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RECOVERY PARTNER - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Best friends with matching scars. From best friends to rehab partners to a little bit more. Sometimes unexpected and emotional situation cause the feeling to come to the surface ... finally.

Word Count: 11k

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LOVA

sportsnews Spain will be without Ballon d'Or-winning midfielder Alexia Putellas for Euro 2022 after she suffered an anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) injury on the eve of the tournament.

The Spanish football federation (RFEF) said Putellas, who captains Barcelona and the national team, had sprained her knee in training on Tuesday.

Further medical tests showed the 28-year-old had ruptured her ACL. Spain begin their Euros campaign against Finland on Friday.

They will now be without the influential Putellas, Fifa's best women's player of 2021, who has made 100 appearances and scored 27 goals for the national side.

sportsnews Sweden International Lova Edvinsson will miss the rest of the Euros and likely her next season with Barcelona after suffering an ACL rupture on Friday.

During Sweden's opening game against the Netherlands, Edvinsson went down in a tackle and was unable to play the rest of the match. After scans and a full medical assessment Sweden has since confirm Edvinsson has ruptured her ACL and is set to returned to Barcelona in order to complete her surgery and her being her recovery and rehabilitation.

"Either my mum is going to kill me, or I'm going to kill my mum. At this point I'm not entirely sure which one would come first." I said as I walked through the door with Otto. He was already halfway across the room on his way to find Nala.

Alexia was lying out across her sofa, her leg supported all around, while she had the muscle stimulator on. She was facing the window while she was scrolling on her phone. As soon as she heard the tapping of nails on the floor, she sat up to face me.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, shocked.

"I can't do it anymore. If I get told to elevate my leg that is already elevated ONE MORE TIME..." I paused as the frustration started building all over again.

I hobbled my way across the room, each step still such an effort as I wasn't yet fully used to my extra limbs. Alexia was still lying across the full couch, leaving me no room to sit down at all.

"Move up," I told her.

She just looked up at me in horror like I'd just threatened to kill Nala. "This is my couch."

"Okay... and this is currently my hiding spot, so move up," I said again, tapping her uninjured leg in order to get her to actually move. It just turned into a staring contest between the pair of us until I made her give in.

She let out a heavy sigh before finally giving in to me and moving up to give me enough space to sit next to her and keep my leg 'elevated'. The same thing that had been drilled into me for the past two weeks and had driven me slightly crazy.

"God, you're so bossy." She muttered as she shuffled across the couch.

"Says you." I shot back.

"You're the one who has broken into my house, has taken over the place with your stuff and is now demanding I move while completing very delicate recovery."

"One ... it's not breaking in if I have a key; it is simply entering. Two ... that stuff is Otto, who you love, so don't ever call him stuff or pretend you don't love him because I've seen you cuddling on the floor with him, and three ... I too am doing delicate recovery, so move up, grumpy pants."

Alexia just looked at me the way she always did, and I could see her trying to hide her smirk. I could read Alexia better than most people, and when she started to move her mouth and bite her lip, I knew she was suppressing a smirk or a laugh.

"You do know this is the first place your mum is going to look for you." She said, trying to divert the attention back onto me.

"Well then, I've got until she finds me. Realistically, though, where else was I going to escape to?" Alexia was my best friend; we'd been inseparable since the moment we bumped into each other on my first day in Barcelona. So realistically, I wasn't going to go anywhere else, but even if I did want to escape somewhere else, nobody else was here; they were still in England for the Euros.

"Why are you killing Astrid today?" She asked as she laughed slightly.

"Elevate your leg Lo ... you've got to keep it elevated. Make sure you ice your knee. Have you got ice on your knee? You must keep it elevated at all times. I haven't moved in practically two weeks, and the one time I did need to move was because I needed to pee so badly because she's been making me drink so much water to 'keep me hydrated'." I sighed in frustration.

This wasn't a simple situation for anyone to be in. My mum had come all the way here with no idea how long she would be here, just to take care of me. She'd given up her holiday with her girls to come and look after her girl. I appreciated that more than she knew, and that I was currently letting on, but it had gone from the point of helping to feeling slightly suffocating. I loved my mum more than anything and appreciated her being here to help, but I was missing my independence, which I'd become so used to. I was a twenty-six-year-old woman who had lived abroad since the age of eighteen, who, after eight years, had reverted to feeling six.

Alexia's eyes softened as she looked at me. "Come here." She reached her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into the side of her chest. I lay my head into her shoulder, allowing myself to just breathe. I wrapped my arms around her waist, keeping her close. This felt safe.

"Mami's the same," Alexia said, and there was relief in her voice at being able to say it out loud without feeling the judgement of the words. "She means well, but I feel like I can't breathe. Can't have a moment to just... feel what I'm feeling without someone trying to fix it or make it better."

"Yes. Exactly that." I lifted my head to look at her. "How's the pain?"

"Constant. It's better than the first week, but it's always there. It's this ache that never quite goes away and then at night ... " She touched her knee gently, almost absently.

"It's worse at night," I finished. "I can't find a position that doesn't hurt. I wake up every two hours." I was quiet for a minute, just really assessing the situation we found ourselves in: "This fucking sucks." I muttered quietly into her chest.

"Yep." Alexia was quiet for "I don't want to do it. I don't think I can do it."

"Hey... look at me." I sat up slightly, taking her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me. "We've got this. You've got this, and if you've not, then I will drag you through this whether you like it or not because you best believe I'm not doing this alone ... We went down together; we come back together." I told her firmly.

Alexia's eyes were slowly becoming more watery, tears lining her lash line as I spoke. "So stubborn." She laughed, though it was a small laugh which was thick with emotion.

I couldn't help but laugh too. "Again ... says you. You're one of the most stubborn people I've ever met."

"So, you've met yourself." She said flatly but with a smile. I just looked at her before I punched her lightly in the shoulder.

"Oh, that is abuse." She said, rubbing her shoulder like I'd punched her hand.

"You'll live with it." I reached up and wiped the stray tear from her cheek with my thumb. "We're going to be okay. Both of us, we're going to make it through."

"Together?" she asked.

"Together. You couldn't get rid of me even if you tried."

I leant back into her, and I wrapped my arm back around her, pulling her close. I fit against her perfectly, my head tucked under my chin, her breathing gradually slowing and evening out. My own exhaustion was creeping in now; the walk over here had taken more out of me than I thought, coupled with the constant pain, it had drained all the energy out of me.

"I'm so tired all the time. Is that normal?" I murmured.

"Your body is healing. It takes everything you have." Alexia's voice was already similarly drowsy.

Otto and Nala had curled up together on Nala's bed. Otto's gentle snoring provides an acoustic backdrop. The apartment was warm, filled with soft light, and for the first time in two weeks, I felt like I could actually rest. Not the fitful, pain-interrupted sleep I'd been getting at home, but real rest. The kind that came from being truly understood, from not having to pretend or perform or be brave.

Alexia held firm around me, keeping me safe, and she was warm and solid beside me, her breathing deep and even, and my body was so heavy, so tired.

--- ---

"Yeah, they're here, both of them ... yes, and Otto as well ... don't worry, she's fine."

My eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. The light had changed; now it wasn't a steady glow of the afternoon sun; instead, it was softer, with what appeared to be early evening light. How long had we been asleep? Eli was standing over us with her phone pressed to her ear, looking at us with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

I shifted to sit up, which caused Alexia to stir underneath me. I blinked away the grogginess, readjusting to the light as I smoothed my hair back out.

"Yes, she's here. She's fine. They're both fine, they just ... they fell asleep." Eli's eyes met mine, and there was understanding there, but also concern. "Your mum wants to talk to you." She told me, holding her phone out for me.

Reality crashed back in. My mother's voice was audible even through the phone, high-pitched with worry and relief and probably anger. I carefully extracted myself from Alexia's arms, my knee protesting the movement after hours of stillness. I took the phone from Eli, mentally preparing for the lecture I was about to get. Very quickly, I knew I would be six again, not twenty-six.

"Hi Mum ... no I'm fine ... no sorry I should have told you ... Mum I always walk him without a lead I've trained him to do that ... he's fine he's asleep with Nala ... yes I'm fine as well ... yes my leg is up."

As I listened and answered her frantic questions, I felt Alexia's hand take mine, lacing her fingers through mine, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

Together, she'd said. Maybe right now that was going to be enough.

--- ---

It turned out to be everything.

The gym had become our second home and was even rivalling our first. We were there every single day, sometimes twice a day, our lives reduced to a rhythm of exercises and ice baths and small, hard-won victories that no one else would understand.

The gym smelled like rubber and sweat with a sharp tang of athletic tape. It was a small space, tucked away in the Barcelona training facility, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light on the bad days and never enough on the worse ones. There were resistance bands in every colour, foam rollers that left marks on our skin, balance boards that mocked us with their instability, and machines designed specifically to rebuild what we'd destroyed.

Week three post-surgery, we started with the basics. Quad sets, lying on our backs, trying to activate muscles that in even the small space of time had forgotten how to fire. It sounded simple until I was staring down at my own leg, willing it to do something as fundamental as tighten, and nothing happened.

"Come on," I muttered at my quad like it could hear my words and would magically start working again. My hands were pressed firmly against the muscle, searching for any sign of contraction. "Work. Please just work."

Beside me on her own mat, Alexia was doing the same, her face tight with concentration. Our physio, Marc, stood between us, with bucket loads of patience and encouragement in that way that sometimes made me want to scream.

"It takes time," he said. "The neural pathways need to reconnect. Don't force it."

"I'm not forcing it, I'm begging it," Alexia said through gritted teeth.

I laughed despite my situation, and she turned to look at me, and suddenly we were both laughing. A mixture of exhaustion and frustration caused hysterical laughter that had nothing to do with humour and everything to do with the absurdity of our situation. Two of the best players in the world, who had so many trophies between us, including but not limited to two Ballon d'Ors, however, they weren't my doing, but I had come second, and now we were unable to make our own legs work.

"Ten more attempts," Marc said, unmoved by our breakdown, just looked back and forth between us firmly. "Each of you."

We did as we were told, so that was ten more, and then misleadingly ten more after that.

By week six, we'd graduated to straight leg raises. Lying on our backs, lifting our braced legs six inches off the ground and holding them there while our cores shook and our hips burned and sweat dripped into our eyes.

"Five more seconds," Alexia gasped beside me.

"I can't," I admitted, starting to lower my leg to the floor.

"You can. Count with me then. Five ... "

"Four," I managed, my leg trembling violently as I kept it lifted at our original height.

"Three ... "

"Two ... "

"One. Down."

We both let our legs drop, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

"Again," Marc said.

"I hate you," Alexia told him.

"I know. Again." He said with zero ounce of remorse.

We did it again and again and again.

The days blurred together, marked only by the exercises that defined them. Heel slides, bending our knees as far as they would go, which wasn't far at all. Ankle pumps until our calves cramped. Standing weight shifts that made us feel like toddlers learning how to walk. Each movement was a negotiation with pain, a test of how much we could endure before our bodies simply refused.

During week eight, I broke.

We were doing single-leg balance exercises, standing on our injured legs, trying to hold steady for thirty seconds. I'd made it to twelve when my knee gave out, buckling beneath me. I caught myself on the parallel bars, but the failure hit harder than I expected it to.

"I can't do this," I said, and my voice cracked. "I can't. It's been two months, and I can't even stand on one leg for thirty seconds. How am I supposed to play football again when I can't even stand? How am I supposed to ... "

"Stop." Alexia was beside me, her hand on either side of my face. "Look at me."

I looked.

"Four weeks ago, you couldn't stand on that leg at all. Four weeks before that, you couldn't even put weight on it. You're comparing yourself to who you were before, but that's not fair. Compare yourself to who you were yesterday." She said gently.

"Yesterday I held it for fifteen seconds." I sniffed.

"Today you held it for twelve. So tomorrow you'll hold it for thirteen and the day after that, fourteen. That's how this works. Not in giant leaps. In tiny, frustrating, painful increments."

I wanted to argue, but I knew she was right. She was always right about this because she was living it too.

"Again," she said, echoing Marc's favourite word. "We'll do it together this time."

She stood right in front of me, looking me directly in the eyes, each on our injured leg, hands hovering over the parallel bars for balance. We made it to twenty seconds before we both had to grab on.

"Better," Alexia said with a smile.

"Barely," I muttered, looking down at my feet, finding them entirely more interesting.

"Better," she insisted search for my eyes until she met them. When she did just looked me dead in the eyes and raised her eyebrows at me like 'I told you so ... you should listen to me properly'.

By week ten, we'd made it to the pool for aqua therapy, to give it the technical term, Marc called it. I called it torture in a different medium; the only benefit to take was that at least the water was warm. We did walking drills, high knees, leg swings, all while the water provided resistance and support in equal measure.

"I used to love swimming," I said, dragging my leg through another round of high knee lift.

"Used to?" Alexia was beside me; her face flushed from the effort.

"Now it just reminds me of this."

"We'll reclaim it. After we're done, we'll go to the beach, and we'll just float and do absolutely nothing athletic whatsoever. We'll go diving off cliffs, and we'll jump waves like little kids."

The thought brought a smile to my face, "Promise?"

"Promise."

Week twelve felt like the first major milestone. It was the first day we were cleared to use the stationary bike. No resistance, just a gentle movement to remind our knees what cycling felt like. I felt the tears in my eyes the first time I completed a full revolution. Alexia pretended not to notice, but her hand found, stretching across from her bike to hold my hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

"We're getting there," I said.

"Are we?"

"Yes, we are." For the first time since I'd gone down, I felt that that statement was finally true. We were getting there. We were getting back.

By week sixteen, we were doing small agility drills, side steps, careful and controlled, our knees wrapped and braced. The first time I moved laterally without thinking about it or overthinking it or having my falling to the ground on that pitch at the forefront of my mind, I stopped dead.

"What?" Alexia asked, alarmed.

"I just ..." I stopped looking down at my bandaged knee, looking at the cones that were all around us. "I didn't think about it. I just moved."

Her face broke into a smile, genuine and bright. "There we go, Lo!"

I looked over my shoulder to see the excitement on her face and in her voice, which seemed a bit unwarranted for what I'd just done. "It was one side step."

"That's where it starts." She said with a proud smile still on her face.

--- ---

"Two coffees, please." I attempted.

"And two croissants," Alexia added, then looked at me. "Did I say that right?" She whispered in my ear.

"I have no idea. I'm just going off what Google tells me." I whispered back.

We laughed, and it was weird how a simple emotion could feel so foreign. Genuine laughter that had nothing to do with exhaustion or pain or the absurdity of our situation. Just laughter because we were happy.

The croissants arrived, flaky and warm, and we tore them apart with our hands, getting butter on our fingers, not caring in the slightest. The coffee was strong and bitter and perfect. We sat there for an hour, watching people pass, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said.

We climbed Montmartre in the afternoon, taking the steps slowly, not because we had to anymore, but because we wanted to savour the moment. The Sacré-Cœur rose white and tall above us, and from the top, Paris spread out in every direction, a sea of grey rooftops and green parks and the silver ribbon of the Seine cutting through it all.

"It's beautiful," Alexia said, her shoulder pressed against mine.

"Yeah." I agreed.

"We should have done this years ago." She said.

"We were too busy playing football."

"True." She was quiet for a moment. "Do you miss it? Right now, in this moment?"

I thought about it honestly. "Not right now. Right now, I'm exactly where I want to be."

She smiled, and something in her eyes softened. "Me too."

We wandered through the Tuileries Garden as the sun broke through the clouds, casting everything in gold. We bought gelato from a cart even though it was barely warm enough, and we sat on the edge of a fountain, people-watching the rest of the people in the park. We played our favourite game of making up fake scenarios and conversations for the people we saw.

That night, we got ready for the concert in our hotel room. Alexia did her makeup carefully, her hand steady as she drew a perfect wing of eyeliner. I struggled with mine; eyeliner had never been my strength, as I smudged it twice before she took the pencil from me and did it herself. Her face was so close to mine, her breath warm on my face.

"There, perfect," she said, leaning back to admire her work.

"You're biased."

"Maybe, but I'm also right."

The venue was packed out, with the atmosphere electric with anticipation. We pushed our way into the crowds until we found our seats. When the lights went down and the music started, Rosalía's voice filled the space, raw and powerful, and Alexia grabbed my hand, and we were moving, dancing, singing along to words we half-knew and half-invented.

"PIENSO EN TU MIRÁ, TU MIRÁ," we screamed with everyone else, and it didn't matter that we were off-key or that we didn't know all the lyrics. It only mattered that we were here, alive, whole in a way that had nothing to do with anything else we had going on.

Alexia spun me, laughing, her hair flying. I caught her around the waist, and we danced pressed together, the crowd surging around us, the bass vibrating through our chests. For hours, we forgot. We forgot the gym, the pain, the fear, the long road still ahead. We were just two people lost in music, in movement, in the pure joy of being.

When "Malamente" came on, the crowd went wild. Alexia threw her head back and sang, her voice hoarse and happy, and I watched her, really watched her, and felt something shift in my chest, something I'd been ignoring for longer than I wanted to admit.

By the time we stumbled out of the venue, it was past midnight. My ears were ringing, my voice was shot, but I couldn't stop smiling. Alexia's makeup was smudged, her hair was a mess, and she looked more beautiful than I'd ever seen her.

"That was ... " I started.

"Everything," she finished.

We walked through the streets of Paris in the dark, following the Seine, letting our feet carry us without official direction. The city was quieter now, just the occasional car, the distant sound of laughter from a late-night bar. The Eiffel Tower appeared ahead of us, lit up gold against the black sky, and without discussing it, we headed toward it.

The Champ de Mars was nearly empty as we found a spot on the grass, close enough to see the tower's intricate structure, but far enough away to take in its full height. I lay back, feeling the cool grass against my neck, and Alexia settled beside me, her shoulder touching mine.

The grass was damp with evening dew, cold seeping through my jeans, but Alexia's warmth beside me made it bearable. Above us, the Eiffel Tower rose like a golden skeleton against the night sky, its lights glittering in patterns that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the city. I could hear distant traffic, the murmur of voices from somewhere across the park, the rustle of leaves in the trees lining the Champ de Mars. The air smelled like rain and metal and something floral I couldn't name.

Alexia shifted closer, and I felt the solid press of her shoulder against mine; her thigh aligned with mine. The contact was grounding, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.

"Do you remember when we first met?" she asked, her voice soft in the darkness.

I smiled at the memory. "How could I forget. You ran into me, and later on, I found out your locker was next to mine.

"You didn't speak any Spanish or Catalan."

"You didn't speak any English or Swedish either."

I turned my head to look at her, and she was already watching me, her face half-lit by the tower's glow. "That first day, I tried to introduce myself, and you just stared at me like I was speaking another language," Alexia said, laughing softly.

"You were literally speaking another language," I argued.

"Fair point." She turned her head to look at me properly, and I could see the amusement dancing in her eyes. "Then you pulled out your phone and typed something into Google and showed it to me."

The memory was so vivid I could almost feel the weight of my phone in my hand, the panic thrumming through my veins. I'd been so desperate to make a good impression, to not seem rude or standoffish. "'Hello, my name is Lova. I am happy to be here,' is what I was trying to say. "Except the translation was terrible, and it came out as something like 'Greetings, I am called Lova. I have happiness for this place.'"

Alexia laughed, the sound bright and clear, cutting through the night air. Still one of my favourite sounds in the whole world. "I thought you were so formal. So serious."

"I was terrified. New country, new team, and I couldn't communicate with anyone." The admission came easier now, years later, but I could still remember that first day. The weight of the surprise transfer, the isolation it brought with it, and the fear that this would be a terrible mistake. "I felt like I was drowning and everyone was speaking underwater."

Her hand found mine in the grass, threading her fingers together with mine. "We figured it out. Translating everything. You'd type in Swedish, I'd type in Spanish, and somehow we became best friends through a phone screen."

"Remember when you tried to tell me about the team dinner and the translation said 'we will now eat the dead animals together'?" I remembered.

"You looked horrified!"

"I thought it was some kind of weird Spanish thing!" I was laughing now, the memory absurd and precious. "I was genuinely debating whether I should call my agent to get me out of there."

"Or that time," Alexia began, squeezing my hand, "when you tried to ask me where the bathroom was and the translation came out as 'Where is the room of water shame?'"

"Oh God, I'd forgotten about that one." I laughed, covering my face with my spare hand.

"I hadn't. I was so confused. I thought maybe it was a Swedish expression."

"Or the time you tried to tell me about the team's pre-match ritual," I added, "and Google said something about 'we must sacrifice the orange one before the battle.'"

"I meant the chant, not a sacrifice!" Alexia was laughing so hard that she had to sit up slightly. "You thought we were going to perform some kind of sacrificial ceremony!"

"You can't blame me! Nothing made sense! The only thing I could think of from that was that you were about to sacrifice the poor media girl somehow."

"Why would we have done that?" she asked through the laughs and the tears.

"I don't know, but she was a ginger and the only thing close to being orange in that changing room."

Eventually, the laughter faded into something softer, warmer. The tower sparkled above us, and the cold was seeping deeper into my bones. No matter how cold it was, I didn't want to move or break this moment.

"Do you remember," I said quietly, "that day in the locker room when I was trying to tell you about Otto, and I told you I had a 'furry son who barked at a stranger's? I mean, I wasn't wrong, but I also wasn't right."

"I was so confused."

"You looked so concerned."

"Because I was. I thought you were talking about a human, not a dog!"

I could picture it so clearly, Alexia's face, that mixture of confusion and worry, her phone already half-raised to translate something back to me. "You stayed after training for an hour just to help me learn how to say basic things properly after that."

"Of course I did." Her voice was gentle now, the teasing gone. "You looked so lost."

"I was lost. Every day for months, I was lost, and yet you were so patient with me. Even when I butchered every word, even when I mixed up Catalan and Spanish, even when I accidentally said that I enjoyed 'making love to football' instead of 'I love to play football.'" The admission felt important somehow, here in the dark with the Eiffel Tower glittering above us.

Alexia groaned. "I'd forgotten about that one."

"Mapi never let me forget it."

"No, she wouldn't." Alexia's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "You learned, though, Lova, you learned so fast. Within six months, you were cracking jokes in Catalan."

"Bad jokes."

"The best bad jokes." She shifted, turning onto her side to face me fully, propping herself up on her elbow. The grass rustled beneath her, and I could feel the heat of her body even through the cold night air. "Do you remember when you tried to teach me Swedish?"

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. You made me practice saying 'Jag älskar fotboll' over and over."

"I love football. A very basic phrase for us."

"Except I kept saying it wrong and you kept laughing at me." She said, raising her eyebrows, teasingly.

"You said 'Jag älskar fötter' instead. You told everyone you loved feet."

"For a week!" Alexia protested. "For a whole week, I was going around saying I loved feet, and you didn't correct me!"

"It was funny!" I argued.

"It was mean."

"It was a little mean," I admitted, grinning. "You got me back in the end when you taught me to say, 'good morning' in Catalan, and it was actually 'You're old.'"

"That was an accident!" she said dismissively.

"Was it though?"

"Mostly an accident." She was smiling now, that soft smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "But watching you greet Josep with 'Ets gran' every morning for three days was pretty entertaining."

We were both laughing now, the memories spilling out of both of us. A year of miscommunications and patient repetition, of hand gestures and drawings, of staying late after training so Alexia could teach me Catalan phrases and I could teach her Swedish ones. I remembered the way she'd write words on Post-it notes and leave them in my locker. "porta" on my water bottle, "sabates" on my boots, "amiga" on my training bib. I remembered teaching her to count to ten in Swedish, how she'd practice while we did cooldown laps, her accent making the words sound both so foreign and familiar.

"You used to draw me little pictures. When the words didn't work. Little stick figures to explain drills or plays." I said softly, "I still have some of those drawings. In a box under my bed."

"Really?"

"Really." I turned to face her fully now, mirroring her position, our faces close in the darkness. The Eiffel Tower's lights cast shifting shadows across her features. "You drew me a whole comic strip-looking thing once, trying to explain the flow of play they wanted us to do."

I saw something shift in Alexia's eyes. Even in the dim light, I could see the physical shift from brown to green. "You drew me a map of Sweden with little hearts on all your favourite places."

"You were showing me around Barcelona, and I wanted you to understand where I came from." I said with a soft smile.

"I kept it; it's still on my fridge," she said.

Something in my chest tightened. Five years. Five years of this, of learning each other's languages, each other's hearts. Slowly, painfully, beautifully, we'd built our own language. Not just Swedish or Spanish or Catalan or English, but something that belonged only to us. A language of patience and laughter, of late nights in the training facility, of Google Translate mishaps and hand-drawn maps and words left on scraps of paper.

"Your Catalan is so good now," Alexia said, and there was something in her voice that resembled pride.

"Your English is better."

"Five years," she said softly. "Five years of learning how to talk to each other."

The weight of it settled over us. Five years of building this bridge between us, word by word, mistake by mistake, laugh by laugh. Five years of choosing each other, of staying late, of being patient when patience was hard. Five years of becoming fluent not just in each other's languages, but in each other.

I could feel her breath on my face, warm and a stark contrast to the cold night air. The grass was freezing beneath us now, the dew soaking through our clothes, but neither of us moved. The Eiffel Tower sparkled and flashed above us, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing music, the notes drifting across the park.

"Best five years of my life," I said, and meant it with every part of me.

Her eyes searched mine, and I realized we'd moved closer without meaning to, or maybe we'd meant to all along. I could count her eyelashes from here, could see the exact shade of gold the tower's lights painted across her skin. We'd spent five years learning to communicate, learning to understand each other, and now ... now we were here, and I understood her without her saying a single word. I understood the way she was looking at me, the way her hand tightened around mine, the way her breath caught slightly.

Five years of learning her language, and now I could read her like poetry.

She was quiet for a moment, and when I turned to look at her, she was already looking at me. The Eiffel Tower sparkled behind her, its hourly light show beginning, but I couldn't look away from her face.

"Lova," she said, and there was something in her voice I'd never heard before.

"Yeah?"

She didn't answer with words. Instead, she reached up, her hand gentle against my cheek, which pulled me closer as she kissed me.

It was soft. Slow and tender in a way that made my heart stop and restart. Her lips were warm, and she tasted like the mint gum she'd been chewing and something else, something that was just her. The world narrowed to only this ... her mouth on mine, her hand on my face, the grass beneath us and the stars above us, and in that moment, nothing else mattered in the slightest.

When she pulled back, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. My face was on fire as the heat flooded my cheeks, and I did the only thing I could think of. I buried my face in her neck, taking my only hiding spot.

"Lova," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Don't."

"Are you blushing because I kissed you?" she said, and I knew a smirk was written all over her face.

"No," I answered less than convincingly.

"You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are. I can feel it. Your face is like a radiator."

"Stop talking."

She laughed, her hand coming up to stroke my hair. "It's cute. You're cute."

"Alexia ... "

"So red. Like a tomato. Like a ... "

I kissed her again, cutting off her words, and this time it was less gentle, more desperate. I kissed her to shut her up, to make her stop teasing me, but I also did it because I wanted to, because I'd wanted to for longer than I'd let myself admit.

When we broke apart this time, I pulled back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, and there, spreading across her cheeks, was a flush of pink.

"Who's blushing now?" I asked, grinning.

"I'm not ... " she tried to argue.

"You are. Look at you."

"It's the cold," she said, but her voice was unsteady.

"Try again," I said, this time with a smirk on my face.

"The lighting. The tower is reflecting ... "

"Alexia."

She bit her lip, and the pink deepened to red. "Okay. Maybe I'm blushing a little."

"A little?"

"Fine. You win. I'm blushing a lot because you kissed me."

I laughed, and she laughed, and then she kissing again, softer this time. The Eiffel Tower sparkled above us, Paris hummed around us, and for the first time in months, everything felt right and a little bit more okay.

--- ---

The roar of the Johan Cruyff Stadium was deafening, a wall of sound that pressed against my chest as I sat on the bench, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. April 30th, 2023. Barcelona versus Sporting Club de Huelva. It was a match we were used to, but this time the league title was within reach.

Beside me, Alexia sat with the same tension, her fingers drumming against her thigh. We'd both been cleared to play by the medical team. It was only meant to be short minutes, just enough to get our bodies back into the rhythm of playing again, but at least it was something. Sitting here, watching the match unfold without us, felt like a different type of torture to rehab.

The score was 1-0. An okay lead, but not safe. Never safe, not even close to safe.

I watched Aitana weave through the midfield, watched Caro make a run down the wing, and my body ached to be out there with them. Eleven months. Eleven months since I'd played a competitive match. Since that tackle in the Euros opener had torn my ACL and ripped away everything I'd taken for granted.

"Nervous?" Alexia murmured beside me, her voice barely audible over the crowd.

"Terrified," I admitted. My hand found her as I held onto her for safety and comfort.

"Me too." She whispered to me as she gave my hand a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement.

"Alexia. Lova." Jonatan turned to us, "Warm up. You're going on in five."

The world tilted slightly as I stood. Alexia stood up beside me, and together we jogged to the sideline, our movements careful and controlled as we followed the coach's instructions. My knee felt strong beneath me; months of work had made sure of that, but there was still that whisper of fear, that what-if that lived in the back of my mind now.

We stretched, we moved, we waited. The crowd had noticed the second we started warming up, and the noise was huge.

"Alexia! Alexia!"

"Lova! Lova!"

Hearing my name, sung by thousands of voices, had my eyes burning with the threat of tears.

"Don't cry yet. Save them for after." Alexia said, bumping her shoulder against mine.

"Who says I'm going to cry?"

Alexia just looked at me with a questioning look as she raised her eyebrows at me. "I know you."

She did. She knew me better than anyone.

The whistle blew in the 73rd minute. The board went up for two substitutions.

Number 11 and number 36.

Alexia went on first, but she only just stepped over the white line as she swapped places with Pina. She waited there for me as Salma swapped for me. The second I stepped over the line, we ran into position together.

The sound was physical, a force that washed over me, over both of us. I could see fans in the stands, could hear our teammates clapping, and could see the respect in the eyes of the Huelva players as they watched us take our positions.

Alexia dropped into her usual position in the midfield while I took my place up in the front. The grass felt like home beneath my boots.

The referee's whistle blew, and we were playing.

Every touch of the ball was electric. My first pass was simple, a small pass to Caro, but it felt monumental. My first run was only ten meters as I tracked back on defense, but it made my heart soar. I was playing. I was actually playing football again, not thinking about it or dreaming about it ... I was actually doing it.

Beside me, I could feel Alexia's presence on the pitch the way I always had, that sixth sense that told me where she was and what she was thinking. We'd spent five years building that connection, and eleven months of injury hadn't broken it. If anything, it had made it stronger.

The minutes ticked by. 75th. 80th. 85th. Huelva was pressing now, desperate, but we were holding firm. My legs were burning now; match fitness was different from training fitness, and my body was remembering that the hard way, but I didn't care. I would run until I collapsed if that's what it took.

In the 88th minute, Patri won the ball in midfield and immediately looked up, finding Alexia. I saw it happening before it happened, the way I always could with her. Alexia received the pass, turned, and suddenly there was space opening up ahead of me.

I ran.

My knee held. My body remembered. I ran the way I'd run a thousand times before, the way I'd dreamed of running during those long months of rehab, and Alexia's pass was perfect, threaded over two defenders, weighted just right, landing exactly where I needed it.

The ball came to my feet, and as it did, it felt like time slowed down.

The goalkeeper came off her line, and I could hear the crowd cheering behind me, the rising roar of anticipation. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs. Eleven months. Eleven months of pain and doubt and fear and work, and it all came down to this moment.

I struck the ball, and it flew to the far side of the goal, past the keeper's outstretched hands, past the defender sliding desperately on the line, and right into the back of the net.

Goal.

I'd scored.

I stood there, frozen, staring at the ball sitting in the net like I couldn't quite believe it was real. The stadium was screaming, my teammates were screaming, but I couldn't move, couldn't process what had just happened. After everything, after the injury that had torn my world apart, after the surgery and the pain and the months of wondering if I'd ever be the same, I'd just done what I'd been known for before.

The shock lasted maybe three seconds, maybe less, and then it broke like a wave, and I was running.

Not toward the corner flag, not toward the fans, not towards my teammate, but toward Alexia.

She was already running toward me, her face split in the widest smile I'd ever seen, and when we collided, I jumped, wrapping my legs around her waist, my arms around her neck, holding on like she was the only solid thing as the world spun around me.

"You did it," she was saying, or maybe I was saying it, or maybe we were both saying it. "You did it, you did it, you did it."

I was crying. She was crying. Our teammates crashed into us, a pile of bodies and joy and relief, but I held on tight to Alexia through all of it, my face buried in her neck.

The final whistle blew two minutes later. Barcelona 2, Sporting Club de Huelva 0, and league champions to seal it all off.

The celebration was chaos—champagne and music and dancing, cameras everywhere. Through it all, I kept finding Alexia's eyes and just naturally gravitated back to her side, where I'd been for the past eleven months. This was our moment. Our triumph. Built on months of shared pain and shared work and shared hope.

When they brought out the trophy, they tried to hand it to Alexia. She was the captain. This was her moment, her responsibility, her right, but she hesitated. She looked at the trophy before looking at me and shaking her head.

"No," she said firmly. She ran up to me as I stood in the crowd of the team, waiting for her to bring it to us. She held her hand out for me to take, trying to pull me with her.

"No, Ale, you're the captain ... "

"You lift it with me, or I don't do it at all."

"That's not how this works. It's your job to do." I argued back.

"I don't care." Her eyes were fierce, determined, full of love."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her this was her moment, that she'd earned this, that she deserved to have this glory all to herself, but looking at her face, I knew I'd lose. Alexia had made up her mind, and when Alexia made up her mind, the universe bent to accommodate her.

"Okay," I whispered.

We gripped the trophy together, her on one side, me on the other, as we lifted it high above our heads. The crowd roared as gold streamers rained down from somewhere behind us. Cameras flashed like lightning in front of us, but all I looked at was Alexia beside me, her face full of joy, and all I could feel was the weight of the trophy and the lightness in my chest at the knowledge that we'd made it. Through the darkness, through the pain, through all the doubt, we'd made it back.

--- ---

Hours later, after the champagne had been drunk and the photos had been taken and the fans had reluctantly filtered out of the stadium, Alexia and I found ourselves standing in the middle of the pitch.

The stadium was completely empty now, bar a few staff members who were cleaning up, collecting abandoned scarves and signs, but they left us alone. The floodlights were on, casting everything in stark white light, and the grass was covered in confetti, looking like snow.

My arms were wrapped around Alexia's waist. Her arm was draped over my shoulders, holding me close against her side. We stood there in silence for a long moment, just breathing, just being.

"I can't believe we're here," I said finally, my voice quiet in the vast space.

"I can. I always knew we'd make it back." Alexia's voice was soft but certain.

"Did you? Really?" I turned my head to look at her because I knew for a fact that wasn't true. She might have known, but it wasn't always a conclusion.

She was quiet for a moment, considering. "Maybe not always," she admitted. "There were days when I wondered. When the pain was so bad, I couldn't imagine ever running again, let alone playing. When the physios would talk about timelines and percentages, and I'd think, what if I'm in the percentage that doesn't make it back?"

"Me too," I whispered in agreement.

"But we did it anyway." Her arm tightened around my shoulders, and in return I tightened mine around her waist. "We showed up anyway. We did the work anyway. Even when we were scared, even when it hurt, even when everyone was asking if we'd ever be the same."

I thought about those voices a lot. The commentators who'd speculated about our careers being over, the articles analysing our injury timelines, the well-meaning people who'd said things like 'at least they had a good run' as if our careers were already past tense. I thought about the doubt that had lived in my own head, the voices that whispered you'll never be as fast, as strong, as good as you were before.

"Are we the same as we were before?" I asked.

Alexia was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was carefully considered. "No. We're not the same. We're better."

"Better?"

"Stronger. Not just physically, though we are that too, after all that work, but mentally. Emotionally." She turned to face me fully, both arms coming around me now. "We know what it's like to lose everything. We know what it's like to have to fight for every single step back. We know what rock bottom feels like, and we know we can climb out of it. That makes us so much better, Lova."

I thought about the goal I'd scored tonight. The way my body had moved without thought, without fear, just pure instinct and muscle memory and trust. I thought about the months of work that had gone into that single moment. The hours in the gym, the painful sessions with the physios, the days when progress felt impossible and we'd pushed through anyway.

"We had one of the worst injuries we could have. An ACL rupture is sometimes a career-ending injury."

"Sometimes, but not for us." Alexia agreed.

"Not for us," I echoed.

I remembered that day, two weeks after our surgeries, when I'd shown up at her apartment desperate and hurting and so tired of being strong. I remembered curling up on her couch, hiding, and falling asleep in her arms. That had been the beginning, not of our friendship, which had started years before, but of something deeper. Something that had grown through shared pain and shared hope and shared determination.

I looked around at the now-empty stadium, at the torn-up pitch, at the trophy that sat nearby where we'd set it down, gleaming in the floodlights. I thought about the journey that had brought us here, from that sofa where we'd both questioned everything to this moment of triumph. Eleven months. Eleven months of work and pain and doubt and hope, and we'd made it through.

Together.

"I love you," I said, the words spilling out before I could think about them. "I love you so much, Ale."

"I love you too Lo." She leaned down and pressed her forehead against mine.

We stood there in the middle of the pitch, wrapped around each other, and I felt something settle in my chest. We'd survived the worst and come out the other side, not just intact but stronger. Together.

--- ---

The tunnel at Eden Park felt impossibly long as we walked out, two separate lines. Spain in red to my left, and I and the rest of the team in yellow to the left. I could see Alexia ahead of me in the Spanish line, her hair pulled back tight, her face set in that focused expression I knew so well. We'd spent the last year together, every single day, every meal, every training session, every quiet evening on the couch. We'd rebuilt ourselves side by side, lifted a league trophy together, kissed under the Eiffel Tower, built a life that felt unshakeable.

On the other side of the next ninety minutes, we were about to try to destroy each other's World Cup dreams.

The anthems played, and I stood looking out at the crowd singing the Swedish words. As we finished and were walking through the last seconds of pre-match, my eyes kept drifting across the pitch to where Alexia stood with her teammates. She was looking at me, too. Our eyes met for just a second, and I saw everything there, love and determination. This was what we'd worked for. This was why we'd pushed through the pain and the doubt and the endless hours of rehab. To be here. To compete at the highest level.

Even if it meant competing against each other.

The opening whistle blew.

The match was brutal from the first minute. Spain controlled possession the way they always did, patient and precise, while we sat deep and looked to counter. I chased Alexia's passes, tracked her runs, and every time we came close to each other on the pitch, there was this electric charge in the air of awareness and familiarity and something that felt almost like grief.

At halftime, it was 0-0. In the locker room, Peter talked tactics and adjustments, but I could barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes between us and a World Cup final.

The second half was more of the same, with Spain pressing and us defending, while the tension built with every passing minute. My legs were burning, my lungs screaming, but I kept running. Kept fighting. This was too important to give anything less than everything I had.

Then, in the 81st minute, it happened.

Spain worked the ball patiently across our defensive line, probing for weakness. Alexia dropped deep to receive a pass, turned, and suddenly there was space. She played it wide to Mariona, who crossed it low and hard into the box. Salma was there, and the ball was in the net before our goalkeeper could react.

1-0 Spain.

The Spanish players erupted in celebration. I watched Alexia get mobbed by her teammates, watched her smile, and felt something crack in my chest. I was happy for her; I was so proud of her, but I also wanted to scream.

"Come on! We're not done! Seven minutes! We can do this!" Filippa shouted across the pitch, clapping her hands

Seven minutes felt like both an eternity and no time at all. We pushed forward, desperate now, throwing everything at Spain's defence. The crowd was deafening, our fans screaming at us for an equalizer while the Spanish fans tried to will the clock forward.

Minute 88. Johanna won the ball in midfield and immediately looked up. I was making the run to time it perfectly, and her pass split two defenders. I took one touch to control it, another to set myself, and then I struck it.

The ball flew past Cata's outstretched hands and into the top corner for a goal.

1-1.

I didn't celebrate. There was no time. I grabbed the ball from the net and sprinted back to the centre circle, screaming at my teammates to get ready. Two minutes. We had two minutes to hold on and force extra time.

That was our plan, but Spain had other ideas.

They kicked off and immediately went on the attack. I tracked back, trying to help in the defense, but they were everywhere, passing, moving, probing. Alexia had the ball at the top of the box. I was ten meters away, too far to close her down, and I watched as she played a perfect through ball to Olga, who'd made a run behind our defence.

Olga took one touch and slotted it past Zećira.

2-1 Spain.

90th minute.

The referee added four minutes of stoppage time, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. We threw everything forward, but Spain held us back. When the final whistle blew, I was in Spain's half, having just taken a shot that sailed over the bar.

The sound of that whistle was the worst thing I'd ever heard.

My legs gave out instantly. I didn't decide to fall; my body just stopped working, and suddenly I was face-down in the grass, my hands pressed against the turf, my whole body shaking. We'd been so close. So, fucking close. Ninety seconds from extra time, from another chance, from maybe making it to the final, and now it was just all ... over.

I could hear the people around me, people were crying, Spanish players celebrating, and the roar of the crowd. Although I could hear it, it all felt so distant and muffled, like I was underwater. Someone touched my shoulder and said some words to try to get me to stand up, but I couldn't. I couldn't move. If I moved, if I stood up and faced this, then it would be real. At least if I stayed here, I didn't have to face it.

Another hand on my back with another voice. I ignored them all.

Then I felt it. A touch that was different from the others. This one was familiar. A hand running slowly down my spine, gentle and knowing, and a voice that cut through everything else.

"Lova."

Alexia.

"Lova, please. Look at me. Please"

I wanted to ignore her too. I wanted to stay here in the grass and pretend none of this was happening, but there was something in her voice, not triumph or pity, but a sense of hurt. She was hurting because I was hurting, and that made everything worse and better at the same time.

I pushed myself up slowly, my arms shaking with the effort. When I got to my feet, I crossed my arms over my chest, putting a physical barrier between us. Alexia stood in front of me in her red Spain kit, her face streaked with tears and mascara. Her happy tears,

"Lova..." she started.

"I'm mad at you right now," I said, and my voice came out harder than I meant it to. "I know you didn't score the goals yourself, but you did play a key role in them. I know you're just doing your job, and I would never expect you not to, but right now it hurts. Losing at this stage hurts a lot, particularly like this." My voice cracked on the last word. "So, I have the right to be mad at you for at least the next twenty-four hours, no matter how fucking proud of you I am."

Alexia's face crumpled. She didn't say anything, didn't try to defend herself or apologize or tell me it would be okay. She just stepped forward and pulled me into her arms.

I resisted for maybe half a second before I broke. My arms came around her, and I buried my face in her neck, breathing her in, letting her hold me together while I fell apart. She smelled like sweat and grass and that perfume she always wore, and I hated that even now, even in the middle of this devastation, being in her arms felt like coming home. They felt safe, and I felt so loved while they held me.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, amor," she whispered against my hair.

"Don't apologise for winning, that's stupid," I said, my voice muffled against her shoulder.

"I know, but I'm still sorry you're hurting."

We stood there for a long moment, holding each other in the middle of the pitch while chaos swirled around us. Eventually, I pulled back, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.

"You have to win this whole thing now," I said, trying to inject some firmness into my voice. "Do you hear me? If you don't win the final, I'm going to be really mad at you. When you come home, you'll find you'll have been replaced by Otto and Nala and that your new bed will be the couch."

Alexia laughed, and it was a watery, broken sound. "That's a lot of pressure."

"Good. You deserve it after breaking my heart today."

"I love you, Lo. So much. You know that, right?" she said, cupping my face in her hands.

"I know." I covered her hands with mine. "I love you too. Even though I hate you a little bit right now. I love you so much more than I could ever hate you."

"Only for twenty-four hours, though."

"Only for twenty-four hours," I confirmed.

She kissed my forehead, then my cheeks, and then my lips before she was pulled away by her teammates and swept up in their celebration, and I was left standing there watching her go.

Stina appeared at my side as she put her arm around my shoulders. "Come on. Let's go."

I let her lead me away, but I looked back once. Alexia was watching me, even in the middle of her team's joy, and when our eyes met, she pressed her hand to her heart.

I did the same.

Twenty-four hours. I could be mad for twenty-four hours.

--- ---

The Stadium Australia was absolutely packed with 75,000 people screaming as Spain and England battled it out in the final game of the World Cup. I sat next to Eli in the family section, holding onto her hand tighter than was probably safe for her circulation, with my heart in my throat as I watched every pass, every tackle, every near miss.

Sweden beat Australia yesterday in the third-place match. Bronze medals. It wasn't a final, and it wasn't the gold medal I'd dreamed of, but after the devastation of the semifinal, there was something healing about stepping onto the podium, about having something tangible to show for our tournament. The medal was tucked in my pocket, weighing down the right side of my coat.

Despite all my own excitement, right now, all I cared about was the woman in the red number 11 jersey orchestrating Spain's attack.

"She's playing so well," Eli said beside me.

"She always does," I said, my eyes never leaving Alexia.

The match was tense and physical, and both teams were desperate. England had their chances; Lauren Hemp hit the crossbar in the first half, which nearly caused me to have a heart attack, but Spain was controlling the game the way they always did. Patient. Precise. Deadly.

Then, in the 29th minute, it happened.

Mariona crossed the ball into the box. Olga was there, and suddenly the net was rippling as the ball came to sit at the back of it, and the Spanish section of the stadium lost its mind.

1-0 Spain.

I was on my feet, screaming, Eli beside me doing the same. We were still holding hands as we jumped about, hugging. Around us, Spanish families were crying, hugging, and celebrating. My heart was soaring even as a tiny part of me still ached from five days ago.

The second half was utter agony. England pushed hard, throwing everything forward, but Spain's defence held firm. Alexia was everywhere, winning balls, distributing passes, controlling the tempo. She was magnificent.

When the final whistle blew, I burst into tears.

Spain had won the World Cup.

Alexia had won the World Cup.

The pitch was utter chaos. Spanish players piled on top of each other, and English players collapsed in devastation. The trophy and medal ceremony wasn't much different. Players were climbing and jumping all over each other with confetti cannons exploding. I watched Alexia emerge from the pile of bodies, her face radiant with joy, and I wanted nothing more than to run down there and hold her.

After the air had settled, the English players had made their way into the changing room, and the Spanish team remained on the pitch, taking it all in.

"Come on," Eli said, tugging my hand. "They're letting family down."

We made our way down to the pitch access, showing our credentials to security. The field was packed with people now, players, staff, families, and media. I scanned the crowd, looking for my familiar figure in red.

Alexia was standing with some of her teammates, her gold medal already around her neck, and she was laughing at something Laia had said. She looked so happy, so free, so completely herself, and I felt my heart expand in my chest.

As if she could feel me watching, she turned. Our eyes met across the crowded pitch, and her whole face lit up.

She started walking toward me, and eventually we collided in the middle of the pitch, and she lifted me off my feet, spinning me around while I laughed and cried at the same time.

"You did it! You won! You actually won!" I said through the tears.

"I did," she said, setting me down but not letting go of me. She held me captive in her arms, but there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

"I'm so proud of you," I said, cupping her face in my hands. "So, fucking proud. You were incredible."

She kissed me then, right there in the middle of the pitch with 75,000 people watching and cameras everywhere, and I kissed her back as my life depended on it.

When we finally pulled apart, she was grinning. She reached up and lifted the gold medal from around her neck, holding it up between us.

"So," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Is this a good enough token for you? Do I get to sleep in our bed when we get home, or am I going to have to fight Otto and Nala for it back?"

I laughed a real, full laugh that came from somewhere deep in my chest. I reached into my coat and pulled out my bronze medal, the one I'd won yesterday, and held it up to mirror her pose.

"I think that your token is acceptable," I said slowly,

I pulled her close again, my arms around her waist, her arms around my neck, and we stood there swaying slightly in the middle of the pitch. Around us, the celebration continued: fireworks, music, laughter, tears, but in our little bubble, there was just us.

"I love you," I said against her ear. "Gold medal, bronze medal, no medal. I love you always."

"I love you too," she said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for being proud of me even when it hurt."

"Always. Even when you break my heart on the pitch, I'll always be proud of you." I promised.

"Same," she said. "Your bronze medal is just as beautiful as my gold one. You know that, right?"

"I know." I did. Standing here with her, wearing my medal while she wore hers, I understood that we'd both won something more important than any trophy. We'd won each other. We'd won the ability to compete fiercely and love deeply. We'd won the knowledge that we could face each other as opponents and still come home as partners.

"Come on," Alexia said, pulling back and taking my hand. "Come celebrate with us."

"Are you sure? This is your moment ... "

"Our moment," she corrected firmly. "Everything is our moment now, Lova. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

I let her lead me into the crowd of Spanish players and families. I thought about the journey that had brought us here, from adjacent lockers and Google Translate, through torn ACLs and months of rehab, through Paris and the Eiffel Tower, through domestic titles and now a World Cup.

We'd faced each other across a pitch in Auckland, and I'd told her I had the right to be mad for twenty-four hours.

Those twenty-four hours were long over.

Now there was only pride, and joy, and love, and the gold medal around her neck that she'd won, and the bronze medal around mine that I'd won, and the knowledge that whatever came next, we'd face it together.

Champions. Partners. Survivors.

Together.

Always together.

---

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