tighten. "We talked this morning. You told me I have to decide what I want when it comes to you. We literally just had that conversation; now we're suddenly here having a full-blown fight about feelings? I never say anything about you not expressing how you feel! Why are we having this talk?!"

"Because you are doing it again!" Alexia shot back, her voice cracking a bit, but quickly recomposed herself. "This morning I asked you to figure out what you want, and the very first difficult thing that happens, you disappear? You just lock yourself away, run off and don't tell me! You act like I'm the last person you want to be near when you are upset, and that's not how this is supposed to work! If you were upset about the loss, I could have comforted you! Talked to you! But you disappeared!"

"I didn't want to be near you because I thought you were mad at me!" You stood up from the bench, anger and hurt all flaring up at once. "I-I thought you didn't like me anymore."

Alexia stared at you, looking completely thrown off. "And where the fuck did you get that from!?"

"You always wait for me to walk back into the tunnel! An-and today you didn't!" you blurted out, suddenly feeling ridiculous for being upset about that. "After I messed up the game, I just thought you were furious with me. That I was the reason we lost, and you simply didn't want to be anywhere near me anymore.

Alexia groaned.

"I was upset, okay?" her tone softened, the anger slowly dissolving. "I shouldn't have shouted on the pitch, and I should have waited for you. I was just angry about the match. But of course I wanted to be with you. Or what, do you think I only like you because you are some flawless player?"

"I just thought that… if you saw another flaw, you wouldn't want to be with me anymore."

Alexia sighed, looking at you with both exhaustion and tenderness. "Déu meu, we are both so fucked up in the head," she murmured.

"Well, yeah," you muttered.

There was a moment of silence before Alexia spoke.

"I do notice when you're not there."

You looked at her side and watched her speak.

"I-I was upset you left without telling me. We are always the last ones to leave the locker room, but when I got back from the shower, Vicky told me she had seen you leaving with your bag."

You didn't say anything.

"I admit," she continued softly. "Maybe I blew things out of proportion… You don't have to tell me every step you take. I-I just like this little… ritual of ours, and I was upset. I think I'm a little, mhm, sensitive today."

"Well, I'm sorry I left without saying anything," you said. "It wouldn't have hurt to give you a heads up if I really just wanted to change alone. I know I'd be a bit nervous if you were nowhere to be found and your phone had no signal."

"You would?" she asked quickly, her eyes snapping to yours.

You chose your words very carefully, hoping she would understand the weight behind them.

"Of course, baby."

Alexia looked at you before turning to her lap. "...I was jealous of Kika."

A small laugh escaped your mouth before you could stop it. "I noticed. You don't have to be jealous of Kika, you know."

"I know that," she mumbled, her lips forming a subtle pout as she looked away.

You decided not to push her on it.

"I'm sorry I called you frustrating," Alexia added, playing with her fingers. "You're not."

"You don't have to apologise for telling the truth."

Alexia tilted her head. "I wasn't telling the truth."

"I know I'm frustrating," you said softly. "I know I analyse everything so I don't have to sit with how I feel. I'm sorry that hurts you."

"You don't have to apologise for being who you are," Alexia countered immediately.

"Even when the way I am keeps hurting you?"

Alexia let out a long sigh. "No, it's not like that. We are just different people who deal with things differently. It just takes us a little bit of work to meet in the middle, that's all."

You shrugged. Deep down, you still thought you were annoying and frustrating, but didn't have the energy to argue with her any further.

"Did you really think I wouldn't want to be with you just because of a loss?" Alexia's voice came soft into your ears.

Now that the worst of the emotions had settled, it sounded a little ridiculous when spoken aloud. Even though, yeah, you had feelings exactly like that. "Yes. It cost us three points... and you were angry."

"That had nothing to do with how I feel about you," she said firmly.

You sat there listening. You knew it, of course you did, but hearing it and actually understanding were two things very differently. It was like when people tell you that everyone deserved self-compassion: the idea made perfect sense, but applying that same grace to yourself felt unnatural, not right.

"I know," you murmured.

Alexia studied your face. "Do you, torito?"

Before you could create another (logical) defence, Alexia stood up from the bench and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm going to the bus, yeah?" she said.

"Okay."

A/n: Come talk to me about the chapter!! I love talking about the character hehe!! I'm sorry for any mistakes; I'm running on 4 hours of sleep <3 Personally, I think their relationship will somehow go smoothly from here? I think they both needed to have this conversation so they can understand they have different ways of seeing relationships and people, etc!!

Unfortunately, I act just like reader <3

You and Alexia haven't spoken in two days.

Well that isn't entirely true. You have exchanged good morning texts both days - hers arriving first on Thursday, yours first on Friday. Each message is careful and painfully brief, saying just enough to reassure the other that neither of you has disappeared while saying far too little to acknowledge everything still sitting unresolved between you. You have sent goodnights too, each one lingering unanswered for several minutes before the other responds. The small typing bubble appears and disappears once, sometimes twice, like one of you keeps beginning to write something honest before losing courage and deleting it again.

Good night and nothing else. From either of you.

It is like you have become two people who have run out of words but cannot quite bring themselves to stop reaching for each other, passing the same fragile thread back and forth across the silence simply to make sure neither of you has let go first.

So no, it isn’t complete silence.

It is something worse. It is the particular kind of silence that still contains evidence of how much you care, where every carefully restrained message feels heavier than no message at all because you know exactly what is missing.

She is probably fine.

That is the thought that has been quietly destroying you for forty-eight hours.

Alexia is someone who can feel things with her whole self. You've watched her do it. The way grief or frustration or joy moves through her without apology and then, with the practiced ease of someone who has spent her entire life performing at the highest level regardless of what is happening beneath the surface, she moves forward. Athletes develop that ability the way lawyers develop the ability to argue positions they don't personally hold, through necessity and repetition, until it becomes reflex. 

She probably cried in the car on the way home Wednesday night, or maybe she didn't even do that. Maybe she just turned the music up and drove and let the city blur past the windows until the feeling became manageable. Then she went to training on Thursday and was brilliant, because she is always brilliant, and her teammates made her laugh about something in the dressing room and the sadness of the night before gradually softened into something she could carry without it showing.

She is probably at the stadium right now, or in some team meeting, or laughing at something one of the younger players has said. She is probably exactly as composed and beautiful and infuriatingly fine as she always is.

You, meanwhile, have not left your bed.

Thursday you call in sick. You have never once called in sick in four years of practicing law, not through head colds or migraines or the spectacular food poisoning incident of last March. You have a near-perfect attendance record, a reputation for arriving early and leaving late, and treating personal inconvenience as something that happens to other, less disciplined people.

On Thursday morning you stare at your phone for ten minutes and then call your assistant and tell her you won't be in. When you hang up you put the phone face-down on the nightstand and pull the duvet over your head.

You don't sleep. You just lie in the dark that you've made for yourself and listen to the sounds of the city outside your window for hours. You think about the way she looked when she said what the hell are we even doing. You think about the tears she refused to let fall, the careful steadiness of her voice, the way she'd kissed your cheek at the door like she was trying to leave you with something gentle to hold onto after she was gone.

You wonder whether you should have agreed to the match. You wonder whether she should have understood. You wonder whether Sunday is still happening, whether we’ll talk then means fixing things or ending them, whether the two of you had ever actually been together enough for her to end anything in the first place.

By Friday morning you have had enough of yourself.

You drag yourself upright by sheer force of will, shower, dress, put on enough makeup to cover the puffiness under your eyes and the redness of your nose, and go to work. You have worked too hard and for too long to allow a situation to compromise your professional reputation. It doesn’t matter how devastating it feels at seven in the morning in a bathroom that still has her spare toothbrush in it. You are twenty-eight years old, you are excellent at your job, and you are going to the office.

You make it to lunch before you lock your door.

You don't even particularly mean to. You just finish a phone call, sit back down at your desk, and open the contract you've been reviewing for a client. You read the first page, and then you read it again because none of it has gone in, and then you read it a third time and realize you have still absorbed nothing. Something about the indignity of that - the absolute uselessness of yourself, of a brain that has always been your most reliable asset, sitting there completely empty of everything except her - makes you reach over and press the lock on your office door.

You read the same page eleven more times before five o'clock.

You know it's eleven because you count.

See you tonight! I love you ❤️

The text from Papa arrives right before five and nearly makes you close your eyes and press your forehead directly against the desk. You had forgotten entirely. He'd messaged earlier in the week with the menu from some new restaurant he wanted to try - he does this, sends menus ahead as though reviewing them together is half the pleasure of going. You had said yes without hesitation because you always say yes to your father. But now, after everything that’s happened, the thought of sitting across from anyone and pretending to be a functioning human being sounds exhausting.

You gather your things, fix your makeup for the third time in a bathroom mirror that has started to feel judgy, and go to your parents' house.

------

Your father is on the couch when you let yourself in, the television on, the lamps casting the living room in the cozy glow that has meant home to you since you were small. He hears the door and turns, already rising with the uncomplicated happiness he always shows when you appear. Your arrival is something that genuinely brings him joy regardless of how recently he last saw you, regardless of what you're carrying through the door with you tonight.

"Hey!" He crosses to meet you, wrapping both arms around you in the kind of embrace that has been solving your problems since childhood, before pulling back with a bright expression and gesturing behind him toward the screen. "They're all talking up your girl."

The phrase lands somewhere soft and unprotected.

You make yourself look. You owe yourself that much, at least - the dignity of not flinching.

The television is showing a pre-match press conference, a long table of microphones and cameras and journalists with their hands raised, and in the center of all of it is Alexia. Her hair is down and shining. Her skin has the particular glow of a body in the peak condition during a season that has been going very well. She is leaning slightly toward a microphone with an easy authority, she’s been doing this since before most of the journalists in the room had their press credentials. Even through the screen, even across the two days and the locked office door and the eleven readings of an unabsorbed contract page, you can feel the way the room tilts toward her. The particular gravity of her. The way everyone in the space unconsciously orients in her direction when she speaks.

She laughs at something a reporter has said, her head tilting back slightly. The sound doesn't reach you through the television but you know it anyway. You know exactly what it sounds like and the knowledge of it sits in your chest like a weight.

She looks completely, entirely, insultingly fine.

"Turn that off."

You are already turning toward the kitchen before you've finished speaking.

Your tone must be harsh because Papa begins to scramble behind you. To his credit, he moves with impressive urgency. The sound cuts out and the room goes quiet.

You pull the takeaway bags apart on the counter with more force than the situation technically requires.

The food smells good. Your stomach registers this distantly, the information arrives and then is quickly overtaken by the traffic of everything else currently moving through your head. 

You, who spent yesterday in bed. You, who have visited the bathroom three times today with concealer and setting powder trying to make your face look less blotchy and more presentable. You, whose handbag currently contains enough used tissues to suggest you are recovering from pneumonia. You who spent forty-eight hours analyzing the punctuation in her text messages like a freaking conspiracy theorist.

And there she is. In high definition. Laughing.

Fucking footballers. The thought arrives with a bitterness that you are aware, even in the middle of it, is not entirely fair and also feels extremely satisfying. DMs probably full of replacements waiting patiently for their turn, because of course they are, because she is Alexia and women have been waiting in line since she was nineteen. Women who would happily sit in Camp Nou every weekend wearing her shirt and screaming themselves hoarse instead of turning a simple invitation into an existential crisis.

Fine. It’s totally fine. Good luck to all of them, genuinely. Good fucking luck finding someone better than you. Maybe the next one will be better at communicating, but she certainly won’t be smarter. Or prettier.

You slam containers onto the counter like each one has done something to offend you personally.

You become aware, gradually, that your father is standing in the doorway.

You glance up.

He is watching you with a very careful expression. It's the studied neutrality of a man who has spent decades in high-pressure rooms reading people far better at concealing their emotions than his twenty-eight-year-old daughter, and has therefore had absolutely no difficulty reading her. His eyes are wide like he sees something slightly alarming and he is being very deliberate about not reacting to it.

He comes over without saying anything and begins silently helping you move the containers to the table.

You let him. You don't have the energy to object.

He pulls out your chair, which he has been doing since you were small, and you sit. He collects the plates and lowers himself into his own chair across from you with unhurried patience, having already decided that this meal is going to take as long as it needs to take.

You are grateful, in a way that sits very quietly in your chest alongside everything else, that your mother is out with her friends tonight.

You love your mother. She is warm and perceptive and has been one of the great constants of your life, but she would have known something was wrong before you'd cleared the front door. She would have asked, with complete love and only the best intentions, approximately seventeen billion questions before you'd even sat down. 

Your father knows better. It is one of the ways the two of you are most alike. You two understand that some things cannot be pried loose, they can only be offered when they're ready. He learned it from years of managing men who would not perform until they trusted you, and you learned it from watching him. Neither of you has ever had to explain it to the other because it just exists between you as a shared language.

Papa eats without rushing you, occasionally reaching for one of the containers in the middle of the table while you mechanically move food from your plate into your mouth, chewing without tasting any of it. Every now and then the quiet becomes too heavy so you fill it with something meaningless, asking whether your brother is still fighting with his girlfriend over Christmas plans or whether your aunt ever apologized to your mother for whatever ridiculous argument had apparently consumed the family group chat earlier that week.

He tells you about the latest developments and you nod and make the appropriate sounds while moving food from one side of your plate to the other. You are not listening. He probably knows you are not listening. Neither of you mentions that.

You push some rice around the plate and watch it settle.

"Why did you play football?"

The question leaves your mouth before you've decided to ask it, landing in the middle of the table between you like a grenade. Your father looks up from his plate with an expression of genuine surprise. For a moment he just looks at you, trying to determine whether you've just asked what he thinks you've asked.

"Um." He sets his fork down carefully. "I just loved it, I suppose. And I was good at it."

That answer actually makes sense to you.

You love being a lawyer. And you are really fucking good at it.

The satisfaction of walking into a negotiation better prepared than everyone else in the room, of finding the weakness in an argument before the other side even realizes they have exposed it, of taking something complicated and pulling it apart until every piece finally makes sense - those things make you feel alive in a way you have never quite known how to explain to anyone who doesn’t feel the same way about their work.

You wonder, maybe for the first time, whether football had ever made Papa feel like that.

“Did you always love it?”

"No." The quickness of it catches you. You glance up from your plate.

"I hated it for years when I was younger." He says it with straightforwardness, like he is describing a person he barely remembers being. "I played with the older boys and they always pushed me around. I was smaller than them."

You give him a look of open skepticism. Your father is not a small man. He has never, in any photograph or story or living memory, appeared to be anything other than built like a brick wall.

He rolls his eyes, he has definitely received this reaction before. "I was small at one point," he says, with great emphasis on the words. "But over time I got better, faster and smarter because I couldn’t be stronger. And eventually it started being fun again."

You nod. Push more rice around. Think about that.

"And coaching," you say, after a moment. "Did you love being a manager?"

He watches you from across the table. You have never asked him these questions.

You have asked about his travel schedule when it affected family plans, complained about late matches and missed dinners, rolled your eyes at journalists waiting outside restaurants, and occasionally listened when he told some amusing story about a player you didn’t know. But you have never sat across from him and asked what football felt like to him, because for most of your life you had been far too consumed by what it felt like to be his daughter.

“I mean...definitely less than playing” He leans back slightly in his chair. “But I love the game. And managing was a way to stay close to it. And to the people in it."

You frown at your plate. For some reason, that answer hurts.

Your father watches you for another long moment before leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table.

“Why are you asking me these questions, my love?” The question is gentle. He knows exactly when to wait and exactly when to coax, a skill he has perfected through twenty-eight years of being your father.

You set your fork down.

"Alexia and I got into a fight." The words come out more evenly than you expected, which means very little given that you can already feel the pressure building somewhere behind your sternum. "About football. She has a match tomorrow and she wanted me to come."

Your father nods once, slowly. There is something in his expression that looks, for the briefest moment, like recognition.

"Yes," he says. "Her five hundredth cap." He says it with the particular calmness of someone setting something down carefully. "Really incredible. She even surpassed me."

The fork you've just set down would have clattered if you'd still been holding it.

"What?" The word comes out unsteady. "What do you mean?"

"It's her five hundredth game for Barcelona." He says it simply, watching your face as he does. "I believe only one other woman has ever reached that number. And only a handful of men. The club will certainly be making an event of it, some kind of ceremony or recognition on the pitch." A small pause. "She is very, very important to them."

The room goes very quiet, uncomfortably quiet. The kind of quiet that arrives when a realization is still moving through you, rearranging things as it goes, and you have not yet caught up to where it will leave you when it's done.

It wasn't about the match.

She had said that. She had said it in your apartment on Tuesday night, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes already looking away. It isn't even about the stupid match. She had said it and you had heard it and you had filed it somewhere beneath your own panic and your own grief and the sound of your own history playing so loudly in your chest that you couldn't hear anything else.

“Oh my God.” You put your head in your hands as the first tears spill through your fingers.

"It wasn't about the match." Your voice, muffled against your palms, sounds like something that has been broken and poorly reassembled. "She told me!" A sob catches in your throat, painful and involuntary. "She told me it wasn't about the stupid match and I didn't listen to her."

Your father is beside you before you've finished the sentence. His chair scrapes softly back and then his arms are around you, solid and unhesitating, pulling you into his chest the way he has been doing since you were small enough to disappear into him entirely.

"Carinyo…"

"She just wanted me there." The words collapse as they leave you. "That's all she wanted."

And there it is. The full shape of it, finally, arriving with the brutal clarity that realizations always seem to save for the moments when you are least prepared to receive them.

Alexia hadn't been asking you to suddenly love football. She hadn't been asking you to become someone else, to undo twenty-eight years of history, to walk into that stadium and feel nothing but uncomplicated joy. She hadn't been asking you to stop being who you are.

She had been asking you to sit beside the people who matter most to her while she reached one of the greatest milestones of her life. She had been asking you to be there for her, specifically, on a day that would exist only once. The way that the people you love are supposed to be there for you when something unforgettable is happening.

And you had looked at her request through every wound your father's career had ever opened in you, and you had seen football instead of Alexia. And you had said no.

"I didn't even know." Your voice has given up entirely now, the words arriving wet and broken against the front of your father's shirt. "I didn't know what it was, I didn’t even ask why… I just said no."

He says nothing. He just holds you, one hand moving slowly through your hair the way it has always moved, the rhythm of it unchanged since childhood, since Munich, since Manchester, since every version of this room where you have needed him and he has shown up without condition.

The duality of it tears at something deep inside you.

This man, who strokes your hair in the dark when you're falling apart, who researches restaurants because surprising you with somewhere new brings him genuine happiness, who cried more openly than you did at your law school graduation, is the same man whose absence you measured your childhood against. How does a person contain both of those things. How does love coexist so completely with hurt. How do you spend your whole life adoring someone and resenting them in the same breath, without either feeling canceling out the other.

You don't have an answer. You have never had an answer.

You eventually pull back just enough to look at him, your face almost certainly a mess at this point, and he looks back at you with an expression that has nothing behind it except love - uncomplicated, absolute, the kind that doesn't require you to be anything other than exactly what you are.

You take an unsteady breath.

"You said you loved it." Your voice is still fragile but the words are finding their shape again, slowly. "Playing, managing, all of it. You loved the game and you wanted to stay close to it and the people in it." You swallow against the pressure still sitting in your throat. "And I understand that. Or I'm trying to."

His expression shifts, very slightly, as though he can already sense the weight of what is coming.

"But you loved me too."

"More than anything." The answer arrives without a single moment's hesitation, and the speed of it, the absolute certainty of it, lands somewhere between comfort and devastation.

"Then why did you keep choosing something that took you away from me?"

The question comes out quietly. There isn’t any accusation in it, or at least you don't intend for there to be. It’s just the sound of something that has been sitting at the bottom of you for so long it has become structural, weight-bearing, part of the architecture of who you are. You've been carrying it since you were eleven years old watching Munich appear through a car window, and you've never once said it out loud to the person who needed to hear it.

“I told myself that I was doing it for all of you.”

The answer makes something bitter twist deep inside your chest, sharp enough that you have to look away from him before the emotion reaches your face.

“I know how that sounds,” he adds quickly.

“Do you?”

The question comes out harsher than you intend, but you can’t bring yourself to take it back. Instead, you fold your arms tightly around yourself, like holding your own body together might stop twenty years of resentment from spilling out all at once.

“We already had everything, Papa! We didn’t need more money. We didn’t need another house or another car or another-”

“I know.” His voice breaks on the final word.

Papa lowers his eyes to his hands, turning them slowly against one another as though he has suddenly found something fascinating in the lines of his palms. For a man who has spent most of his adult life answering impossible questions beneath the glare of cameras, who has survived hostile press conferences and furious boardrooms without ever appearing at a loss for words, he looks strangely small sitting across from you now.

“I know that now.”

There is something about the shame in his voice that drains some of the anger from you before it ever fully forms. You had expected him to defend himself, perhaps even wanted him to, because anger would be so much easier if he gave you something solid to push against.

Instead, he looks tired and regretful.

“At the time, it was easy to tell myself that everything was for the family,” he continues after a long moment. “The money, the security, the opportunities.” 

He shakes his head slowly. “And some of it was. I wanted you and your brothers to have every possible choice in life. I wanted your mother never to lie awake worrying about finances. I wanted all of you to have things I didn’t have when I was young.”

His mouth twists into a sad smile.

“But that wasn’t the whole truth.”

You remain silent. Something in his expression tells you not to interrupt. 

Papa draws in a slow breath, his eyes still lowered toward his hands.

“I was ambitious.” The admission is simple, but you can hear the weight behind it. “I wanted to win. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to be the best.”

Your bottom lip begins to quiver before you can stop it, and you press your teeth into it hard enough to hurt, forcing yourself to swallow around the growing lump in your throat.

He finally looks at you.

“And every time I achieved something, there was always something else waiting just beyond it. Another league I hadn’t won. Another club I thought I could build. Another impossible challenge that only I could solve.”

His gaze drifts away again, toward the dark windows overlooking the coast.

“I would tell myself that after this season, I would slow down. After this contract, I would stop moving everyone. After this trophy, I would finally feel like I had done enough and I could come home and just enjoy everything we already had.” A laugh escapes him, but there is absolutely no humor in it. “I was never satisfied.”

The honesty of it settles heavily between you.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

Outside, the Mediterranean continues moving against the rocks below the house, each wave breaking softly into the darkness before retreating again. Somewhere deeper inside, the refrigerator hums steadily, and the ordinary sound feels almost absurd against the enormity of everything your father has just admitted.

You stare down at your own hands.

“I think I blamed football,” you say, your voice barely carrying across the table, “because it was easier than blaming you.”

Your father goes completely still. You keep your eyes lowered, watching your fingers curl slowly against your palms like the rest of the confession might be written there.

“Football was this enormous thing. This thing that everyone loved and worshipped and built their entire lives around, and it just kept taking you away from me.” Your breathing begins to turn uneven again, catching somewhere deep in your chest before releasing in shallow, unsteady bursts. “So I hated it. God, Papa, I hated it so much, for so long.”

You pause, swallowing against the ache climbing steadily into your throat.

“Because I couldn’t hate you.” The words seem to change something in the room. Slowly, you force yourself to look up.

“I just loved you too much.”

“Oh, carinyo.” His voice is so low that it nearly disappears beneath the distant sound of the waves, and the grief in it makes your chest ache all over again.

“And now Alexia loves it.”

You shake your head slightly, the movement small and helpless as the realization you have spent two days circling finally forms into words.

“She loves it the way you do. The way it lives inside her.” Your eyes begin to blur again. “It isn’t just something she does for work, and it isn’t something she can leave at the training ground when she comes home. It’s part of who she is, and I know that. I’ve always known that about her.”

You draw in a trembling breath.

“And I think every time I look at that part of her, I’m waiting for her to become you.”

Papa remains completely still across the table.

“She asked me to come to one match.”

A laugh escapes you, broken and miserable, barely recognizable as the sound it is trying to be.

“One match, Papa. In months of knowing her, she has never once asked me to watch her play. She has never made me look at a table or a highlight or a score. She has never asked me to pretend I care about any of it." 

Your fingers rise to cover your mouth as another sob threatens to surface, but the confession keeps coming anyway.

“And the one time she asked me, the one time it actually mattered to her, I didn’t even stop long enough to wonder why. I just heard football and saw you.”

The realization tears through whatever fragile composure you had managed to rebuild.

“I made her feel like loving something important to her was a reason I couldn’t love her properly.”

The words finish destroying you.

For a long time, your father says nothing at all. You can see him thinking, carefully considering what you actually need to hear rather than just what might comfort you. It is one of the things that has always made him extraordinary at what he did, and it is one of the things that, despite every failure you are finally allowing yourself to name tonight, has always made him extraordinary at being your father too.

Then, very softly, he speaks.

"Alexia is not me."

You close your eyes. "I know."

"No." His hand finds yours on the table, covering it with a steadiness that allows no room for you to retreat. "I don't think you do. Not yet."

You open your eyes and look at him.

"She may make mistakes," he says carefully. "She may hurt you one day, without meaning to, the way people who love each other always manage to do. And you will hurt her." His expression holds nothing but gentleness. "But you cannot punish her for choices I made before she ever knew you existed."

The truth of it leaves no room to argue and nowhere to hide.

You look away. Beyond the windows, the warm glow of the streetlights stretches along the coastal road while the Mediterranean disappears into darkness beyond it. The distant sound of the sea endures as it always has, moving forward with quiet indifference to whatever grief anyone carries to its edge.

“She loves football,” your father continues after a moment, his voice still calm and steady. “That does not mean she will hurt you the way I did.”

Your throat tightens.

“And it does not mean she will love you in the broken the way I did either.”

You turn back toward him. Papa holds your gaze.

“I loved you completely, carinyo. I still made choices that hurt you, because for too many years I believed loving you was enough to excuse the ways I failed you.” His expression tightens with regret, but he does not look away. “Maybe Alexia will make different mistakes. Maybe she will make some of the same ones. I cannot promise you that loving her will never hurt.”

A single tear slips free from your eye. This time, you don’t wipe it away. You let yourself feel its slow path down your cheek, the warmth of it disappearing along your jaw before tracing the side of your neck.

“But if you care for her the way I think you do,” Papa says softly, “then you have to give her the chance to be herself before you decide she will become me.”

Something deep inside your chest gives way at the words. It’s like some part of you that has spent years bracing for the same hurt to find you again has finally grown too exhausted to keep fighting. Papa’s hand tightens gently around yours, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles before he speaks again.

“You need to talk to her, mi amor.” His voice softens even further. “There is still time for the two of you to fix this.”

Your face crumples.

You don’t manage an answer before you are moving toward him again, abandoning your chair and folding yourself into his chest with the same instinctive desperation you had as a child. Papa catches you immediately, his arms closing around you before you have fully reached him. You bury your face against his shirt and nod into the warmth of his chest, once and then again, the movement small and helpless as the tears begin flowing freely.

“I know,” you manage eventually, though the words are muffled against him and fractured by another uneven breath. “I know.”

Papa says nothing more, there is nothing left for him to say. He just holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other moves slowly along your spine. You let yourself cry against the man you have spent so many years loving too much to blame, finally understanding that forgiving him and grieving what his choices cost you were never mutually exclusive things.

For the first time in your life, you allow both truths to exist at once. Your father loved you completely. And he hurt you deeply.

Perhaps loving Alexia would require accepting the same terrifying uncertainty - not that she was destined to repeat his mistakes, but that there was no way to love another person without giving them the power to make mistakes of their own.

You tighten your arms around Papa and let the tears come.

Because for the first time since Alexia walked out of your apartment, you know exactly what you need to do.

------

For the first time in your entire life, you actually need the football nepotism.

And Papa, who has spent twenty-eight years respecting your stubborn, occasionally infuriating refusal to use his name as anything other than a surname, seems almost offensively delighted to provide it.

Within minutes he is on his phone.

You sit silently across the table and watch him become, in real time, the version of himself that the rest of the world has always known better than you have. There is an easy authority in his voice that never once feels demanding. A particular warmth he deploys with such effortless precision that every person on the other end of the line somehow leaves the conversation believing they are the one doing him the favor rather than the other way around. 

He listens more than he speaks. He laughs at exactly the right moments. He makes each call feel like a conversation he has been looking forward to rather than a favor he needs to extract.

He has always been incredible at this. And although you have spent most of your life being too proud to acknowledge it directly, somewhere along the way you borrowed more from him than you ever intended to. More than once you have caught yourself using that same measured confidence across a negotiation table - the careful listening, the warmth offered before the ask, the ability to make complete strangers feel trusted before they have even realized you've done it. You never told him that. You suspect he already knows.

He works through three calls in under fifteen minutes.

By the time he finally lowers the phone onto the table between the remnants of dinner, there are two seats in the president's box with your names attached.

The relief is immediate. But it lasts approximately four seconds before something else rushes in behind it.

You want to call her.

The wanting settles deep in your chest, specific and insistent, the kind that doesn't respond to logic or reasonable argument. You want to hear her voice. You want to tell her that you're coming, that you finally understand now, that you're sorry in a way that deserves more than a text message and that you'll explain everything properly the moment she no longer has the weight of tomorrow on her shoulders. You want to say her name and have her say yours back.

Your hand drifts toward your phone before you think to stop it.

Then you glance at the clock.

Too late.

Alexia has described her pre-match routine in enough detail over enough late evenings that you could probably reconstruct it in order without missing a step. The early dinner, the stretching, the specific way she lays everything out the night before so that the morning requires no decisions at all. The point at which she turns her phone to silent and puts it face-down on the nightstand and lets the world dissolve until morning. 

She would probably answer if you called. You know she would answer - she would see your name and she would answer, because she is Alexia, and because regardless of everything that has passed between you over the last forty-eight hours, she has never once failed to show up for you when you needed her.

Which is exactly why you won't call.

You have already cost her enough this week. You will not be another thing she has to manage tonight, another distraction sitting behind her eyes during warm-up tomorrow morning, another weight she has to find somewhere to put while she is trying to be present for one of the most significant matches of her career. She has given you so much of herself so easily and so often. The least you can give her tonight is an undisturbed night's sleep.

You thank your father. You embrace him longer than usual, which makes him squeeze you a little tighter without saying anything about it. You gather your things and tell him you'll see him first thing tomorrow, and he nods with warmth and pride in his eyes, proud for a reason he doesn’t need to name.

The apartment is too quiet when you get home.

It announces itself the moment you step through the door, a particular absence that belongs specifically to her. No shoes abandoned beside the entrance in the way that used to make you perform mild exasperation. No faint trace of her perfume on the throw blanket she claimed as her own sometime around week three and never relinquished. No sound of her voice carrying from the kitchen while she raids your refrigerator and maintains a running commentary on whatever she finds inside it.

Just the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of the street below. The kind of stillness that makes a person aware of exactly how much space another person has quietly filled without either of them noticing.

You move through your evening almost robotically. You wash your face. You set an alarm for a time that would, under normal Saturday circumstances, represent a personal affront. You change into your pajamas and get into bed and lie on your back in the dark and stare at the ceiling.

Sleep does not come.

Your thoughts drift the way they have been drifting for two days - endlessly, unhelpfully circling back to the same woman no matter how many times you attempt to redirect them toward something less consuming. You think about her pre-match routine, unfolding right now somewhere across the city without you. You wonder if she is nervous. You wonder if she is thinking about you. You wonder if she'll forgive you.

You think about her spending her entire life working toward a milestone that almost nobody ever reaches.

You think about her asking you for one afternoon.

Sleep takes a very long time to arrive. But eventually, somewhere in the early hours, it does.

------

Your father is waiting outside your building by mid-afternoon, leaning casually against the passenger door of his SUV with a coffee in each hand and the unmistakable expression of a man who slept considerably better than you did.

He takes one look at you and offers the larger cup without a word.

You accept it with gratitude, having surrendered your pride somewhere around three in the morning and not yet located it again.

Neither of you says much as he pulls away from the curb. The radio stays off. The city moves past the windows in the comfortable silence that has always existed between the two of you when words would only get in the way. You wrap both hands around the coffee and let the warmth of it do what sleep failed to accomplish.

The drive takes barely twenty minutes, but Barcelona seems determined to remind you exactly where you're going every step of the way. Catalan flags hang from apartment balconies you've passed a hundred times without noticing them. Cafés that normally spill conversation onto the pavement are spilling blaugrana instead, clusters of supporters occupying every available chair and table and square foot of sidewalk. Every few blocks another wave of people joins the slow migration toward Camp Nou, flowing naturally into the larger stream, until it feels less like individual choice and more like the entire city being pulled by a current. The closer you get, the thicker the crowds become, the air buzzing with that particular electricity that only exists around events capable of making an entire city hold its breath in unison.

You keep your eyes on the passing streets and try to breathe through the tightness sitting in the center of your chest.

Beneath your leather jacket, the polyester is driving you absolutely insane.

It had been your father's idea. Of course it had been your father's idea. Most things that require you to do something you would never do on your own trace back eventually to at least one of your parents, which is a pattern you have never properly addressed with them and probably should.

He had mentioned it that morning, casually, like it was a perfectly obvious suggestion.

If you can, buy her shirt. It'll mean a lot to her.

You had grumbled to yourself the entire drive to the club shop. Polyester is not a material you wear. Your wardrobe is built almost exclusively from linen, silk, wool, and fabrics that behave like fabrics rather than elaborate synthetic casing. You have strong opinions about this. You have maintained these opinions consistently for years. They are not opinions you expected to be tested on a Saturday morning at nine forty-five in a Barça merchandise store surrounded by overexcited supporters who all seemed to know exactly what they were looking for.

You had not known what you were looking for. Or rather, you had known, and the knowledge had made you stand in front of the wall of jerseys for so long that one of the sales assistants had begun performing those small, circling approaches that retail staff use when they're trying to determine whether a customer requires help or intervention. You had felt him drifting closer every few minutes, his professional concern growing incrementally, while you stood there staring at a wall of blue and red as though it had personally challenged you.

Eventually you made yourself reach out.

The home shirt. The number eleven. Her name in the lettering you've seen on billboards throughout this city without ever quite allowing yourself to look at it head-on.

The assistant had smiled with entirely uncomplicated warmth as he folded it into a bag, blissfully unaware that he was handing over the first football shirt you had willingly owned since you were nine years old. He probably handled hundreds of transactions exactly like it before lunch. He had no way of knowing that this particular one had required twenty minutes of standing very still in front of a merchandise wall and a significant amount of internal renegotiation.

The last one had belonged to your father.

There are photographs somewhere in your parents' house - buried in the albums your mother maintains with a thoroughness that borders on obsession - of a small, chubby-cheeked girl perched triumphantly on Papa's shoulders in an enormous Barça jersey, arms stretched wide, grinning with the total unselfconsciousness of a child who has not yet developed opinions about synthetic fabrics or professional sport. PAPA printed across the back above his number, your mother's laugh visible in the blur at the edge of the frame. You wore those shirts for a handful of seasons before deciding, with the absolute uncompromising certainty that only a stubborn nine-year-old can possess, that you were finished with football and everything connected to it.

That had been the end of it.

Until this morning, standing in a club store with a bag in your hand and an entirely unreasonable amount of feeling in your chest.

Now, for what your father will later confirm is the fourth time since leaving your apartment, your hand moves instinctively to pull your jacket closed over the number hidden beneath it. The movement is completely unconscious. You don't notice you've done it until you feel the soft resistance of the zipper already halfway to your chin.

Your father notices. He has always noticed everything, which is both one of his greatest qualities and one of his most consistently inconvenient ones.

"You know," he says, the amusement in his voice only partially concealed, "if you're planning to spend the entire afternoon hiding it, you could probably have saved yourself the trip to the shop."

"I'm not hiding it."

He glances at the zipper with the patient expression, this is afterall, a man who has decades of experience not pressing his luck.

"Mhmm."

"It feels strange," you say, which is true, though not entirely in the way you mean it to sound. Strange against your skin, yes, this fabric that belongs to a world you spent half your life trying to keep at a distance. But also strange in the way that things feel when they are the right thing and you are only just catching up to that fact. Strange the way it had felt to stand in the club shop and understand, fully and without hesitation, that you wanted to buy it.

Your father's smile softens.

"I know," he says simply. He lets the silence settle for a moment, the way he always does when he's choosing his words rather than simply reaching for the first ones available. "But I think it's going to mean more to her than you realize."

Your hand drifts instinctively to the embroidered crest beneath your jacket. Your fingertips rest lightly against it through the leather, feeling the slight texture of the stitching, the warmth the fabric has taken on from your skin.

Outside the window, Camp Nou appears above the roofline. Enormous and inevitable.

You take a slow breath and leave your hand where it is.

You can only hope he's right.

-------

The stadium fully appears through the windshield as you round the final corner, and even you - who have spent nearly three decades maintaining principled indifference toward football stadiums - cannot entirely pretend that the scale of it isn’t impressive. It towers over the surrounding streets like a temple to the gods. Streams of pilgrims converge from every direction, drawn toward the stadium as though they are being pulled in by its gravitational force.

Your father follows the signs toward the underground entrance, and little by little the city disappears behind you.

The sea of supporters outside gives way to cool concrete as the tunnel swallows the car whole, the roar of sixty thousand voices fading until it becomes little more than a distant echo reverberating through the structure above.

Several security officers step toward the SUV as it rolls to a stop, but the moment your father lowers the driver’s window their professional expressions soften into easy smiles of recognition. What begins as a routine checkpoint turns effortlessly into conversation. Hands are shaken through the open window, someone asks after your mother, your father in turn asks about a granddaughter who has apparently just started university, and within seconds the interaction has transformed into some sort of warm reunion.

Somewhere farther down the corridor, a radio crackles briefly before the security barrier begins to rise. One of the guards gives your father a cheerful wave, another wishes Barça luck, and with an easy nod in return he guides the SUV deeper into the belly of the stadium.

You remain quietly in the passenger seat, your fingers tightening unconsciously around the now-empty coffee cup resting in your lap. And as the concrete walls close in around you, your pulse begins to pound harder.

Papa leads you from the garage through a series of wide hallways lined with photographs, framed shirts, gleaming trophies, and moments from the club’s history that have been preserved like pieces of religious art. Every few steps another familiar face stares back from the walls, legends frozen in celebration beneath bright lights. Your eyes land on a photograph of Alexia, arms raised high above her head as she lifts another trophy while confetti rains around her.

Your steps falter almost imperceptibly. The sight of her makes you swallow.

The entire hall feels designed to remind visitors exactly where they are and who built this place. To make some people feel as though they have come home while reminding everyone else that they are only passing through.

You aren’t entirely sure which category you belong to.

Club staff greet your father every few minutes with excited expressions that he returns just as naturally. He pauses to shake hands, exchange jokes, or ask after someone’s family before effortlessly picking the conversation back up as the two of you continue deeper into the stadium. Watching him here feels strangely different than watching him anywhere else. This isn’t the legendary manager from television or the father who makes you coffee when you’re sad. This is someone returning to a place that once belonged to him, greeted with affection by people who still seem genuinely happy to see him.

Eventually, the corridors open into the President’s Box.

The balcony hums with easy conversation, full of executives, former players, sponsors, and guests who wear the relaxed confidence of people accustomed to watching football from the best seats in the house. 

Beyond the glass, the view is breathtaking. The pitch stretches beneath you in that impossibly perfect shade of green that seems to exist only in the world’s great stadiums. Music drifts through the speakers, children point excitedly toward the field, and every few moments another swell of applause rolls around the bowl of the stadium as someone recognizes a familiar face on the giant screens.

You feel the atmosphere settle into your chest as a low vibration, almost like a second heartbeat.

You shake hands with everyone you're introduced to. You smile appropriately. You produce the correct responses to the correct questions and stand where you're supposed to stand.

Normally, this is the point where the old feeling would begin to creep in.

The smell of freshly cut grass filtering through the ventilation. The distant voices of commentators warming up. The growing roar of a crowd gathering around something that was never yours. It had always been the same feeling, the same subtle reminder that football was a world capable of captivating the people you loved in ways you could never compete with, leaving you standing just beyond its edges, watching from the outside.

Today, though, that feeling never fully arrives.

It is still there somewhere, lingering beneath the surface out of habit more than conviction, but it no longer consumes everything else.

Instead, your eyes drift down toward the pitch again. You think about a woman who has played on that grass five hundred times. A woman who had asked you, only once, to come and watch.

The teams haven’t emerged yet.

Somewhere below your feet, hidden behind walls and corridors you cannot see through, Alexia is finishing the same pre-match routine she has repeated hundreds of times before, completely unaware that for the first time in your life, you are here because you wanted to be.

“You’re doing it again,” your father murmurs beside you.

You glance over. “Doing what?”

He nods toward your hands.

Only then do you realize your fingers have wandered back to the zipper of your jacket, absentmindedly wiggling the metal between your thumb and forefinger as though keeping it moving might somehow quiet the nervous energy racing through the rest of your body.

You let out a sigh and force your hand to fall back to your side.

Papa watches you for another moment, his expression softening into the small, reassuring smile that has always made you feel a little younger than you actually are.

Then, with a suspiciously casual tone, he says, "I might have one more ace up my sleeve. If you want to use it."

You turn toward him. His face gives away absolutely nothing, which tells you everything.

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your skepticism arriving almost automatically. It is your default setting where your father and his schemes are concerned.

Eventually, your attention drifts away from him and back toward the stadium.

The stands continue filling by the minute, thousands upon thousands of supporters settling into their seats while the atmosphere builds around them, the collective anticipation rising with every new wave of applause and every chant that rolls through the bowl. Your eyes settle instinctively on the players’ tunnel, lingering there a moment longer than anywhere else, as if simply looking at the place she’ll eventually emerge somehow makes you feel a little closer to her.

You wonder if she’s nervous. You wonder if she’s still hurting. More than anything, you wonder what her face will look like when she sees you again.

The thought settles something inside your chest before you even realize a decision has been made.

You look back at your father. Then, quietly, you nod.

He smiles, gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and gestures for you to follow.

You trail after him as he leads you out of the stands and back into the maze beneath the stadium. You descend light after flight of concrete stairs until the polished hospitality suites give way to the practical underbelly that keeps the entire place running. The corridors become narrower here, lined with exposed pipes, thick bundles of electrical cables disappearing into the ceilings, and harsh fluorescent lights that leave nowhere for nerves to hide.

Staff hurry past with the focused urgency of people working against an immovable deadline. A steward pushes a cart stacked high with bottled water. Someone carrying an enormous medical bag disappears around a corner at a near jog. Another person stands with one hand pressed against an earpiece, speaking rapidly into a microphone while simultaneously waving two television technicians in opposite directions.

Your father, meanwhile, strolls through the controlled chaos as though he has never left.

Every few steps another member of staff recognizes him, some smile, others stop to shake his hand. You remain half a step behind, silently watching a version of your father that somehow belongs here just as naturally as the concrete beneath your feet.

Eventually, the hall widens into a large holding area where the steady flow of people suddenly slows. Staff cluster together in last-minute conversations while others move briskly from one room to the next carrying equipment bags, clipboards, and crates of sports drinks, every person seeming to know exactly where they need to be. At the far end of the room sits a pair of heavy double doors bearing the Barça crest.

You know exactly what’s behind them. Or, more specifically, who is behind them.

Your palms instantly begin to sweat.

Papa walks confidently toward an official-looking man sporting an immaculate black turtleneck and perhaps the most aggressively symmetrical coconut haircut you have ever seen. The man spots him immediately, his face breaking into a broad smile before your father has even closed the distance between them.

Their greeting begins with a firm handshake but naturally becomes the brief shoulder clasp shared by people who have known each other for years.

"It's good to see you," Papa says warmly. "I'm looking forward to watching us kick some Madridista ass today."

The other man laughs. "So am I."

They spend the next minute catching up, the conversation drifting effortlessly from retirement to mutual acquaintances before somehow landing on a Champions League quarter-final from nearly a decade ago that they both appear to remember with remarkable emotional clarity. You follow perhaps every third sentence, but judging by the animated gestures and synchronized groans, somebody had missed an absolutely unforgivable chance.

Eventually, your father tilts his head toward the dressing-room doors with deliberate casualness.

"I was wondering..." he begins, deploying the particular charm that has persuaded club presidents, journalists, and millionaire footballers to do what he wanted for decades. "Would it be alright if I popped in for a moment to wish the team good luck?"

He pauses just long enough for the corner of his mouth to lift. "I'm a very big fan."

The manager beams back at him. "Of course," he says, without a moment's hesitation. "Of course! They'll be delighted."

You slowly turn your head to side eye your father. He turns toward you with an expression of complete and total innocence. "What?? Everyone knows I really am a big fan," he says, with great dignity. 

Coconut head chuckles to himself before stepping over to the doors. He slips through the narrow gap, exchanges a few quiet words with someone inside, then reappears a moment later with an easy smile.

"They're ready for you." He steps aside, holding the door open as he gestures for your father to enter.

Papa glances back at you, his smile softening. "You ready, mi amor?"

You know he isn’t asking whether you’re ready to walk into the dressing room. He is asking whether you’re ready to leave the last twenty years outside the door.

For a moment, all you hear is your own heartbeat. You draw one slow, steady breath into your lungs, and give him the smallest nod.

Then, together, you step inside.

------

The room is warm and alive, filled with the overlapping sounds of twenty plus women in various stages of preparation. Music filters through hidden speakers somewhere overhead, conversations overlap in Spanish and Catalan, tape tears sharply from a roll before disappearing beneath the chatter again. The scent of fresh detergent mingles with deodorant and various perfumes. Every corner of the room hums with purpose, the collective energy of people who have spent the better part of a week preparing for these ninety minutes and now find themselves only moments away from finally stepping onto the pitch.

The moment your father crosses the threshold, the nearest players notice him.

Recognition ripples outward like a wave.

One player breaks into a grin before calling his name loud enough for half the room to hear, and suddenly heads begin turning in every direction. Smiles spread from face to face, conversations pause, and your father is swallowed into a cluster of friendly embraces and enthusiastic handshakes. He accepts each one with the easy warmth of someone who genuinely loves these people and, despite everything, still feels completely at home among them.

You linger half a step behind him, suddenly uncertain where to put your hands, your eyes drifting instinctively across the room.

Blue and red everywhere. The same colors resting against your own ribs beneath three hundred euros’ worth of black leather.

You find Alexia instantly. She is on the far side of the room, bent forward over her boots, fingers working methodically through the laces. Her warm-up jacket is folded with characteristic neatness on the bench beside her. The captain's armband sits snugly around her bicep.

Something shifts in your chest at the sight of it.

You've seen her in this context before, technically. You have caught fragments of matches on your parents' television while passing through the living room with somewhere else to be, letting your eyes slide deliberately past the screen. You have stood beneath the enormous billboards she occupies throughout the city, the ones that appear on the sides of buildings and above busy intersections and in the arrivals hall at El Prat, her face ten meters tall and entirely unavoidable. You have passed those posters without looking at them directly because looking directly had always felt like conceding something you weren't prepared to give. 

You told yourself you knew this version of her. The footballer, the captain, the reference.

Standing a few meters away from her now, in the actual room, with the noise and warmth and charged energy of the real thing pressing in from every direction, you understand that you knew nothing of the sort.

There is an authority to the way she occupies the space that you haven’t seen before - or rather, one that you’ve seen in every other context and simply never understood the source of until now. In restaurants and bars and the peaceful domesticity of your shared evenings, her confidence has always been effortless, the kind that belongs to someone who stopped needing external validation long before you met her. 

But this is something different. The captaincy isn’t something she steps into before kickoff or switches off once the final whistle blows. It lives in the easy set of her shoulders, in the unhurried certainty of every movement she makes, in the settled calm that occupies her expression as she finishes with her laces and straightens. Around her, the room organizes itself along lines she doesn't draw and doesn't need to. Her teammates drift toward her almost without appearing to notice they're doing it - a quick question here, a brief exchange there, a glance seeking reassurance or confirmation or simply the steadying weight of her presence. She receives all of it without shifting her posture or interrupting her preparation, absorbing it the way a fixed point absorbs the movement around it.

The armband doesn’t make her their captain. It simply tells everyone else what they have known all along.

It should unsettle you. You are standing a few meters away from the physical embodiment of everything you promised yourself you would never fall in love with. She is football in its purest form, Barça through and through. A woman who has devoted her entire life to the game with a completeness and totality that ought to make every alarm you've ever built go off simultaneously. She is the thing you swore against. She is your rule made flesh.

You had braced for it the moment you walked through the door. The old contraction, the reflex resistance, the sensation of football inserting itself between you and someone you love the way it always has, claiming its share before you've had the chance to object.

Yet the resentment never comes.

Instead, you find yourself just looking at her.

This is a side of Alexia you have never allowed yourself to see before - never permitted yourself to seek out or acknowledge or sit with long enough to understand. And to your complete and genuine surprise, you don't feel what you expected to feel. You feel something closer to the opposite. 

You like the effortless authority she carries without ever announcing it. You like the confidence with which she moves through the room, every action unhurried because she has always known exactly where she belongs. You like the way the captain's armband pulls tight against her bicep as she reaches up to adjust the headband at her hairline, and the way her kit fits across the lines of her body. You study the powerful muscles in her thighs that represent thousands upon thousands of hours of devotion to something she chose with her whole self, long before she was old enough to fully understand what that choice would cost her and long after she understood it perfectly.

And beneath all of it, sitting quietly beneath the admiration and the nerves and the two days of accumulated grief still tender in your chest, is something that feels unexpectedly like understanding.

For the first time, you aren't looking at the sport that took your father away from you.

You are looking at the woman who chose it.

The distinction arrives with a clarity that surprises you with its simplicity. She didn't fall into this life the way your family fell into it - carried along by someone else's passion, relocated without consent, asked to love something you never chose. She walked toward it deliberately, at an age when most children are still deciding what they want for breakfast, and she has walked toward it every single day since with a consistency that isn't compulsion or habit but genuine, abiding love. Football didn't take her from anyone. She gave herself to it, freely and entirely, because it was hers.

Because it is hers.

The distinction feels impossibly important. You think, somewhere in the back of your mind, that your father would probably know exactly what to say about that. You think you might tell him someday, when you find the right words.

The growing commotion near the door finally catches Alexia's attention.

She looks up from her boots toward the cluster that has formed around your father. He has somehow managed to gather half the squad in the thirty seconds since you walked through the door and appears to be thriving. He moves through the room exactly as he always has - hugs and fist bumps, a word for everyone, wishing each player luck with a specific warmth that shows he means it personally rather than collectively. Then, apparently deciding that good wishes alone are insufficient, he launches into entirely unsolicited tactical advice regarding Madrid's left winger and the particular vulnerability of her weaker foot.

Several players nod with such exaggerated seriousness that it borders on performance. One of them salutes him with complete solemnity.

Your father beams. He is, you think with a helpless mixture of exasperation and tenderness, genuinely in his element. This is the man beneath the legacy, the man who truly just loves the game and the people in it and has never once managed to be in a room full of players without wanting to nerd out about football with them.

Alexia smiles at the scene. It is warm and genuine, but only lasts for a heartbeat because her eyes are already moving. They drift past your father and out beyond the cluster of her teammates, searching the room with a desperation you recognize instantly because you have worn it yourself for two days.

She is looking for someone.

When her gaze finds you, she goes completely still.

The dressing room continues humming around you - the overlap of voices, the click of cleats on concrete, music playing from somewhere near the back, a burst of laughter from the cluster surrounding your father - but none of it reaches the small pocket of stillness that has opened between you and the woman sitting on the far side of the room. Her hands rest frozen against her knees. Her eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that makes the distance between you feel both very large and entirely irrelevant.

For a long moment, neither of you moves at all. 

Then Alexia stands.

The movement is so sudden that the bench rocks softly behind her. She doesn't pause to excuse herself from the conversation happening beside her, doesn't acknowledge the curious glances that begin tracking her across the room, doesn't do anything except start moving. 

She weaves between teammates and members of staff with an urgency that makes no attempt whatsoever to disguise itself. Her eyes stay fixed on yours the entire way, like losing sight of you for even a second might undo whatever fragile thing has just been restored.

You don't realize you've started moving too until you're already halfway across the room.

She reaches you first. She closes the last few steps without slowing and wraps both arms around you with a completeness that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s the kind of hold that communicates everything that cannot be compressed into language. She pulls you in like she has been waiting for this specific moment since the door closed behind her on Wednesday night and has been holding herself together around the absence of it ever since.

You hold her just as fiercely.

Your arms find her waist and your face finds the familiar curve where her neck meets her shoulder. You breathe her in, inhaling her warmth, that scent you know better than you know most things. Something inside your chest that has been braced and rigid for two days releases so suddenly and so completely that you feel it physically, like a fist unclenching somewhere deep beneath your sternum.

Neither of you speaks.

There is simply the steady certainty of her heartbeat beneath your cheek, the strength of her arms refusing to loosen around you, and the overwhelming relief of finally touching the person you've spent the last two days convincing yourself you might have already lost.

The room dissolves around the edges. Blue and red kits blur together, someone laughs somewhere behind you, a locker door closes. None of it matters.

You feel her exhale against your shoulder, long and unsteady, pressed into the fabric at your shoulder. The composed captain who has been running training sessions and attending press conferences and laughing for cameras all week slowly coming apart, just slightly, just here, against you.

"I missed you," she murmurs into your hair. The words are soft, barely above a breath. "So much."

The confession finds the place in your chest that has been aching since the sound of your apartment door closing, and presses there with a gentleness that makes your eyes sting.

"I know." Your arms tighten around her. "I'm so sorry, Ale." The apology comes out quieter than you intended, rougher at the edges. "I'm so, so sorry."

She shakes her head against yours, but you need her to hear it properly. You need it to exist somewhere outside the walls of your own head, where it has been circling for two days without anywhere to land.

"I wasn't fair to you." The words come out steadier now, finding their shape. "You tried to tell me what that match meant to you, and I heard every word you said but I still refused to listen. I made it about my fears instead of your feelings, because I was too afraid to look past my own history and see what you were actually asking for." You swallow. "You deserved so much better than that."

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands moving to cup your face with deliberate gentleness. Her thumbs move beneath your eyes, catching traces of tears you hadn't fully registered were falling, sweeping them away with the same patient attentiveness she brings to everything. She studies you with concentration, like she is taking inventory of every version of you at once, seeing not just the composed professional surface but everything living beneath it.

The confident lawyer. The stubborn daughter. The frightened little girl who still believed football would always take away the people she loved.

All of them held in the same gaze, all of them accepted with equal tenderness.

"There is nothing to forgive," she says softly.

"There is."

"Then it's already forgiven." Her smile arrives quietly, impossibly gentle, carrying no trace of performance or effort. One thumb traces the line of your cheekbone before her fingers move to tuck a loose strand of hair back from your face. "It was forgiven the moment I saw you standing in that doorway."

Something in you gives way entirely at that.

You exhale, slow and shaking, the last of the tension you've been carrying finally finding somewhere to go. You lean your forehead briefly against hers, your eyes closing for a moment while the room continues its preparations around you and neither of you makes any move to rejoin it.

"I can't believe you're here." Her voice is barely above a whisper, eyes moving across your face like she's still not entirely convinced you're real. "This is so crazy of you."

"Good crazy?"

A laugh escapes her, bright and completely unrestrained, it transforms her whole face. "The best crazy."

"Good," you say, unable to stop your own smile from growing. "Because if showing up is crazy, then what I did this morning is borderline certifiable."

Curiosity flickers across her expression. You take a small step back and reach for your zipper.

The leather jacket falls open.

You turn slightly, enough for her to read the name across your shoulders, and then look back to watch it land.

Your father was right. The look on her face is worth every second of standing in that club shop at nine forty-five in the morning feeling spectacularly out of place. Her expression moves through several things at once. Surprise arrives first, followed almost quickly by recognition, but neither lasts long before giving way to something infinitely softer, her eyes filling with a reverence that borders on disbelief.

"Who are you?" Her voice catches around the words, caught somewhere between awe and wonder. It’s like she genuinely cannot reconcile the woman standing in front of her with the one who had once sworn she would never willingly set foot in a football stadium again.

You feel yourself smile.

It isn’t the playful smile she learned to read in the first week of knowing you, nor the teasing one she has become so good at drawing out of you. It is quieter than that, steadier, born from finally having nothing left to hide.

You hold her gaze for a long moment, gathering the last little bit of courage you’ve been carrying with you since you walked through the stadium doors.

“Well…” you say softly, your fingers finding hers between you as naturally as they always have. “I figured it was only fitting. It is my girlfriend’s five hundredth cap, after all."

The word lands between you and stays there.

Warm and deliberate and entirely unambiguous, it is offered without hesitation or condition, free of the careful hedging that has defined every conversation the two of you have danced around for months. There are no technicalities this time, no retreating behind friends because neither of you has quite found the courage to say what has long since become obvious, no desperate attempt to soften the truth before it has the chance to exist. And, perhaps most importantly of all, there is no rule held up between the two of you like a shield, because somewhere along the way you had crossed so completely into loving her that there had never really been anything left for it to protect.

Just the word, placed delicately in her hands like something it’s you've been meaning to give her for a very long time.

You watch it reach her.

You watch the precise moment it registers behind her eyes. It moves through her expression like light through water, illuminating everything it touches.

She has looked at you across candlelit restaurant tables and in the calm of Sunday mornings and in a hundred unremarkable moments that somehow became the most important ones. You know all of her expressions with an intimacy that comes from months spent unconsciously committing each one to memory.

But this one is new.

Beneath the recognition, beneath the warmth that has always been there, something else begins to bloom across her face. Relief. It arrives so completely and so without reservation that it transforms her entire expression, softening every line until she is looking at you with a kind of openness you don’t think you’ve ever witnessed before. It is beautiful in a way that almost hurts, because you can see exactly what has disappeared from behind her eyes. The wondering. The waiting. The hopeless fear that perhaps she had loved you more openly than you would ever be willing to love her back.

It is the look of someone who has finally stopped bracing themselves for disappointment, someone who has just been given permission to believe the thing they had wanted for so long that they had almost stopped allowing themselves to hope for it. 

It leaves behind only certainty, and the sight of it is so achingly tender that for a moment you can do nothing but stand there and stare at the woman you love.

She pulls you back into her arms, and this embrace is different from the first.

The desperation of reunion relaxes into something steadier, the urgency slowly melting away until all that remains is the peace of knowing that you are here, that you chose her, and that you aren’t going anywhere. 

Her arms settle around you with a certainty that the last two days had stripped away and that single word has restored completely. Her lips find the side of your neck, she presses a kiss there with a deliberateness that is both entirely subtle and completely unmistakable. It is soft and unhurried, communicating something that has very little to do with the room full of people surrounding you and everything to do with the two of you and the particular shape of this moment.

"I'm so happy." The words are murmured against your skin, simple and full of adoration. "You make me so happy."

You close your eyes.

You press your lips to her temple and hold them there, breathing her in.

The dark bedroom, the locked office door, your father’s kitchen table, the endless stretch of your apartment ceiling at three in the morning - they all loosen their hold on you, dissolving somewhere between her arms and your next unsteady breath.

The feeling that takes its place is almost too large to contain.

You have never thought of yourself as someone who overwhelms easily. You have built your entire professional identity on the ability to remain composed under the harshest conditions. And yet standing here, in a football dressing room of all places, with this woman's arms around you and her name against your shoulders, you find yourself entirely undone by the simple, staggering fact of how much you love her.

You would wear this polyester every single day. You would sit through every match, every season, every trophy celebration, every rainy away game, and every freezing night football could possibly demand of you, if it meant she would always look at you this way. A look of so much love and adoration, like you being hers was the greatest gift anyone had ever given her.

Though, in the interest of honesty, you reserve the right to scroll through your phone whenever she isn’t directly involved in a play, a compromise you consider both fair and remarkably generous.

"You mean everything to me," you whisper against her hairline.

You feel her exhale against you - slow, deep, and relieved. The kind of breath that only comes after finally setting down a weight that has been carried far longer than it ever should have been. Her arms tighten fractionally, drawing you incrementally closer, and she turns her face slightly into your hair.

She begins to respond but doesn’t get a chance.

A throat clears from somewhere behind you with all the subtlety of a fire alarm. The exaggerated sound making it abundantly clear that its owner has been waiting very patiently for an opportunity to interrupt and now has every intention of making the most of it.

"Capitanaaa." The voice is dripping with barely contained amusement. "As much as we are all absolutely loving this - and I want to be clear, we are all absolutely loving this-"

A ripple of laughter spreads through the dressing room. Alexia lets out a long, defeated sigh into your shoulder, sounding every bit like a woman who already knows exactly where this is going.

"We do unfortunately have a Champions League quarterfinal to attend." A brief, cheerful pause. "I don’t know if you remember… It's against Madrid." She glances dramatically at an imaginary watch. "In about forty-five minutes."

"Yes, thank you," Alexia says, somehow managing to sound perfectly composed despite the unmistakable pink creeping into her cheeks.  "I am aware."

"Okay, just checking."

Someone near the back mutters something you don’t quite catch, prompting half the dressing room to double over laughing while Alexia closes her eyes for the briefest moment with the weary acceptance of someone who has captained this team long enough to know they will never let her live this down.

She lets out an exasperated groan. The sort that says she is aware that she is no longer in control of the situation.

You feel her glance down at you before she looks back toward her teammates, and somewhere in the middle of that breath you her expression softens into faint amusement. If they were all determined to turn this into a spectacle, then perhaps she didn’t mind quite as much as she was pretending to.

Her arm stays comfortably around your waist.

“Everyone…” she says, her voice cutting effortlessly through the room without ever needing to be raised. The chatter immediately quiets, years of following their captain’s lead taking over before anyone consciously thinks about it. A smile begins tugging at the corner of her mouth as she looks around at all of them before glancing back down at you. “This is my girlfriend.”

The dressing room erupts. 

The cheer that goes up is the kind that rattles off locker room walls and almost certainly carries much farther than anyone intended. Someone begins applauding with slow, dramatic enthusiasm while another triumphantly shouts, “I told you!” loud enough for the entire room to hear. A chorus of vindicated laughter follows, accompanied by several smug nods from teammates who look far too pleased with themselves. Everywhere you look, you’re met with warm, knowing smiles, the kind worn by people who have apparently known you for weeks through Alexia’s stories and are delighted to discover that the woman standing in front of them is exactly who they had imagined.

You look around at all of them, these women dressed in blaugrana who have celebrated with Alexia, suffered with her, cried with her, and trusted her enough to follow wherever she asked them to go. They are her family in a way you are only just beginning to understand, and yet every one of them smiles at you as though you’ve been expected all along.

You find yourself smiling back. You like them far more quickly than you ever imagined you would.

"I'm really happy to finally meet all of you," you say warmly, straightening ever so slightly into your very best courtroom composure despite the fact that you're still tucked securely against Alexia's side. "And congratulations on surviving five hundred matches with this one."

The room erupts into another chorus of cheers and hellos, several players banging their hands against lockers while someone whistles loudly from the back.

You nod solemnly, as though acknowledging an exceptionally distinguished accomplishment.

"Which reminds me," you continue, your expression remaining impressively sincere. "I assume the afterparty is at Alexia's? She told me you're all invited."

The room falls suspiciously quiet. Beside you, Alexia turns her head with painful slowness until she's looking directly at you.

"Umm..." she says carefully. "I most definitely did not say that."

You furrow your brow like you’re genuinely trying to remember. "Really? I'm almost certain you did."

"I'm absolutely certain I didn't."

"Hm." You tilt your head thoughtfully, pretending to reconsider the evidence. "I suppose it's possible I misheard."

The dressing room explodes again.

"No, I heard it too!!"

"Pretty sure she said open bar!"

"I'll bring dessert!"

"We're coming straight after media!"

Alexia lets her forehead fall dramatically against your shoulder, the long, suffering sigh that escapes her making it abundantly clear she already knows this is completely beyond saving.

"Congratulations," she mutters into your jersey. "You've known them for approximately thirty seconds and somehow they're already taking your side."

“Well I can’t help it if they have excellent taste.”

She lifts her head just enough to give you an entirely unconvinced look. Before she can respond, your father calls across the room, wearing the broad, unmistakably smug smile of a man who has just watched his plan come together exactly as intended.

"Welcome to the family, Alexia!" he announces. "And good luck with my daughter. She's trouble."

Your head snaps toward him so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. "Papa!"

"What?" He spreads his hands with the wounded innocence of a man who has done nothing but offer helpful guidance. "It's important she has realistic expectations going forward."

"Wait daughter??" a voice echoes from somewhere near the middle of the room, sounding like she was doing intense mental gymnastics. You can practically hear the gears turning. Several teammates exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Holy shit," someone blurts out from the back. "La Reina already had enough aura, and now she's dating into football royalty."

Alexia doesn't even glance in that direction. Her attention stays fixed on your father, her expression softening from mild exasperation into something warmer and more genuine.

"Thank you sir," she says as blush covers her cheekbones.  "And thank you for coming down to wish us good luck."

"My pleasure." He beams at her, the kind of unguarded pride you have only ever seen him direct at people he has decided, quietly and completely, to love. "Now go beat Madrid."

"I plan to."

You meanwhile are still staring at your father with a particular look of betrayal reserved exclusively for when your parents embarrass you in front of an audience.

"I am not trouble," you protest, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the smile you are failing spectacularly to suppress.

Your father simply raises an eyebrow. Alexia turns her head slowly toward you, taking her time about it, clearly savoring the moment. Neither of them says a single word.

You look between the two of them - this united front assembling itself against you with alarming speed and even more alarming enthusiasm - and throw your hands up. "I hate both of you."

"You don't," your father says cheerfully.

"I really don't," you admit, which only makes Alexia laugh.

She looks at you then for a long moment, visibly trying to hold onto some semblance of exasperation at you inviting twenty teammates to her house and failing completely. The corners of her mouth refusing to cooperate with whatever stern expression she's attempting to produce. It's difficult to take offense, you suspect, when the person supposedly causing the trouble is standing in front of her wearing a jersey with her own name stitched across the back, having spent an entire afternoon crossing every boundary you'd once agreed to respect just to be here for this.

Some things simply cannot be argued with. She seems to have arrived at that conclusion somewhere in the last five minutes, and abandoned the fight without much resistance.

She leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to make you smile before she finally pulls away. Then, almost imperceptibly, the softness gives way to purpose as she settles back into herself, into the captain who has a quarterfinal to lead and a team waiting to follow her.

You take that as your cue.

You find her hand one final time, lacing your fingers briefly through hers and squeezing once. You hold her gaze for a moment that carries everything neither of you needs to say out loud again today.

"I'll see you after," you tell her softly.

Her smile turns small and private, entirely yours. "After," she echoes.

You let her hand go and turn toward the door, where your father is already waiting with the carefully restrained expression of a man who has just witnessed something that has made him profoundly happy and is doing an admirable job of not making a bigger scene about it than he already has.

You are almost through the doorway when the voice reaches you - young, bright, and completely unfiltered

"She is so awesome." A deliberate pause, clearly for maximum effect. "And she's so much cooler than you, Ale."

The laughter that erupts behind you chases you out into the hallway, layered over the sound of Alexia's response, which is impressively indignant for someone who just introduced you as her girlfriend to a standing ovation two minutes earlier.

The door swings shut behind you, and the noise of the dressing room becomes muffled and distant, leaving you alone with your father in the quiet of the corridor, both of you grinning like fools.

Papa pulls you under his arm, drawing you against his side in the easy, loving way he has done your whole life, and the two of you begin making your way back through the halls toward the ascending noise of the stadium.

"I'm proud of you," he says simply, after a while.

You say nothing. You lean into him slightly, and let that be more than enough.

Somewhere ahead of you the crowd swells and breathes, sixty thousand people finding their seats, the vast collective hum of something enormous building toward itself. The smell of cut grass drifts through the cool tunnel air. The lights, when you emerge, are enormous and golden and entirely unavoidable.

You walk toward them without bracing yourself.

You think about the jersey stretched across your shoulders, about the word girlfriend finally offered without condition, and the look on her face when you said it. You think about your father’s arm around you, the conversation at the kitchen table, and the long, winding road it had taken to arrive at a truth that, perhaps, had been waiting patiently for you all along.

You think about rules. About the safety they promise and the walls they quietly build. About what yours had protected you from, and what, in the end, it had been preventing you from finding.

You never, in any version of your life you might once have imagined, expected to find yourself here. Walking willingly into a football stadium and realizing that the dread you had carried for so many years was gone, replaced entirely by love.

But then again...

Rules were made to be broken.

------

Author's Note: Guys I think that might be a good place to end 😭 I wrote that last line and was like wait a minute 👀

Your quick overnight bag is packed by the door, and she’s fighting to get everything back into her suitcase, the newest medal to her collection clinking against the case's structure as she forces the top down to zip it. Careless with the gold thing, already possessing too many to give it a spare thought. 

“Relax, we have twenty minutes.”

“Last time we had twenty minutes and then suddenly we were late.” Alexia gives you a pointed look, hands on her hips as she stares you down. “Who paid the fee?”

“I wonder why that was.” You smirk at her. “And yes, it was you who paid the fee. Because you’re the one on an athlete’s salary, fucking me around the continent every other week.” 

She scoffs, but the corner of her mouth gives her away.

The hotel room around you is entirely anonymous. There’s charcoal curtains blocking the grey morning light, two empty coffee cups sitting on the bedside tables, and an armchair in the corner of the room now cleared of the clothes that were thrown on it last night. 

It’s a room with history that no one will ever know, designed to be forgotten the second the keycard is left at reception. The only kind of space that actually works for this.

Alexia finally wins the battle with her suitcase zipper with a quiet, irritated exhaling of air through her nose. She drops her hands, leaving the bulging bag at the door, and walks over to where you’re leaning against the desk.

Her hands find your hips, an easy habit now, her fingers settling on to the familiar curve like muscle memory. Her touch is firm as she steps closer enough that your lower back is pressing against the wood. She smells like the generic hotel body wash mixed with the extortionate perfume she brings every time.

“I’m the one that battled the bags,” She says, her voice still carrying that slight rasp from finally falling asleep far too late. “Least you could do is keep track of the time.”

“I am keeping track,” You reply, your hands trailing up casually over her ribs. “I just don’t panic every time a clock hits the hour.”

“It’s not panic. I’m just used to respecting schedules.” 

You raise an eyebrow at her. “I respect schedules when they mean I get a good night’s rest.”

A small, slightly cocky smile touches her lips. “You weren’t complaining about my schedule a few hours ago.”

You try to fend off the pink tinge that finds its way onto your cheeks, but there’s not much you can do to stop it and it only encourages her smugness.

“A few hours ago, you weren’t standing over me with a suitcase.”

The brunette rolls her eyes, but her grip on your waist doesn’t loosen. Her thumbs press gently against your hips, moving up and down again and again in a slow rhythm that’s built over months in random cities. Taking in the contented proximity before real life starts again.

Alexia opens her mouth to offer another quick retort about making her flight, only for the words to stall before they can leave her lips.

Her hands stay anchored to your waist, but her expression subtly shifts. The dry amusement fades out of her eyes, replaced by something more considered. Her gaze drops down to your lips for a split second, then drifts back up to hold your eyes.

You can tell right away that there’s a thought sitting on her tongue– something unscripted that she hadn’t planned on saying, hovering right on the edge. 

“What is it?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.

She hesitates, her the movement of her thumbs becoming absentminded circles as she thinks.

For someone who seems to move through her life with absolute certainty, whose life is measured in quick decisive moments, the tiny pause feels uncomfortably long and sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Come over to my apartment this week.” She says eventually.

The words are uttered quietly, they land gently between you, but they hit with the weight of a brick. The air in the room shifts a little. 

You blink, pausing like you’re waiting for a punchline. “What?”

“On Wednesday. When we’re both back in Barcelona,” Alexia elaborates, her voice steadying as she talks even though her fingers tighten on your waist again. “Come to my apartment. Before the team flies to Lisbon.”

The sound of someone walking by outside the door fills the room as you process her words.

In eight months, her home has never come up. It’s never been an option. Not once.

Your entire existence together lives in four walls like the ones you stood between now– hotels in Bilbao, Paris, Manchester. Places where the sheets get washed by strangers and no one leaves even just a toothbrush behind.

Something tugs in your chest. You look at her, searching for the joke, but her mouth is set in a rigid line. There’s a tightness around her eyes and an almost invisible twitch in her jaw that wasn’t there two minutes ago.

You take it for her usual caution, the relentless paranoid privacy of someone whose name is printed on thousands of shirts and who gets followed by paparazzi on a yacht off the coast of Ibiza. You don’t look any deeper than that.

“Are you sure?” You ask, the teasing edge dropping from your voice. “You’ve never asked.”

“I’m sure,” She says softly. She doesn’t look away, but there’s something unsure in her eyes that makes your heart swell. You think for a brief second that perhaps the feelings there match the ones in your own. “I want to see you one last time before the final. Without a hotel checkout hanging over us.”

A smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it. You nod once. “Okay. Wednesday.”

Something in her shoulders drops, the hard line of her spine giving way just a fraction, like a weight off her chest. She leans in almost immediately afterwards, her hands pulling you flush against her as her mouth finds yours.

It’s not the urgent, restless, celebratory and endorphin-filled kiss from last night. It’s firm and lingering, her lips dragging against yours with a deliberate slowness that makes your hands find the back of her neck on instinct.

It feels different.

You don’t look any deeper into that, either.

When she pulls back, her eyes linger on you, the familiar tilt returning to the corner of her mouth at the look on your face. 

“Right,” You say, clearing your throat and tapping her chest lightly to break the spell. “You really do have to go now if you don’t want a late fee and a missed flight.”

Alexia nods, leaning in one last time to press a quick, softer kiss to your lips.

“I’ll see you back in Barcelona,” She murmurs against your lips before stepping back and finally letting her hands fall from your hips. “Three days.”

“Three days.” You echo, biting back a smile. Her face is doing the same.

“Bye, cari.”

You stand by the desk still, and watch her grab the suitcase by the door, the gold medal clinking once more against the frame before she opens the door.

She lingers in the hallway, waiting for you to say goodbye.

With a light roll of your eyes and a faint blush, you obey. “Bye, Alexia.”

The brunette gives an unexpectedly soft smile in place of her predicted grin, before she slips out in the carpeted hallway.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving you alone in the quiet room. You stare at the empty doorway for a long moment, your chest fluttering with a feeling you know you shouldn’t have.

And half an hour later, sitting with an espresso in the hotel restaurant, you can’t help the smirk that breaks across your face when your phone lights up with a screenshot from Alexia– a bank notification for a late checkout fee, followed by a single eye-roll emoji.

— 

When Wednesday arrives, focusing on anything at your desk feels like a losing battle.

Your laptop screen displays a half-finished report you’ve been staring at for two hours, but your brain is stuck entirely on a timer that seems to be ticking down at half-speed. Every time your phone screen lights up on the desk next to your keyboard, an involuntary flutter hits your chest before you even check the notification.

She’s been texting in short sporadic bursts since she woke up. Brief check-ins between physio reviews, training, and tactical meetings that slowly weave a web of anticipation through your workday.

Alexia [09:14] Morning. I’ve had two coffees already and I’m still tired. This day is going to drag on too long until tonight.

You [09:22] That’s what happens when you stay up arguing about hotel checkouts.

Alexia [09:25] Worth it. Still on track for tonight?

You [11:46]  Unless my boss realises I’ve done nothing productive and just stared at the same word doc for two hours, yes.

Alexia [11:48] Good.  Send me a text when you’re leaving the office.

You’d leaned back in your chair, staring down at her last message.

A wave of hesitation washed over you for the briefest second. 

Eight months of absolute secrecy, unwritten rules, and polished hotel rooms made the idea of stepping into her actual life feel surreal.

Risky? Maybe.

No, surely not.

You’d typed out a teasing reply, testing the waters, half-expecting her to pull back or turn it into a joke.

You [13:15] So we’re really doing this? No hotel keycards tonight? Should I be honoured or concerned that I’m finally seeing your mysterious athlete’s bachelor(ette?) pad?

Her response hadn’t come immediately.

Minutes had ticked by– five, ten, fifteen, twenty – long enough for a tiny knot of doubt to form in your stomach. You’d almost convinced yourself that you’d pushed a boundary she wasn’t ready to cross, that the invitation in Huesca had just been a fleeting moment of post-win sentimentality she now regretted.

Then your phone had finally buzzed.

Alexia [13:49] Honoured. Code for the front gate is 4092. Top floor, door on the left.

An address pin.

Alexia [13:50] Don’t make me regret it.

You’d stared at those messages for a long moment, your thumb running up and down the edge of your phone case.

It was odd seeing her address spelled out in monochrome text.

Your mind had archived her in transient spaces for so long. 

Dim lighting of a suite in Paris. Crisp white sheets in Manchester after an unexpected loss for her. Muffled sound of traffic below a balcony in London. The outline of her in front of a window that overlooked the view of Barcelona. 

Places where you’d lay awake in the middle of the night, indulging in the warmth of your body pressed close to hers, listening to her even breathing, wondering what she was like when she wasn’t living out of a suitcase. Wondering if the easy and unspoken warmth between you was just an illusion created by a temporary room, or if it’d survive out in the real world.

Well, you were about to find out.

At 5:30PM, you shut your laptop with a hasty click, completely abandoning the rest of your email inbox.

You [17:31] Leaving work now. See you at 7 x

The walk from your office through the early evening heat of Barcelona carries a light but restless energy. On the way to the metro, you find yourself ducking into a small wine shop tucked away on a side street. You browse the wooden shelves with a slow focus, eventually picking out an expensive Priorat white.

It’s an irrational purchase, and you know it.

Alexia won’t touch a drop of alcohol four days out from a Champions League final – her discipline on that front is terrifyingly rigid, you’ve come to learn– but the bottle feels like a necessary prop.

It’s a domestic gesture. A wordless declaration that tonight isn’t just about a quick turnaround before a flight; it’s about sitting on a sofa (or laying in her bed), pouring a glass, and finally existing without an alarm set for checkout.

She’ll have an alarm set for training, and you’ll have your own set for sneaking out in time to get ready for work. But that feels... like a life, not an alibi.

You’re standing on the pavement outside her building a little before seven, the glass bottle heavy in the canvas bag slung over your shoulder.

The building is sleek, private, understated. A place designed for people who pay extra to never be looked at too closely. It looks a little like some of the hotels you’d found yourselves in, and you shake your head with a huff of laughter.

You punch in the four-digit code at the main gate, the wrought-iron lock clicking open with a soft mechanical buzz.

Your thumb absently traces the canvas strap on your shoulder as you step into the marble-lined foyer and head toward the lift. Your heart is doing that annoying flutter against your ribs; though, this time, it’s not a result of the adrenaline of a hotel hallway, but something warmer, softer, and infinitely more dangerous.

You press the button for the top floor, watching the numbers light up one by one. It ends at the top floor quickly with an imperceptible chime. 

The silence up here is exclusive and unbothered by the city below as you step out into the tiled floor corridor. You soon find the door on the left and pause for a beat, letting out a quiet breath to steady the pace of your heart.

Then, you raise your hand and knock. Three short taps.

Footsteps sound from the other side almost immediately, a little too quick to be classed as unhurried, before the door swings inward.

And there she is.

Alexia stands in the doorway framed by the warm glow of her hallway. She’s completely stripped of her usual armour; no official club or national team travel wear, no designer clothes that indicate a victory’s deserved night-out. She’s wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that hangs loose over her shoulders, paired with low-slung sweatpants. Her now mostly brunette hair is pulled back into a loose bun, a few stray strands framing her face.

The midfielder looks remarkably soft. Unpolished. Content. Seeing her like this, grounded in her own sanctuary, pulls the air right out of your lungs.

A smile tugs at her lips as her eyes sweep over you. “You made it.” 

“I made it,” you echo softly, stepping across the threshold after she moves back to give you space.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the rest of the world outside. 

It’s a similar feeling to the hotels, shrinking your lives to this one shoebox and taking you far away from anything that could harm or disrupt it. But it’s so different, already, and it’s something akin to addiction if you were brave enough to name it.

Before the quiet tension can stretch too far, you reach into your bag and pull out the cool bottle of white. You hold it out between you like an offering.

“I brought wine,” You say, a slight sheepish smile touching your mouth. “I know you don’t drink during the season, especially three days out from a final, but… it felt necessary.”

Alexia looks down at the bottle, a low breathy chuckle escaping her chest. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as that familiar cockiness returns to her face.

“Let’s fix you a glass, then.” She drawls, before turning.

She leads you down the hallway, her sock-covered feet silent against the floor. The apartment opens up into a fairly expansive kitchen– sleek marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the fading light over Barcelona.

You glance around inquisitively as she reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a single wine glass, before she takes the bottle from your hands. Her fingers brush against yours in what feels like a purposeful point of contact that sends a spark straight up your arm. 

There’s a few things that you notice which stand out. The sheer amount of jackets and shoes by the door (surely there’s not enough days in the year for that many shoes), the ajar dishwasher door showing off the packed appliance yet to be unloaded. 

Photos of her and her family and football achievements littering the walls and shelves, though a few frames missing off their hooks; probably in the process of changing the photos over, considering how often she gains titles.

“How was your day?” She asks, drawing your attention back to her. She works the corkscrew with practiced precision, the soft pop of it echoing in the open space. She looks up through her lashes as she sets the cork on the counter. “Did your boss catch you staring blankly at that document?”

You lean your hip against the edge of the marble island, watching her as a sly and knowing smile takes over your mouth.

“We don’t do that.” You state simply, tilting your head at her.

Alexia pauses, the neck of the bottle hovering just above the rim of the glass. She raises an eyebrow, her gaze locking onto yours. “We don’t do what?”

“Small talk about our workdays,” You answer, crossing your arms as the smile turns amused. “That’s not us.”

A dangerous smirk spreads across her own face. 

She pours a generous splash of the pale white wine, then settles the bottle down with a deliberate tap against the counter.

“We’re in my flat now,” She says, her voice low as she picks up the glass and steps slowly around the corner of the island until she’s standing directly in front of you. “We can do whatever we want.”

She holds the glass out to you, her eyes never leaving yours.

You take it from her, the cool glass contrasting with the heat radiating off her skin. You bring the rim to your mouth, taking a deliberately slow sip under her watchful eye. The white is crisp and dry.

Alexia’s eyes track the movement, watching your throat work as you swallow.

“Well?” She prompts, voice dropping another octave as her eyes fall back to your lips, tongue darting out to lick her own. “Is it good?”

“Very.” You reply, holding her stare.

Her gaze darkens. A sudden focus lands across her features that instantly wipe away the casual air of the kitchen, momentarily draped in silence.

She steps an inch closer, closing the distance until her body envelops you, her hand coming up to rest gently against the side of your neck. Her thumb presses right over your racing pulse. 

“Let me have a taste,” She murmurs against your cheek.

Before you can react, her mouth is on yours.

She’s unhurried as she tastes the faint wine on your tongue. But it is possessive in a way that makes your knees go weak, her fingers tightening at the nape of your neck as she pulls you flush against her.

You just manage to blindly reach back and set your glass down on the marble before Alexia’s other hand finds your waist.

Without breaking the kiss, she spins you slowly, her touch firm as she begins guiding you backward out of the kitchen and leads you down the dark hallway toward her bedroom.

The wine sits alone and forgotten in the kitchen for a while. An expensive domestic gesture that turned out to be entirely unnecessary, of course– serving as little more than an easy segue to the inevitable. 

Her apartment settles into a subdued silence in contrast to the charged energy that’d filled it the second you stepped in earlier. 

And in the bedroom, the duvet is dragged lazily halfway up your hips, leaving the rest of your skin exposed to the cool drift of the air conditioning, white linen twisted around your ankles in a chaotic mess.

Alexia lies on her side facing you, her head propped against a pillow, her breathing gradually returning to its steady baseline after the storm of the last hour.

One of her hands rests heavily against your inner thigh, her thumb tracing mindless shapes over the sensitive skin there. A calm pressure that keeps you grounded next to her.

She lets out breathless huff of air through her nose, her eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest in the dim light filtering through the gap in the curtains.

“You left your glass,” She mumbles into the silence, her voice raspy with tiredness and satisfaction.

You offer an amused exhale, turning your head on the pillow to look at her. Her hair has completely tumbled out of its updo, strands scattered across her shoulders and clinging to the damp skin at her temples.

“I was a little distracted,” You reply, your hand trailing aimlessly down her arm, your fingertips catching on the subtle dip of her waist before settling against her hip. “Hardly my fault.”

Her attention drops to the movements of your fingers against her skin as a tiny grin tugs at one corner of her lips. She shifts closer, sliding her knee up between yours until your thighs are pressed flush together under the crumpled duvet. 

“You’re easily led,” She teases, her gaze lazily making its way back up to your eyes.

“By you? Always.” You reply, an answer that brings a smile to her face. “I don’t hear you complaining about it.”

“Never.” She whispers, leaning forward to initiate the slowest kiss of the night. After she pulls away, there’s a sheen to her lower lip that your eyes get caught on as she speaks again. “Your bank account might complain if you buy a bottle every time you come over though.”

“Oh, so this is gonna be a frequent thing now, is it?” You jest, though you ignore the jump your heart does at her words.

“Mm,” Alexia hums, her hand, a little heavy from the exhaustion in her limbs, lands on your cheek and her thumb runs along the bow of your lips. “I hope so.”

The helpless grin that takes over your face is the type that reaches your eyes and warms your chest until it feels almost tight.

It’s a reaction you’d usually try to hide or brush off behind a smirk, but Alexia misses it entirely. Her dark lashes flutter closed as her hand slips down from your cheek to rest against your collarbone. She’s not asleep, just letting the weight of the day and the comfort of her own room sink into her bones.

You stay still under her, letting your breath even out so you don’t disturb her.

Her words replay in your mind to decorate the silence, the three words heavy with promise. I hope so.

Such a simple offhand phrase, but it sets off a cascade in your mind. 

No more suitcases waiting by the door or careful countdown to bus departures and flights. No more tense walks down hallways at ungodly hours of the morning, hoping no teammates spots you leaving her suite. 

The idea of this– of her– not being restricted to meaningless cities and single rooms feels absurdly good. It feels like grounding something that was only ever meant to float. 

You let your fingers trace a feather-light line up her forearm, taking in the soft movements of her chest. 

“You know,” she slurs a little. “I could get used to not having to worry about a rushed checkout in the morning.”

You look at her, taking in the unarmoured lines of her face in the darkness of her bedroom.

“Don’t lie,” You whisper with a fond smile as you brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You have a training alarm set for seven to worry about it instead.”

Alexia rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she pulls you impossibly closer, burying her face into the crook of your neck with a contented exhale, her hand sliding down further to grip your waist under the sheets.

“Quiet,” She grunts against your skin. “Let me pretend for a little longer.” 

A soft laugh escapes you, your hand moving to rest against the small of her back. You don’t push it. Because for once, laying in her apartment, in the city you both live in, there is no reason to bring up travel plans and schedules. 

So you just stay wrapped up in each other, breathing in the stillness of her bedroom.

It feels so much like those late nights around Europe. The same hushed whispers in the dark and the same easy shift of her weight against yours. 

And yet, everything is subtly skewed. The mattress is firmer, and most definitely more expensive. The air smells like an actual life instead of generic hotel linen. There’s a framed print on the wall instead of lifeless commercial art. 

You don’t think you could ever go back to just hotel rooms again. She’s spoiled you now; ruined you for anything else but this.

You indulge in it, until she lets out a dramatic, drawn-out sigh against your neck after a long while.

“I have to shower.” She grumbles, though she doesn’t actually move a muscle for another thirty seconds.

“Off you go then,” You tease, tapping her hip. “I’m not carrying you there.”

“Come with me.” She requests, punctuating it with a kiss to your neck.

“Not a chance,” You grin, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I’m way too comfortable right now.”

Alexia finally moves, lifting her head to give you a playful look. “Lazy.” 

“Exhausted.” You correct her.

She rolls her eyes but grins nevertheless, leaving a kiss to your forehead before tossing the crumpled duvet off her legs as she sits up on the edge of the bed. As she stands, stretching her arms over her head, long lean muscles moving under her skin, you look up at her from the mess of sheets.

“Hey,” You call out quietly. “Can you grab me my clothes? Or at least something to put on?”

Alexia pauses, turning her head to look back at you. A slow smile stretches across her lips, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes with its usual warmth.

“Hold on.”

She disappears into the ensuite, then emerges a few seconds later holding a plush cream robe. She walks back to the bed and tosses it down beside you.

You reach out, feeling the thick, ridiculously soft material between your fingers.

“Look at you,” You tease, sitting up and looking at her as you slide your arms into the sleeves. “You even brought me a dressing gown like the ones at the hotels. You athletes with your traditions.”

The smile stays fixed on her face, but it goes noticeably tight at the corners. A rigid stillness settles into her shoulders, her jaw clenching for a fraction of a second before she recovers.

“Just wear it,” She mumbles, her voice slightly flatter than before. “I won’t be long.”

You don’t think twice about the shift, pulling the belt tight around your waist as Alexia walks back into the bathroom. The shower hums to life in the ensuite, the rush of water hitting tiles filling the room.

With a pleasantly tired sigh, you sink back into the soft mound of pillows on her side of the mattress. The cotton of the robe smells of lavender and fabric softener, a stark contrast to the stiff white terrycloth of the hotels’.

You lay there in the quiet for a while, staring up at the ceiling as your pulse slowly settles. The room is muted, bathed in the ambient glow of the moon outside the window. Then your eyes drift idly around the space, taking in the details you hadn’t paid attention to when she’d pulled you through the door well over an hour ago.

Opposite the foot of the bed, a TV hangs sleek against the wall. To the left, a wall of built-in, floor-to-ceiling wood wardrobes stretches into the shadows, housing an enviable collection of clothes you’ve only ever seen packed tightly into designer duffels and suitcases.

On the adjacent wall, a set of floating shelves displays a curated mess of her actual life: a stack of books, a few random trinkets, a couple player of the match awards, and a small framed photo resting near the edge.

You tilt your head, straining your eyes in the low light to make out the dark shapes in the picture. It’s a shot of two women laughing on what looks like a sunlit boat, their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. You can barely discern the features in the gloom, but you mentally fill in the blanks.

It’s probably her sister, Alba.

The one she occasionally brings up when talking about family dinners back in Mollet and making jokes about how little she cares about football.

A quiet thought slips into your mind. Maybe you’ll meet them one day. Soon?

The second the thought takes root, you catch yourself with a self-deprecating huff against the pillow. You shake your head, rolling onto your side. Slow down. You’ve been in her apartment for three hours.

Smothering the thought before it can get too big, you reach over to the nightstand and pick up your phone, the screen illuminating your face to pass the time as she showers. 

Five minutes pass by.

And then a distinct click echoes down the hallway. 

The front door opens.

You freeze. Your thumb hovers motionless above the glowing phone screen, the sound of your own breathing suddenly sounding far too loud in the room.

Across the bottom of the bedroom door, a bright strip of yellow light cuts through the darkness as the hallway light flicks on.

Footsteps follow– keys jingling, shoes dragging across floorboards, a coat dropping onto the entryway bench.

A pit drops instantly into your stomach. Your heart begins a violent thud against your ribs, the peacefulness of five minutes ago vanishing in a single second.

A cleaner? An assistant? A teammate? A friend? Her sister?

A woman’s voice calls out into the flat. It sounds awfully casual and at ease.

“Alex?”

The shower is still running in the ensuite, the muffled rush of water meaning Alexia clearly hasn’t heard a thing. You sit up in the bed, the fabric of the cream robe bunching around your waist as you pull the belt tighter with trembling hands. 

Panic spikes through your veins, your mind frantically searching for a plan, a hideout, a joke, anything– but you’re completely trapped, sitting in the middle of the bed that’s suddenly lost it’s comforting allure.

The footsteps grow louder. Unhurried, and heading straight toward you.

“Alex, I came back early from Madrid. I wanted to surprise y–”

The bedroom door swings wide open. A hand reaches out and flicks the light switch.

The room is followed with the momentarily blinding overhead light. You wince, squinting through the glare, your eyes locking onto a woman standing in the doorway. Her hair is darker than Alexia’s and windblown as she holds a small overnight bag, keys still between her fingers.

She halts mid-step. 

Her eyes drop to you, sitting in the middle of the disheveled bed, tangled in the duvet.

A sharp gasp hitches from the woman’s throat, her body jerking back an inch in sheer shock. Her face pales, her eyes widening as they sweep over the messy sheets, the clothes strewn over the floor, and then back to your frozen, wide-eyed form.

For two agonising seconds, neither of you breathe. The only sound in the entire apartment is the oblivious rush of the shower still running.

“Who the fuck are you?” 

The woman’s voice whips through the room, sharp and laced with disbelief.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out except a pathetic hitch of air. Your tongue feels like lead against the roof of your mouth. “I—I’m—”

“Is she fucking you?” The woman interrupts, the words spitting out of her with raw, jagged fury. Her eyes scan the bed, the damp sheets, the robe.

You flinch at the bluntness of it, a suffocating heat rushing up your neck. You hesitate for half a second, paralysed, before giving a slow and horrified nod.

The brown-haired woman lets out a bitter scoff, slapping both hands over her face.

“I don’t fucking believe it. Fuck!” She shouts into her palms, her shoulders hitching as she takes a ragged step back toward the doorframe.

The pieces fall together with a violent crash in your brain. It’s a sickening realisation that makes your skin crawl.

The packed dishwasher, clearly too much for one person. The missing frames in the lounge, the photo on the floating shelves of the boat. The way Alexia had gone rigid when you teased her about the dressing gown. Shit, was it hers?

“You’re–” Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “You’re her girlfriend?” 

The woman drops her hands, letting out a laugh that is entirely devoid of humour– a scathing sound that cuts right through you.

“Three years.” She snarls, her eyes flashing with tears she’s fiercely trying to hold back. “I’m her girlfriend of three years.” 

“I had no idea!” You gasp out immediately. “I swear to you! I had no idea she was in a relationship!”

“Right,” She snaps back instantly, tone dripping with venom. “You didn’t notice the photos in the living room? You didn’t notice half the clothes in the wardrobe that aren’t hers? You just walked into her flat and thought you were the only woman to exist?”

You stay silent. 

The nausea hits you so hard you feel like you might throw up right in front of her. You feel like you’re part of a completely different life now. 

Fuck, you are. You already have been living a different life. Caught up in cross-continent thrill, oblivious to the world Alexia really lived in. 

How could you have been so fucking blind.

The woman takes a long, shaking breath, rubbing the back of her neck as her chest heaves. She stares at you, reading the genuine horror written across your pale face.

“You really didn’t know?”

You nod frantically, tears of sheer mortification pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“Yes! Yes, I swear to you. I promise on my life I had no idea. I’m–I’m not that kind of person.” You beg her to understand, plead for her to hear your guilt and regret. “I would never, ever willingly do this to anyone. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

The profuse apologies spill out of you like a broken valve but they do nothing to extinguish the fire.

Her expression cracks, the anger giving way to an abrupt wave of emotion that makes her voice tremble.

“You’re in my bed,” She spits out, the words breaking slightly as she gestures at you. “You’re laying in my bed, wearing my robe, after fucking my girlfriend.”

Every word feels like a physical slap.

You pull your arms tight against your chest, feeling smaller and more disgusted with yourself than you ever have in your entire life.

You want to strip the robe off right now, you want to melt into the floorboards, erase the last eight months of your life completely. 

The last year, actually. There’d been that night in Bilbao, too. What you thought was a one-off, only to pick right up where you left it at a bar in Madrid in September.

She opens her mouth again, her lower lip trembling. “How long– how long has this even–”

The bathroom door opens. The water had gone off at some point in the last few seconds.

Alexia steps out into the bedroom, dressed in her own white robe, steam billowing out behind her as she rubs a small towel through her damp hair.

“Hey, do you want to g–”

She stops dead in her tracks.

The towel drops from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her eyes dart from you, cowering on the bed in the matching cream robe, to the woman standing in the doorway with tears spilling fast down her cheeks.

The colour drains from her face in a second. She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her node tightly, a silent exhalation escaping her as the full gravity of the scene hits her. 

She opens her eyes again, a fearful look on her face. 

“Isabel,” Alexia breathes out, her voice barely audible. 

She sounds regretful. Full of remorse. You hate that you panic at the sound of it given the situation you’re in. You’re the other woman. Not her girlfriend. Not anything remotely meaningful to her it seems.

Isabel doesn’t even look back at her. Her glossy eyes remain locked on you, a sickeningly sweet, terrifyingly flat smile spreading across her face.

“I think you need to leave.” Isabel tells you.

You nod instantly, already throwing the duvet off your legs. “Okay, okay.”

“Gather your clothes,” Isabel adds, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that leaves no room for error. “Go change in the bathroom down the hall. And get the fuck out of my life.”

You don’t hesitate for even a millisecond.

You scramble off the bed, grabbing your crumpled pile of clothes off the floor with shaking hands. You don’t dare look at Alexia for even a fleeting moment as you rush past them both and head down the corridor.

Almost as soon as the bathroom door shuts behind you, the shouting begins. You try to tune it out as you dress, politely folding the gown and placing it on top of the laundry basket like it might rectify your mistake. 

You catch some of Alexia’s pleas, defenses, apologies, excuses, as you head out the bathroom and dart toward the front door.

You glance back toward the bedroom with tears in your eyes, your head a mess, your heart beating between guilt and something you’re too ashamed to admit. You look at the bottle of wine and the half-filled glass still sitting on the kitchen counter, and can’t raise your hand in time to muffle the sob that breaks out.

Then, you step out into the corridor you’d walked earlier that evening with such a delicate and thriving anticipation. And now, you close the door behind you, swallowing the sound of another woman’s heart breaking over a life you never knew you were stealing. 

—

sooo. that was a lot lol. i know there's some heavy and unfavourable themes in this, and they will be a main part of the plot if i were to write a series from here. the series would be about navigating alexia and r's complex feelings and emotions following the lies and betrayal and newly discovered affair etc. it'll feature flashbacks, more backstory about it all, etc etc. the purpose of it being a series will be navigating how they end up getting together (alexia and r) given what's happened. it won't be easy and it won't be quick. that's why i want to write this story because (as much as i despise cheating and would never put myself in this situation) purely from a writing fiction side of it i think it'd be fun to explore the emotions and such.

-

You strolled into training Monday morning and knew from the drop that it was about to be a very different season than last year.

Largely because the club had made some big signings over the summer transfer and now sat with a bloated roster.

Part of you was concerned with where you would fit into the coach's plan when the likes of Alexia Putellas and Mapi León are now in contention. Nobody signs names like theirs to not play them.

Thankfully you feel a bit of relief that your position on the right wing means you at least won't be battling either of them for a spot.

The nerves settle quickly that first day.

Jana is still Jana—loud and bubbly and talking a mile a minute in both English and Spanish and occasionally Catalan to Alexia who keeps murmuring, "English, Jana."

You and the defender became fast friends last season. You both came onto the squad as new signings together, and with her tumultuous and last-minute sale by Barça, you made it your duty to make sure she acclimated well to the English culture shock.

Jana in turn looped you into the Spanish way of life. She's taught you some of her mother's recipes and why you should never equate a catalana with Madrid. Ever.

Jana became your best friend last year.

You jokingly (well, partly) told her when news broke of Alexia joining the team that you supposed your top friend status had been revoked for the upcoming season.

Jana just grinned at you over your FaceTime call and said she was enjoying your jealous side. With a quick add that you and Alexia would be good friends; she was sure of it.

So, you suppose you should have known then that you would end up in closer orbit to Alexia than most of the team, considering your mutual friendship of Jana.

What you hadn't considered is that you and Alexia would launch head-first into something all your own.

And all because of a comment she made week 1.

It was a clip recorded for the team’s social media page. It wasn't meant for you. But like anything in football, proximity means you hear and see things about each other because there is no privacy on the pitch. And definitely not on a team holding 35-some names on the roster.

Training is loud and chaotic at times.

Alexia is commanding in training. Her accented English calling for a ball or praising a play as if it is second nature. But when the whistle blows to end a drill, she's quiet.

You've seen the smile as she listens to all the ongoing conversations.

You've seen the questioning eyes when she isn't sure exactly what a slang word means or a truly English-coded phrase.

You've seen the utter confusion when Alana tries to talk to her in that hard-to-follow accent even for those born of the language.

And you have insider knowledge from Jana's first year of just how difficult it can be to follow a conversation and join in when topics move so quickly. Internal translation doesn't always keep up.

You're not quite as quiet. Especially around your people. But you notice things.

Your mother would always say that as a kid you would watch the dew form in the morning if she let you.

Noticing details is your normal.

So when Alexia makes that comment with her little tentative side smile to the camera, and a hand fiddling with her hair, you notice her voice go soft at the end.

"But not alone!" She corrects with a somewhat tight laugh. "With my teammates!"

Not alone.

"Alexia?" You ask once the social media lead has wandered away to capture more content, mouth opening without your explicit consent.

She turns at the sound of her name, eyebrows raised expressively in question of who needs what from her now.

The catalana sighs lightly and gives you a smile, gesturing to the ground next to her in offer.

You plop down a respectful distance away, unsure if you should even be here right now.

"Want to practice that connection drill from yesterday after training today? I could use a few more reps I think," you finally settle on, hoping it lands in a friendly manner and not as an obligation or weird attempt to get closer to her.

She nods immediately. "Yes. I am free."

You grin in relief. "Awesome!"

And this is how you find yourself sharing the field an hour later with five balls, two mannequins set up as the opposition, and one Alexia Putellas.

You set off in another repetition of the drill, passing her the ball and looping past in a cutting run off to her left.

Alexia sends you a quick back heel pass that you collect as you spin around a mannequin, dragging the ball around as you do so to use your body to protect possession.

And then you are sprinting off, the ball at your feet and an open net ahead. You lob a rocket in from outside the box. It easily finds the back of the net.

"Yes Good!" Alexia exclaims with excitement.

"Thanks!" you respond and then pause. Something about that feels slightly off.

You turn, eyes finding hers, wondering if maybe your brain froze in the moment and she actually said it was shit or something.

Alexia is rooted to the spot, head tilted. "You know…Catalan?" She asks softly instead of reiterating that you need more work.

That's why the words sounded a bit off. Not because you heard something that wasn't there. But because you heard something that was. Just not in your language. In hers.

You jog back to the start where she stands in the center circle, slightly breathless from your run.

"I've been bothering Jana to help me learn Catalan. But she's a terrible teacher, really," you joke. "I started learning on an app. Her parents let me practice with them when they visit."

"Why Catalan?" Alexia asks, face curious. "No need here."

Your face tightens for a second. "Jana had a bit of a rough couple months when she started," you state.

"She never mention it," Alexia mutters.

"The way she left Barcelona hurt," you offer with a shrug. "And her English is really good. Yours too," you add hurriedly. "But I know she was missing home."

"So you learn language for her?" Alexia clarifies.

"Well, she also took me back home on one of our breaks. And I gotta say, Catalan girls are something else. Figure I up my chances of landing one if I can flirt in their own language," you state with a smirk.

Alexia's lips quirk up in amusement. "Catalan girl, hmm? So you and Jana when?"

"No, absolutely not," you exclaim with a gasping laugh. "She's too much for me."

"Too much?"

"I'm about the highest level of extroverted I can handle on a daily basis," you say with a grin. "Jana is about 100 points past that. I need someone quieter than me in my relationship, not competing noise."

"She help you learning flirting in Catalan?" Alexia asks with a smirk.

You groan. "I have game," you defend. "But no, she nor Duolingo have been helpful on that front. Yet."

"I speak Catalan," she stats.

You nod slowly. "I am aware. The fourteen years at Barcelona sort of gave it away."

Alexia rolls her eyes at you. "I could teach."

You sputter. "I'm going to get flirting lessons from La Reina? In Catalan?"

"I am good at game," she states with a shrug. "I speak Catalan. I know how Catalan girls flirt. Easy solution, no?"

You're silent, gaze locked on hers.

The black training top really makes her eyes pop.

Should you be noticing that?

Are you allowed to notice that?

The mannequins sway slightly in the light wind cutting across the field.

Sweat beads down the back of your neck.

Alexia watches you.

You lick your lips, thoughts chaotic as you internally process what she just said.

"Okay," you croak. "How about a trade?"

The catalana cocks her head, listening.

"I will show you around and translate whenever Alana corners you again—"

Her lips upturn at the joke.

"And in return you help me with my Catalan. Sound good?"

Alexia nods, a small smile on her face as she directs you to start the training drill again via a hand gently pushing the small of your back. Apparently enough time has been wasted on chatting.

She's quiet.

She's Catalan.

She's exceptionally pretty and exactly your type.

Maybe you won't need to head back to Barcelona for the opportunity to flirt in Catalan. You have the Queen standing in front of you, her eyes soft as she smirks at the lag your brain is still going through in the moment.

She is entirely aware of the effect she just had on you. And judging by the look on her face and the smile she is failing to hide, she likes it.

"Right, yeah," you murmur as you shake your head with a grin and jog back to your spot.

"Maybe we have extra time after this?" She ventures softly. "To do Catalan practice."

"I accept your offer to be my personal Catalan tutor. I can offer you pop culture references and dry humor as compensation," you joke.

Alexia sighs, shaking her head in amusement. "Your place or mine?"

"Do you have snacks?" You ask seriously.

"I just move here. I need to find shop," she answers with a frown, eyes flicking away as she mentally adds that to her to-do list.

"Okay," you break her train of thought. "Yours, and we'll stop and do the shopping on the way so you are all set for the week."

She's surprised. You can tell by the way her eyes widen before she tentatively nods.

"You're not the first Spaniard I've acclimated to England," you say with a cheeky wink, sending her a fast pass and kicking off another repetition of the drill without checking she was ready. "I now have a checklist!"

She receives the ball like it was her idea to start, a light tinkling laugh escaping at your words. She doesn't counter it, instead watching you make another run.

It is amazing really how good she is at just immediately going with the flow and slotting into space.

But as the ball finds the top corner again, you're definitely not complaining.

Playing with her—talking with her—feels easy.

This season is going to be different.

And you have a feeling that isn't just due to football.

Because when she compliments your shot in Catalan, your stomach lurches in a way it hasn't in a long while. Your pulse thrums.

Alexia's smirk grows as you have to ask what exactly she said, Duolingo and Jana failing you in the moment.

"Maybe need lots of extra time," she says with a laugh, a finger swiping teasingly across your back as she leans down to grab her water bottle.

You let out a full-bodied laugh.

Her quick banter has taken you by surprise. You assumed you would have the upper hand here, English being your first language and all.

It seems like Alexia isn't going to just let you claim that, though.

You like the challenge.

The words on the page had ceased making sense about an hour ago. And now, they were just black ink bleeding into the white glare of your laptop screen, a blur of developmental psychology terms that seemed to mock your rising panic.

You dragged both hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you saw static; desperate to shut out the reality of how little you were retaining.

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet. A dead silence that only ever accumulated during exam season, broken by the barely there noise off the kitchen appliances and the frantic tapping of your own foot against the table leg.

You glanced at your lifeless phone. No notifications still, despite sending a text forty minutes ago that’d had your heart guiltily thumping against your ribs ever since.

(You)

I’m so sorry, Ale. I can’t make it tonight. My brain is completely fried, I still have three chapters to get through, and I’m just a total mess. I’m so, so sorry to ruin our plans.

And below it, the little blue ticks to confirm she’d read it. 

No reply at all. Not even a quick ‘no worries’ or anything.

A fresh wave of anxiety, somehow bigger than each one before it, washed over you. It crashed right into your stomach, leaving you with a nauseating pit that made it a little more difficult to breathe. You groaned, slumping forward until your forehead hit the cool wood of the coffee table, right next to a scattered pile of papers and highlighter pens. 

You couldn’t even blame her. 

It was supposed to be a real date. A reservation at a restaurant she’d been on the waiting list for for weeks, a proper night together away from your university exam revision and her grueling football schedule. She’d been so excited about it, her eyes lighting up when she told you she’d finally secured a table, and you had just stomped all over it.

A perfect night ruined because you couldn’t balance your own life.

Fucking idiot, you muttered to yourself, the silence of the flat swallowing the curse whole. 

Things were still incredibly new. You’d only officially been her girlfriend for a month. You were still in that beautiful, slightly fragile phase where you wanted to be perfect for her, where every shared look still made your stomach flip. 

Yet here you were, screwing things up already. Showing her exactly how chaotic and unreliable you were.

Why would a two-time Ballon d’Or winner want to deal with someone who couldn’t even manage a basic university timetable?

You forced yourself back up, a dull throbbing beginning in your temples as you stared miserabley at a paragraph on cognitive milestones.

Except, the guilt made it impossible to focus. The words just continued to blur until they were a grey smudge on the screen. 

All that was running through your mind was the image of Alexia in the midst of getting ready – maybe standing in front of a mirror, dressed up and putting in her hoop earrings, checking her phone only to find your pathetic message.

You could practically see the disappointment dropping over her face, the way she’d probably sigh, take her earrings back out, change into sweatpants. Annoyed at wasting her time dressing up for someone that couldn’t even get through their University work. 

The thought made your throat tighten all over again, frustration burning behind your eyes. But you quickly blinked it away, angry at yourself for being so emotional.

You reached blindly for your coffee mug, only to find it bone-dry, the dark ring at the bottom completely cold. Great. Even your caffeine had given up on you now.

You were just about to stand up, to wander aimlessly to the kettle just for something to do that wasn’t going square-eyed staring at your laptop for so long, when a knock echoed from the front door.

Your foot stopped its tapping as you froze. And the knock came again. 

Your mind couldn’t quite process the math of it as you walked toward the entryway, your socks sliding slightly on the wooden floorboards. You unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the door open, and the breath caught in your throat.

You stared at the figure before you, completely paralysed, your hand grasped around the edge of the wood as your eyes mapped the person standing in your doorway.

It was Alexia. 

But not the version of her your guilt-ridden brain had spent the last forty-five minutes torturing you with.

She was dressed in a matching grey Nike hoodie and joggers, casual but still effortlessly clean. Her hair – clearly freshly washed and freshly straightened - was pulled into a quick loose bun, a few stray pieces framing her face. 

Her makeup was minimal but polished, the soft tint on her lips and the liner that sat above her mascara-coated lashes showing she had definitely taken the time to get ready for you tonight. 

And nestled right against the line of her jaw, were the silver hoop earrings you’d envisioned her tearing out in frustration. She hadn’t taken them out at all.

Your attention dropped down, taking in her hands. A delicate watch on one wrist, a couple rings decorating her fingers, and a plastic bag from the local supermarket bursting to the brim in her arms. 

“What…” Your voice was thick, cracking around the syllable as you gripped the door a little tighter. You swallowed hard, trying to force your brain to catch up with your eyes. “What are you doing here, Alexia?” 

The brunette didn’t look angry. Nor did she look disappointed.

Instead, an awfully warm grin broke across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she took in your messy attire and the sheer unfiltered panic radiating off you. She shifted the weight of the shopping bag in her arms, her head tilting slightly to the side.

“Hola, guapa,” She beamed, her Spanish accent heavy but comforting. “You no go to restaurant, so the restaurant go to you.”

The lightheartedness of it, the ease, only made the knot in your chest twist painfully. You shook your head, stepping back a bit but not letting her in just yet, your hand lifting to rub at your temple where a stress headache was definitely firmly embedding itself.

“Ale, no, you don’t understand,” You whispered, voice dangerously wobbly. “I can’t. The exam is in three days. I still have three massive chapters to go over again, and… I’m just an absolute mess. I’m… I can’t be a good girlfriend tonight.”

Her easy grin faltered, her lips turning downwards and her eyebrows knitting together into a deep, almost comical frown. She looked at you as if you’d just said the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard in her life.

“Qué?” She said, her head jerking back a little. She adjusted the bag against her hip, refusing to let you push her away with your panic. When she spoke again, her voice was firm, her broken English coming out with a fierce and protective cadence. “You no good girlfriend? What is this?”

She stepped closer, forcing you to look at her, her eyes flashing with a mix of stubbornness and overwhelming affection.

“Being good girlfriend is no about… going to fancy place, wear nice outfit, makeup,” Alexia argued, stumbling a little over the words, but pushing through with absolute determination. She tilted her head further, her gaze softening more as she took in your wilted posture. “You are stressed. Your brain is… loud. My job is be here. I am good girlfriend when you are happy, and I am more good girlfriend when you are a mess. Entiendes?” 

The bluntness of her declaration, delivering in that earnest accented lilt, struck you directly in the chest. It caused a hot blush to creep up your neck, warming your cheeks even as the threatening tears from earlier finally spilled over your eyelashes.

“Ale…” You breathed, a watery helpless sound escaping you. 

“No, no ‘Ale,’” she countered, though her comically stern expression completely cracked at the sight of your tears. Her eyes melted into something incredibly tender, a low sigh escaping her. “You.. you are stupid.”

You blinked through your emotion, caught off-guard. 

“That’s… that’s not very nice.” You whispered, the sentence cracking completely as a tiny tearful laugh hitched in your throat. 

An amused but apologetic smile took over her face. “Lo siento. Perdón.” 

She didn’t wait for your permission this time; she gently nudged her shoulder against yours, stepping past you and into the quiet of your apartment towards the kitchen.

She set the bag down on the counter with a thud. But didn’t start unpacking. Instead, she turned around and walked right back to where you were standing by the now closed door.

Then, she closed the distance between you, stepping into your space until there was nowhere else you could look but at her. She reached out, her hands landing to rest gently on your hips, and her thumbs began to stroke slow soothing circles over your shirt.

“Tell me,” She started in a quiet tone, head dropping as she tried to catch your downcast eyes. “What is wrong? Where this come from, hm?” 

It was the softest voice you had ever heard her use. The low timber of her accent wrapped around you like a blanket, completely stripping away whatever remaining defenses you had.

Your bottom lip quivered, and you quickly looked away, staring hard at the zipper of her grey hoodie because looking at her face was simply too dangerous. 

“I’m just stressed, Ale,” you mumbled, barely above a whisper. “My head is spinning. I can’t focus on… on anything.”

“Is only exam stress?” She asked softly, her thumbs never stopping their steady motion against your hips. She nudged her head lower, trying to coax your gaze back up. “Only University? Or something more?”

Another blush took over as you gathered the honest answer together. 

“No, it’s… we’re still so new,” You admitted dejectedly. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes still glued to her zip. “We’ve only been together a month. I… don’t want you to see me like this. A disaster.” 

Alexia let out a hummed breath, her grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly. 

“A disaster?” She repeated, her tone teasing but still terribly gentle.

“Yes.” You muttered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. “I don’t like anyone seeing me like this. I like to be the– the organised one. I try to have my life together. But instead you’re here looking perfect for a date and I’m just crying on my own in my apartment whilst studying.”

A tut escaped Alexia before she could stop it, a single disappointed, or disbelieving, click of her tongue. She let go of one of your hips and her hand travelled up your arm to carefully cradle your cheek. Her thumb caught the tear before it could reach your jaw, her skin warm and palm slightly calloused.

“Look at me, please.” She whispered.

You hesitated, but the quiet command in her voice was impossible to resist.

Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet hers. Her expression was devoid of the amusement from earlier; it was just pure sincerity. 

“I no like hearing this,” She said. “You think I only want you… when you perfect? When everything easy? No.” She shook her head as a small line appeared between her brows. “I know you work hard. I see it, I see how much you care. This– this is you, too. And I want all you. You stressed, you crying. Everything.”

Your heart skipped every other beat in a way that surely wasn't healthy, the rapid thumping of it echoing right up into your throat. It was impossible to comprehend how someone could look at you at your absolute worst and say something so effortlessly heavy, so entirely grounding.

You didn't know what to reply. Your brain, completely fried from hours of staring at cognitive development models, couldn't formulate a proper, poetic response.

Instead, you just swallowed past the lump in your throat and offered a tentative, “If you say so.”

“Oye,” Alexia murmured instantly, the single word sharp enough to catch you by surprise. Her thumb gave a reassuring swipe against your cheekbone, ensuring you kept your eyes locked onto hers.

“I do,” She said, her gaze steady, intense, and utterly unwavering. “I say so. You…” She stopped, taking a deep, determined breath in, her chest rising against yours as she gathered her English words together. “...you no choice but to agree. Yes?”

A breathless giggle slipped past your lips. 

The sheer stubbornness of her, the competitive and unyielding spirit of Alexia Putellas being pointed entirely at making you feel loved – was ridiculous in the best possible way.

You let your head nod just once. And her face lit up with that beaming grin that completely creased her glinting eyes again.

“Perfecta.” She declared, her hand sliding down from your cheek to rest back on your hip, giving you a playful squeeze. “So, I stay. I make you feel better, I cook dinner. And, most important, I keep you smiling.” 

The warmth in your chest was such a fire it was almost dizzying. You couldn’t help but smile, a genuine one this time, even as you decided to tease her just a little bit more to keep your own emotions from boiling over again. 

“I also don’t have a choice in any of these things, either?” You joked, raising an eyebrow. 

Her grin widened, her chest puffing out slightly with playful authority. 

“No,” She said, leaning in a fraction closer. “Ab– ab… ab-so-luty not.” 

She stumbled over the syllables, but she didn’t even care, looking incredibly proud of her attempt anyway and how it elicited another laugh from you. The sheer fondness in her eyes made you feel like you were soaring.

And before you could say anything in reply, she leaned in. Her hands left your hips and slid up your neck to cradle both your cheeks. Her palms were warm still, her touch soft as she gently angled your head up, tilting her own to meet you.

The kiss she gave you was slow, gently, but deeply telling. It wasn’t rushed or demanding; it was a grounding press of her lips against yours that seemed to carry the full weight of everything she had just promised. You let your eyes drift shut, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against her wrists as you melted into the solid comfort of her presence.

When she pulled back, she didn’t go far. She kept her hands cradling your face, her thumbs moving in a similar way as they did earlier as she rested her forehead against yours.

“I like spend time with you.” She whispered. “In… in any way. It no have to be… glamorous.”

She paused and frowned.

“...glamorous?” 

A quiet giggled escaped you at the pronunciation, the endearing lilt of her accent wrapping around the word, but you nodded against her hands. “Yeah. Glamorous is perfect, Ale.”

She smiled, reassured, and continued. “It no have to be glamorous. It can just be us, in joggers, home-cooked dinner. Your University work everywhere in the room. I just want you happy, bebé.” 

You released a shaky breath, the last remnants of your exam anxiety evaporating into the space between you. You reached up, placing your hands over hers where they still held your face.

“I am,” You murmured, eyes locking onto hers. “I am happy whenever I’m with you.”

Alexia’s expression softened into a beautiful little smile. “Good.” 

Then, she wrapped her arms around your shoulders and pulled you into her chest, wrapping you in a tight protective hug. 

You didn’t hesitate in burying your face into the soft cotton of her hoodie and following suit in wrapping your arms around her waist. You allowed yourself to completely relax against her, breathing in the scent of her perfume that took you right back to your first date with her. 

And as the silence stretched, the apartment finally feeling peaceful instead of suffocating, a sudden memory of the days prior to that first date flickered in your mind, and a teasing smirk began to pull at your lips.

You slowly pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You know,” You began, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ve got really good at English for those journalists, haven’t you?”

Alexia’s head dropped back as she let out a loud dramatic groan, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling. But she couldn’t keep a serious face for long. As soon as you started laughing, she cracked, and a bright chuckle rattled her chest. 

“Shut up.” She grumbled, her hand dropping to your hip to give you a cheeky pinch in retaliation. 

Afterwards, she caught your hand, fingers intertwining with your to lock them together.

“Come on,” She said, giving it a gentle tug as she began to back up, leading you out the hallway and into the lounge.

The room was still cast in darkness aside from the corner lamp and your laptop, which threw long shadows across the paperwork scattered over the coffee table. The brunette walked over to the sofa and sank back into the cushions with a content sigh.

You stood by the edge of the couch for a second, hesitating, before Alexia tapped the couch between her parted knees. 

“Sit,” She instructed softly. “You no can study if your body is stiff like a– a… how you say? Wood?” 

“A plank.” You supplied with an exhausted laugh as you headed over and lowered onto the floor, your back resting comfortably against the front of the sofa between her legs.

Having her behind you, even in that scenario, especially in that scenario, brought you a strange but undeniable amount of comfort and peace of mind.

She leaned forward slightly, her chin resting just above your head as she reached past to drag one of your highlighted study sheets off the table. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the dense English text.

“Okay…” She mumbled, her finger tracing beneath a line of bold print. She took a slow deep breath, concentrating hard on the letters. “So-cio-cul-tur-al… the-o-ry? No. This is… this too many letters together.” She shook her head, a huff escaping her nose. “What is this? Explain.”

“Sociocultural theory.” You said, tilting your head back so you could look up at her. “It’s basically just the idea that children learn everything through their social interactions. Like, they learn from the culture and the people around them. And they need a mentor.”

As you spoke, Alexia’s hands found your shoulders. 

Her palms rested over the fabric of your shirt, her fingers immediately finding the rigid muscles at the base of your neck. When her thumbs pressed firmly into the tightest spot, an involuntary gasp slipped past your lips, your shoulders instantly dropping.

“Shh,” Alexia uttered beside your ear, her hands working in slow and agonisingly perfect circles. “No stop. Speak. I listen.”

“It… it means,” You stammered slightly, your brain melting under the dual influence of her voice and the pressure of her hands. “Knowledge is initially constructed through social interaction or exposure, then internalised by the child. And part of this theory is that we all need… we all need a ‘more knowledgeable other’ to guide us. Like a teacher or a parent or…” You leaned back into her touch as she dug a heel of her hand into your shoulder blade. “...or a girlfriend.”

A soft, rumbling chuckle vibrated against the back of your head.

“Ah,” Alexia hummed, her fingers kneading their way down your upper back, chasing away the physical tension that’d been building up for days. “Like.. you are the ‘more… know-ledge-able… other’ when we do the English? But now…” She dug her thumbs into a stubborn knot, eliciting a soft gasp from you. “I am the boss of the massage.”

“Exactly,” You breathed, closing your eyes as you let your head sink back against her knee. “Just like that.”

“Muy bien. I like this theory.” She decided, the last word making you smile with how much she emphasised the ‘o’. Her hands slid back up to your neck, fingers gently massaging the muscles below your ears. “See? You know this. Your brain is smart, bebé. You just… think too much. You make the words in your head too loud.”

“I have to,” You sighed, a tiny bit of the old worry trying to creep back in. “There's just so much of it, Ale.”

“No,” She countered softly but firmly, her thumbs giving a reassuring press against your collarbone. “You no have to do it alone. You tell me the words, I try to say them, and you explain. Is easy. We are… un equipo. A team. Yes?”

You opened your eyes, looking up at her upside-down face. She was looking down at you with such a tender look of encouragement that you felt a fresh wave of warmth completely consume you, pushing the very last dredges of your academic dread far out of reach.

“Yes,” You whispered, a helpless smile taking over your face. “We're a team.”

“Vale,” She said under her breath, leaning down to leave a kiss on your forehead. When she sat back up, her eyes drifted back to the cluttered table, scanning the pages until she spotted another phrase she wanted to conquer. “That one. E-go… cen-tre-ism?”

“Egocentrism,” You corrected gently, your voice a little thick with sleepiness. Whenever Alexia was here, and the living room was dim and at the perfect temperature, it took no time at all for your tiredness to creep in. “It’s when a child struggles to… comprehend and understand that other people have thoughts and perspectives and feelings different to their own. It’s not selfishness, just that they think everyone sees, hears, and feels exactly the same way they do.”

Alexia let out another hum, her hand playing with the collar of your shirt. “Like… like when Jana think everyone want to eat her terrible pasta? Because… she like it, so she think everyone like it?”

A laugh erupted from you at the comparison, loud enough to echo in the otherwise quiet room. “Actually, yes. That’s a good example of adult egocentrism.” 

“I am very smart.” Alexia preened, a smug grin emerging onto her face. “And you– you are very good teacher, see? You explain, I learn, I understand, and you… you no die from the stress.” You smiled bashfully at her praise, cheeks heating up just a touch when she pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Your head, it feel better?”

“My head is much better,” You admitted, raising your hand to rest over hers on your shoulder and squeezing once. “Thank you, Ale. Really.” 

She stared down at you for a long moment, her expression shifting into the adoring, admiring look that always made your heart swell in the best possible way. Her hand moved up to cup your jaw, her thumb lightly tracing your lower lip.

“Good,” She drawled. She held your gaze for another beat before she suddenly tapped your shoulder, the theatrically stern look returning to her eyes as she stood up. “Now. I go make dinner. You relax. Or study, if you want.” She paused for a second to shoot you a light warning glare. “But I no happy if you stress again.”

The midfielder raised her eyebrows, waiting for your compliance. 

You smiled shyly up at her, your heart feeling incredibly full. “I won’t stress. I promise.”

The stern facade dissolved immediately, becoming a warm and beaming grin. She leaned down, some strands of straightened hair falling from her bun around your face like a curtain as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your forehead again.

“Te quiero, profe,” She murmured against your skin.

When she pulled away and headed toward the kitchen, her silver earrings catching the light as she redid her bun, you sat back against the sofa and watched her go.

But the peaceful silence only lasted about ten seconds before the rustle of the plastic bag was interrupted by a confused groan.

“Dónde está la…” Alexia started, before there was a long pause. It was filled only by the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing, and then her head popped back around the entryway with a frustrated frown. “The… the thing for the… hob. To cook in.”

You blinked, trying to translate her frantic gestures in the air. “Do you mean a pan, Ale?”

“Yes! A pan!” She groaned, throwing her hands up. “Where is it? Your kitchen is a… a mystery.” 

You gave a laugh as you pushed yourself up from the floor. “Wait there. I’m coming to save you.”

You scooped up a fresh pad of bright yellow post-it notes and a black sharpie from the coffee table, then headed to the kitchen. Your girlfriend was still standing in the middle of the small space, looking at the closed cupboards with a dramatically forlorn, defeated expression.

“I have a solution.” You announced, taking the lid off the pen.

You walked past her and opened the cabinet below the counter, pulling out a pan for her. “First, the pans go in here.” 

You scribbled olles y sartenes/pots and pans on a yellow square, peeled it off the stack, and slapped it right onto the cabinet door.

Alexia laughed as she watched you, the sound bubbling up from her chest. “You make labels for me?”

“I’m a teacher in training, Ale. It’s called visual aids.” You teased, already writing the next one.

You opened the slim drawer to the right, sticking cubiertos/cutlery on the front, before moving upwards to the wall cabinets and labelling them with the same language mix on all of them.

Finally, you stepped up to the stove. You neatly wrote delante izquierdo/front left and atrás derecho/back right onto two separate notes, sticking them directly above the respective dials so she actually knew which one she was turning on.

Alexia leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched you work. She was quietly chuckling, but as she looked at the tidy print on the papers, she reached out and ran a finger over the platos y boles note.

“Is… actually very good,” She admitted, then pointed to the newly labelled stove dials. “Front left. Back right. Okay, I no burn the flat down now.”

“Please don’t. Both my landlord and the neighbours would be very upset.” You smiled, capping the pen and pocketing it. “I’m gonna do the rest of my work in here. I’ll try and read, but I’m mostly keeping an eye on you.”

“No, no eye on me.” She scolded, picking up a wooden spoon from the utensilio drawer and waving it at you. “You study, I cook.”

You grabbed your laptop and a notepad, sitting onto one of the tall stools at the high bar table which divided the kitchen from the living area. It was the perfect spot– close enough to still feel settled by her presence and smell whatever she was starting to make, but separate enough that you could focus.

…or try to, at least.

Instead of looking at your screen, your eyes kept drifting over to her, now that you finally had a calm moment to actually take her in. 

She stood in front of the counter, carefully cutting up some onions, and the sight of her made something soft squeeze in your chest. 

The brunette had really gone all out for you tonight. Her straightened hair caught in the light every time she moved, and the hoops glinted against the warm tone of her skin. Even under the plain kitchen light, the subtle makeup she’d done for your date made her look exceptionally striking, a contrast to the casual grey set she’d changed into. 

“You look really beautiful, Ale,” You said softly, catching her off-guard. “I’m sorry about the restaurant again.”

Alexia paused, placing the knife down carefully. She turned her head to look at you over her shoulder, a small, slightly surprised smile tugging at her lips. A faint blush had made its way to her cheeks, too.

“No more sorry.” She murmured, her eyes inexplicably soft as they held your gaze. “And thank you. I try look good for you.”

You gave her a smile that left her feeling a little bashful. “You always look good for me.”

The colour to her cheek only got brighter, and she turned back to the stove with a pleased sway of her shoulders. “Focus on your work, bebé. You distract me.” 

You grinned, but turned back to your laptop.

For a few minutes, the flat did fall into a comfortably domestic rhythm. Only the sounds of your pen scratching the paper and the keyboard of your laptop, paired with the sizzle of oil in a pan and Alexia’s humming could be heard.

But then the humming stopped.

You kept your eyes on your notes, but you could feel a gaze burning into the side of your face.

You slowly glanced up. Found her leaning back against the counter, now aimlessly pushing the spoon around the vegetables in the pan, not focusing on it at all. She had her free hand on her hip, watching you with a fond smile, her eyes watching you write.

You held her attention, refusing to let your cheeks blush too much, and pointed your pen at her.

“Now it’s your turn to concentrate. Stop watching me or you’ll burn dinner,” You warned, keeping your voice serious despite the tug at the corner of your mouth. “And then I will stress again. And we both know you don’t want that.” 

Her grin instantly turned wicked. She held her hands up in mock surrender, the spoon still dangling from her hand.

“No stress, no stress.” She laughed, turning back to the stove with a shake of her head. “I cook, see? Quiet.” 

Your girlfriend – or teaching technique guinea-pig – passed the cooking test with flying colours. 

Even if she did forget the word for garlic and instead call it the vampire vegetable.

“I just don’t understand how you didn’t know how to say garlic, but knew how to say vampire vegetable in English.” You were still laughing as the two of you made your way back to the couch after dinner.

“Because… because is logical!” Alexia defended herself, nudging her shoulder against yours as she walked beside you. Her hand rested against the small of your back as she continued her weak defense. “Vampires, they… hate garlic. Everyone know this. So, vampire vegetable. Is perfect English.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ale.” You chuckled, the banter between you both helping to further put you at ease.

However, that didn’t stop your eyes drifting back to the open textbooks and articles on the coffee table. The familiar, anxious itch began to grate away at you again. 

You hesitated, knowing she’d disapprove, but still stepped toward the table. “I’m just going to go through one more cha–”

“No.”

Before your fingers could even touch the paper, Alexia’s hand, gentle but firm with intent, closed around your wrist. You looked at her, ready to argue, but the look on her face stopped you.

Her eyes were serious, and filled with an unexpected amount of concern.

“No more tonight,” She told you softly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “You have done enough, okay?”

“Ale, I still have three more–”

“And you have two days to do the work,” she interrupted, her thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist where she still held you. “You are tired. You study for two weeks, every day, and you go to work. Your brain is… full. When you study like this, you learn nothing. You only will make you go crazy.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, breathing through another peak of anxiety.

“I’m just worried I’ll forget everything.” You mumbled, though the fight was leaving you much quicker then you, and Alexia, expected.

“You no forget,” She promised, drawing you into her side as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “You are smartest person I know. Tomorrow, you study. The weekend, you study. But tonight, you rest. Okay?”

You stared at her for a second. 

You wanted to argue, tell her that every minute counted, but the heaviness to your limbs and eyelids told a different story. The exhaustion was finally catching up to you, settling deep into your bones now that she was here and the adrenaline of the panic had faded.

With a defeated sigh, you rested your forehead against her cheek. “Okay. You're right. I’m too tired anyway.”

Alexia let out a very quiet, but definitely there, victorious hum as her arm tightened around you in a brief squeeze. “See? Ale is always right.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, to which she grimaced at herself. 

“If I agree to that, you have to agree to something too.” 

“Okay… dime.” Alexia said suspiciously.

You reached a hand up, unzipped her hoodie in one swift tug, and shrugged it off her shoulders.

“You give me your hoodie. I’m cold.” You said, already putting it on before she got a chance to disagree.

“That… unfair. But okay.” She shrugged, zipping it up for you unnecessarily but it for some reason triggered another bloom of warmth through your body. She then pulled you closer by the hood strings, looking down at you with a soft and affectionate expression. “You look cute in my hoodie. You… my favourite girlfriend.”

Your brain, even as tired as it was, immediately caught the phrasing. You let out a sudden laugh, “Your favourite girlfriend?”

Alexia’s eyebrows furrowed slightly at your amusement. “Yes. What?”

“Ale,” You teased, a sleepy smirk playing on your lips. “Who are the others?”

“The… others?” She repeated, looking genuinely confused. She tilted her head as she tried to translate the joke in her head. “No others. Only you.”

“But you said ‘favourite’ girlfriend,” You explained, your voice filled with quiet giggles as you lightly tapped her chin. “It’s a describing word, yes, but when you say favourite, it implies there’s a list. Like you have a ranking system of girlfriends, a league table, and I just happen to be at the top of it right now.” 

Alexia’s eyes instantly widened as the realisation of her mistake finally landed. Her face turned red, the tips of her ears pink, and she began to frantically shake her head.

“No, no, no!” She stammered, accent thicker than normal and rushed as she panicked. “No list! No– no league table! No others! Madre mía, no! I mean... my... my only girl. My... favourite girl. But no other girlfriends! You are the only one! I swear, only you!”

You burst into a fit of laughter, the adorable panic on her face dissipating as you did so. “I know, Ale. I’m just teasing you.”

She stopped to let out a long and dramatic huff as she realised you’d been winding her up. She rolled her eyes, though a reluctant grin quickly broke through her embarrassment as she gave you a gentle shove.

“You are mean,” She grumbled. “Very mean. I try be… sweet in English, and you… you make me look stupid.”

“I think it was very sweet,” You smiled, leaning up to press a quick apologetic kiss to her jaw.

“Good.” She huffed again, though she was beaming now, the blush still faintly colouring her cheeks. “Now, TV time. Love Island time.”

“I can’t believe you watch that.” You shook your head, allowing her to manoeuvre you over to the sofa as she tugged you down beside her, settling you both into the corner of the sofa.

“I like the drama,” Alexia defended with a shameless shrug, her fingers already navigating the remote. “And the people… they are so stupid. Is funny.”

You gave an amused breath, too exhausted to properly debate her terrible taste in reality television, and reached for the thick knit throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa. You tugged it over both of your laps, immediately burying your hands under the fabric as the show's loud theme music started to play.

Almost instantly, the comfort of the sofa, the warmth of the blanket, and the oversized weight of Alexia's hoodie began to work against you. You let your body go entirely slack, melting sideways until your head found its familiar spot in the crook of her shoulder.

Alexia didn't say anything at first. She just adjusted her posture, sinking a little lower into the cushions to give you a better angle, her arm wrapping securely back around your shoulders. 

But as the first couple on screen started arguing about some trivial villa drama, she turned her head, her eyes dropping to look down at you. She looked at your face, then pointedly glanced down at the face of her watch, a silent calculation running through her head.

With the way your eyelids were already fluttering, your breathing already deep and slow against her chest, she was quietly wondering to herself if you would even make it to the first ad break. You looked completely defenseless, the anxious ball from an hour ago replaced by a sleepy, curled-up bundle.

A knowing smile tugged at the corner of Alexia's lips. She nudged her shoulder slightly, letting you snuggle even deeper into her side until you were practically tucked under her arm, your nose pressed against the collar of her t-shirt.

She stared at the TV for a quiet second, then shifted her gaze back down to the top of your head.

“I guess…” she mumbled under her breath, her voice barely a whisper against the background noise of the television. “...I stay over tonight, hm?”

You didn't even open your eyes, your brain too heavy to construct a proper sentence, but you gave a slow, deliberate nod against her shoulder, your hand clutching a fistful of her shirt under the blanket.

A soft, low chuckle vibrated in Alexia's chest. 

“Sí,” She whispered, leaning her head down to press a lingering, warm kiss to your temple. “Pensé que sí.”

And it was the best decision you’d ever agreed to in a sleepy daze.

Even if you woke up the following morning, in your own bed somehow, with a post-it pressed to your forehead. Mi novia inteligente y my only favourite, it read. Along with a mug of coffee on the bedside table, aptly labelled too of course.

—

By the day camp starts, Alexia is feeling a bit better. She can manage to finish a short sentence without too much suffering, though not much more than that. Still, considering how she sounded yesterday, it’s a massive improvement.

She ends up leaving some of her things behind in your apartment. She’ll be getting all her official team gear at camp anyway, and she definitely won't be needing a fancy date dress while training with the national team. You might have stolen a hoodie or two from her packed stuff when she wasn’t looking.

She leaves your apartment earlier than you to avoid raising any suspicion. She’s dressed in another of her designer outfits that cost far too much money for what they are, but that she gets paid to wear.

“These days in Madrid with you were amazing,” she mumbles against your lips, lingering in the entryway as she gets ready to step out.

You lean in to kiss her one last time. “You can come back here anytime, amor. See you in an hour.”

She smiles warmly and presses a quick kiss to your cheek just as her phone buzzes, reminding her that her Uber is pulling up downstairs. She lets out a dramatic groan and heads out the door. You leave soon after, having promised to go pick up Aitana, who had spent the night sleeping over at one of your mutual friends' places.

“So good to see you,” you greet her as she slides into the passenger seat, having just put her suitcase safely in the trunk. You shift the car back into drive and pull onto the street. “Did you have a good time in Madrid with Ana ?”

She beams, buckling her seatbelt. “Yes ! She took me to this new exhibition at the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales.” Aitana, always the lovable nerd. “It had been so long since I'd seen everyone, so it was amazing. Even if a certain someone completely us for her girlfriend.”

“Ditching implies that I agreed to come and then went back on my word,” you counter, rolling your eyes playfully as you navigate the early afternoon traffic. “I always said from the very beginning that I was spending my weekend with Ale.”

“So, how was it ?”

A helpless grin spreads across your face, and you don't even try to hide it. “It was fantastic. Honestly, it was just so nice to have a few days together without football cutting through the middle of them.”

“I suppose Alexia was happy too,” she teases.

You weigh whether or not to tell Aitana, but you realize she’s going to find out the second you pull up to Las Rozas anyway. “Yeah, she was,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “Even if she was a little sulky after losing her voice and getting a killer sore throat.”

Aitana sits up straight in her seat, twisting her body to stare at you with wide eyes. “Wait, she’s sick ? We literally have a game against England in a few days !”

“Great sense of priorities, Aita. No, she’s not sick. I might have just fucked her throat a little too hard.”

Aitana turns a deep shade of crimson in a matter of milliseconds, which makes you burst out laughing. Luckily, you’re stuck in traffic anyway. You totally phrased it that way on purpose, knowing how much she hates when you get too crude.

She lets out a frustrated groan as she finally recovers her composure. “Why do you have to say things like that ? You know I had no need for the mental image !”

“Oh, so your mind immediately went to the visual ? Stop being such a perv.”

She sighs, rubbing her temples. “Why are you like this ?”

“Because I live to annoy you,” you say, a broad grin spreading across your face.

“And to think, almost everyone in the football world thinks you’re this prude.” She shakes head in disbelief.

You shrug, keeping your eyes on the road. “That’s just my mysterious aura.” You both laugh, the easy warmth between you settling in as you spend the rest of the trip catching up on all the little things you missed over text and calls. You sometimes forget how much you miss Aitana when you’re apart for too long.

When you arrive in the hall where the staff is handing out the keys, a few players are lingering around. You try your best not to freeze in your tracks when you spot Jenni Hermoso laughing with Mariona, Misa, and Patri. You greet Misa and Mariona with easy hugs, but the embrace you share with Patri is noticeably stiff. Finally, you stop in front of Jenni, not really knowing what to do with yourself.

“Great to see you back on the team,” you say to her, trying to keep your voice neutral and pleasant.

Confusion flashes across her face, as if she is trying to figure out if there is some hidden insult buried beneath your words. You’re honestly just trying to be nice because she’s one of Alexia’s closest friends, and you don’t want her to think you’re a complete bitch.

“Yeah, great to see you too.” She doesn't particularly try to make it sound earnest.

Misa clears her throat. “Nice to see you healthy, Aitana,” she says with a smile. It does little to defuse the tension in the air. Trying a different angle, Misa turns her attention back to you. “Alexia lost her voice, by the way. You’ll have to captain us for a bit.”

You ignore the way Jenni’s eyes narrow, and force yourself to look genuinely surprised. Aitana, on the other hand, turns a bright red in an instant, her lying skills have always been laughable.

“Wait, really ? What happened ?” you ask, letting a mask of confusion wash over your face.

“Some kind of sudden allergy, apparently. Nothing to worry about.”

You nod, maintaining your best poker face even as vivid memory of Alexia on her knees in your apartment flashes through your mind.

“Let’s go get our key cards, yeah ?” Aitana interrupts, her voice a little too rushed as she desperately tries to escape the conversation. You nod in agreement, throwing a polite “see you later” to the group as you both walk away.

Back in your room, you and Aitana lie across your respective beds, lost in your own books and enjoying the comfortable silence. The quiet is broken when your phone buzzes with a text from Vicky, asking you to come say hi. You excuse yourself to Aitana and head down the hallway to find the room number she sent.

The second the door swings open, Vicky practically launches herself at you. You laugh, wrapping your arms around her to return the enthusiastic hug. From inside the room, Ona shoots you both an amused look. You wonder briefly if the staff doesn't quite count Ona as a Barça player anymore, allowing them to room together, or if there are simply just too many Barcelona players in the squad to avoid it.

Jana is sprawled out on Vicky’s bed, idly scrolling through her phone. She greets you with enthusiasm too. Seeing them all together serves as a sudden, sharp reminder that the last national team camp had plenty of other consequences besides you getting closer to Alexia.

The next hour is spent gossiping about life off the pitch and comparing summer holiday plans. You make sure to steer clear of any mention of Mexico, and Jana gives Ona a crash course on the best spots to check out in London.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. It's a text from Alexia, notifying you that Sonia is calling the two of you in for a quick meeting to start the camp. “Wow, saving her as ‘Alexia Putellas’ is so formal,” Vicky teases, poking her head over your shoulder to spy on your screen. “And here I thought you guys actually became friends during the last camp.”

You internally congratulate yourself for having the foresight to change her name in your contacts this morning while she was showering. “That’s because it is her name, Vicky,” you laugh, smoothly sliding the phone into your pocket and not opening the chat history. “And yeah, we talked a bit last time, but we haven’t gotten particularly close. I haven’t even spoken to her since we broke camp.”

You push yourself off the bed and promise the girls you’ll catch up with them later. When you arrive at Sonia’s office, Alexia is already there, leaning against the wall outside. You greet each other with polite nods, aware that Sonia's door is thin enough to carry sound.

The meeting itself is just as dry as expected. With Alexia’s throat still recovering, you end up doing almost all of the talking, answering Sonia’s questions while your girlfriend simply nods in silent agreement beside you. She tasks you with taking charge of several training responsibilities starting tomorrow, leaving you in control until Alexia's voice finally decides to make a full recovery.

With some time to kill before the squad gathers for dinner, you both head down the corridor. “Come back to my room ?” she whispers in your ear, sending a quiet thrill through you.

You cross paths with a few of your teammates on the way, but they don't spare you a second glance. They must just think their two captains are discussing team business. Still, you both do a quick double-take, ensuring the hallway is clear before slipping inside her room. The lock clicks, and Alexia instantly pins you against the door, her lips finding yours.

“Throat feeling better, then?” you chuckle against her lips, hands sliding up to cup her jaw before you pull her back in for another kiss.

“Honestly, yes. It’s been getting much better today.” Her voice is still a bit raspy, some of her words fall a little too silent, but she no longer looks like she’s in agony with every syllable.

You slide your hands under her shirt and press a soft, teasing kiss to the sensitive spot right under her jaw. She lets out a needy whimper, but the vibration in her throat makes her immediately recoil with a wince. “Ow... okay, definitely still too raw for that.”

You let out a soft groan of frustration, shifting to kiss her cheek instead. “What did the medics say to you?”

“I’m pretty sure they figured it out,” she mumbles, pouting dramatically. “They told me I need to be more careful during my off-pitch physical activities.” It makes her cheeks burn a lovely red, and you can't help but laugh at her expense.

The next half-hour is spent lazily tangled together in her bed. Alexia puts on her favorite telenovela because a brand-new episode just dropped, and she apparently absolutely has to watch it right now before Alba can spoil it for her. You willingly suffer through the dramatic television just because having her warm in your arms makes it entirely worth it. A sharp, loud knock on the door startles both of you.

Alexia untangles herself from your arms. With wide eyes, she frantically points toward her closet, but you just throw her a flat, unimpressed look. She rolls her eyes at your stubbornness, but you don't relent, forcing her to compromise and point to the bathroom instead. You quietly slip inside just as she heads for the door.

From your hiding spot, you listen as the door clicks open. “Ready for dinner ?” Jenni’s distinct voice echoes into the room.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, holding back a laugh. Here you are, twenty-eight years old, at the peak of your career, hiding in a bathroom like a guilty teenager while your girlfriend chats with her ex. You can hear the soft scuff of sneakers crossing the carpet.

“No way, you’re still hooked on this ?” Jenni's amused voice carries easily. “It started airing ages ago. I distinctly remember you telling Alba she had terrible taste, yet you’d sit and watch every episode with me.”

You hold your breath, leaning slightly closer to the door. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alexia replies. Her tone isn't cold or dismissive, it's light and teasing. Something uncomfortable twists deep in your chest at the familiarity.

“Sure, keep pretending. You're ridiculous, you know that ?” There’s a lingering fondness in Jenni’s exasperation. “Wait... why are there two different hoodies on your bed?”

Your heart does a quick flutter, but Alexia handles it like a pro. “Just unpacking the new national team gear,” she croaks out, her damaged voice doing a perfect job of hiding any trace of tension.

Jenni doesn’t seem to think twice about it. “I always forget how untidy you are.”

“I’m organized,” Alexia defends herself, her pout practically audible through the wood.

Fortunately, they head out toward the elevators shortly after. You give it a solid minute to make sure the coast is clear before darting out of the bathroom, snatching up your stray hoodie, and making a break for the elevators.

When you walk into the dining hall, almost the entire squad is already at the tables. You slip into the empty chair next to Aitana, trying to quiet your racing thoughts.

Since the captain is out of commission, you’re tasked with delivering the standard opening words to the squad. Alexia stands tall and imposing next to you, her hands clasped behind her back as she maintains her perfect posture.

Dinner flows easily after that. You've always loved the atmosphere of national team camps because they're the chance to catch up with old teammates. Seeing Olga and Athenea debate about the best tapas spot in Lavapiés is a Proustian memory at this point. Alexia is sitting at a different table, visible in your peripheral vision, but you play it safe and actively avoid locking eyes with her.

The coaching staff grants the squad a free evening, factoring in the exhausting travel some of the girls faced and the fact that you’re all flying out to Mallorca tomorrow afternoon. With only a light training session scheduled for the morning, you choose to stay in your room with Aitana, eager to enjoy a calm evening where the two of you end up talking about everything and nothing at all.

The next day follows the usual footballer routine : a training session followed by travel. Alexia’s voice is almost completely back, though her throat is still tender. Because of that, she lets you take the reins and lead the training session as the acting captain.

Once practice wraps, the team heads in for lunch. The staff gave everyone a bit of downtime before the flight to Mallorca to finish packing up, not that many of the players had unpacked much of anything in the first place.

Having already packed her own bags well in advance, Alexia slips into your room almost immediately after the tables are cleared. You find yourself in her arms, lazily scratching at her forearm while her thumbs trace slow patterns across your stomach.

“Do you both have any idea how weird it is for me to see this ?”

You turn your head toward Aitana, who is staring at the two of you as if you’re some kind of rare, mystical creatures and not two people she has known for a decade.

“You’re acting like this is brand-new information,” you mock. You have, after all, confessed an embarrassing amount of details to her over the past two months.

“There’s a difference between knowing the path and walking the path,” she says.

“Nerd,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“I'm serious ! It’s just so incredibly strange to see you both like this,” she insists, gesturing vaguely at how tightly tangled you are on the bed.

Rolling over in Alexia's embrace, you look up and press your lips to hers. You keep the kiss long but chaste, because you do care about Aitana’s mental well-being. “Seeing us like what ?” you ask innocently, turning back to your best friend.

“I hate you so much,” Aitana deadpans, which only sends you and Alexia into a fit of laughter. Alexia presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder and pulls you right back against her chest.

You spend the flight to Mallorca seated next to Aitana. Try as you might, you can’t stop yourself from stealing frequent glances across the aisle at Alexia, who is currently laughing and deep in conversation with Jenni.

Every single time your eyes wander, you can feel Aitana’s knowing gaze burning into the side of your face. You know she’s smart enough not to broach the subject in a cabin full of teammates, but you fully expect the interrogation later.

Eventually, Aitana taps your arm to force you to stop staring. Blushing, you try your best to focus on anything else, a movie, your phone, the clouds, but it’s no use. You spend the rest of the flight feeling utterly miserable, and you hate yourself because you know it’s entirely self-inflicted.

Once you unpack at the hotel, Aitana tries to get you to open up, but you stay stubbornly moody until she finally rolls her eyes and gives up. A moment later, your phone buzzes with a text from Alexia, inviting you over to her room to spend some downtime together.

Still stung by the flight, you reply that you're busy, using the first excuse that pops into your head : Already promised Vicky I'd hang out. The moment the text delivers, you quickly message Vicky to manifest the plan.

Fortunately, Vicky and the small group of younger players she invites over prove to be the perfect distraction. You end up laughing so much that you genuinely forget why you were even brooding in the first place. Deflecting your own drama was a remarkably good plan.

Around twenty minutes before dinner, Alexia shows up at Vicky’s room, claiming Sonia has a few last-minute adjustments to go over with the captains. When the door closes and you're out in the hall, she breaks into a grin, confessing she just needed an excuse to steal you away.

You willingly let her guide you back down the corridor to her room. She smiles as she locks the door, crashing her lips onto yours. Your hands find their way to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as you melt into the kiss, momentarily forgetting about your lingering pettiness.

“Imagine all the things we could have done this afternoon if you had been available,” she whispers against your ear, dropping a kiss on the sensitive skin just below it.

You pull back just enough to look at her. “Do you happen to remember your throat problems, amor ?”

“It’s basically healed,” she shrugs carelessly, pulling you back in to kiss you again. “But seriously... I can't believe I came second to a bunch of kids.”

“Stop being jealous, Ale.” It’s the pot calling the kettle black. “Who did you spend your afternoon with, then ?” You lean in to kiss her jaw, making her smile soften against your skin.

“The usual crowd. Laia, Irene, Mariona, Misa and Jenni.”

You try your best not to tense up at the last name, but you’re pretty sure you fail miserably judging by the curious look she throws you. “Everything okay, cari ?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, waving a hand dismissively. It’s unconvincing, and you both know it.

Alexia hooks two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze away from the floor and straight back to her. “Talk to me. What is it ?”

It’s incredibly hard to hide the truth when you're staring directly into those intense green eyes. “It’s just... you and Jenni...” You trail off, stuck, having no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a jealous asshole.

Alexia searches your eyes, staying close to you. “What about it ?” she presses on.

You pull her hand away from your chin, taking a step back to put some space between you. Once you lose Alexia’s proximity, you regret even hinting at the subject. “Just forget about it,” you mumble.

Alexia furrows her brows, clearly frustrated. “What do you mean ? Just tell me what’s wrong. I’m no mind reader.”

“As I just said, it’s not important.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively.

She takes a step closer, but you take another step back, a flash of hurt crosses her face. “What did I do with Jenni that pissed you off ?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Could have fooled me”. There’s a visible jump of the muscle as her jaw clenches.

“It’s just…” You fix your gaze on the far corner of her ceiling, unable to bear looking at her face. “You two have been spending a lot of time together since camp started.”

Alexia lets out a frustrated sigh. “I literally asked you to spend the last two hours together and you said no. And you know that Jenni is my friend.”

“I know,” you mutter, your eyes snapping back to hers. She’s staring right through you, trying to decode the exact root of your sudden attitude.

“Then what is your problem ?” Her voice remains controlled. You both know exactly where you are, and this is not a conversation you want overheard through the hotel walls.

“The problem is that you’re all over me behind closed doors, but the second we’re out in public, you only have eyes for her.” You despise how petty you sound right now, fully aware of how irrational the thought is.

You can see her physically forcing herself to calm down. She closes her eyes, taking three slow, measured breaths to ground herself. “Do I seriously need to remind you that we both agreed to keep this under wraps until the summer ?”

“Keeping it a secret doesn’t mean I enjoy watching you flirt with your ex all day,” you snap back. “You have other teammates, you know.”

She lets out a harsh, incredulous laugh, rolling her eyes. “Flirting ? Now you’re just being ridiculous. Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because I'm best friends with my ex ? Something you already knew ?”

“It’s about the fact that Jenni would be the easy choice for you,” you shoot back, the underlying hurt leaking into your tone.

“Oh, for God's sake.” She throws her hands up, pacing a single step away before spinning back to face you. “If you can’t handle her existence in my life, then what are we even doing ? It won’t work.”

Your heart drops, but you don't back down. “You’re acting as if I’m being unreasonable.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. “Because you are being unreasonable. We’ve already talked about Jenni. She’s the past, it was literally years ago.”

You let out a low, dark chuckle, the bitter sound earning a deeply confused look from her. “Wow. Fuck, you’re such a liar.”

That stops Alexia dead in her tracks, her expression hardening. “Excuse me ?”

“Years ago, Alexia ? That's the story we're going with ?”

There’s an unmistakable flash of recognition in her eyes, but she refuses to budge. “Yes. We broke up five years ago.”

“And nothing at all since ?” You lock your arms across your chest, your jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps as you fight to stay under control.

Alexia's throat bobs as she swallows hard. “Just say what you want to say.”

The fact that she can't even look you in the eye and admit it makes the anger burn hotter. “I know you slept with her last summer.”

The color completely drains from her face. “Who told you ?”

A bitter, dry laugh forces its way past your teeth. You can feel your blood pressure spiking, a steady hammering starting up behind your eyes. “Unbelievable. That's your first question ?”

“I said, who told you ?” The sudden flare of defiance in her eyes is the spark that destroys your remaining restraint.

You take a step closer, closing the distance until you are invading her space. “You had multiple opportunities to be honest with me, Alexia, and you hid it from me.” Your voice rises on the last few words, cutting through the quiet room, but neither of you cares about the noise anymore.

“Because I knew you'd blow it entirely out of proportion !” she snaps back, throwing up a hand and gesturing wildly at your face. “Look at yourself. You’re proving me right !”

“Because you’re still in love with your fucking ex, Alexia.” You don't scream the accusation. Instead, your voice cracks wide open, the raw pain cutting through the room. You clench your jaw, fighting back the burning behind your eyes.

Seeing you break seems to instantly extinguish her anger, a cold wave of realization hitting her as she finally notices how badly she has fucked up.

She tentatively places her hands on your arms, her touch gentle as she tries to soothe you, but you violently shake them away.

“Cari...” She stops, desperately searching for the right words. “The reason I didn’t tell you wasn’t because it meant something. It was because it meant absolutely nothing.”

“Alexia, please hear yourself,” you whisper, the betrayal heavy in your chest. “If it really meant nothing, you would have just told me when we talked back in Barcelona.”

Alexia looks completely at a loss for words, her hands hovering awkwardly in the air, not knowing where to put themselves. “Please... just believe me.”

“Believe what ? You haven’t given me a single actual justification.”

“It was just... to see if there was anything left,” she admits, her voice dropping. “We did it, and there was nothing. That’s why it was a one-time thing.”

“Alexia, you seriously needed to fucking sleep with your ex after four years apart just to know there was nothing left between you ?”

“Yes ?” You can't even tell if she's asking you or herself.

Cruel, vivid images flash unbidden through your mind. You picture the two of them together in bed, wrapped up in each other the exact same way you and Alexia had been just days ago. The thought burns, and the tears finally spill over, blurring your vision. “You know what ? I’m out of here. From now on, just act like we don’t even know each other, just like you’ve been doing.”

You turn on your heel to walk away, but she’s faster, stepping directly into your path to block the door. “Cari, please, I’m begging you. Can we just sit down and talk about this calmly ?” Her pleading face only fuels your rage.

“We’re past calm. We could have had calm if you weren't a liar.” She recoils as the words hit home, her shoulders dropping in silent defeat. Part of you wants to keep screaming at her until her ears ring with tinnitus, but the exhaustion is already setting in. “Move.” You try to make your voice sound commanding, but it comes out weak and completely broken. Recognizing the finality in your tone, she slowly steps out of your way.

You throw the door open and slam it violently behind you, the loud bang reverberating down the hotel corridor. You only make it a few paces before you see Jenni walking in your direction, clearly heading straight for the room you just vacated.

“What the hell ?” Jenni asks, her brows knitting together in confusion at the sight of you storming out of Alexia's room.

“Fuck you,” you spit out, your voice dripping with pure venom. As you pass, you deliberately drive your shoulder hard into hers. The unexpected impact catches Jenni off guard, sending her stumbling back a few steps against the wall. Leaving her frozen in utter bafflement, you quicken your pace, practically sprinting down the corridor to get away.

You slam your bedroom door shut, and Aitana snaps her head up from her phone. She’s mid-conversation on FaceTime, but she takes one look at your shattered expression and instantly hangs up with a rushed apology.

“What happened with Vicky ?” she asks, worry etching itself across her face. She takes one look at your trembling lower lip and extends her arms wide, offering a safe harbor.

You don't say a word, sinking heavily into her space and burying your face into the crook of her shoulder. The dam breaks completely, your tears soaking into her shirt while she moves a comforting, rhythmic hand up and down your spine. “I’m such an idiot,” you choke out through the tears.

Aitana just holds you tighter. You know her inside and out. Right now, her tactical, problem-solving brain is probably screaming for details so she can dissect the issue logically, but she forces herself to stay quiet because she knows you just need to bleed out the pain first.

also know she’s not the biggest fan of prolonged physical contact, which makes the fact that she’s letting you cling to her like a lifeline mean that much more. She knows how badly you need it right now.

Slowly, you can feel the sharp ache in your body starting to settle, even if the pain doesn't completely disappear. “We had a fight about Jenni,” you admit, your voice muffled against her.

Aitana’s only response is a low hum of acknowledgment, and you realize she must have already guessed what this was about.

“I told her I knew about them sleeping together,” you continue, the words heavy. “And she just deflected.”

Aitana rests her chin on top of your head, her grip tightening slightly, and you snuggle closer into her warmth. “Deflected how ?”

“Claimed she only hid it because it didn't mean anything. And because she knew I’d blow up just like I did.”

“Dios, what a prick,” Aitana states bluntly, the fierce protectiveness in her tone earning a watery chuckle out of you.

“You’re not jumping to defend your captain ?” you tease weakly.

You know Aitana is rolling her eyes without even needing to see her face. “Alexia is a teammate, you’re my best friend. I would be on your side even if you were acting like the dumbest person in the world. And it doesn’t even matter here, because Alexia is being the asshole.”

You lean into her words, knowing she’s being truthful. Aitana is fiercely loyal, but she has zero filter. If you were the one being completely irrational, she would have called you out on it immediately. “Honestly, my love life would have been a million times easier if you were just into women.”

Aitana bursts out laughing at that. “Oh, please. We would be a complete disaster. We can barely even survive planning a trip together because you live your life at the very last second and your room looks like a tornado hit it.”

“Fair point. Plus, you’re entirely too vanilla for me anyway,” you tease, nudging her.

She gives the back of your head a playful swat, forcing you to look up at her. When you do, you see a soft, amused smile on her face. She's clearly relieved to have successfully pulled you out of your dark mood, even if only a little.

She glances down at her wrist and winces. “Crap. We’re five minutes late for dinner already. Fix your face, try to look like a functioning human being, and let's get downstairs.”

Dinner is tense, to say the least. Alexia sits expressionless, staring blankly at her plate, while Jenni is glaring at you like she wants to burn a hole through your forehead. A few of the other players glance between you all, clearly confused by the heavy atmosphere dropping over the tables.

To make matters worse, there’s a mandatory team-bonding activity for the night : board games. You’re in a foul mood, and you can tell Alexia is right there with you. Vicky and Mapi seem to make it their personal mission to lift everyone's spirits with loud jokes, but their high energy only grates on your nerves. You lock your jaw, deciding that silence is the only thing keeping you from causing a scene.

The squad is divided into small groups, but even after an hour and a half, the tension you feel hasn’t lifted. Just as your table wraps up a game, Jenni cuts through the crowd, stepping right into your space.

“Get up. We're having a talk.” You look around to see if she is talking to anyone else, but she throws you a pointed look. Realizing there's no escaping it, you let out a sigh and stand up to face her.

You follow her into an adjacent corridor, walking far enough away from the lounge that your conversation can’t be overheard by the rest of the team.

“What the hell happened with Alexia ?” Her bluntness doesn’t surprise you much.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you reply flatly. You have zero intention of giving her what she wants, mostly because you owe her less than nothing.

She lets out an irritated breath, her eyes narrowing. “Of course you don't. That's your favorite play, isn't it ? You love pretending you're blind to a problem until someone else cleans up the mess.”

“Then I guess I'll just sit back and wait for this one to resolve itself too.” You give her saccharine smile and take a step back, but Jenni’s fingers clamp around your wrist, stopping you dead.

“Don't play dumb with me,” Jenni snarls, her grip tight. “Alexia ditches us early to go over 'tactics’ with Sonia. Then you come flying out of her room like a hurricane, curse me out for literally no reason, and now Alexia is sitting at a table as if she’s seen a ghost. Talk.”

You forcefully slap her hand away from your wrist. “It’s a captain issue. I have no idea why you think you’re invited to this conversation.”

If looks could kill, Jenni would have flattened you right then and there. “While you only ever care about yourself, some people actually care about the well-being of their teammates, and—”

“Teammates, right.” You cut her off with a bitter laugh.

The sound genuinely startles her for a second, but then a look of smug realization crosses her face as she thinks she’s finally pieced it together. “Oh, right. I forgot how pedantic you are. I would never date another footballer because I’m way too good for them.” She looks you up and down with pure disdain.

You decide to let her run with that delusion. “Yeah. All of these love stories do nothing but create drama and problems for this team.”

“Ale and I are perfectly fine. We aren't the ones causing problems,” Jenni snaps, stepping closer. “Why don’t you look in a mirror ? Nobody in this squad can stand you except Aitana, and you know it. You’re just a toxic person. The younger girls only tolerate you because they haven't been around long enough to see the real you yet. Even Misa is just playing nice because you wear your club armband. Behind your back, she despises you just like the rest of us.”

​You’re seconds away from spitting out that you’re dating Alexia, if only to make her shut the fuck up. Clinging to your fraying self-control, you decide to go straight for the jugular instead. “At least I’m not so pathetic that I’m still stuck on my ex, to the point where I sleep with her as soon as I’m on a break with my girlfriend.”

​“Excuse me ?” Raw fury flares in her eyes, mixed with an underlying flicker of panic over how you of all people managed to get your hands on that piece of information. She steps into your space, backing you flat against the cold wall before slamming her index finger hard into your sternum. “Where the hell did you—”

“Hey !”

The sharp shout cuts through the hallway. You both freeze, looking over to find Irene looking at the two of you like you’ve both grown a third head. Jenni recoils, dropping her hand and taking a ragged breath to pull her composure back together.

“I’m expecting better from both of you,” Irene says sternly. She throws a heavy, pointed look directly at Jenni, and then shifts it over to you. “What exactly is this about ?”

Jenni practically vibrates with everything she wants to say, but she forces her mouth shut, her jaw tight.

“Just a misunderstanding,” you say simply, cutting through the thick silence. It’s an understatement of cosmic proportions, but it’s the quickest way out of this hallway. “Goodnight,” you mutter to them both, not waiting for a response as you walk away straight back to your room, relieved that your key card and phone are already in your pockets.

Once inside, you send a quick text to Aitana letting her know you won't be coming back down. You strip out of your clothes, take a scalding shower to wash off the day, and crawl under the covers of your bed. For a long moment, you stare at your phone, considering sending a message to Alexia to ask if you can talk.

But your chest still aches, and you aren't sure anything good could possibly come out of it tonight. Deciding against it, you lock your phone and try to let exhaustion take over instead. If you cry yourself to sleep, nobody needs to know.

When your alarm jolts you awake the next morning, the few hours of rest do absolutely nothing to quiet the chaotic mess in your mind. As you both get ready, Aitana keeps throwing you anxious glances, as if she’s waiting for you to break down at any given second.

Downstairs, Alexia is noticeably missing from breakfast. She likely ate earlier to avoid a scene. Jenni is nowhere to be found either. Instead, it’s just Irene sitting across the room, her eyes monitoring your every move as if it will tell her something.

Morning practice is an absolute nightmare. The sun is baking the pitch so intensely you feel like you're on the verge of heatstroke, though you take grim comfort in knowing the English squad will suffer twice as much. The session shifts to small-group drills, and the universe delivers a masterclass in irony when the coaches draft you, Alexia, Jenni, and Irene into the same squad.

The drill instantly devolves into a war zone. Alexia flies around the grass like a woman possessed, desperate to outrun her own guilt, while you and Jenni go head-to-head, testing the absolute limit of how rough you can tackle without causing an injury. It gets so bad that Irene and Patri have to drag Jenni away to force a cooling-off period, and Mariona grabs your jersey to do the same with you.

During a break, Alexia looks at you like she desperately wants to say something, likely to defend Jenni. Fortunately, she’s intelligent enough to keep her mouth shut, a skill she has apparently perfected.

Misa drops down on the grass next to you as the coaching staff calls for a water break. “Did you kick her puppy or something? ” she asks, gesturing with a tilt of her chin toward Jenni, who is currently locked in an animated, intense conversation with Irene across the pitch.

Instantly, Jenni’s venomous words from last night echo in your mind : Even Misa is just playing nice because you wear your club armband. Behind your back, she despises you just like the rest of us.

But then you look at Misa, and you remember all the times she has proven the exact opposite. You think of Maëlle Lakrar, who has a bizarre passion for translating French idioms, and that one the team loves because it fits the Real Madrid colors : The toad’s spit does not reach the white dove.

You’re not entirely sure you qualify as a white dove, but the other part surely fits Jenni. Taking a deep breath, you resolve to not let her toxic remarks poison your relationships any more than she already has.

“Jenni is your buddy, go ask her,” you say dismissively, taking a slow sip of water.

The deflection seems to amuse her more than anything. “Oh, I did. She looked me dead in the eye and said yes.”

You let out a heavy sigh, and she playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Seriously, what did you do? Give me something to work with here, I might be able to fix it.”

“It’s fine. We just had a petty argument yesterday, it’s no big deal.”

“Right. And how does Alexia factor into this 'no big deal'?”

Alexia can rot in hell. You don’t think this would go well with Misa, you deflect instead “Do you think I kicked her puppy too ?”

Misa studies your face, searching for the crack in your armor, but you lock it down. “You know what ? Fine. Keep your secrets if you want to. But I know both of them pretty damn well, you know. Probably better than you do.”

You simply nod, closing your eyes for a moment to just feel the intense heat of the sun baking your skin. When you open them again, Misa is still sitting right next to you, her gaze quietly drifted toward the horizon.

The day devolves into a game of cat and mouse. By lunchtime, the entire squad has picked up on the fact that something massive has blown up. You make it obvious when you walk all the way down to the end of the long dining table, deliberately choosing to sit next to María and Fiamma, two players you almost never talk to, instead of taking the empty seat across from Alexia, despite Misa and Aitana sitting nearby.

Because it is one of the kid’s qualities, Vicky is the one who confronts you directly. It happens after the video session, where Alexia sat all the way in the back because the only available place near the front was next to you.

“I honestly thought you two were getting along after the last camp,” Vicky states bluntly, leaning against her desk as you are currently trapped on her bed. She had told you a few players were going to be hanging out here, but you quickly realized you walked right into a setup. It’s just the two of you.

“We just had a disagreement, it’s nothing important,” you say smoothly, idly spinning her Stitch plushie by its ears.

“Bullshit. Neither of you acts this petty over a simple disagreement,” Vicky counters, crossing her arms. “Last time you two had a fight, it was solved almost instantly.” Damn it.

You give a careless shrug, doing your absolute best to seem unbothered. “This one will too.” You make sure it sounds like a fact, even though your stomach is tied in knots.

“So, who holds the blame ?” Vicky asks point-blank. “The fight.”

You groove your thumbs into the plushie, exhaling a long breath. “I’m not discussing this, Vicky.”

“I won’t ask what it was about,” she counters immediately, holding up her hands. When you throw her a deeply unconvinced look, she offers a small, earnest smile. “I promise.”

“It’s hers, mostly.”

“Ale isn’t always the best with people, you know.” You know her slightly awkward side well, and you usually find it rather endearing. “But it’s affecting the whole team, the way you two are behaving right now. You really need to talk it out before things go too far.”

You eye her. “When did you become emotionally mature ?”

She rolls her eyes and gives your shoulder a playful shove. “The team had a whole debate about who should broach the subject with you, and I was voted the best option. They all said you have a soft spot for me.” She beams, clearly proud of that particular detail.

“Oh, so you’re just a parrot for the locker room council ?”

She gives you the finger. “And who exactly is going to go tell Alexia to grow up ?”