A's world

The days after the storage room blurred into a frenetic haze of avoidance and regret.

You woke up the next morning with your phone still in your hand, the screen dark and Alexia's contact name burned into your memory from the night before. You hadn't typed anything, you hadn't called but you'd stared at her name for so long that the letters had started to blur so you put the phone on the nightstand and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Your body ached in places you didn't want to name and there was a big bruise on your hip and it was not from the fall during the drill, but from the edge of the shelving. There was also a scrape on your elbow and on your collarbone and the fading imprint of teeth.

You touched it. 

Flinched. 

Then touched it again.

What did you do? the question had no answer or rather, it had too many, and none of them made sense to you at all. 

------------

You arrived at training earlier than usual the next morning and the parking lot was empty, the floodlights still humming from the night before, you sat in your car for a long moment, watching the sun rise over the Ciutat Esportiva, and tried to prepare yourself for what was coming.

Just don't look at her and eep your head down, train and leave as fast as possible.

Simple.

You walked into the locker room, changed in your corner, and put your headphones on before anyone else arrived and when the first teammates trickled in, first Mapi, then Patri, then Caro, you didn't look up as you laced your boots with methodical focus, your jaw tight, your breathing controlled.

"Morning," Mapi said as she passed.

You nodded but didn't speak back to her.

She paused, glancing at you and her eyes lingered on your collarbone for a fraction of a second, long enough to notice the bruise and long enough to file it away but she didn't comment, she just walked to her locker, her usual easy energy replaced by something quieter.

She knows something happened, you thought.

You pulled your jersey over your head and walked out to the pitch without waiting for anyone else.

Training was brutal not because the drills were hard, they were routine at this point, but because every second of it was done with a single of the usual sounds, no one joked, no one laughed and Mapi's usual chatter was reduced to monosyllables, Patri kept glancing between you and the door, waiting for someone.

Waiting for her.

Alexia arrived ten minutes late and you didn't see her come in, you were at the far end of the pitch, running through a passing drill with Ona, but you felt it cause the air shifted and the chatter that had started to build died again.

You didn't look up, you didn’t dare, you kept your eyes on the ball, on Ona's feet, on anything but the woman who had just walked onto the pitch but you could feel her gaze, heavy and questioning. The same way it had been in the storage room, right before you'd shoved her against the shelves. You passed the ball harder than necessary and Ona stumbled to control it, shooting you a confused look.

"Sorry," you muttered. "Focus."

Pere split the team into two groups for a small sided game and you were placed on the second team and Alexia was on the first team, so you took your position at center back and Alexia was at the opposite end of the pitch, playing as a more defensive midfielder and for the first twenty minutes, you didn't come near each other, the ball stayed on the other side of the field, and you let yourself breathe.

Then it happened.

A clearance from Patri sailed over the midfield, and Alexia ran onto it, she was fast, faster than you remembered and you were the only defender between her and the goal so you closed the space, your cleats digging into the grass, your body low, she saw you coming but she didn't slow down and for a second, you thought she might run through you, a mirror of what you'd done to her two days ago but at the last moment, she pulled up, shielding the ball, and laid it back to a trailing midfielder.

You stumbled past her, off balance, your shoulder brushing hers.

"I'm not going to tackle you," she said quietly, not looking at you.

Your breath caught but you didn't respond, you just reset, taking your position, and the game continued, but her words echoed in your head for the rest of the session.

I'm not going to tackle you.

Not because she couldn't but because she wouldn't.

After training, you showered and dressed faster than anyone else, your clothes were still damp when you pulled your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door but Mapi blocked your path not aggressively, she was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, but she was there, and she wasn't moving.

"You're leaving early again," she said.

"I'm tired," was all you managed to say.

"You're always tired." Mapi tilted her head, studying you, "you've been tired for three days and Alexia's been tired for three days, what a coincidence eh?"

You gripped the strap of your bag really hard, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay, if that’s what you want," Mapi nodded slowly, "then I'll be direct, what happened between you two? Because she's a mess, she made three mistakes in training today, three. I've seen her play through broken ribs, and she didn't make mistakes like that."

You didn't answer.

"And you," Mapi continued, stepping closer, "you're not even pretending anymore, you're not cold you're hiding, and there's a difference."

"I'm not hiding from anything."

"Then why won't you look at her?"

The question hung in the air and you wanted to say something sharp, something that would make Mapi back off, but nothing came out of your mouth because she was right, you hadn't looked at Alexia once during training.

"I'll talk to her when I'm ready," you said finally.

"When will that be?" Mapi said.

"I don't know."

Mapi studied you for a long moment and then sighed, "Fine but for what it's worth? Whatever happened, she didn't deserve the silent treatment and neither do you."

Mapi stepped aside, and you walked past her without looking back.

That night, you sat on your couch with a glass of wine you didn't drink, the apartment was dark and the city hummed outside but your mind was full of images you couldn't escape.

Her hand reaching for you in the storage room.

Her voice: "I don't hate you. I don't think I ever could."

The way she'd looked at you during training, not angry, not hurt just... waiting.

You touched the bruise on your collarbone, it was fading and in a few days, it would be gone, and there would be no physical evidence that any of it had happened, no mark, no scar but you would remember. You would always remember the way she'd said your name when you'd pinned her against the shelves, not pleading, not angry just... present, like she was right there with you, even when you were trying to push her away.

What if you've been wrong about her this whole time?

The question surfaced again, unwelcome and persistent cause you'd spent five years building a version of Alexia that didn't exist, a villain, a monster, someone who looked down on you with contempt but the woman you'd shoved against those shelves wasn't a monster, she was kind and patient and confused.

And she'd said she didn't hate you.

You didn't sleep well that night, you tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around your legs, your mind replaying the same scenes on a loop, first the drill and then the storage room, the walk home, the way Alexia's voice had sounded when she said, "I'm not going to tackle you."

At 3:00 AM, you gave up, you walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned against the counter, the refrigerator hummed but the city was quiet outside and you pulled out your phone.

Alexia's contact was still there, still open from the night before, her name and her number and the little profile picture she'd set years ago, a photo of her lifting the Champions League trophy, her face split with joy.

You'd saved that number years ago, back when you were nineteen and after a promo a player had given you her number,  back when you'd still believed in heroes. You'd never used it, never called, never texted but you'd kept it, like a relic from a life you'd abandoned.

Your thumb hovered over the message button but what would you even say?, "I'm sorry I shoved you against a shelf." or "I'm sorry I used you to punish myself." or "I'm sorry I've spent five years hating you for something you probably don't even remember."

None of it was enough, none of it captured the knot of shame and confusion and longing that had taken up permanent residence in your chest, so you put the phone down and pressed your forehead against the cool countertop.

You need to know what she said.

The thought surfaced pretty clear in your mind, but you couldn't keep running, you couldn't keep pretending that the version of events you'd constructed was the truth and you needed to know, really know, what Alexia had said to you on that pitch five years ago.

But asking meant admitting you might have been wrong.

And admitting you were wrong meant tearing down the last remaining piece of the wall.

—-------

The next day at training, you arrived even earlier, the sun was barely up and the pitch was empty, the grass still wet with dew. You dropped your bag by the bench and started jogging laps, your breath clouding in the cold air.

Run, don't think just run.

So you ran until your legs burned, until your lungs ached, until the only thing you could feel was the rhythm of your feet on the ground but even then, the thoughts crept back.

She doesn't remember, she never did and you've been fighting a ghost for five years. 

By the time the first teammates arrived, you were drenched in sweat and your hair plastered to your forehead. Mapi gave you a long look as she walked past, but she didn't say anything. Neither did Patri or anyone else who came next cause they'd learned to give you space.

But Alexia, when she arrived, didn't look at you at all, she walked to her locker, changed without speaking, and headed to the pitch without a glance in your direction.

It should have been a relief but it wasn't, it was worse.

Training was a blur of drills and silence and you were paired with Irene for defensive exercises, and she worked you hard, pushing you to your limits something you were grateful for because the exhaustion and the focus left little room for thoughts to consume you.

But every time you looked up, Alexia was there, not looking at you, she was just... there, running drills on the other side of the pitch, her face set in a mask of concentration.

You caught Mapi watching the two of you and her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes, concern, maybe or pity, you weren’t sure about it. 

You looked away.

After training, you sat on the bench for a long time, alone, the team had trickled back to the locker room, their voices fading into the distance, the floodlights clicked off, one by one, until you were sitting in the gray half light of the late afternoon and you thought about the night after the storage room, the way you'd scrubbed your skin raw, trying to wash away the memory of her touch, the way you'd lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of her breath on your neck.

"I don't hate you."

You believed her now, and that was the worst part, you believed her, and you had no idea what to do with that belief.

Your phone buzzed, it’s a message from your mother: How are you? You haven't called in a few days.

You stared at the screen thinking how could you explain any of this? How could you tell your mother that you'd spent five years hating someone for saying something they probably didn't said and that you'd only realized it after shoving them against a storage room shelf and fucked her?

So all you could do was to typed back a : I have been busy. I'll call soon.

She sent a heart emoji and you set the phone down.

—---------

That night, you lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

For five years, you'd held on, you'd clutched those four seconds of Spanish, of words you didn't understand and turned them into a reason to hate, a reason to isolate yourself and a reason to build a wall so high that no one could climb it.

But the wall was gone now and without it, you were left with nothing but the truth.

You didn't hate Alexia. 

You never had.

You hated yourself for loving her, for still loving her, even after you'd convinced yourself she was the villain. You hated that she was kind and patient and real and you hated that she saw through your masks and most of all, you hated that when she touched you, you'd felt something other than rage.

You'd felt safe and that terrified you more than any hatred ever could.

You rolled onto your side and pulled the blanket over your shoulder.

Sleep didn't come easily but when it did, you dreamed of a pitch, not the storage room, not the locker room, just a pitch with green grass, blue sky, and Alexia at the other end, waiting and in the dream, you walked toward her and this time, you didn't stop.

—----------

Friday came, and with it, the first real test, the team had an away match on Saturday and a flight to Madrid in the evening. That meant a morning training session, followed by a bus to the airport, followed by hours of forced proximity in tight spaces.

You'd managed to avoid Alexia for almost a week but a plane full of teammates left nowhere to hide.

You boarded the bus early, taking a seat near the back, by the window. You put your headphones on, closed your eyes, and pretended to sleep and around you, teammates laughed and chatted, the usual pre trip energy filling the cabin.

You felt the bus shift as someone sat down next to you.

Please don't be her, please don't be her.

You opened one eye and it was Mapi.

"Relax," she said, settling into the seat, "it's just me, she's sitting up front with Irene."

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders dropping an inch and until then you hadn't realized you'd been holding tension there.

"You look like hell," Mapi added, not unkindly, "have you slept at all this week?"

"Some."

"Liar,” Mapi said as she pulled out her phone, scrolling through something, "look, I'm not going to ask what happened but whatever it is, you need to fix it cause the team can't afford two of its best players being weird around each other."

"We're not being weird."

Mapi gave you a long, sideways look, "you haven't said a single word to her in six days and she hasn't said a word to you. You leave training at different times, you eat at different tables, you literally crossed the street yesterday to avoid walking past her."

You stared out the window unable to make eye contact with her, "you're keeping track?"

"Someone has to," Mapi put her phone away and turned to face you fully, "I'm not saying you have to be best friends. I'm not saying you have to forgive each other for whatever happened but you need to be able to stand on the same pitch without it feeling like a funeral."

You didn't answer cause you dind’t had anything to counter her with, so silence was the option.

Mapi sighed. "Fine be stubborn but when we're in Madrid and we're losing because you won't pass to her, don't say I didn't warn you."

She stood up and moved to another seat, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The flight was worse.

You'd picked your reserved seat the night before, choosing a window seat in the back, hoping no one would sit next to you cause usually the plane wouldn’t be full, but this time the plane was full, and the last person to board was Alexia.

She stopped in the aisle, her eyes scanning the rows, and there was only one empty seat left, and it was next to you.

You saw her hesitate and for a second, you thought she might ask someone to switch but then her jaw tightened, and she slid into the seat beside you, buckling her belt without a word, the plane took off and the cabin lights dimmed, around you, teammates read, slept, or watched movies on their phones.

You stared straight ahead, your hands clenched on your thighs.

Ten minutes passed, twenty…. and then Alexia spoke.

"You don't have to pretend I'm not here." Her voice was quiet, meant only for you but you didn't turn your head.

"I'm not pretending."

"You haven't looked at me once."

"Maybe there's nothing to look at."

She was silent for a moment and when she spoke again, her voice was different, softer, almost tired.

"I don't know what you want me to say, I don't know what I did but this…the silence, the avoidance…it's worse than the fighting."

You finally turned to look at her, her face was paler than it should be and here were dark circles under her eyes, the kind that came from sleepless nights. Her hair was pulled back, but strands had escaped, framing her face in a way that made her look younger and vulnerable.

Your chest ached, "you didn't do anything," you said.

"Then why?"

You opened your mouth and he truth was there ready on the tip of your tongue, because five years ago you said something in Spanish and I didn't understand it and I've been hating you ever since, but the words wouldn't come.

"I can't explain it," you said instead. "Not yet."

Alexia held your gaze for a long moment and then she nodded, slowly, and turned back to face the front of the plane.

"Okay," she said, "but when you can… I'll be here."

The words hung in the air between you, fragile and heavy at the same time.

You didn't respond but you didn't look away from her either.

---

The match in Madrid was a win a 1–2, a really hard fought and deserved game. You played well, solid in defense, but something was missing, the fluidity that usually came with team chemistry felt stilted, forced.

After the final whistle, you walked off the pitch alone, your head down but as you were going back inside a hand caught your elbow and as you turned, you saw Alexia.

"Good game," she said simply.

"You too," was all you managed to say.

She nodded and walked away.

It was the most normal interaction you'd had in weeks and somehow, that made it hurt more.

---

That night, in your hotel room, you lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Your phone buzzed it was a message from Mapi: I saw you two talking on the plane. Progress?.

You typed back: Maybe.

Then, after a moment, you sent her another message: I don't know.

Mapi: Well, it's something now try to get some sleep.

You set the phone down and closed your eyes, you thought about Alexia's face on the plane, the dark circles, the vulnerability and you thought about the way she'd said "I'll be here" not as a promise, just as a fact. You thought about the storage room, and the way she'd met your anger with something that wasn't fear.

"I don't hate you. I don't think I ever could."

You believed her now and that belief was terrifying, because it meant you had to confront the possibility that you'd been wrong about everything.

The only way to move forward is to let go of the past and embrace the future.

Your mother's voice again and it was louder this time.

For five years, you'd held on to a version of events that might not even be true, you'd built a wall out of four seconds of Spanish you didn't understand and ou'd turned Alexia into a villain so you wouldn't have to face the fact that you still loved her but the wall was gone now and the villain was just a woman, tired, patient, and waiting for an explanation you didn't know how to give.

You rolled onto your side and pulled the blanket over your shoulder.

You need to know what she said.

The thought was clear. 

You couldn't keep running, you couldn't keep hiding behind a misunderstanding that might have been yours all along.

When you get back to Barcelona, you will find out the truth.

The thing about grief is that it doesn't announce itself, it doesn't knock on the door or give you time to prepare, it simply walks in, sits down on your chest, and refuses to leave.

You were sitting on the kitchen floor when Ona found you. The tile was cold against your legs but you hadn't even noticed. In your hands, you held a small ceramic bowl, the one with little paw prints painted around the edge that you'd bought from that tiny shop in Barcelona on a rainy Saturday afternoon. It was still half full of kibble, the same kibble you'd poured just yesterday morning, never imagining it would be the last time.

Princess's bowl.

"Amor?" Ona's voice was soft, like she already knew.

Ona stood in the doorway of the kitchen, still wearing her training kit with her hair pulled back in a messy bun, she must have just gotten home and you didn't remember what time it was, you didn't remember much of anything from the past few hours.

"She's gone," you whispered, the words felt weird in your mouth, like they belonged to someone else's life. "Ona, Princess is gone."

--------

You first met Princess four years ago, on a night you'd rather forget, you were in a bad place then, the kind of dark that swallows you whole, the kind where you stop believing there's any point in fighting anymore. You'd tried to convince yourself that you were fine, that everyone felt this way sometimes, that it would pass but time went on and it didn't pass, it grew, wrapping itself around your ribs until you could barely breathe.

Ona was away with the national team and you'd been alone for days, and the silence in the apartment had become unbearable. You'd spent the evening staring at the ceiling, cataloging all the reasons you didn't want to exist anymore, when you heard it: a really loud scratching at the balcony door.

You almost didn't get up but something, some small and stubborn part of you that refused to give up, so you pushed yourself off the couch and when you slid open the glass door, there she was.

A small cat with curly fur that looked fluffy even with dirt in it, her eyes were wide and green, she was shivering, soaking wet from the rain, and she looked up at you like she'd been searching for you her whole life.

"Hey, baby," you'd said, your voice small. "Where did you come from?"

She didn't wait for an invitation as she trotted inside like she owned the place, shook water all over your floor, and then curled up on the couch next to you and when you started crying because of course you did, because that's all you seemed to do back then, she climbed into your lap and rested her head against your chest, right over your heart.

You didn't save her that night.

She saved you.

You named her Princess because she carried herself with quiet dignity, even soaking wet, even shivering, even lost and alone she had this way of looking at you that said, I'm here now. You're going to be okay.

--------

Ona fell in love with Princess the moment she came home.

"Who's this?" she'd asked, dropping her bags by the door, her eyebrows raised but she was already smiling, already kneeling down to let the small cat sniff her hand and waiting to pet her.

Princess had given her a long appraising look her green eyes half closed, tail flicking and then promptly headbutted Ona's chin and started purring.

"I don't know," you'd admitted, because it was the truth, "she just showed up at the balcony door and I couldn't leave her out there."

Ona had looked at you then, really looked at you the way she always did and like she could see past every wall you'd ever built. "She found you for a reason," she'd said softly and she'd kissed your forehead and scratched behind Princess's ears, and that was that, because after everything you'd been through, you needed something to remind you that you were worth loving too.

-------

The days after Princess died were a blur of tears and silences and words that didn't feel big enough.

Ona took time off training, it was the off season anyway and she'd just finished a long campaign with Barça, and you were supposed to be enjoying a quiet summer together after 2 summers where she had to go with Spain to tournaments.

The plan had been lazy mornings and long naps and falling asleep on the couch with Princess curled up between you. None of that was going to happen now.

You couldn't bring yourself to move her things.

Her bed was still in the corner of the living room, the one with the fleece lining that she'd loved so much she'd knead it with her paws before settling down and her toys were scattered everywhere, the crinkly fish that she'd carry around in her mouth like a trophy, the feather wand that Ona used to play with her after every training session and her scratching post stood by the window, the one she'd used to survey her kingdom.

Everything was here.

Everything except her.

"I can't do this," you'd whispered to Ona on the third night as you were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and Princess's empty spot on the pillow next to your head, where she always slept, tucked against your hair, felt like a wound that wouldn't close. "I don't know how to do this without her."

Ona had pulled you into her arms, her chin resting on top of your head, she was crying too, you could feel the wetness on your scalp, the way her shoulders shook with the effort of holding it in. "I know," she'd said. "I know, amor and I don't know either."

--------

You'd rebuilt yourself once, you'd been at rock bottom, the kind where you stop eating, stop sleeping, stop seeing any reason to keep going and you'd tried to end things, more than once and somehow, by some miracle, you'd survived.

Then Princess had shown up at your balcony door, and everything had changed, you started eating because she needed to be fed, you started leaving the apartment because she needed litter and treats, you started going to therapy because you wanted to be okay, not for yourself, not yet, but for her, for this small and beautiful cat who had chosen you for reasons you'd never understand.

You saved me, you'd told her a thousand times, scratching behind her ears while she purred, you saved me from myself.

And now she was gone, and you didn't know who you were supposed to be anymore.

---------

"You know what I miss most?" Ona asked one evening, about a week later.

You were sitting on the balcony, the same balcony where Princess had first appeared, four years ago. The sun was setting over Barcelona, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and somehow that felt cruel too, like the world shouldn't be so beautiful when yours had fallen apart.

"What?" you asked.

"Her little sounds, like the way she'd purr when she got comfortable and the way her paws would make soft thumps when she jumped off the couch or the way she'd chirp at birds through the window, remember how she made that little ekekek sound?" Ona had laughed, but it came out watery.

"I remember," you'd said softly, "you used to imitate it and she'd look at you like you were insane."

"Because it was ridiculous and she was so small. How could something so small make so many weird noises?"

You'd smiled, the first real smile in days. "She had a lot of personality, that's what you always said."

"She did." Ona had reached over, lacing her fingers through yours, "she got it from you."

--------

Two months passed and the grief didn't get smaller, but you learned to carry it differently. Some days were easier than others, some days you still found yourself reaching for Princess's bowl in the morning, or saving her spot on the couch, or listening for the soft thump of her jumping down from the window.

Ona noticed that you were getting quieter again but not the same kind of quiet as before, it was not the dangerous kind, but a hollow and aching silence that worried her just the same.

"I've been thinking," Ona said one afternoon as you were sitting on the couch, Princess's bed still in the corner, untouched.

"About what?"

Ona hesitated for a second but then she said, "there's a shelter not far from here and they have animals that need homes."

You stiffened as soon as she said those words "Ona …" was all you could say.

"I'm not saying we replace her," Ona said quickly, turning to face you fully, "I would never say that. Princess was… she was everything, she saved your life and she saved us in so many ways but baby…" Ona reached for your hand, "you need something to hold onto and I think… I think she would have wanted you to love again, not instead of her, because of her."

You wanted to argue, you wanted to tell her she was wrong, that you could never love another animal the way you loved Princess, that it would feel like betrayal.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because maybe…..maybe Ona was right.

--------

You met Coco on a rainy Thursday.

The shelter was small and there were dogs of all sizes barking and wagging and pressing their noses against the bars of their kennels and you walked past them all, your chest tight, your heart still heavy with the weight of missing Princess with the thought at back your mind that you can't do it, that you would never be able to love like you love(d) Princess.

And then you saw him, he was a small shaggy dog with soft silver and white fur and smoky black patches around his floppy ears and eyes. His coat was fluffy and slightly tousled, giving him the look of someone who just woke up from a long nap after an afternoon adventure. Long wisps of fur fell over his dark eyes and around his snout like a tiny beard, making him look wise, stubborn, and secretly mischievous all at once. He had a black button nose that tilted proudly into the air, as if he was always sniffing out secrets or pretending he was more important than he was. One ear seemed to perk up while the other hung lower, adding to his quirky charm and his tail was feathery and expressive, usually wagging whenever he was excited or plotting trouble.

He wasn't barking like the others, he was just sitting there, looking at you, and something in his gaze felt familiar, really familiar, like he'd been searching for you his whole life.

"Hey, baby," you'd whispered, your voice cracking for a different reason this time.

He trotted to the front of the kennel and pressed his black button nose against your fingers through the bars and when you opened the door and picked him up, he curled into your chest, right over your heart, and sighed.

Despite his small size, he carried himself like a brave explorer and he looked like the kind of dog who would trot confidently into the middle of an adventure, make friends with strangers, steal snacks when nobody was looking, and then curl up beside his favorite person at the end of the day. His expression gave him a mix of sweetness, intelligence, and playful attitude, like he knew something everyone else didn't.

Ona had watched from the doorway, tears streaming down her face. "He's perfect," she'd said softly, "what should we name him?"

You'd looked at the white patch of fur on his chest soft and heart shaped and thought of something sweet and warm, "Coco," you'd said, "his name is Coco."

--------

The first few weeks with Coco were hard.

Not because he was difficult, he was actually the easiest dog you'd ever met cause he slept through the night, learned commands quickly, and looked at you with nothing but love in his eyes.

No, it was hard because every time you looked at him, you thought of Princess.

The way Coco wagged his feathery tail reminded you of the way Princess used to flick her tail when she was annoyed, the way Coco snored reminded you of the way Princess used to purr so loud Ona would groan from the other room, the way Coco curled up at the foot of the bed, in a spot that was never quite hers, made your chest ache with a grief you thought you'd buried.

"I feel guilty," you admitted one night, lying in bed with Coco snoring softly between you and Ona, "like I'm betraying her for having Coco here with us."

Ona turned on her side, propping her head on her hand. "You're not betraying her, amor, you're honoring her and Princess taught you how to love, and now you're taking that love and giving it to someone who needs it just as much as you did."

"But what if I forget her?"

"You won't forget her ever," Ona's voice was firm and certain, "she's a part of you and she always will be and loving Coco doesn't erase that it just means your heart is big enough for both of them."

------

You still keep Princess's things.

Her bed is in the corner of the living room, and Coco sometimes sniffs it, tilting his head with one ear perked and the other hanging low, like he knows it belonged to someone important. Her toys are in a small box by the door, along with her collar and her scratching post and the ceramic bowl with the little paw prints and sometimes, when the grief feels too heavy, you take them out and hold them, and you remember.

And then you look at Coco as he is curled up on the couch, snoring softly, his silver and white fur rising and falling with each breath, and you could do nothing but smile.

Not because the grief is gone, it never really goes away but because you learned something from Princess that you almost forgot in the darkness that swallowed everything after she left, love doesn't end, it just changes shape.

------

One night, about six months after you brought Coco home, you were sitting on the balcony again, Coco was asleep at your feet, one floppy ear twitching in his dreams, and Ona was inside making tea.

You looked up at the stars, and you whispered, so soft you almost couldn't hear yourself, "thank you, Princess….. thank you for choosing me, thank you for saving my life and thank you for teaching me that I could love again."

Somewhere, in the quiet of the night, in the warmth that spread through your chest, in the way Coco sighed contentedly in his sleep, you felt her.

A presence.

A reminder.

You wiped your eyes and smiled.

Then you went inside, took a cup of tea from Ona, and curled up on the couch with your two loves, the one who was still here, and the memory of the one who would never really leave.

-------

The days after the dinner were unbearable.

You couldn't look at Alexia without hearing the words she said to you, "you don't have to hate me forever." You couldn't train next to her without remembering the way her body had felt against yours during the drill, chest to chest, breath to breath, and when night fell, you couldn't sleep without dreaming of her hand reaching for you, and this time, taking it.

You woke up angry every morning.

Not at her. 

You were angry at yourself, angry that the wall you'd built was crumbling, and you were the one holding the sledgehammer.

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It happened on a Thursday.

Training had been brutal, a high intensity scrimmage that left everyone short tempered and out of frustration, you'd made a hard tackle on Patri, then another on Mapi and Pere had shouted at you twice to calm down. 

But you didn't.

Then you saw Alexia with the ball, she was driving through the midfield, her head up, looking for a pass and you stepped out of your defensive line and lunged, not for the ball, but for her, your shoulder caught her hip, and she went down hard, rolling onto the grass with a grunt and you instantly could hear the whistle blew and Pere ran onto the pitch, his face red, "what the hell was that?" he shouted at you.

You didn't answer as you were staring at Alexia, who was already getting up, brushing grass off her shorts and she looked at you, not with anger, not with frustration just disappointment.

That was worse.

"Both of you get inside now," Pere ordered. "Cool off and I don't want to see either of you for the rest of the session."

Alexia walked off the pitch without a word and all you could do was follow a few steps behind, your jaw tight, your heart pounding.

The locker room was empty when you got there, as the rest of the team was still training, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a cold, unforgiving glow, and Alexia sat on the bench in front of her locker, unlacing her boots slowly, methodically, and you stood by the door, arms crossed, waiting for her to say something.

But she didn't.

"Why don't you just yell at me?" you said finally, your voice sharper than you intended, "I fouled you really hard. Say something, insult me or something."

Alexia didn't look up. "What would be the point?"

"The point is you're supposed to be angry and that you're supposed to hate me, that's how this works."

Alexia set her boot down and finally looked at you, but her expression wasn't angry, it was tired.

"I don't hate you," she said quietly, "I don't think I ever could."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you started pacing back and forth, your boots echoing on the tile. 

The silence was suffocating.

"You should," you said, "you should hate me like I’m sure everyone else does."

"I don't."

"Why not? I've been nothing but cold to you, I've ignored you, pushed you away, and made you look stupid in front of the team. Why won't you just give up?"

Alexia stood up slowly and she didn't raise her voice, she didn't need to.

"Because I see you," she said. "The real you, the one who helped Alba with her press. The one who told me about the empty lot and your father's double shifts, and that's the you I want to know, not this... wall you've built."

You stopped pacing but your hands were shaking.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're hurting," Alexia said, stepping closer, " and I know something happened… something I did or said, and you've been carrying it for years, and I don't know what it is, but I want to understand, and I want to help if I can."

"I don't need your help."

"Everyone needs help."

"I don't need yours."

She was close now, too close, and you could smell the grass on her skin, the faint trace of her laundry detergent, and instantly your body remembered the drill, the press of her hips, the heat of her breath.

"Then what do you need?" Alexia asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she reached out, her fingers feeling like feather light as they brushed against the damp fabric of your sleeve. It wasn't a grab, it was an invitation, a soft bridge offered across a canyon you’d spent years widening.

You didn’t think, because you couldn't afford to think, because if you felt the warmth of her hand for one second longer, the wall wouldn't just crumble, it would vanish so you grabbed her wrist, your grip tight enough to leave a mark, and hauled her toward the heavy equipment door. You needed the lights off, you needed the world to stop looking at you, and more than anything, you needed to stop seeing the pity in her eyes, so as you kicked the door shut, the latch clicked sounded so hard, it felt like a sentence being passed.

The air in the storage room was thick as you shoved Alexia inside, your palms hitting her shoulders with enough force to send her stumbling back into a stack of crates, you were both still vibrating from the training, lungs burning, skin slick with a film of sweat and field grit. Alexia’s jersey was stuck to her collarbone, her ponytail frayed and wild and seeing her like that, exhausted but still so damn composed, made something in your chest snap and you didn't just want to argue, you wanted to tear the calm right off her face.

"Stop being so damn nice!" you spat, your voice trembling. "It’s all a lie and you’re supposed to be the one who ruins everything for me, why won't you just act like it?"

Alexia didn't fall as she surged forward, her fingers like iron bands as she caught your forearms, pinning you against the door. "Why are you so afraid of me being human?" she hissed, her face mere inches from yours.

The silence that followed was really loud as you looked at her, really looked at her, and the hatred you’d carefully nurtured felt like it was catching fire and in that moment, you didn't know who moved first, but suddenly the space between you vanished. 

It wasn't a kiss. 

It was a collision.

There was no tenderness in the way you grabbed her as you hooked your fingers into the damp collar of her jersey and yanked at it, the heavy synthetic fabric straining and groaning against the force and Alexia responded in kind, her hands rough and impatient as she fought with the waistband of your shorts, her fingers catching on the drawstring in a desperate, clumsy scramble, the spandex of her training leggings was a second, slick skin, making the heat between you feel trapped and suffocating and when your hand finally found the waist, you didn't slide it under, you hooked your thumb and hauled the fabric down with a sharp, punishing tug that left a red friction burn against her hip. There was no finesse in the way you exposed her, only the raw, animal need to strip away her defenses, and the sound of your heavy, synchronized breathing filled the small space, masking the distant sounds of the rest of the team leaving the facility.

"You hate this," Alexia gasped against your neck, her teeth grazing your skin with bruising force.

"I hate you," you hissed, the words coming out as a jagged snarl as you spun her around, her cleats skidding and squeaking against the concrete floor before her chest hit the cold metal shelving, the impact rattled the mesh bags of balls nearby, a dull, rhythmic thud thud thud that timed itself to the pounding of your heart and you pressed into her, the salt of her skin sharp on your tongue, your weight pinning her against the unforgiving edge of the rack. You wanted her to feel the bite of the metal, a constant reminder of the friction that had been building between you all season.

You pinned her there, your body heavy and demanding as you used your weight to trap her, shoving her clothes aside with a blunt desperation, you weren't looking for a rhythm that felt good, you were looking for a way to break her, driving into her with an unforgiving force that found her slick and scorching from the heat of the training session. The sudden, deep invasion made her back snap into a rigid arch, her breath hitching into a broken sob that was half shock and half raw need and you didn't give her a second to adjust, hooking your fingers in a rhythmic, punishing curl that forced her to feel every jagged inch of your movement.

Alexia didn’t just take the weight, she met it, she was straining against the cold metal shelf as she hooked a leg behind yours with her athlete’s strength, pulling you closer and forcing you to feel the frantic, terrified rhythm of her heart against your own. 

She wasn't a victim of your rage, she was the mirror for it. 

Her strong hands didn't just claw at the shelving, they anchored into your shoulders, her nails digging through the synthetic fabric of your jersey, demanding you stay present in the very moment you were trying to use as a weapon.

"Is this what you wanted?" you whispered harshly in her ear, your movements fast and punishing. "Is this enough attention for you?"

Alexia’s fingers clawed at the metal shelf, her knuckles white. "More," Alexia managed, her voice a wrecked sliver of defiance. "Don't... don't stop now, you coward."

The insult fueled you as you bit down on the sensitive curve of her shoulder, leaving a mark you knew would purple by morning as you increased the friction, your hand slick and moving with a violent intensity, and every time she tried to turn her head to look at you, to find some shred of connection, you pushed her face back away instantly. 

You didn't want to see her eyes. 

You didn't want to see her confusion.

Alexia was trembling now, her muscles clenching desperately around your hand, a rhythmic, pulsing heat that threatened to pull you under with her and you could perfectly feel her peak approaching, a frantic, messy build up that ended in a shattered, voiceless scream as she collapsed against the shelves, her body racking with tremors so you didn't give her a second to breathe as you pulled her back toward you, flipping her around, her eyes were glazed, searching yours for a moment of softness, but you shoved your knee between her legs, forcing them apart.

"Don't look at me," you commanded, your voice raw.

You worked her again, this time with a focused and cruel precision as you used the heel of your hand to grind your weight against her, the friction of your palm against her clit, really harsh and relentless as you wanted her overstimulated, her nerves frayed to the point of breaking. Your thumb caught the hood of her skin, dragging against the most sensitive point with a punishing pressure that turned her whimpers into frantic, ugly sobs you hoped none could hear. You watched the way her thighs shook and buckled as the muscles corded and jumped under the strain of the pleasure you were forcing on her like a sentence, and when Alexia finally broke, a second, more violent release rolling through her, you felt a dark sense of triumph and an even darker sense of self loathing. 

For a heartbeat, the adrenaline of the training and the violence of the moment blurred into one as you felt the way she hung off the shelving, her muscles honed from hours on the field, now turned to water under your touch, the smell of the turf grass clinging to her skin mixed with the sharp, metallic scent of the room and this time you had won the "play," you had dominated the space, but looking down at the way her fingers still twitched against the metal, you felt a sickening hollow open up in your gut. 

This wasn't a game you could walk away from with a clean win. 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

As you withdrew your hand, the sound of it, wet and heavy, was loud enough to make your stomach turn. Your fingers were slick, stained with the evidence of her orgasm, and you felt the cooling moisture begin to itch against your skin, and the scent of her was starting to feel heavy, musk thick, and undeniable, and it clung to you like a mark of the war you'd just waged and the line you'd finally crossed.

Without a word, you began to pull your clothes back into order as Alexia stayed slumped against the crates, her chest heaving, her hair a ruined mess as she looked at you, her mouth opening as if to voice the million questions crashing through her mind, but her body and her brain were unable to do anything other than stare at you not really understanding anything that just happened. 

"Alexia," you said, your voice flat and lethal, "don't even dare to say a single word about this."

You didn't help her up, you didn't offer a hand or a glance as you turned on your heel and walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with finality. 

You didn't look back. 

You could still feel the phantom pressure of her jersey under your fingers, the way the fabric had almost given way, how your legs felt heavy like you’d just played double overtime, but the exhaustion wasn't physical, it was the weight of the silence you’d left behind that door. You’d broken her "nice" streak, but in the process, you’d realized how much of yourself you’d had to shatter to do it.

As you stepped into the hallway, the cool air hit your face, but it did nothing to wash away the feeling of her skin, and inside Alexia remained in the dark, alone, trying to piece together how a moment of such intense fire could leave her feeling so utterly frozen.

The hallway was cold.

You stood with your back against the wall, your chest heaving, your hands still shaking, your jersey was twisted, your shorts loose at the waist and you didn't bother fixing them, you just breathed a couple short, ragged breaths that did nothing to slow your heart.

You could hear nothing from inside the storage room, there was no movement, no voice.

She's still in there.

You should have gone back, you should have said something, anything, to break the silence, but your feet wouldn't move and your mouth wouldn't open.

This changes nothing, you'd said to yourself.

But you weren't sure you believed it.

You didn't remember how you got back home.

One moment you were in the hallway outside the storage room, and the next you were standing in your apartment, still in your training kit, staring at the wall and the sun had set, making the room dark.

You didn't turn on the lights.

You walked to the bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror and you could see how your hair was a mess, your lips were swollen and there was a red mark on your collarbone, a bruise forming, or maybe a bite. You touched it, and the memory came flooding back, her hands, her mouth, and all the sounds she'd made.

You turned away from the mirror.

You couldn't look at yourself.

The smell of the room followed you home, it was a cloying mix of industrial rubber from the footballs, the metallic tang of the shelving, and the sharp, undeniable scent of her. It was under your fingernails and trapped in the fibers of your hair, you scrubbed at your skin until it was raw, but you could still feel the phantom heat of her clit muscles clenching around your hand, a pulsing reminder that you hadn't just broken her "nice" streak. You had invited her into the one place you never let anyone go: the truth. 

You sat on the edge of your bed for a long time, staring at the floor.

Your phone buzzed, it was a message from Mapi: You okay? You left early, i wanted to talk after everything that happened.

You didn't answer.

Another buzz again, a message from Mapi: Alexia looks... weird did something happen?

After reading that you instantly turned off the phone and dropped it on the nightstand.

The wall was gone, it was not cracked, it was gone. 

You'd spent five years building it, and in ten minutes of raw, angry, desperate chaos, you'd torn it down with your own hands and now there was nothing between you and the truth you'd been running from.

You didn't hate Alexia.

You never had.

You hated yourself for loving her and for still loving her, even after you'd convinced yourself she was the villain. You hated that she was kind, patient, and real, you hated that she saw through your masks and most of all, you hated that when she touched you, you'd felt something other than rage.

You'd felt safe.

And that terrified you more than any hatred ever could.

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You lay down on the bed, still in your dirty clothes, and stared at the ceiling, your mind running many things at the same time until you hear it again.

The only way to move forward is to let go of the past and embrace the future.

Your mother's voice, soft and distant, makes you focus and have a clear thought around all the noise in your thoughts. 

For five years, you'd held on, you'd clutched that single moment, a moment of four seconds of Spanish you didn't understand and turned it into a life raft, It had kept you afloat, but it had also kept you alone and isolated.

For five years, you'd played those four seconds on a loop in the back of your brain, you can clearly hear the roar of the crowd, the smell of fresh cut grass, the sting of the tackle you'd made. You were nineteen, a rookie with shaking legs and a heart full of idols and then Alexia was in your face, her words sharp and fast in a language you didn't understand, her expression twisted with something you'd read as contempt and in that moment it was where everything split in two.

But tonight, as you felt the ghost of her touch, you realized the person who had never moved past being that girl in the pitch wasn't Alexia.

It was you.

And now, lying in the dark with the ghost of Alexia's touch still burning on your skin, you wondered if holding on had been the real mistake all along.

You closed your eyes and tried to rest but sleep didn't come.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice that sounded like your own whispered,