☆ Summary: A glimpse into the hours following the Champions League victory in Oslo. You might or might not be wearing Patri's shirt through it all, which is a problem for a certain captain.
☆ Word count: 6.7K
☆ Warnings: (+18) SMUT • lot of dry humping • scissoring (again, yes) • boob love <3 • the captain armband stays on during sex • jealous/possessive Ale • mention of body image issues • baby alexia
☆ A/n: keeping score universe!! You will enjoy this fic more if you read these fics first
The Champions League final was here.
You had managed to get a few (precious) days off from the hospital, all so you could tag along to Oslo.
But travelling with the Football Club Barcelona meant navigating a game of hide-and-sick. You and Ale were still very private about your relationship, so much so that your presence in Norway has sent some small corners of the internet buzzing.
Online, the fans were completely split into two teams. Half of them thought you had come solely to support Clara, your younger sister, while the other half suspected you were there for Alexia, your rumoured girlfriend.
None of them knew you were there for both.
It was Clara's first time playing in a Champions League final, and since your parents were far too "busy" to make it to the game, you had made sure she would have someone cheering for her in the stands. At the same time, it was the first opportunity you had ever had to travel and watch Alexia play anywhere other than Barcelona.
Two birds, one stone.
When the final whistle blew, you were in the stands wearing a Guijarro shirt. The shirt had been a very strategic decision on your part.
Alexia and Clara had both suffered absolute meltdowns at the mere thought of you wearing the other's number and name. There was no chance you were subjecting yourself to the humiliation of a half-and-half shirt either, so you had ended the argument by picking up Alexia's phone, texting Patri yourself, and asking if she could sort you out a shirt with her name on it.
Clara had retaliated by making sure you could hear Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo playing from her room for three days straight. It was, indeed, torture.
Alexia, meanwhile, had pouted and declared that you were officially banned from kissing, hugging, or holding her hand until you came home with a shirt with her name and number eleven on it.
You did not cave.
She lasted four hours without kisses, hugs, or hand-holding. You didn't mention it when she finally folded. You just smiled into her hair as she pulled you in, both of you pretending the temporary ban had never happened.
Your plan had never been to go down onto the pitch for the celebrations.
You didn't want fans spotting you and Alexia together, which you knew would happen the second you were within a few meters of each other. You had told both Ale and Clara that beforehand, and they had agreed, after, of course, being babies about it.
But then the fans began to leave the stadium, the medal ceremony things were dismantled piece by piece, and the red and blue ribbons settled in the turf.
That's when you saw it.
Across the pitch, Alexia was laughing with her mum and uncle, tucked between them as if she were a little kid. A little further, Cata was wrapped up with her girlfriend and parents. Pina was surrounded by her mum and cousins, all of them talking over each other.
And then there was Clara.
She stood all by herself, a gold medal hanging around her neck, quietly watching everyone else. It was long past the moment when teammates were celebrating with each other; now they had all turned toward their own families. And Clara's family consisted entirely of you and your brother, who hadn't been able to take time off uni to come.
You felt your heart crack right down the middle, pieces of it falling in the stands. Before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself why you had promised to stay in the stands, you were already moving towards the barrier.
You showed your credentials to the security guards, and they let you through without a second glance.
Clara didn't see you coming.
You caught her by surprise, wrapping your arms around her shoulders from behind. She gasped when she saw it was you, and you knew it was a sound you were going to carry around with you for a long time.
She was just so, so happy.
The expression on her face reminded you of when she was younger, doing dance recitals. Back then, she would search for you in the audience because your parents thought those performances weren't worth attending. As she spun around inside your embrace, her smile looked exactly the same as it had all those years ago. Except now, with fewer baby teeth.
You pulled her into a tighter hug, burying your face into her shoulder because, of course, she was taller than you despite being the youngest. The edge of her medal dug painfully into your sternum, but you ignored it.
"I'm so proud of you, Clarita," you whispered, "Te quiero, mana."
"Te quiero," she replied, kissing your cheek. "Thank you for being here."
Neither of you moved for a long time, and although there were plenty of people around, talking nonstop, it felt like this tiny space between the two of you was the quietest place on the entire pitch.
"You said you wouldn't come down," Clara murmured, squeezing you even tighter. "You said we would meet back in the locker room."
"I was being silly," you said, smiling up to her as the bear hug finally came to an end.
Your ribs were hurting. When had Clara gotten so strong?
You pulled back just enough to take the medal in your hands, turning it carefully. "I needed to see this medal up close, no?" You smiled. "You deserved it, bebé."
Clara rolled her eyes. "Don't call me bebé. I'm nineteen."
You ignored her completely as you reached up and pinched her cheeks. "Mi bebezota!"
"Urgh!" Clara groaned, trying to escape your grip. "Stop! You are embarrassing me"
A grin tugged at your lips. That was exactly what you wanted.
"People are watching, you know," she added.
People were watching indeed. Including Alexia.
It hadn't taken long for her to find you.
You obviously spotted her before she saw you; she was standing several meters behind Clara.
The moment her hazel eyes landed on you, something in her whole posture softened; a beautiful smile spread across her face even as she held herself carefully still, stiff, almost rigid.
Her shoulders were far too straight, the professional façace held tightly in place. She, as much as you, was entirely aware of how many broadcast cameras were following her every move.
It was almost as if she were waiting for you to make the decision.
Seeing her standing there, her temples covered in sweat that slipped down her collarbones, her face flushed from the game and from being smothered in her mother's affection, the identical gold medal that also adorned her neck....
She was pretty, and yours and the distance suddenly felt far too ridiculous to be taken so seriously.
You patted Clara on the back when Syd and Aicha called her to take some pictures. After watching her go, you turned and started walking towards Alexia.
She smiled at you the entire way.
When you stopped in front of her, you immediately pulled her into your side. You were hyper aware of your surroundings, so you kept the gesture simple, safe and casual.
You slid your arm around her shoulder, nothing more. You leaned in close enough for only her to hear, whispering a "mi campeona" right into her ear. Then you pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.
You hear her breath hitched, the puff of air that came out of her mouth was slow and warm against your neck as she instinctively leaned into you. She squeezed your waist just a second too long, just a fraction harder than any friend normally would.
"I thought you weren't coming down?" she murmured the exact same word Clara had said only moments earlier.
"Mhmm," you whispered, reluctantly stepping away from her, putting a more friendly distance between you. "I changed my mind."
Behind her, Eli and her uncle were watching the interaction with matching smiles.
You had met Alexia's family a few months ago, and along with the team, they were among the very few people who knew exactly what you meant to her. Something much, much more significant than her protegé's sister.
"Hola, mi amor!" Eli exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling you into a motherly hug, completely unconcerned by the cameras around you. "I'm glad you came down! I told you, it's fun being on the pitch after they win."
"Hey, Eli," you said, smiling and kissing both her cheeks. "You were, once again, completely right."
You turned in a slow circle, taking in the stadium, taking in everything.
"Everything feels far too big down here." You turned to Alexia. "How can you even play? I feel so tiny, like an ant."
Alexia shrugged, a soft look in her eyes. She always got those whenever you and her mom were together.
"You get used to it and--Mama! I told you I'm not cold" she pouted.
Alexia twisted away, trying to dodge as Eli attempted to drape a heavy coat over her shoulder.
"But you are shaking, bebé!" Eli insisted.
"I'm not shaking, mama," Alexia protested, already blushing. "I'm just–"
Before she could finish, you felt an arm suddenly land over your shoulder, dragging you slightly sideways.
"Guapa! Hi! look who's decided to join us. Got tired of hiding in your cave?"
Patri's voice was excited; she was always the sweetest on the team. She looked like she had been to war and back, maybe for them footballers, the Champions League final really was war.
"Hola!!!"
Another voice came. Kika appeared beside Patri, vibrating with energy, her dark hair sticking out in every possible direction. You knew those two would party a lot tonight.
Patri's brown eyes dropped to your back, her grin widening as she noticed the name printed across the fabric.
She looked over at Alexia, raising one eyebrow with mischief.
"Look at that, Ale," Patri teased, patting your shoulder proudly. "Your girl knows talent when she sees it."
Alexia's eyes narrowed playfully, her lips pressing into a tight, pouting line as she stared at the Guijarro shirt covering your torso. She looked at you, her eyes shining with that possessive spark you had come to adore. To expect.
Kika laughed, leaning into Patri's side. "Oh no... capi's a bit mad."
"I'm not mad," Alexia countered smoothly, though her eyes never left yours. "It's a nice shirt. It just happens to have the wrong number on it.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, Alexia had been grinning ear to ear for approximately forty minutes straight. She knew perfectly well what the two of you were going to do once you set foot into the hotel room.
The team bus wasn't leaving for the club for another hour and a half, but Alexia did not seem particularly invested in the public celebrations anymore. At the moment, she appeared to be significantly more excited about kissing your entire face.
The door had barely clicked shut behind you before her hands were on your waist.
"I'm so happy you are here, mi sol," she whispered against your lips, her voice raspy, probably from running so much and whatever singing had taken place in the locker room afterwards.
She kissed you gently at first, and then deeper, before resting her forehead against yours, breathing in slowly. Breathing you in.
"You looked pretty in the stands," she murmured. "My favourite fangirl."
"I'm your favourite even while in Patri's shirt?" You teased softly.
"Shut up," she murmured with a breathless laugh, not allowing you to mutter another word as she captured your mouth again, sucking your tongue.
"You won't be wearing it much longer, so enjoy it while you can."
You were fairly sure you would.
Her hands settled on your hips as she slowly guided you backwards through the room. There was something confident in her steps; they were so deliberate and confident, for a moment, it was easy to forget you were in a hotel a few kilometres away from her actual home in Barcelona.
The back of your knee bumped against the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall onto it, with Alexia following right after.
You kissed her, tasting her champagne-tinged tongue, she felt weightless on top of you.
Her captain's armband was still hugging her bicep tightly; of course, she hadn't taken it off. Once you had told her how much you loved it when she fucked you with it, she had started to keep it. Her heavy gold medal was still hanging around her neck, swaying between you like a pendulum.
Alexia was exactly as good as she thought she was, completely dominant on and off the pitch. The way confidence seemed to be radiating off of her in a way that was equal parts dangerous and attractive.
Your hand travelled down to her lower back, your finger sliding beneath the waistband of her shorts to squeeze the firm flesh of her ass. You shifted under her, tilting your body just right to force her pelvis closer to yours.
"It was hot watching you play," you murmured against her mouth.
You leaned up, caught her lower lip between your teeth, biting into it enough for you to hear a small whimper fall from her tongue.
She pouted at you, her eyes hazy, unfocused. She was completely fixed on you, silently asking you to kiss it better.
You didn't make her wait, pulling her down once more.
"Soy su campeona?" Alexia whispered into the narrow space between your mouth. Her voice sounded much smaller than usual, completely bewitched, and slightly tipsy. [Am I your champion?]
"Si," you whispered, your hand clutching her ass. "Mine, only mine."
Alexia smiled and caught you in a kiss.
Her hot mouth trailed down the line of your jaw, dragging over the side of your throat. One hand guided your head gently aside as she found the hidden and sensitive spot right behind your ear, choosing to brand you there, sucking firmly until you knew it would leave a purplish mark.
A mix of a giggle and a gasp escaped you as your hand settled on her shoulders. "A hickey? Really? You teased. "How old are you? Sixteen?"
She huffed a laugh against your pulse point. "I deserved it, okay? I won the Champions League. I can do whatever I want today."
"Mhm," you hummed, tipping your head back a little further to give her entirely uninhibited access to do as she pleased. "I suppose you can do whatever you want with me, yes."
"Si?" She asked dangerously.
Even without looking, you could feel the slow, coy smile pressing right against your jugular.
"Uhum," you nodded as much as you could under her weight.
"Joder," she cursed, her breath hitching as the absolute submission in your voice sank in. Her hips shifted, rolling hard and against yours as she pinned you to the mattress. "Voy a correr si sigues diciendo eso." [I'm gonna cum if you keep saying that.]
She kept moving against you; it was clear that the confession made her turn absolutely relentless. She took off your shirt, leaving your torso bare.
She pressed her body completely flush, the medal a cool contrast between your breasts, while the rough fabric of her armband brushed against your arm. Her mouth claimed yours once more, her tongue pushing deep, the taste of champagne still there.
You could, somehow, feel her wetness through the fabric of her shorts, slick and hot.
Your fingers dug deeper into the meat of her ass, squeezing as you tilted your own body, forcing her pelvis to drag exactly where you needed. "You're so fucking hot, Alexia."
Alexia moaned low straight into the kiss, then broke it to trail her lips back to your neck, sucking another mark right beside the first.
"Mía," she murmured, voice dropping as her hips found a steady rhythm. [Mine]
Her clit was pressing and sliding against yours through layers of clothing. Her chest was absolutely perfect against yours. She nipped at your earlobe, her breath becoming faster and faster with every passing second.
"Dilo otra vez," Alexia demanded, grinding harder. [say it again.]
You arched up to meet her, your hands roaming beneath her shirt to feel the sweat-slick skin of her back. She trembled when your fingers dug into the tense muscles there.
"You can do whatever you want with me, baby," you breathed right into her ear. "Whatever you want, sí? I'm yours; you deserve it. I'm all yours tonight."
"Ah," she moaned, the medal clinked softly with every roll of her hips. "I want to fuck you nice and slow."
She was growing impatient with the barrier of clothes between you.
She shifted, yanking her shorts down just enough to bare herself before turning her attention to you, working at your clothes with impatient tugs until skin finally met skin.
Finally, you were both completely naked.
When her bare pussy finally settled over yours, your folds parted wetly under the weight. She resumed the grind right away, clit to clit, moving in slow circles.
"Oh god, you feel so good," you gasped, eyes dropping to watch the way her slick coated you, it was so messy, so raw, so fucking delicious. Your eyes landed on her armband again and that only made you get wetter. "Damn, Alexia. You are fucking dripping baby."
"Joder, amor" She hissed again, her voice cracking as overstimulation hit her. "Tan mojada-" [you're so wet]
Still, she kept the pace even, riding the shared wetness, her body soft yet controlled as she chased the edge without rushing towards it.
Her medal continues to swing between you, a constant reminder of the massive victory waiting just outside the hotel room.
Her hands slid up your arms before settling around your wrists, pinning them above your head.
"You get so bossy when you win," you manage to say, rolling your eyes. You loved it when she got more dominant.
Your head suddenly felt so heavy.
You weren't sure whether it was exhaustion, dehydration, or simply the overwhelming intensity of the day catching up with you.
You were so overwhelmed with the way her body was touching every centimeter of your skin, how her kisses were getting sloppy and wet.
She was desperate, and you were, too. Your cunts were grinding, making a mess on both your bodies, the slickness dripping down her pussy right into yours, soaking you completely.
"I'm bossy and you fucking love it," Alexia shot back, moving her body carefully, trying not to crush you, but apply the right amount of pressure to your clit. "You are soaked, mi amor, all for me, huh"
She was, of course, right.
Keeping one wrist pinned above your head with one single hand, Alexia used the other to grip your thigh firmly, spreading it wider.
"Stay like that," she whispered while absolutely devouring your neck. "Don't you dare move."
Alexia shifted you as if you were a rag doll, moving your legs how she wanted until her cunt was aligned to her liking.
"Next time you wear my shirt, si?" she murmured, jealousy still thick in her voice as her cunt moved with yours.
She looked down at you, her eyes dark as she kept rutting against you. "Tengo mi coño pegado al tuyo, y todavía no llevas mi camiseta?" [My cunt is pressed against yours, and you're still not wearing my shirt?]
"Mhmm," you moaned. Fuck.
You were gonna cum.
"Tell me who is going to make you cum," she asked, as if reading your mind, her voice was low as she continued her movements.
The pleasure was becoming so intense, you were going to snap.
Alexia's dirty talk was way too good. Her pussy was pulsing over yours, all slick, dripping down to soak the white sheets between your thighs.
Alexia pinched your arm. "Ouch!" You gasped, caught between pain and pleasure.
"Who is rubbing your cunt? Me or Patri?"
"Y-you," you managed to say, breathless.
"Who marked your whole neck?" She asked again. "Who gets to have you naked in her hotel bed? Who, mi sol?"
The sensation pushed you over the edge right after, your body arching up into her as waves of pleasure took over you.
"F-fuck, Ale," your body was going limp, all warm as the orgasm took over. "You baby, you, always you."
Alexia, sensing your orgasm, rutted her cunt faster until she was climaxing all over you. "Oh, god–" she moaned in your ear.
She stayed exactly where she was afterwards, naked and beautiful on top of you.
Your pussies were still pressed together, warm and dripping. Alexia nuzzled lower until she found your breast, drawing the nipple into her mouth with slow and comforting pulls.
Her tongue flicked lazily, her breath warm and even against your chest as she settled in, tasting the mix of sweat on your breast, while her fingers played with your other nipple.
"You didn't answer my question," she mumbled from your breast after a minute.
"Ahn?" You asked, your mind far too dizzy. You hadn't even realised she was on your breast, when you did, pleasure began to grow again. "I did, no-?"
"You'll wear my shirt?" She asked, her words slightly slurred. "Next time? Please?"
"Oh," you said, nodding against the pillows, your voice still shaky from the climax, it was so… intense. You weren't sure you would ever regain all of your breath.
"Yeah, of course. I mean…" A laugh escaped you. "After this, how can I not?"
Alexia made a pleased sound deep in her throat and kept her lips sealed around your nipple. Her body stayed relaxed on top of yours, her frame soft pressing down.
You realised it was probably the first time she felt at ease and relaxed since she woke up.
Her thumb continued to touch over your nipple, rubbing slow circles before giving it a gentle tug and roll between her fingers.
"We need to get ready for the club," you murmured eventually, your fingers threading through her now-brunette hair. "It's getting late."
She whined softly.
She sucked a little harder for a moment, refusing to lift her head. Her thumb kept playing, flicking and pinching the other nipple while her hips gave one lazy grind that made both of you shiver, your clits brushing.
"No..." she mumbled around the peak in her mouth. "Stay like this. Just a little longer."
"I can't be the reason you are late," you said with a chuckle, still combing your fingers through her hair. "It's not good for my reputation. I'm new to the Barcelona circle, the girls need to like me... they won't if I make their captain late."
"The girls will never think anything badly of you," Alexia said, her mouth finally unlatching. She rested her cheek against your chest, listening to your heart. "You are too sweet for that."
You chucked at that, staring at the beige hotel ceiling. Was it beige? Or had it once been white and simply not been cleaned properly in years.
"Sweet? Me?" You chuckled. "Okay, maybe love really is blind."
Alexia looked up, frowning. "What? You are sweet, gentle, caring-"
You shook your head, a hint of a self-deprecating smile on your face. "I'm not bebé. I'm stressed all the time. I'm moody as soon as I wake up. I'm constantly worried about something or someone-"
"Because you care," Alexia interrupted instantly.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, no longer putting her full weight on you; she looked down at you with a very fierce expression.
"You are worried all the time because you care about your patients, about your siblings…" Her voice softened slightly. "About me."
You looked at her with soft (and slightly sad) eyes.
"I think you see me in a much better light than I actually deserve."
"I see you just right, mi sol," Alexia said, leaning down to kiss your lips.
"My sweet." Kiss.
"Pretty." Kiss.
"Gentle." Kiss.
"Loving." Kiss.
"Girlfriend.
You were smiling second one. You didn't try to stop it.
"You get too cheesy when you cum," you whispered, a sudden blush creeping up your cheeks. "It's adorable."
"I know, perdon," Alexia replied, pouting down at you without a single ounce of regret.
"I'm sorry I don't get cheesy," you murmured. "But I swear I love you just as much."
"It's okay," she chucked. "I know you love me. This is the first time you have actually taken time off for someone. That has to be true love."
You squinted your eyes, your cheeks heating up even more. "And who exactly told you that?"
Alexia chucked, leaning down to press a warm kiss on top of your blush. "Your sweetheart of a sister."
"Of course she did."
As it turned out, actually getting out of bed and preparing for the night was considerably less romantic than the books made it seem.
Once Alexia finally untangled herself from you, the two of you were forced to acknowledge the mess the sex left on the hotel sheets.
There was a large, damp stain stretched across the middle of the bed. The lingering scent of sex and slickness was mixed with the light breeze coming through the window.
Alexia did not seem remotely concerned about the ruined sheets, instead, she just propped her head up on her hand and simply watched you with a big and proud grin on her face.
You, in response, blushed all over, immediately scrambling for the duvet, dragging it up to your chin to cover yourself.
"Stop watching me like that," you pouted, clutching the fabric tighter.
Alexia rolled her eyes and continued to smile.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, moving smoothly without a single hint of instability; you were certain you would be wobbling if you had been topping the way she just did.
She walked across the room to fetch the two white hotel robes hanging by the wardrobe.
She slipped one on herself before returning to bed with the second. She gently tried to pry the duvet away from your tight grip so she could put the second one over your shoulders.
"We had sex less than twenty-four hours after we met for the first time," she teased, tugging playfully at the duvet. "Back then, you had absolutely no problem being naked around me… And now you are embarrassed?"
You rolled your eyes, holding it for dear life.
"Back then, I was thinner. But you know what they say, happy relationships make you gain weight." Your gaze dripped over her athletic frame. "Bon… unless you are a very disciplined footballer, then apparently, you don't gain a single kilo."
Alexia's playful expression vanished instantly, replaced by genuine worry.
"What!??" She blurted. "Are you having issues with your body? Like... body image issues?! Mi amor, you are the prettiest woman alive!"
You rolled your eyes at her dramatics. This was exactly why you hadn't said a single thing until now.
"No, I'm not having any issues," you said. "I know I'm... fine. I'm just different than when we started dating and–"
"You are, like, hotter now," Alexia interrupted, stating it so blankly and firmly as if she was merely speaking facts.
"Huh?"
"You are hotter," she repeated. "Because you are my lovely, beautiful girlfriend now."
You smiled at her, your heart feeling warm. The poor thing was trying hard to reassure you.
Your sweet, sweet girl. "Gracias, Ale."
"No, baby, I mean it," Alexia insisted, her tone changing to something so incredibly tender and sincere it made your chest ache. "You are perfect. Your face is perfect, and your body-"
Your grip around the duvet loosened, and Alexia took advantage, finally managing to wrap the robe around you. "And your thighs are perfect, and your tummy is perfect… and everything about you–"
"Okay, love, that's enough--"
"If I could, I would eat you whole."
You blinked at her.
"Okay, that's literally cannibalism."
"Some cultures see cannibalism as an ultimate act of love and adoration," Alexia countered immediately.
She said it with the most profound, soft, tender and deadpan face. She was completely serious, looking at you like a proud cat that had just caught a dead bird and was offering it as a sign of love.
"Oh, okay," you said, as you reached up and patted both her cheeks. "Thanks, my love. I'm feeling much better now. I would absolutely let you eat me whole if it wouldn't result in the complete ceasing of my existence."
"Really?" Alexia asked happily, her eyes lighting up. "Would you do the same to me?"
What the hell kind of sweet talk even was that?
"Oh... yes," you said with fake enthusiasm. "Of course."
Alexia beamed, looking incredibly happy and touched that her (bizarre) feelings were being fully reciprocated.
Relationships, however, and as sad as it seems, were not built entirely on sex and body image conversations that somehow end up in discussions of cannibalism, you see. Most often, they were not; there were arguments. Petty and ridiculous arguments.
Like the shower.
"Okay… we really need to clean up and get dressed," you said, glancing towards the bathroom. "The bus is leaving soon."
Alexia wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Let's take a shower together then," she murmured against your skin, her voice dropping to a seductive cadence.
You let out a dry laugh. "Nice try, Ale."
Alexia stepped in front of you, her face collapsing into a (guess what?) pout.
"Mi sol, please?" she pleaded, yes, pleaded. "I love you and your body, and we love taking showers together, sí? Come on, please? Pretty please? You say I'm your champion, no? Don't I deserve to take a shower with mi amor?!"
You stared at her for two full seconds before you folded.
You always fold. It was entirely Eli's fault for creating a woman with the prettier, most stupidly devastating puppy face ever made in the world. Nobody could say no to those eyes.
"Ugh, fine," you sighed, letting her take your hand and lead you to the bathroom. "You do deserve it."
Slowly, the reality of what she had accomplished began to settle over you, a warm feeling took over your torso, a smile appeared on your face, and Alexia noticed it.
She grinned too, pushing you gently against her, one hand sliding to your robe as she backed you against the tiled wall.
She was all over you, kissing you until your knees felt weak.
You caught her jaw in your hand, and she leaned into the touch. "You really won, huh, bebé?" you whispered again, "yeah, yeah... you really do deserve it."
"Your girlfriend is a European champion," she whispered back.
She grinned again before she stole another kiss, her hips drifting a little to yours.
"Ale, no," you gasped, pushing lightly on her shoulder. "We seriously cannot have sex again. We'll actually miss the bus, and I'm not taking an Uber to the club. That would be a proper walk of shame."
"No sex, no," she dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. "Just a little kissing," she bargained, punctuating the statement by nipping at your chin.
"Okaaay," you said slowly. "Kissing, yes, but under the shower."
You both stepped into the shower stall. You reached over and turned the knob, settling the temperature to your preference. You waited a bit till the water completely heated up and then walked under the water, feeling it soak over you.
So warm. So perfect.
Alexia, still wearing that confident and romantic smile of hers, stepped directly behind you. Okay, maybe too could fit in a quickie and-
Alexia went completely silent behind you. Then… her eyes flew wide open.
Before you could even register what was happening, a hand clamped around your waist, and she yanked you backwaters out of the stream of water.
"Joder! Estás loca?!!" She said, frantically wiping stray droplets of water from her face as though she had just been splashed with HCl. "The water is burning my skin! It's melting me!" [Fuck, are you crazy?!]
"That's the temperature I like to shower at!" You protested, completely bewildered by her reaction. "What is wr–"
"You are making a soup out of yourself!!" Alexia looked so genuinely horrified, you were starting to wonder if the water was really that hot. "You are a doctor, you, of all people, should know how bad this is for your skin! It's gonna fall off!"
You cautiously stuck a hand back under the stream.
It felt oh so lovely… warm, comforting. Exactly how a shower should feel.
"You are being dramatic again, Alexia!"
"I'm not!" she said. "You want us to stand in boiling water!"
"You and Clara," you said, shaking your head. "Dramatic as hell. That's why you get along so well. Exactly the same personality."
Alexia opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut. Apparently, she did not appreciate the comparison to her teenage protege, and got deeply wounded by it.
In the end, the romantic shared shower never happened.
Alexia kept her robe on and sat on the closed toilet lid while you showered, her arm crossed, pout deep in her lips. She watched you through the steam the entire time, her eyes fixed on you, refusing to look away for even a second.
When you finished, the two of you switched places.
Alexia then proceeded to shower at a temperature that, according to her, had been specifically designed for people who weren't actively trying to cook themselves alive.
Not everything is as romantic as it seems.
You were halfway through putting on your shirt when Alexia's voice drifted out from the bathroom, muffled by the glass door and the rushing water.
"You know I gained weight, too, right?"
You paused, confused, with your arms caught awkwardly in the fabric. "Uh?"
After a second, the sound of the shower cut off.
Alexia emerged wrapped in her hotel robe, her damp hair dripping down her shoulders and right onto the wooden floor. Unlike you, she actually had to wash her hair after being on the pitch for so long.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You silently counted every single drop that fell.
"You said disciplined athletes don't gain weight," she explained, pulling at the collar on her robe, which seemed too tight on her; her skin was red and irritated. "I gained two kilos this season."
You stared, still confused, but then the realisation finally set in. She was still thinking about what you had said earlier.
"Bebé," you sighed, your arms dropping to your sides ."You don't need to do that."
"Do what?' She frowned.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about,' you said, turning away from her toward the small vanity to start doing your hair. "I'm fine, Ale. Really."
"Well," she began, stepping closer. "And you don't need to do that – saying you are fine just because you don't want to talk about something."
You rolled your eyes, focusing on the mirror and and how your hair was completely inconsiderate of the fact that you had places to be tonight.
Alexia didn't like to be ignored.
Predictably, she appeared behind you a second later. For a brief moment, the angry dog in you wanted to snap her, tell her to back off because her wet hair was soaking through your dried clothes.
But then she rested her chin on your shoulder. In the mirror, you noticed how her cheeks were still pink from the shower. She smelled overwhelmingly like generic hotel shampoo because she forgot to pack her own, and the lightning made her hazel eyes look somehow greener.
The anger completely dissipated. You let her stay.
"I love your body," she said quietly, her eyes on yours through the reflection.
You softened even more. "I know you do, Ale."
She pressed a soft kiss against your neck, and you continued. "I never worried about that. You have never given me a single reason to, okay?" you said.
It was the truth. Alexia had always looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Always. From the very first day back at her house until now.
"You always make a point of showing it, ale," you murmured, feeling a deep need to reassure her.
"Okay, good," she said, pleased with herself.
For a moment, you genuinely thought the conversation was over, and you could go back to fighting with your hair. But then her expression shifted, turning serious again. "So… where is this coming from, then?"
You looked away from her reflection, or tried to. A million different reasons passed through your mind, but none of them seemed serious enough or logical enough to be the actual reason behind it.
Maybe it was the junction of it all. Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Or maybe it was just you, fighting with that universal human flaw, that dangerous voice that made it hard to feel fully satisfied with yourself.
You shrugged, choosing the simplest answer you could find. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Oh, but we are talking about it," she said, delivering with certainty as if a conversation didn't always need to be bidirectional.
You rolled your eyes again. "Alexia, the bus–"
"The bus can wait."
"It literally cannot."
She pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then finally released her hold on you. She let the robe fall carelessly to the floor, leaving her beautiful naked body entirely free for you to look at.
She was really an unfairly pretty woman. Then, killing your fun, she grabbed a fresh towel to dry her body off.
"Okay," she said, drying herself and then beginning to brush her wet hair. "We'll talk while we get ready, that way we wont miss the bus."
"Oh Jesus Christ," you groaned, letting your forehead rest against the glass of the mirror.
"The faster you talk," she sang out, completely cheerful. "The faster we leave."
"You are so annoying," you sighed. "And incredibly stubborn."
"And excellent at time management," she countered, clearly proud of herself.
"And insistent," you mumbled, though you couldn't help but smile. "So annoyingly insistent."
"I prefer the word tenacious."
You rolled your eyes at that.
You were quiet for a moment, desperately hoping she would let the silence take over and drop it. But Of course, she didn't. She was tenacious, unfortunately for you.
"It' just…" You hesitated, thinking of ways to put it. "Everyone around you is so... fit. You know?"
Alexia paused her brushing, looking at you. "What? Everyone?"
"The girls on the team," you explained, your voice dropping a bit. "Their girlfriend, your other friends… Everyone in that circle is so into the gym and everyone is so athletic and they all look a certain way."
"And what does that have to do with you and your body, amor?" she asked softly. "They are them; you are you."
You opened your mouth to give a very sharp and pragmatic answer, but the words never came. You couldn't think of a single thing to say.
Yeah, what exactly did that have to do with you?
For once in your life, you didn't have an answer, and you absolutely hated that. You were witty, rapid thinking, you always knew what to say, but right now, you were empty of logic and words.
Alexia instantly sensed your distress, as always, she saw right through the quiet.
"Eres guapísima," she said tenderly, putting her brush aside and walking back over to you and gently cupping your face.
You felt your cheeks warm, but she didn't stop. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then your chin.
"Hermosa, preciosa," she murmured against your skin. "Perfecta. Mía."
You laughed, weakly trying to push her shoulder to hide your face. "Okay, okay, got it. You are like, super, hopelessly in love with me."
Alexia just grinned. "Something like that, si."
She locked her arms around your waist, pulling you against her and bringing her mouth close to your ear. "You will always be the prettiest woman in every room – or pitch – that I ever walk in, okay? Don't forget that."
You rolled your eyes, trying your absolutely best to look unimpressed, but unfortunately, your smile completely gave away.
☆ A/n: I really really wanted to write something "realistic" and domestic about the final, so why not with our keeping score babies? Someone asked me once what shirt reader would wear to a game, so this is the answer hehe. I got an ask a few months ago about reader feeling a bit insecure because everyone around Alexia was so fit, so I decided to add it to this fic. I'm sorry if it was too random, but I feel that keeping score reader would be a bit upset and try to hide it and I didn't want to write a whole blurb around it.
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"Trust me?" she asked quietly.
It should've been a difficult question, but it wasn't.
An hour ago she was a stranger watching you from across a crowded bar. Now you're climbing into the back of a black Rolls Royce because somehow saying no feels impossible.
She flirts like it's a language. Smiles like she's already won. Kisses like she doesn't ask for permission from the world.
A woman in a tailored suit calls her boss and suddenly the gorgeous stranger you've been shamelessly flirting with might not be just another woman at the bar and you have absolutely no idea what you've just walked into.
Word Count: 15.2k
Warnings: Smut
Masterlist
The bar wasn't somewhere you usually came alone, yet here you were. A long week had finally ended, and the thought of going straight home to your empty apartment had somehow sounded worse than sitting in a crowded bar with strangers.
At least here there was noise, a bit of life, something to distract you.
You sat at the bar, nursing a drink you were in no rush to finish, occasionally glancing towards the television mounted above the bottles behind the counter.
The place was busy, people squeezed around tables, couples laughed in corners, groups of friends shouted over the music.
Nobody paid much attention to anyone else which was why it took you a second to realise someone was looking at you.
You felt it before you saw it, a pair of eyes lingering. You glanced up and froze.
Across the room sat a woman you'd never seen before, brunette hair, sharp features. The sort of confidence that seemed to radiate from her without any effort. The second your eyes met, she smiled, not politely or accidentally a smile meant entirely for you.
Your stomach immediately betrayed you, the sensible thing would've been to look away. Instead, you held her gaze, the smile transformed into a smirk, and you watched her lift her glass almost like a silent greeting.
Before you could stop yourself, you mirrored the gesture, something flashed in her eyes, amusement, maybe victory. You weren't sure, but suddenly your drink wasn't nearly as interesting anymore.
A few minutes passed or maybe only seconds, you couldn't tell, but every time you looked away, your eyes found their way back to he and every single time she was already looking.
The ridiculous thing was that neither of you seemed embarrassed about it, most people would've looked away eventually. She never did. Then, without warning, she stood.
Your pulse jumped, no, surely not you thought to yourself, but she was already moving through the crowd walking directly towards you, each step seemed impossibly confident as if she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.
She stopped beside your stool close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that she somehow became even more attractive.
"Hi." Her voice was smooth, warm and dangerously charming.
You cleared your throat, "Hi."
A grin immediately tugged at her lips, "Nervous?"
You laughed, "Confident, aren't you?"
"Usually." She tilted her head, "Although I have spent the last ten minutes wondering if you're going to tell me to go away."
"You walked across the entire bar without knowing"
Alexia shrugged, "Worth the risk."
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful, "That's a lot of confidence for someone approaching a stranger."
"It's a lot of staring for someone who wasn't interested."
You couldn't even argue, because she was right, Alexia's eyes dropped briefly to your drink, then back to you.
"I'm Alexia."
The way she said it made it sound important, not because she expected you to know who she was. Just because she knew exactly who she was. You smiled, "I'm—"
"Beautiful."
You blinked, "What?"
"I was going to let you tell me your name." Alexia looked completely unapologetic, "But then I got distracted."
Heat immediately rushed into your face, the smile she gave you in response was downright smug.
"See." She pointed at you, "That."
"That what?"
"The blush."
"There is no blush."
"There absolutely is."
You laughed, the sound seemed to make her soften slightly. For the first time since she'd walked over, something gentler appeared beneath all the confidence, something genuine.
She looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then said quietly, "I've been trying not to come over here all night."
Your eyebrows lifted, "Oh?"
Alexia nodded, "Thought I'd make a fool of myself."
That surprised you, because nothing about this woman suggested uncertainty, "And yet here you are."
Her gaze met yours steady and unwavering, "Yeah."
The smile that followed was smaller now, more honest, "Turns out the thought of not talking to you felt worse."
For a moment the noise of the bar seemed to disappear, the music, conversations, the glasses clinking together. None of it mattered, because suddenly all you could focus on was the woman standing in front of you.
The woman who had looked at you from across a crowded room and somehow made everyone else disappear.
Alexia glanced at the empty stool beside you, then back at you, "So." She rested an arm against the bar, "Are you going to let me buy you another drink?"
You smiled, "Depends."
Her eyes sparkled, "On what?"
You leaned slightly closer, close enough to see her own confidence falter for the first time all evening, "Whether you're planning on flirting with me all night."
Alexia's grin was immediate hopelessly pleased, "Oh." She pulled the stool out and sat down beside you, "I was planning on doing a lot worse than that."
The words settled between you dangerously. The kind of comment that could be interpreted a hundred different ways.
The kind that made your pulse immediately pick up whilst Alexia looked entirely too pleased with herself.
You shook your head, trying and failing not to smile, "Does that line usually work?"
"Line?"
"The one where you pretend to be charming."
"Pretend?" she repeated, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.
You laughed, Alexia's eyes lingered on you for a moment a second too long. Something shifted, the teasing was still there, but now there was something else underneath it.
The bartender appeared and Alexia ordered another round without taking her eyes off you, "You're very confident."
"So I've been told."
"You don't seem worried I might reject you."
Alexia considered that, then shrugged, "I don't think you will."
The certainty should have annoyed you, instead, it made your stomach flutter, "And if you're wrong?"
Her expression softened not by much, just enough to notice, "Then I'd thank you for the conversation and spend the next week being embarrassed." The honesty caught you off guard, Alexia noticed immediately, "You didn't expect that answer."
"No."
She smiled into her drink, "People assume confidence means fear doesn't exist."
"And does it?"
Her gaze lifted to yours, "All the time."
The admission hung there suddenly the conversation felt different, more personal, less like a game.
You found yourself studying her, the way she held herself, the way she watched you while pretending not to, the way she seemed completely present in every moment.
It was unsettling, most conversations drifted, this one didn't, Alexia's attention never wandered, not once.
A group squeezed past behind her, and she shifted her stool closer without thinking. The movement left her shoulder brushing yours, neither of you moved away and neither of you acknowledged it.
You became painfully aware of every point of contact, the warmth of her arm, the scent of her perfume, the tiny smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.
She knew exactly what she was doing, "You're staring again."
You rolled your eyes, "You started it."
"I know."
"You admit that awfully easily."
Alexia laughed, "Why would I deny it?" The answer came so naturally that it stole your next response, "You have really expressive eyes, you know."
"Do I?"
"Very." You looked away,which only made her grin wider, "There. You did it again."
"Did what?"
"Got shy."
You immediately scoffed, "I am not shy."
"You're blushing again."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
The look she gave you made it impossible to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds.
Every time you met her gaze, the air seemed to tighten as though the rest of the room had disappeared and the only thing that mattered was the space between the two of you.
Alexia leaned forward slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you noticed, enough that your attention dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
A mistake, because the second you looked back up, you knew she'd seen it her smile became almost unbearably smug. “What?”
Alexia took a sip of her drink, slowly, deliberately, then she set the glass down, "Nothing."
The liar.
You both knew exactly what had happened and judging by the look in her eyes, she was enjoying it far too much.
The conversation continued. One drink became two then three.
Neither of you seemed interested in leaving, every topic somehow turned into flirting. Every joke became an excuse to lean a little closer. Every glance lasted a little longer than it should have. Eventually there was a pause, not an awkward one, the opposite, the kind where neither person feels the need to fill the silence.
Alexia was the first to break it, her fingers drumming against the condensation on her glass, then, with a kind of lazy certainty, she let her hand fall to your knee. Not an accident, not a conversational pat. Her palm pressed warm and steady just above your kneecap, the pressure light but deliberate. You felt a slow, electric ripple climb your thigh, radiating outward from that single point of contact. Your breath caught in your throat.
She didn’t look at her hand or at your lap. Instead, she watched your face carefully, waited for the microexpression that would tell her how to proceed. You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was impossible. Alexia’s thumb drifted, slow, tracing a circle on bare skin just below the hem of your dress.
“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. The question was so uncharacteristically gentle, it almost broke your focus.
You blinked, then nodded, hoping you didn’t look as desperate as you felt.
Her smile deepened, eyes glinting. “You can tell me to stop,” she murmured.
The implication, she wanted you to say don’t was devastating. You managed, “I don’t want you to.”
She squeezed your knee, her hand moving fractionally higher, pinky brushing the inside of your thigh. You suppressed a shiver, acutely aware of every molecule of space between you and her and every molecule she was now invading.
The bartender dropped off your new drinks, misreading the intimacy as a casual touch. You reached for your glass a little too quickly, almost knocking it over. Alexia grinned, leaning in, her voice pitched for only you to hear. “You seem nervous.”
You took a sip, swallowing against the heat in your cheeks. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe I like it.”
You tried for an eye roll, but your voice was softer than you meant it to be, “You’re a menace.”
“I’m very well behaved,” she said, the words landing somewhere between truth and open dare.
You glanced at her, weighing it, and found yourself thinking about what well behaved could possibly mean to someone like Alexia. Her hand had not moved from your thigh. If anything, she’d gotten bolder, her palm sliding by literal centimetres higher each time you answered a question, until now it was only the thickness of your dress between her skin and the rest of your leg.
Alexia leaned closer still, her temple nearly touching yours, the air around her glittering with the sharp notes of her perfume. “Tell me something true,” she said.
You pulled in a breath, felt your pulse hammer inside your wrist, “Something true?”
She nodded, watching your lips. Her pupils were blown wide, dark, a little dangerous.
You thought about lying, about saying something clever, but the truth snuck out. “I haven’t done this before.”
Alexia stilled, her hand pausing mid-motion. “Done what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely at the two of you, the not-quite-touch, the careful choreography. “Let a stranger pick me up at a bar.”
She grinned, slow and predatory. “I’m hardly impersonal,” she said. “I’d like to think we’re both somewhat invested at this point.”
“Somewhat,” she conceded, though she could barely remember the last time she’d felt this alive and fidgety in her own skin.
Alexia’s hand, still at your thigh, moved with slow intent now, her knuckles grazing the delicate skin above your knee, then wandering upward, fingers splayed, as if claiming territory. Your breath came shallow, and you crossed your legs, trapping her hand between them. She didn’t seem bothered by the escalation if anything, she seemed to approve. Her lips curved upward, like she’d just watched a dog perform a new trick. She looked at you in a way that made your whole body feel like the center of a searchlight beam.
“Tell me another thing,” Alexia murmured, voice pitched for your ear alone. “Something only I get to know.”
You considered, momentarily at a loss. “That feels unfair,” you said, “since you already know how to make my heart beat faster.”
Alexia’s thumb drew a lazy semicircle along the inside of your thigh. “Then I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll tell you something first.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded.
“When I walked over here, I was so nervous I nearly forgot how to speak English,” Alexia said, her eyes darting to yours to see if you’d buy it.
“I don’t believe you,” you said.
“You’re right.” Her grin flashed. “I was only nervous for about five seconds, but they were very intense seconds.”
You snorted, and Alexia’s hand squeezed your thigh, anchoring you to the moment. “Are you always like this?” you asked, without looking away.
Alexia tilted her head as though considering. “Not always.” Her expression gentled, suddenly earnest. “Usually only when I actually like someone.”
You blinked, trying to process the cliché and sincerity in one breath, “I don’t believe you,” you said again, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.
Alexia shrugged, as if to say, take it or leave it. “Truth or dare, then?”
“Are we twelve?”
“Would you prefer spin the bottle?” She laughed at her own joke, and the sound did something strange to your nervous system. You found yourself grinning despite the tension, despite her hand, despite the fact that your skin was now abuzz with anticipation.
“Truth,” you said, because you genuinely wanted to know what she’d ask.
Alexia’s eyes went soft for a moment, like she saw something she liked. “What do you want to happen next?”
The question stole your breath. You’d been bracing for innuendo, for some predictable escalation, but this was much riskier. It required an answer, a real one.
You took a sip of your drink, stalling, the ice clinked against your teeth.
You met Alexia’s gaze and said, “I want you to keep touching me.”
If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, if anything, her satisfaction sharpened. “Permission granted, then.”
You expected her to move her hand immediately, to go for the dramatic show, but instead she left her hand exactly where it was palm firm, fingers spread, thumb still tracing that single path, up and up, until your whole leg felt like a live wire. There was no hurry, she seemed to know exactly how long you could stand to be touched and how long you could stand not to be.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. All the words in your body seemed to have gathered somewhere behind your ribcage, hiding. Alexia’s thumb edged beneath the hem of your dress, just a centimeter, maybe two. The contact was delicate, almost accidental, but the intent behind it was not. It was a dare, pure and simple.
You forgot how to breathe.
Alexia leaned her face against her palm, elbow on the bar. She looked at you, eyebrows high and lazy. “You’re very easy to read, you know that?”
You wished you were better at lying, wished you could pull off even a little of her composure. “Not my fault,” you said, voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Alexia smiled, pleased as a cat, and then said, “I’d invite you to get out of here with me, but I don’t want to be rude.”
You almost laughed, but all that came out was a small, open-mouthed sound. “Is that why you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you asked, gesturing at your thigh, your face, the space between you.
Alexia shrugged, not even pretending. “Maybe I just like making you blush.”
“This is a lot for a first conversation,” you said, though you weren’t pushing her away. Every ounce of you wanted her closer.
“I’m not in the habit of apologising for knowing what I want.” Her fingers played a restless tattoo on your leg. “But if it’s too much—”
“It’s not,” you cut in, surprising yourself with the urgency in your voice. “It’s not too much.”
The look she gave you was so direct, so unwavering, it made you wonder if you’d ever actually been seen before tonight.
“Okay,” Alexia said, soft and steady. “So let’s go.”
You felt for your purse, hands a little clumsy, aware of how sharply the world had contracted to the two of you. The rest of the bar was background noise, lights smeared by alcohol and adrenaline. Alexia watched you reach for your coat, then she stood, not offering a hand because she seemed to know you wouldn’t want that. Instead, she waited, gaze never leaving you.
Outside, the Barcelona night air hit you like a splash of cold water. It should have helped, it didn't. If anything, stepping away from the noise of the bar only made you more aware of Alexia walking beside you.
The city buzzed around you, cars drifted past, distant laughter echoed down the street. Yet somehow all of your attention remained fixed on the woman at your side.
You had barely taken three steps onto the pavement when Alexia glanced towards the darkness beyond the entrance, "Get the car."
The words were calm, matter of fact, as though she'd done this a thousand times before.
Your eyebrows furrowed, a figure emerged from the shadows, a woman. A little taller than Alexia, professional, completely unsurprised, "Yes, boss."
Boss? Before you could process the exchange, she was already moving away.
You stared after her, then slowly turned back towards Alexia.
Alexia, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered, almost amused by your expression, "What?"
You narrowed your eyes, "Nothing." Her smile suggested she knew you were lying.
The questions immediately started piling up in your head. Who was that? Why had she called Alexia boss? Why was there apparently a woman waiting in the shadows for instructions? And perhaps most importantly, what exactly did Alexia do?
The sensible part of your brain told you to ask, the other part was currently too distracted by the way she was looking at you.
So instead you said nothing, Alexia's smile widened, "You're thinking very loudly."
"I'm trying to decide whether you're secretly running a criminal empire."
She laughed, the sound warm and genuine, "I can neither confirm nor deny that."
"That's exactly what someone running a criminal empire would say."
"Good point."
You were still trying to work out whether she was joking when headlights appeared at the curb, a sleek black Rolls Royce glided to a stop in front of you.
You blinked, once, twice.
The same woman stepped out from the driver's seat and without hesitation she walked around the vehicle and opened the rear door for you.
Your brain completely short circuited, Alexia seemed far more interested in your reaction than the car itself, "You look concerned."
"I'm standing outside a bar with a stranger whilst another opens the door of a Rolls Royce for me."
"Fair."
The woman remained waiting patiently as though this was all perfectly normal, which somehow made it stranger.
Alexia stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the warmth of her presence settled beside you again. Then her hand found the small of your back, the touch wasn't possessive it was reassuring.
You looked up at her, the city lights reflected in her eyes, "Trust me?" she asked quietly.
The question should have been difficult, it wasn't not really, because despite the mystery, the unanswered questions and despite her being a complete stranger you met an hour ago you found yourself nodding.
Alexia's smile softened, "Good girl."
You rolled your eyes immediately, "Don't make it weird."
"Too late."
The woman holding the door looked suspiciously close to smiling, you pointed at her, "See? Even she's judging you."
Alexia glanced towards the driver, the driver instantly looked away, professional once more, "I pay her to pretend I'm charming."
You laughed, the sound escaped before you could stop it, Alexia's expression immediately brightened as though she'd won something, "That joke wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It wasn't."
"It was." Still smiling and despite your hesitation and better judgment, you ducked into the car. The interior was ridiculous, soft leather, ambient lighting, enough space to comfortably fit half the bar.
You slid across the seat trying very hard not to look impressed, trying and failing, a moment later Alexia climbed in beside you.
The door closed and the outside world vanished instantly, silence settled around you, it was private, comfortable and dangerously intimate.
The driver pulled away from the curb and as the city lights began sliding past the windows, you finally turned towards Alexia.
Alexia watched you for a long moment, her eyes so steady and unblinking it was impossible to decide if she was about to say something of consequence or if she was simply cataloguing which way your hair fell, whether you’d keep avoiding her gaze, how you were pressing your knees together under the hem of your dress. The car glided through the city, the silence between you both like a suspended breath.
Then, without warning, Alexia curved her hand around your jaw and kissed you.
There was no hesitation. No lean in, no shy, searching question in her eyes. One heartbeat you were staring forward at your own reflection in the privacy glass, the next you were tasting her: cold gin, salt from a half-remembered rim, something sweet you couldn’t place. She kissed the way she spoke, direct and unapologetic. Her lips were warm, soft but insistent, and her fingers splayed against the side of your neck, anchoring you in the leather-wrapped capsule of the car. It could have been rude if it hadn’t been so fast, so smooth, so exactly the right amount of pressure.
You froze, a breathless half second, not from shock, not exactly, but from the simple fact of being chosen, of being seen, and then immediately being claimed. Her mouth slid from yours to the corner of your jaw, then back again, as if she’d found the first taste promising and wanted to make absolutely sure. The confidence of it, the way Alexia didn’t bother with permission, only checked with pressure and the answering heat of your lips against hers it undid you like a single, practiced knot.
She pulled back, barely. Her forehead tipped against yours, the scent of her perfume mixing with your quickening breath. Close up, you could see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the near invisible scar above her left eyebrow. Her pulse beat beneath your fingertips where your hands had landed, one against her shoulder, one clutching the lapel of her blazer.
“Too much?” she murmured, not even bothering to disguise her amusement.
You were supposed to say something witty, reassert some sense of control over the situation, but all you could muster was, “No. Not enough, actually.”
Alexia laughed, and the sound vibrated through her chest to yours. She kissed you again, slower this time, a measured escalation, her tongue flicking the seam of your mouth before she deepened it. She tasted like adrenaline, like the distilled sharpness of citrus and want. Your body answered before your mind caught up, and you leaned into her, hungry, desperate to make up for every kiss you hadn’t had before this one.
It became clear within minutes that Alexia’s mouth was not the only part of her that lived on the offensive. Her hand found your thigh again, sliding up, warm and greedy, and this time it made no pretense of stopping at polite borders. She gripped, squeezed gently, fingers kneading the soft muscle under your dress hem, as if confirming that you were real and here and entirely at her disposal.
Alexia’s hand drifted with the certainty of someone who had never once been denied. She pressed higher, fingers trailing over the impossible heat where your thighs met, the only barrier a thin band of cotton. The touch wasn’t tentative nothing about Alexia seemed to be, her palm settled at the apex of your legs, fingers closing with almost lazy possession.
The whole world funneled to a single point of contact, you barely registered that the city was flying by outside, that the woman driving the car was a living, breathing witness to the slow burn undoing happening in the back seat.
Alexia’s lips moved to your neck, the pressure of her mouth making you tilt your head back against the seat. She kissed the soft skin under your jaw, then lower, slow and insistent, until your whole body was a single receptive nerve ending. You tried to bite back the noise that wanted to escape when her fingers pressed in, tracing the shape of you through the fabric, but a traitorous gasp slipped out anyway.
Your eyes flew open and landed in the rearview mirror. The driver’s gaze met yours for a heartbeat, cool, unreadable, with the faintest ghost of a smile before she looked away. A flush of something shamed and thrilling ran through you.
“Alexia,” you whispered, meaning it as a warning, a plea, something. She paused, her lips at your ear, her hand unmoving but present, holding you hostage against your own body.
She followed your gaze to the mirror, her lips quirked up. “Cata,” she called, voice just loud enough to be heard over the car’s hush. Like she shouldn’t have had to ask.
“Yes, boss,” the woman replied, sliding a pair of earbuds into place, a low, thrumming music started, insistent, and a moment later, the privacy partition slid up, transforming the rear cabin into a cocoon.
Now it was only you and Alexia, and the velvet black of the car, and the hum of terrible possibility.
Alexia’s hand moved again, this time with no witnesses. She gathered the hem of your dress in her fist and slid her palm beneath, skin to skin. Her touch was purposeful, a slow, winding trail up your thigh until her fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. She lingered there, just barely touching, reading your whole body through the trembling in your legs.
She kissed you again, deeper now, her tongue a soft demand. One of her hands tangled in your hair, the other pressed into your cunt through the thin layer of fabric, fingers moving in an excruciating, perfect rhythm.
You arched into her, breath coming short and fast. She nipped at your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked, not as a tease but a genuine question, her voice ragged around the edges.
You nodded, probably too eagerly.
Her mouth traced a slow line from your throat to your collarbone, then back up to the soft skin behind your ear. "Lift," she murmured against it, barely louder than the hum of the car.
You obeyed without thinking, hips rising, and she drew your underwear down in one unhurried motion, leaving it somewhere forgotten around your calves.
The air hit you first, then her hand, her thumb found your clit with the same faultless confidence she brought to everything else, pressing once, firmly, before beginning slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter and your fingers curl against the leather seat.
Your head tipped back against the headrest as her fingers pressed in, slow and deliberate, two knuckles deep before pausing there, letting you feel the stretch of it, the unbearable fullness of almost. Her thumb kept its own time, unhurried, entirely indifferent to the stillness of her fingers and then, without withdrawing, they began to move, curling upward on each slow stroke, finding the soft spot of you from the inside.
The pace of it. The way her fingers explored with such calm, with such patient violence. It undid every prepared defence, all the quick answers you thought you’d have for this moment. Your hands went to her wrist, not to stop her but to anchor yourself, to make her real, the hard lines of her hand pressed so warm between your thighs.
The car blurred by city lights you barely registered the route, but the only place that mattered was here, in the tight private world of the backseat and the mess Alexia was making of your body. Her mouth returned to yours, rough this time, her tongue a slow demand, her breathing totally unlike the cool, precise woman she’d been at the bar.
You’d meant to perform better at this. You’d meant to be the kind of person who played hard to get, who made her work, made her wait. Instead, you were unraveling all over her hand, hips pressing up, head tipped back so you barely even saw her anymore, only felt the relentless, exacting motion of her fingers.
“Good?” she asked, voice a hoarse promise, lips brushing against your ear.
You couldn’t speak. You had to search for words, any words at all, but all that came out was a whimper. You clung to her shoulder, the soft wool of her jacket, as if something about the fabric could stabilise you. It didn’t.
Alexia withdrew her fingers, and you nearly whimpered at the loss until she brought her hand, glistening, to her own lips and sucked her fore and middle fingers into her mouth. Her eyes never left yours as she tasted you, and she smiled, a lazy, wicked thing, before she pressed her damp thumb to your lips and said, “Try.”
You did. You licked it, and her whole expression softened, she bit her own lip as if surprised.
“Jesus,” she said, and you felt every syllable like a bruise on your chest.
Alexia crowded closer, lips still parted from the last kiss. She tugged at your knee, insisting it fall open for her. You let it. She moved down the seat, somehow graceful in the confined space, until she knelt on the floor between your legs. There was a reverence to the way she looked at you then, a beat of assessment, the hot, clinical attention of someone memorising every square centimetre of bare skin and shiver.
The world was a dark blur outside the windows, the car eating the city block by block. Inside, only Alexia’s hands, her mouth, and the feverish heat pooling at the base of your spine.
She reached up, fingers spanning your thigh, and leaned in, lips grazing the sensitive skin just above your knee, a single deliberate brush that made every hair stand at attention. She trailed upward, slow as torture, kissing your inner thigh, then biting, just enough to leave a mark. You felt the indentation of her teeth long after she moved higher.
You didn’t dare look out the windows, certain the city would be watching, even though you both knew the glass was blacked out. All you could see was Alexia, her head haloed by the car’s ambient light, her eyes locked on yours as she kissed, licked, nipped her way toward the heat between your legs.
She hovered, a breath away from where you ached for her, and you could feel her exhale, warm and humid, her mouth finally, finally pressing in and up. The first pass of her tongue nearly made you convulse, a shock of sensation that stole your breath. She licked you slowly, methodically, hands holding your thighs apart, steady even as they trembled under her grip.
There was nothing gentle in the way she worked you open. She sucked, then licked, then sucked again, and when you gasped or moaned she’d smile, the vibration of it sending you higher. She was thorough, insistent, the kind of lover who wanted proof of her own effect, who liked to leave you shaky and overwhelmed and a little ruined.
You dug your hands into her hair, the silky strands fisting between your fingers, and she responded by moaning into you, the sound so raw and animal it short circuited your brain. Her tongue circled your clit, then pressed, then flicked so fast and so relentless that you lost track of time, of the world, of everything except the wet, obscene sounds and the mounting, unbearable pressure.
She slipped two fingers into you, the same ones that had made you fall apart already, and curled them just right, just as her mouth closed around you and sucked you hard enough to tear a cry from your chest.
Her tongue slid lower, firm and slow as a prayer, flattening along your clit until your vision shimmered at the edges. Then, a slick tease, she pressed the tip just inside you. She drew lazy, savouring circles with her tongue, working you open in increments so small it was almost agony, and when you dug your heel into the seat edge for leverage, she moaned as if you’d given her a gift.
You wanted to say something clever, something cutting, anything to keep this from feeling like pure, animal surrender, but Alexia stole every syllable from you, translating want into sensation, pleasure into pressure, until all you could do was gasp and cling. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the rough texture of the leather beneath your hips, the velvet slide of her tongue, and the steady, unrelenting rhythm she set with her fingers.
She alternated between licking you and fucking you with her tongue, one moment teasing the rim, the next thrusting deep enough you felt your whole pelvis lift off the seat. Her hands, palms broad and sure, held you open, anchored you so tight it was impossible to run, though your entire body wanted to arch away and into her at once. Each time you came close to shattering, she’d back off, tongue circling languidly, a slow drag that made you sob with frustration, then she’d return, hungry and insistent, as if she was intent on mapping you molecule by molecule.
You barely recognised the sounds coming out of your mouth, didn’t believe yourself capable of the high, desperate noises echoing off the car’s plush interior. Alexia ate you like she was starving, like the world had ended and all that was left was this, your body, her mouth, the heat and salt and slick of you. You felt the build start low, a gathering storm, your thighs trembling so hard you worried you’d break her grip.
She must have felt it, the way your pulse skyrocketed, because her tongue redoubled, fast and relentless over your clit, and when she pressed inside you again, it was with her whole mouth, her face buried so deep she could have been breathing you. You came so hard you saw a burst of white behind your eyelids, your hips jackknifing off the seat as you lost all sense of yourself, of her, of the car or the city or even your own name.
When it passed, you were boneless, melting back into the seat with a sound that was half laugh, half staggered sob. Alexia surfaced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes dark and almost tender.
"Lift," Alexia said, and you surfaced slowly, hands still trailing absently along your own calves, the word arriving a beat late. She was sliding your knickers back up your legs, matter of fact, almost tender. "What's your address? I'll have Cata drop you home."
You almost laughed. You had let this woman pull you into a blacked out car and come apart in her mouth, and yet something in you toyed at giving her your postcode. "Just drop me back at the bar." Alexia almost smiled, as if she’d expected that answer, maybe she had. Maybe this was the kind of thing she did on Fridays, collect women from dim bars, corral them into luxury vehicles, and see what they’d let her get away with before midnight, you only half cared. Your whole body still pulsed with spent energy, core tight and legs jelly weak, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak.
Alexia’s hands were smooth, methodical as she helped you gather yourself, dress tugged discreetly back into position, wrists steadied together momentarily. Not possessive, but careful, as if she knew exactly how fragile a person could be when they’d just let go of a lifetime’s worth of control in the span of a half hour. For a second you almost expected her to light you a cigarette.
“Cata?” Alexia called out after pressing a button near your head, as the divider slid down and the muted thrum of the city returned through her open window. “Back to Calle del Bruc, please.”
No one asked for clarification, Cata’s tone was even, automatic, “Yes, boss.”
Alexia looked at you sidelong, one corner of her mouth quirking in a private joke. “Don’t worry, there’s a shop at the corner if you need a tactical recovery snack.”
It hit you, belatedly, that you might actually be starving, “Don’t suppose you’d let me walk it off?”
“In those shoes?” Alexia made an exaggerated show of glancing at your feet. “You’d make it one block.”
She had a point. Your heels dug into the thick carpet, ankles wobbling, and there was something indecent about offering the stranger in a tailored suit this much leverage over your literal ability to stand, but you didn’t hate it. Instead, a laugh tumbled out, unguarded and light, and Alexia softened to it, slow, genuine, the sort of smile that only happened when she wasn’t trying for effect.
“Okay,” you said, “I’ll take the ride.”
Alexia stayed angled toward you, every line of her posture open, the pants of her suit stretched tight over muscled thighs, her fingers steepled together like someone interviewing for a position only you had no doubt who was being sized up for potential.
“Is this where I’m supposed to say something clever?” you asked.
She shrugged, not breaking eye contact, “Only if you want to.”
You could feel the blush return, but you didn’t try to hide it this time. “I don’t know if I can outdo you.”
“Maybe that’s not the point.” Alexia’s tone was different, now, less tease, more invitation. “Maybe you just enjoy the ride.”
The car settled into a red light outside a late night panadería. Neon flickered against the window, painting the interior in pinks and blues. Alexia tilted her head, as if waiting for you to look away. You didn’t.
Soon the club the night started in came back into view, your hand reached for the handle before you could the door was open Cata standing tall above you in your seat.
You got out from the car, legs unsteady on the pavement, almost forgetting the state of your own body, the way heat still flickered up your thighs with every movement. Cata gave you a single nod, bored or respectful, you couldn’t tell, then ducked back inside, returning to whatever in cabin playlist she’d engineered for herself.
The street seemed too bright, the laughter spilling from the bar at double volume, the world now in high contrast after the hush and luxury of the car. Alexia moved over into the seat you had been in, she looked as immaculate as she had hours ago, utterly untouchable, except for the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth, nearly the same colour as your lipstick.
You wanted to say something, anything to break the spell of the night, but the words were stuck behind your tongue. You were suddenly aware of what it meant to be seen together this way, to be half dressed and full of teeth marks, to have been made open so thoroughly and so quickly you barely remembered your own rules for how moments like this should play out.
“I didn’t get your name,” Alexia said, into the silence between you.
The breeze hit first. You folded your arms against it, against her, against the whole unbearable composure of her still sitting there. “I don’t think that matters much now, does it.” Not a question, you held her gaze one beat longer than was wise. “Bye... Boss.”
She smiled at your quip, you saw it fall the moment you turned away.
The bar door was loud and bright and full of strangers. Behind you, a car door closed, and the engine pulled away down the street as you stepped back into the place it all started.
The Rolls Royce merged silently back into the late night traffic, for the first few minutes, nobody spoke.
Cata's hands rested confidently on the steering wheel, eyes scanning mirrors as much as the road ahead. Years of driving for Alexia had taught her that silence was rarely uncomfortable.
Tonight, however, it felt... different, she caught Alexia's reflection in the rearview mirror still looking out of the window, watching the bar disappear into the distance.
"You want me to turn around?" Cata asked eventually.
Alexia didn't answer immediately, "No." A beat passed, "...Keep driving."
Cata's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Interesting.
💪🏼
The wrought iron gates rolled open before the car reached them.
The estate beyond was more fortress than home, hidden behind centuries old stone walls and towering cypress trees. Cameras tracked the Rolls Royce as it wound up the long drive before stopping beneath the portico.
Before Cata could step out to open the door, the front door swung open.
"About time." Patri bounded down the front steps wearing an oversized hoodie, a packet of crisps tucked under one arm, "We were taking bets."
Cata sighed, "I told you not to say any-"
"You also bet." Patri grinned, "And I won."
Alexia climbed from the car, smoothing invisible creases from her jacket, "What exactly did you win?"
Patri held up a handful of notes triumphantly, "Mapi said you'd be back in an hour."
"I said two," Ingrid called from the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.
"I guessed you'd bring someone home." Patri looked dramatically offended, "Which, for the record, would've won if you hadn't decided to be mysterious for once."
Alexia shot her an unimpressed look, "You're all exhausting."
"We know," Mapi replied, appearing beside Ingrid with a mug of coffee in hand, "That's why you keep us."
Inside, the house smelled unmistakably of fresh bread, garlic and slow cooked tomatoes, Ingrid smiled warmly as Alexia stepped through the doorway, "I kept your dinner warm."
Alexia loosened the top button of her suit jacket, "You always do, thank you"
That finally earned a small smile, the kitchen was already occupied, Misa sat at the island cleaning one of the training pistols they used in the private range beneath the house.
She glanced up briefly, "No bullet holes?"
"No."
"No stab wounds?"
"No."
"Disappointing."
Alexia rolled her eyes, "It was a quiet evening."
From the corner of the room came a snort, everyone turned, Pina was leaning against the counter, methodically sharpening a knife with the kind of concentration most people reserved for crossword puzzles.
Without looking up she asked, "So. Was she worth being late for the meeting you called?"
Silence, even Patri stopped eating, Mapi slowly lowered her coffee, Ingrid looked between them all, Alexia reached into the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water."I don't know what you're talking about."
Six voices answered simultaneously, "Boss."
Alexia unscrewed the cap, "I met someone."
Patri slammed both palms onto the counter,"I KNEW IT!"
"You owe me fifty euros," Jana said without missing a beat.
Patri groaned dramatically before fishing money from her pocket, "Worst night ever."
"You literally won the first bet."
"I've now lost the important one."
Mapi folded her arms, "So you met someone..." Alexia nodded, "...and?"
"There isn't an 'and.'"
"There is always an 'and,'" Misa replied.
Alexia took a long drink of water, hoping it would somehow delay the interrogation, but it didn't.
Pina finally looked up from the knife she'd been sharpening for Ingrid after complaining none of the knives she used for cooking was sharp enough, "What was her name?"
Alexia froze just for a fraction of a second, "...I don't know."
The room fell silent, Patri blinked, "You..."
Mapi blinked, "...don't know?" Mapi finished for Patri
Even Cata turned around, "You didn't ask?"
Alexia rested the bottle on the counter, "I did."
"And?"
"She didn't tell me."
Patri stared, then burst into hysterical laughter, "Oh, this is priceless."
Mapi joined in, "The great Alexia. The woman who has politicians returning missed calls. The woman whose enemies cross continents to avoid her...got rejected by a woman whose name she doesn't even know."
"I wasn't rejected."
"No?" Mapi grinned, "Then what's her name?"
Alexia's silence answered for her, Patri was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, "I love her already."
Ingrid hid a smile behind her mug.
Cata folded her arms, "So what did she call you? If you didn’t find the time to get names"
Alexia couldn't stop the smallest smile from tugging at her lips, "'Boss.'"
That only made everyone laugh harder, Pina slid the newly sharpened knife onto the counter and, for the first time all evening, smiled, "Interesting."
Alexia looked over, "What?"
Pina shrugged, "You've spent years making people fear you." She tilted her head thoughtfully, "And tonight..." A knowing smile spread across her face, "...someone walked away."
The laughter around the kitchen faded, Alexia found herself looking toward the dark windows overlooking the grounds.
She could still picture you disappearing through the door without looking back, without giving your name, or asking who Alexia really was.
For perhaps the first time in years, Alexia realised she wanted something she couldn't simply command, buy, or intimidate into her life.
She wanted another chance encounter, that prospect was far more unsettling than any rival family waiting in the shadows.
💪🏼
The marina shimmered beneath the last of the evening sun, rows of yachts bobbed gently against their moorings, each one more extravagant than the last, but they all paled in comparison to the one looming at the end of the dock.
You stopped walking., "...That's a yacht?"
Lily looked over her shoulder, grinning, "What?"
"That's not a yacht." You pointed towards the floating palace”, "That's a small country."
She laughed, "I know." The thing was absurd, multiple decks, floor to ceiling windows reflecting the orange sky, crew moving efficiently across polished teak decks.
You'd never seen anything like it outside of films, "Remind me," you said, tearing your eyes away for a second, "how exactly do you know someone with a yacht this size?"
"I don't."
You frowned, "You don't?"
Lily shook her head as if that was the least surprising part of the evening, "You know Jana? The one who comes into the coffee shop every morning?"
You hummed, "The one you think I don't know you're sleeping with... that Jana?"
Lily shot you a look, "I'm not sleeping with Jana."
"Her car is outside at the end of your shift four nights a week."
"Coincidence."
"There’s an extra toothbrush at your flat."
"Allegedly."
"You accidentally called her 'babe' while steaming milk."
"I was tired."
You snorted, "So... definitely that Jana."
Lily sighed dramatically, "Fine." A beat, "Maybe."
You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."
She rolled her eyes, "Anyway, Jana invited me and told me to bring a friend, so I assume she knows whoever owns this ridiculous thing."
"Comforting."
"It'll be fine." You weren't entirely convinced.
The closer you got, the bigger the yacht seemed, people in expensive clothes laughed on the upper deck, champagne catching the fading light, staff moved with quiet precision. Everything about it screamed money, old money, the sort that never had to tell anyone it existed.
Lily was already digging through her handbag, "Found it."
She held up a sleek black invitation with gold lettering before presenting it to a member of staff stationed at the bottom of the boarding ramp.
The woman scanned it, smiled politely and stepped aside, "Enjoy your evening."
Lily flashed you an excited grin, "See? Easy." She bounded halfway up the ramp before realising you hadn't followed, "Y/N?"
You had turned, distracted by movement beside the entrance, your stomach dropped. No...
Standing a few feet away, dressed in a tailored black suit with an earpiece tucked discreetly behind one ear, was a woman you recognised instantly.
Cata. She recognised you at exactly the same moment, there wasn't the slightest flicker of surprise on her face however. Just that same unreadable expression she'd worn outside the Rolls Royce.
Your heartbeat picked up, she walked towards you with measured steps, professional and controlled.
When she stopped in front of you, neither of you spoke, not at first, "Can I check your bag?" Her tone was courteous, almost gentle.
You swallowed, "Yeah... of course."
You slipped the strap from your shoulder and unzipped the bag, holding it open.
Cata's inspection was quick and methodical, she barely disturbed anything inside before stepping back.
For one impossible second, your eyes met again. Did she actually remember you?
Of course she remembered you. She remembered everything.
She gave a single nod, "Enjoy your night."
You managed a small smile, "Thanks."
She stepped aside and you started walking, one foot in front of the other trying very hard to appear completely normal.
Your thoughts, however, had other ideas, Cata, not someone who merely resembled her, the same woman, the same driver, the same bodyguard, the same quiet, observant presence who had watched you climb out of a blacked out Rolls Royce only a few weeks earlier.
Your pulse refused to settle, there were only two possibilities.
Either Cata worked security for multiple wealthy people...or this yacht belonged to Alexia.
You weren't entirely sure which possibility made you more nervous.
"Y/N!" Lily called from further up the gangway, "You coming or what?"
You blinked yourself back to the present, "Yeah."
You forced your legs to keep moving, each step carried you further onto the yacht. Further toward answers you weren't sure you actually wanted and despite every sensible instinct telling you to turn around a small, traitorous part of you hoped with embarrassing intensity that Alexia was somewhere on board.
💪🏼
The upper deck hummed with effortless luxury, music drifted from hidden speakers, low enough that conversations never had to compete with it. Crystal glasses caught the evening sun, laughter rolled across the decking as guests wandered between the bar, the plunge pool and the shaded seating areas.
At the centre of it all sat Alexia, one ankle rested across the opposite knee, an untouched glass of whiskey balanced loosely in her hand.
She looked exactly as she always did perfectly composed and perfectly in control. It didn't seem to matter that half the yacht revolved around her, women drifted in and out of conversation with her, each one impossibly beautiful.
One leaned against the arm of her chair, laughing at something Alexia had said that wasn’t even funny.
Another perched on the edge of the sunbed beside her, making no secret of the fact she was trying to catch Alexia's eye.
Someone else appeared with two fresh drinks, offering one with a hopeful smile. Alexia thanked her politely, nothing more, it hadn't gone unnoticed.
Patri watched another failed attempt and leaned towards Mapi, "That makes..." She counted under her breath, "...eight."
Mapi didn't even look up from her beer, "Nine."
"The blonde by the pool doesn't count."
Across from them, Ingrid laughed quietly, shaking her head, "They'll keep trying."
"They always do," Misa muttered.
Alexia, blissfully ignoring the commentary surrounding her love life, took another sip of her drink.
She wasn't listening to the women competing for her attention, she was listening to the sea, the engines, the rhythm of the yacht beneath her feet.
Then something changed, not the music or the conversation, the atmosphere, someone approaching quickly.
Alexia lifted her head, Cata, she rarely hurried, which meant something had happened. Without waiting to be acknowledged, Cata crossed the deck, weaving effortlessly between guests until she reached Alexia's chair.
"Boss."
Alexia set her glass down, Cata leaned in, speaking quietly into her ear, the words lasted barely three seconds.
Alexia's expression changed instantly not dramatically, anyone who didn't know her would have missed it, but the people around her knew every tiny shift in expression she'd ever made.
"Bring her to me." Alexia picked her whiskey back up, settling into her chair as though the conversation were already over.
Cata didn't move. "I anticipated that. So I went to find her first." A pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. "I can’t find her"
Alexia turned her head slowly, the glass pausing at her lips, "Then keep looking."
Cata stepped back with a single nod, "Yes, boss," and was gone, threading back through the crowd with the same quiet efficiency she'd arrived with. Alexia brought the whiskey to her mouth, and whatever had just crossed her face crossed it no longer. Across the seating area, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, and Misa exchanged a glance. Not one of them said a word. They knew better to.
💪🏼
You were grateful for the relative anonymity of the bar that was built into the main deck, a sunken space filled with expensive people who all seemed to know, or want to know, each other. Lily had already vanished into a small knot of women near the bowling alley, because, of course, there was a bowling alley on this ship and you could see her holding court, basking in the attention of anyone who mistook her accent for novelty.
You hovered, uncertain. You tried to make yourself small, blending into the pale curve of the banquette near the glass doors, but every so often you'd catch eyes on you, some tracing the line of your outfit, some evaluating you for a social transaction you didn’t understand.
When you realised you’d been staring at the same drink for ten minutes, you made yourself get up and cross to the rail. The air was spiced with salt and ozone, the city’s skyline had already begun to blue out in the dusk, and the lights on the next yacht over blinked like landlocked constellations.
You felt aimless, suddenly, remembering the rush in the car, the way your own body had become unfamiliar, a stranger’s for a little while. You wondered if Alexia was here, if she ever thought about you, even as a punchline. If she was the kind of person who remembered or the kind who always needed newness.
You tried to picture her among these people, she wouldn’t be laughing in the way you saw the women laughing here. She wouldn’t be smiling for the camera or parading a new girl on her arm. She would probably be quiet, watching, drinking something brown and expensive while running a thousand unspoken calculations.
The thought made you smile, which was, mercifully, the exact moment someone cleared their throat beside you.
“You need to come with me” a low, familiar voice spoke.
You froze, then turned, Cata stood there in her suit, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable. "Took her longer than I expected," you said and something shifted at the corner of Cata's mouth, gone before it fully arrived.
"Follow me." She turned and walked, not waiting.
The upper deck was quieter, the music from below reduced to a low pulse through the floor. Fewer people up here, and the ones who were watched you the way people watch someone walk into the wrong room. You stayed close behind Cata.
"Boss." Cata announced you without ceremony.
"Kiss arse," you muttered thinking she wouldn’t hear you, evidently her hear was better than you gave her credit for.
Cata looked over her shoulder, “Speak when spoken to"
You held her gaze, "Yes, boss," you said, borrowing her own phrase back, and watched something that might have been respect flicker across her face before she turned fully toward you, close enough that you felt the shift in air.
"You have quite the smart mouth."
You let yourself smirk, "Thank you."
"Cata." Alexia's voice came from somewhere behind her, low and unhurried, and you felt it move through you before you even found her face. "Let her be." Cata held your eyes a moment longer, then stepped aside with a single nod, and the space she left open framed Alexia exactly as though it had always been arranged that way.
Alexia's eyes moved down your body and back up. You became aware, suddenly, of your shorts and tank top and the way you'd heard boat party and dressed for the weather instead of whatever this was.
“Come sit”
Your feet didn't move, "Do I have to?" The words were out before you could stop them, and the silence that followed had a texture to it. Across the deck, four heads turned in unison, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, Misa each of them suddenly very interested in you for the first time all evening.
“No” Alexia sipped her drink, you're guess of expensive brown liquid correct, “I’d like it if you did though”
You moved, then. What else could you do? You crossed the deck, conscious of every pair of eyes some curious, some dismissive, some openly assessing. Your body felt a half step behind you, as if your limbs needed reminders to carry out the simplest commands.
You reached Alexia, and even sitting she radiated a tethered energy, a gravity that made the upholstered benches and overfull glasses and even the Mediterranean itself seem like a backdrop for her benefit.
You took the seat she gestured to, two places down from her rather than the empty one directly at her side. It felt less like keeping your distance and more like making a point, though what that point was you couldn’t have explained. For a moment she didn’t look at you, her profile cut a sharp line against the glow of the city behind her, hair slicked back, lashes heavy. You took a breath, then another, and tried to remember how talking worked.
Alexia broke the silence first, “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, as if this were her own birthday party and you were the surprise.
“I wasn’t really given the option,” you replied glancing to Cata, and watched a hint of pleasure arc across Alexia’s mouth.
“I run a tight ship,” she said, though you gathered from the yacht, the suits, the entire performance, that ‘ship’ was a flexible concept for her.
Someone behind you snorted, you glanced back. The four women at the other end of the seating area each with a drink, each angled for maximum eavesdrop were practically vibrating. One said something under her breath Alexia’s gaze flicked her direction and the group fell silent, as if their boss had snapped a leash taut.
You turned back to her, heart pinwheeling, but your hands were steady. “So what’s this?” you asked, gesturing at the yacht, the party, the entire orchestration, “Just another Friday for you?”
“Yes,” she said, as if finding the question quaint, “But not for you?” Her eyes didn’t blink as she asked it.
You shook your head, made yourself relax into the plush seat, “Where I come from, the closest thing to a boat party is watching old men play dominoes on the beach.”
She considered that, head tilted, as if calibrating how much of it was a joke. Then she smiled not the predatory smile from the car, but something private, almost delighted, “I would like to see that,” she said.
You almost said, “You wouldn’t,” but stopped yourself. Alexia already knew what she liked and what she didn’t, she didn’t need anyone to tell her.
A server appeared from nowhere, placing a drink in front of you gin, your favourite, garnished with a literal flower. You raised an eyebrow, “You have people following me?”
Alexia’s face resembled perfect innocence, “We have a good bar staff,” she said.
You sipped, it was, of course, the best thing you’d ever tasted and not what you had been served earlier. You allowed yourself a second sip before returning to the conversation at hand. “Do you always get what you want?”
Alexia didn’t answer right away. She looked at you for a while, fingers tracing a lazy orbit around the lip of her glass “Statistically,” she said, “more often than not.”
You scoffed, “I bet you hate losing.”
She grinned, small and sharp, “I prefer not to waste time on impossible things.” You liked that, or maybe you hated it. Either way, your blood ran a little faster, the gin burning a path down your throat.
“Why did you want me here?” The question surprised even you, the boldness of it, the edge, but Alexia seemed to enjoy it.
She set her glass down, leaned back in her chair, “Curiosity,” she said. “I think better in company.”
You looked around, “You seem to have plenty of company.”
She followed your gaze, the three women at the bar, the servers and silent security detail, the handful of guests now half watching the two of you from the pool, “Most people,” she said, voice dropping a little, “never say anything interesting to me.” She watched you, as if to see what you would do with that. “I like that you do.”
You felt the flush rising again, but met her eyes until she blinked firs, “That’s not a high bar.”
She laughed, and the tension in her posture eased a notch. Behind her, Patri leaned closer to Mapi, whispering “Wait, is she flirting with her?” and both burst into silent laughter.
Alexia ignored them, but you did not miss the flicker of annoyance that crossed her brow before it smoothed flat again.
“So what do you talk about,” you asked, “when you’re not being entertained by strangers?”
She looked out at the water, considered, “Business, usually. Or Tv shows. Or why Catalan food is objectively superior to all other food and nobody wants to admit it.”
“I’ll admit it,” you said, “as long as you never make me eat a snail.”
It was meant as a joke, but Alexia’s face lit up as if you’d just offered a secret handshake. “Deal,” she said. “We’ll start with something easy. Croquetas.”
“Croquetas are not easy,” you said, remembering the last time you’d tried to make them, oil splattering across your forearms, half the batch dissolving into a kind of béchamel soup.
Alexia raised her glass in a small salute, “They are if you know the trick.”
“I bet you know a lot of tricks,” you said, before you could stop yourself. She looked at you with a look that could turn concrete to steam, and you felt a jolt of adrenaline, as if you’d taken a dare you never meant to accept.
“I do,” she said, very quietly, her voice dissolving the space between you. “Would you like to learn one?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The urge to say yes was so loud it drowned out every other sound on the deck, but that was not what you said. You said, “Show me.”
She stood, unhurried, glass in hand. “Take a walk with me.” You followed, aware of every person watching, of Cata’s silent shadow two steps behind, and of the way your heart pounded against your ribs, trying to keep pace.
She led you to the prow of the yacht, past the glass walled gym and the helipad, out onto a private viewing deck where the rest of the party was a distant rumour. There was no one else up here, the wind caught your hair and the edges of Alexia’s shirt, untucking it slightly, exposing a bare inch of stomach that glowed under the lighting.
She leaned against the rail, folded her arms loosely, and looked at you as if waiting for the next move. For the first time, you realised she was maybe as uncertain as you were about how the rest of this would go.
You cleared your throat, “So, what do you want to know?”
She gestured to the empty air between you, as if the night itself was the question, “Start with something true.”
You swallowed, tried not to think of her mouth or the hum of the car, or the fact that you’d spent weeks replaying her name in your head until it made almost no sense. “I’m terrible at parties,” you said, surprising yourself with the confession.
She smiled, not in the predatory way, but with a slow warmth that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, “You’re doing better than most.”
You shrugged, suddenly shy, “That’s only because I don’t care what these people think.”
“Is that so?” she stepped closer, angling her body to block the wind, “Does it matter what I think?”
You considered it for a second, then, “Yes.”
She nodded as if she’d known it already, stepped forward until you were pinned by the intensity of her, the hush between your bodies as taut as cello wire. “I’ve been trying not to think about you,” she said, as if reading the lines of your own private screenplay. “It hasn’t worked.”
A laugh caught in your throat, unsteady, “I figured you would have plenty of distractions.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she extended her hand, palm up, inviting, and after a moment’s hesitation you took it. She squeezed, her grip warm and dry, and drew you closer until your hips touched the railing and the heat of her arm pressed yours.
“I lied, before,” Alexia said, voice pitched low. “I did want you to tell me your name. I still do.” You stared at her, the way the city lights painted bars of gold and blue along her jaw, the sincerity unguarded in her eyes. Her thumb traced the line of your wrist, patient, “You don’t have to.”
For a moment you were six years old, hiding under the kitchen table from your mother’s temper, unheard and unseen until you wanted to be. The urge to withhold was a muscle, one you’d trained since girlhood. But here, in the wind and the hush and the unyielding steadiness of Alexia’s hand, you wanted the opposite.
You told her your name. It came out quieter than you meant, small, like you had to try it out for both of you at once.
She repeated it, tried its weight on her tongue, then, “It suits you,” like it was something valuable, a keepsake she’d been hoping for.
Her thumb lingered, the movement slowing as she watched your reaction, then she leaned in, brushed your cheek with the side of her knuckle. For a second, you thought she might kiss you again, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it, or the kind of night spent in the blast radius of Alexia’s attention.
Instead, she let the moment stretch, the two of you suspended in the hush of approaching midnight, city lights flickering, the yacht’s gentle sway pulling you both out to sea, metaphorically or otherwise.
You said it again, your own name, like maybe this time it would count more.
She smiled, wider now, the kind of smile that could build bridges or break ribs, and for a moment you saw the edges of the woman you’d met in the car, the one with a whole private world hidden behind calculated calm and jokes that always landed halfway between tease and dare.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and you didn’t know if she was talking about the name or simply standing here beside her without stepping away.
Behind you, the city was already a collection of distant lights. Up here, you didn’t feel watched, or judged, or anything except anchored to the spot. You’d forgotten what that was like, to be in a place and not want to be anywhere else.
You leaned on the railing. Alexia joined you, her shoulder pressed to yours in a way you didn’t hate. She looked at the water, then at you, something thoughtful shading her face. “What do you want, really?” she asked, and for a split second you didn’t know if she meant here, now, on this deck, or in the cosmic sense.
You thought of your answer, surprised at how easy it was, “I want to do something that isn’t about what anyone else wants.”
Alexia’s gaze flickered, as if she’d been waiting for that, “And what would that look like?” Her voice was softer, the competitive edge blunted by something that felt damn close to hope.
You considered the question. There was a time you would’ve answered with the first clever thing to come to mind, but now, wind in your face, her gaze locked on yours, you went for honesty. “I don’t know yet,” you said, “But I think I’d like to find out.”
She nodded, as if this was the best answer she’d ever heard.
You looked at her, really looked, and realised that for all her show and sharpness she was just as curious about the next step as you were. “Show me a trick, then,” you said, and her face split wide, delighted.
“I was making an innuendo”
“What makes you think i didn’t know that?” She was closer now, her face a question. For a long moment all you heard was the wind rushing past the railing and the hollow thump of your heart under your ribs.
She leaned in, her lips finding yours as if the answer to every riddle was hidden in your mouth. This time the kiss was the opposite of the car, no performance, no urgency, a long slow hush that pulled at your bones. She kissed you like she wanted to remember every detail, taste every secret, build the anticipation to a point so bright it burned through all the layers you hid yourself under.
When it broke, she kept her face close to yours, breathing in the same inch of air. "You going to leave just as quick this time," she said, and you had to laugh, because you recognised your own pattern even as she named it.
"Maybe I like the chase," you said, and she traced her fingertip along your jaw, not quite smiling.
"Me too."
The world fell away, the city, the yacht, the crowd, until it was just you and her and the pressure of her hand against your lower back. Alexia drew you in until your hips rested together, her body angled around yours like a shield. You felt something unclench in your chest. The wind lashed at your hair, and she smoothed it behind your ear with unnecessary care.
You could see now that nothing about her was casual, not really. Every gesture, from the careless way she drank to the way she held you, was a tic of discipline learned so early it became invisible. She was always running a calculation, how much to reveal, how much to risk, how close to get before she startled herself into retreat.
You didn't pull away. Instead, you asked, "What now.. Boss?"
She smirked, let her hands drift down your arms, fingers trailing heat, "Sometimes," she said, "the trick is there isn't one."
You felt her smile against your cheek, the slow, coiling satisfaction of a plan coming together. Then her hands were at the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she scooped you up, your legs reflexively circling her hips. You laughed, startled and delighted, but the sound dissolved when she pressed you into the wall of a stairwell, her mouth capturing yours, hard and slick with intent.
You clung to her, fingers threaded in the fine hair at her nape, only distantly aware of the world beyond her, the city a smear of colour in the porthole window, the thudding bass of the party below now just a private drumline for the two of you. She kissed you with a kind of greedy discipline, her mouth coaxing yours open, teeth gentle but insistent, tongue sliding hot against yours until you forgot to breathe.
She carried you down, footfalls muffled by expensive carpeting, the darkness pressing in close and intimate. At the bottom of the stairs, she manoeuvred you through a heavy door before letting it swing shut behind you. The click of the lock was a perfect, surgical sound. You were alone, the hush of the room thick and absolute.
She set you down your back thudding softly onto a mattress that could have slept four. She loomed over you, all dress shirt and precision lines, the heat of her body radiating over your own. You reached for her, and she let you, gathering your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head on the bed, her mouth returning to yours, then to your neck, then lower, each kiss a claim.
You arched into her, thighs falling open, and she slid between them, grinding in slow, deliberate pulses that made you whimper. She was all pressure and rhythm, the fabric of her trousers rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, each movement a study in controlled violence.
She never let up, never released your wrists, just moved her mouth lower, teeth scraping lightly at your collarbone, then the edge of your breast peaking out the side of your tank top. She shifted, stripping you carefully, exposing you to the cool air and to her.
She took her time then, as if mapping your body for later use, hands and mouth and tongue leaving a trail of heat from your ribs to your hips to the inside of your knee. She was patient, so patient, the kind of patience that only made you want her more, until you were writhing beneath her, pleading wordlessly for her to close the final distance.
She did, eventually. She knelt between your legs and slid her hands up, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of your pelvic bone before pressing your knees wider. Her mouth was a question, and your answer was in the way your back arched, the way your hands found her hair and pulled. She licked slow at first, almost lazy, but when you gasped, she smiled into you, then licked again, harder, faster, tongue and fingers working in unison until your vision went white and the only thing you felt was her mouth, her tongue, the burning pleasure that built and broke, built and broke, until you unravelled so violently you nearly sobbed her name.
Alexia gave you no room to recover. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gone almost black, hair a mess from your grip. She slid off the bed to her feet, unhurried, pulling you to the edge with one hand under your arm.
She then paused to look at you really look, as though you were something rare she’d found washed up on the sand. You lay there, breathless, skin prickling with the rush of exposure, and for a second you wondered if she’d make you wait for it, if she’d force you to beg. But she only smiled, a crooked, open hunger, and slowly began to work open the buttons of her shirt from top to bottom slowly.
She wore nothing underneath, the sight was enough to make your mouth go dry, the lines of her body sharp and golden under the room’s dim light. She was sculpted, almost severe, the kind of body that came from discipline and war with herself. She stood at the edge of the bed, letting you stare, and when you reached for her, she didn’t slap your hand away, but caught it, kissed your wrist, and pressed your palm to her toned stomach.
“Good?” she asked.
You nodded, unable to manage a syllable.
“Want more?”
Your voice was ragged, “Yes.”
She bent to kiss you, slow and exploratory, her whole weight pressing you into the mattress. She tasted of whiskey and salt, and her hands roamed your body as if memorising every detail for later. When she broke the kiss, she nipped your bottom lip, then traced her tongue along the seam of your mouth, teasing until you were shaking with want.
“I have a strap,” she murmured, voice rough with intent. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, throat tight. Your gaze locked onto her as she turned toward the dresser, the drawer slid open with a whisper, and her fingers brushed against the leather, the buckles, the polished metal. She lifted it out like it was something sacred, something dangerous.
You watched, breath shallow, as she stepped out of her trousers, the fabric pooling at her ankles before she kicked them aside. Her underwear followed, black lace discarded without ceremony. The strap was already in her hands, the harness fitting snug against her hips with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. The way she adjusted the straps, fingers skillful, movements precise made your pulse hammer in your throat. There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
Your lungs locked when she turned, when the mattress dipped under her weight, when her knees bracketed your skull like the jaws of something beautiful and inevitable. The words came low, scraped raw, “I want your tongue.” You obeyed without thought, extending it flat, exposed, a living offering.
Then her hips began their movement, deliberate, her pressing the tip on your tongue. Each roll of her body drew a slow, wet path from the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, her breath hitching when you flicked instinctively against her, a betrayal of control neither of you acknowledged.
You watched her hips move, the liquid confidence there, the way she didn’t treat you like a prop but like an accomplice, an equal participant in whatever this was between the two of you. She made a small, approving sound as you adjusted angle, depth, pressure, all of it on instinct, as if your own body ran algorithms to anticipate what she’d like most.
She kept her hand in your hair, not to force or dominate, but to feel each trembling, hungry movement you made. The slick, silicone weight of her slid over your tongue, filled your mouth, and each time your lips dove deeper, the muscles of her legs tensed around your head, thighs caging you in the dark. Her breath came ragged, every inhale a shudder that vibrated through her skin to yours, her composure cracked and light poured through the seams.
She looked down at you, hair falling across one cheek, brows knit in focus, an expression you’d never seen on her before. It was completely unguarded, almost raw. The knowledge that you had done this unravelled the perfect Alexia, lit you up from the inside. You doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, letting her fuck the softness of your mouth at her own pace.
She started slow, a testing roll of her hips, but soon she found the rhythm she liked, thrust, grind, retreat each stroke making her breath catch at the top, mouth slack and beautiful. You gripped her ass, pulled her closer, and Alexia let her head tip back, a perfect, silent moan written across her throat, the line of her jaw sharp under the pressure.
"Jesus," she muttered, the word both a warning and a surrender. You took her deeper, feeling the fullness in your mouth, the slight burn at the corners of your jaw. She liked that, liked it even more when your breath came short and needy. Every time you tried for air, she’d slow, let you catch it, then start again, showing you that patience you’d already learned from her hands and her tongue.
The world narrowed to the taste and the weight of her, the shuddering in her thighs, the salty sweat on your tongue, the quiet, desperate noises that slipped out of her despite every attempt to restrain them. You lived for those noises, for the messy, unprofessional honesty of them.
Her hands cradled your head gentle, then rough, then gentle again. At one point she cupped your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge, and you nearly broke from how careful she was, even when fucking your mouth. Every inch of her screamed confidence, but the way she held your face, the way she watched you, none of it was cruel. You realised then, in the dark, that you wanted her to break, to lose every scrap of composure with you.
You forced your eyes open, met her gaze, and watched the exact moment her control snapped. She swore, a soft Catalan curse, and pumped into your mouth with a rhythm that was almost punishing, almost needy. You let her, relaxed your jaw, took her as deep as you could and then further. The base of the harness kissed your lips, the heavy drag of it forcing your tongue flat and your eyes watering, but you didn’t stop. You gagged, for real this time, an involuntary spasm that made her flinch like she might pull away, but you gripped her hips tighter, pushed back, let the embarrassment burn through every inch of you and transform into something shameless.
She watched you, transfixed. You knew it wasn’t about dominance or humiliation, Alexia was too careful, too precise for that. It was about proof, about seeing how much of her you’d take, how much you wanted, how much you could stand to bear for the taste and feel of her. You blinked tears from your lashes, swallowed around her, and when the next wave hit, you welcomed it, the fullness and the ache, the sweet stretch of being bruised open for her.
She rocked her hips, short and sharp, a rhythm you felt all the way to your core, and with each pass she said your name, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl. You lost yourself in the sound of it, in the heat, in the pure intent of her body moving with yours, for you, because of you.
Eventually her pace faltered, hips slowing, and she dragged herself out, slow and slick. The silicone glistened, your spit threading in lines between you and the tip, and she wiped it on your tongue, a final, deliberate press. You licked your lips, Alexia smirked down at you, “Atta girl”
Your hands found her thighs, the muscle there dense and unyielding under your palms. You traced upward, over the curve of her ass, the harness straps cutting neat lines across it, then up and over her hip bones, then the chiseled marble of her abdomen, each ridge rising to meet your fingertips as they climbed.
Her breasts were softer than the rest of her, a contrast that made you pause, palming her breasts, and you flicked your thumb across a nipple. It hardened instantly, and the noise she made was almost a laugh, almost a threat. You rolled it, pinched, rolled again, and caught the way her jaw clenched, the way her hips rocked forward in reflex.
The cock bobbed just inches from your mouth, shining, and you licked it again, slow, letting the tip bump your lower lip, then your cheek, then your tongue. You looked up to see Alexia watching you really watching, pupils huge, face flushed with the kind of hunger you’d never had directed at you before.
You grinned up at her, hands sliding down her thighs to brace yourself and guide her backwards until, you sat up, chest to chest with her, and held her gaze as you wrapped a hand around the length of her with the other you encouraged her to lay back. You put your leg over her hips and guided it between your legs. You were still shaking, still slick, still wide open from before, but the pressure of the harness against you sent a fresh bolt of heat through your entire body. You lined the cock up, rolled your hips down, and took the whole length in one, trembling motion.
Alexia groaned, and you felt her hands grip your waist, holding you steady as you started to move. The first few strokes were slow, measured, you both watching the way her cock disappeared inside you, the way your bodies slotted together.
She let you set the pace, her hands resting on the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass, anchoring you in place. You started to ride her, slow at first, then faster, watching her face for every twitch, as you bounced on her lap.
Your hands found her shoulders, and you braced yourself, using her body as leverage. Every time you dropped down, you could feel her fill you, the thickness of the cock stretching you out perfectly, and the soft rub of the harness against your clit.
It was better than any other strap you’d ever taken, because Alexia made it feel like an extension of her will, her control, her desire for you. She didn’t just fuck you, she orchestrated your pleasure, built it up with every roll of her hips and every hungry sound from her throat.
You started to perform for her, grinding down harder, circling your hips at the bottom of each stroke, letting your head tip back so your hair fell in a wild curtain, your breasts bouncing with every movement. You moaned, loud and shameless, and her hands clenched tighter at your waist. You could feel her watching, totally focused, as you rode her, faster and harder, the slap of your skin against her thighs echoing through the room.
“Fuck,” she hissed, a wild, broken sound, and you rode her even harder, chasing sensation, chasing that next impossible edge. She sat suddenly and twisted a nipple with her mouth, teeth scraping, and you nearly lost it, your whole body lighting up with pleasure and pain, the sensations blurring until you were nothing but nerve endings and hunger.
You pulled her in for a kiss, biting her lower lip, still rolling your hips against her in a slow grind, when the ceiling above you thumped. You both stilled, a beat of silence, then voices, sharp and overlapping, somewhere high on the yacht. Alexia's eyes cut to the door.
A single gunshot. Two screams, then nothing.
She was off the bed before the echo died, the harness hitting the floor with a heavy buckle clank. She dressed fast, the efficient movements of someone who had done this before. She was pulling open a drawer, rummaging, when she said, without looking at you, "When I leave, lock the door. Don't open it until I tell you." She found what she was looking for. You didn't see what it was. The door clicked shut behind her, and you were still sitting there, flushed and breathless and completely alone.
The lock clicked, then silence, not true silence.
The engines still hummed beneath the yacht, but inside the cabin the quiet felt oppressive.
You stared at the door, your pulse was still racing, only now for an entirely different reason.
Another shout echoed from somewhere above, closer this time.
You slid off the bed, hastily pulling your clothes back into place with hands that suddenly refused to cooperate. Your fingers fumbled with buttons you'd managed perfectly well only minutes earlier.
Another dull thud reverberated through the ceiling, not another gunshot, footsteps lots of them heavy and running.
You crossed the room before stopping yourself, Alexia had been very clear. Lock the door. You checked it anyway, locked.
Your eyes drifted around the cabin for the first time, it wasn't just a guest suite.
The shelves held books in three different languages. A chess board sat half finished on a side table. One wall displayed framed photographs of coastlines and mountains instead of people.
Nothing about the room felt temporary this was hers, another voice barked somewhere outside, firm and controlled.
You couldn't make out the words, then "CLEAR!"
It was Misa, you recognised her voice from earlier.
Another answered almost immediately, "Port side secure!" that was Patri.
You frowned, they sounded calm not frightened and certainly trained. Your stomach tightened, Alexia hadn't been exaggerating about her world. This wasn't some glamorous fantasy she'd built around herself. It was real, every bit of it.
The sound of footsteps approached your door, you instinctively stepped backwards as someone stopped outside. A shadow crossed beneath the gap, your breathing slowed to almost nothing.
A single knock, three short taps, not Alexia, you didn't move, the was handle tested once, then whoever it was walked away.
Only after the footsteps disappeared did you realise you'd been holding your breath. Minutes crawled by or maybe only seconds time had become impossible to judge.
Then voices again, this time much closer.
"...one in custody."
"...sweep the lower deck."
"...check every cabin."
You caught Alexia's voice among them, steady and completely unshaken.
"No unnecessary casualties." A pause. "I want answers before sunrise."
You closed your eyes, she sounded exactly the same as she had ordering a drink earlier that evening, that frightened you more than the gunshot had.
Eventually, the voices faded, a key turned in the lock, your entire body tensed. The door opened and Alexia stepped inside, her white shirt sleeve was rolled to the elbow now, and there was a faint smear of blood across one cuff you couldn't tell if it was hers.
She closed the door quietly behind her, for the first time since you'd met her she looked tired, not physically, just heavy.
Her eyes found yours immediately, "You listened."
"I wasn't exactly tempted to ignore you."
The corner of her mouth twitched, "Good."
You looked at the stain on her sleeve, "What happened?"
Alexia followed your gaze, she glanced down at the blood almost absently, "Someone made a very poor decision."
"Is everyone okay?"
There was a brief pause, "My people are."
The wording wasn't lost on you, you took a careful step closer, "Alexia..."
She looked at you, really looked at you, the composed facade she'd worn all evening had cracked just enough for you to glimpse the woman underneath.
"I told you," she said quietly. “My world is... complicated."
You thought back to the party, it had looked almost normal, and now you understood why they all watched the exits.
Why Cata searched every bag herself.
Why Alexia always seemed to know exactly where everyone was.
"This happens often?"
Alexia was honest, "Often enough that everyone knows what to do." The answer settled heavily between you, she reached for a clean shirt folded over a chair, unbuttoning the stained one with practiced movements. Then she stopped, "You should leave."
You blinked, "What?"
"Cata will take you ashore."
"And you?"
"I'll be busy."
There it was again, the invisible wall she'd built around herself, the one that separated her life from everyone else's.
You studied her for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you trying to protect me...or push me away?"
Alexia opened the door. Cata was already there, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.
"Cata will take you home."
You looked at Alexia for a moment longer than you should have. Then you clasped your hands behind your back the way Cata always did and simply nodded once and murmured, "Yes, Boss."
summary: You had a lot on your plate: a little sister to raise, two jobs to juggle, and a massive secret. For years, you had been secretly working at a strip club to fund your sister’s needs: from school trips to football kits. Between keeping a secret and making ends meet, there was no room in your life for anything else, especially not romance.
Meeting Alexia Putellas made that a little difficult.
tags: stripper!Reader, slight age gap, client!Alexia, angst, smut, secret/forbidden relationship, drama, femme!Reader, minimal use of YN, lap dances, suggestive content, strap r!Receiving, cunnilingus r!Receiving, cursing, use of pet names, tldr: u meet alexia when she attends irene's bachelorette in the club u work at (irene not yet married in this fic haha)
index
— fic playlist
— moodboards
— chapter one
tags: 18+, 16k words, smutty content, mature scenes and themes
— chapter two
tags: 18+, 17k words, smutty content
— chapter three
tags: wip
taglist below the cut; reblog/comment on latest chapter if you want to be added!
A little one shot in a world where Alexia is a CEO, big boss bitch but is still a simp for her wife. Cos she’s just a girl.
Thank you for the request/inspiration!!! (i tried to tag you but it wouldn't let me. sorry!)
and thank you @wosofutbolfan for always being that babe and getting me out of a jam 🫶🏼 and even adding your own smutty bits 👀
smut 18
wc 2868
The meeting room was full of suits. Every seat was occupied by some head of this or a lead board member of that. People whose self worth was inflated because of their equally inflated bank accounts.
And Alexia sat at the head of that long, clean and clinical table.
The one with the largest bank account of them all.
Alexia Putellas, one of the most prolific names in the business world.
The 32 year old’s portfolio was large to say the least. You name it, she most likely owned it, or had a stake in it.
The business titan owned half of Barcelona's new luxury high rises, expanding out to London, New York, and her newest addition in Tokyo.
Not forgetting her ownership with several tech companies of course.
Ice cold bottles of Berg water imported all the way from Canada were set directly in front of each seat, along with polished to perfection Vera Wang glassware.
It was pretentious, but it was expected.
Diagrams flicked over the projector, numbers and percentages neatly presented for all the big wigs to see. Some would nod, pretending to be as invested as they were paid to be. Some took notes on their shiny air mac books, looking up every so often so they looked the part.
But not everyone felt that way.
Alexia’s fingers tapped restlessly against her arm chair. It was the only thing she could focus on while one of the new starters in marketing drawled on about …. well, she couldn't actually tell you what she had been talking about because Alexia hadn't actually been listening.
Her focus had been on you.
Because this morning you had been very distracting.
—-------------------------
Alexia hadn't woken up to her usual 7am alarm, instead she had woken up to the warm press of your soft lips on her bare stomach.
“Amor?” She groggily murmured, one eye sleepily opening.
“Good morning, baby.” You purred as your kisses travelled lower.
The brunette sleepily smiled as her brain woke up to what was happening. “Hmm, this is a nice way to start my morning.” She mumbled, her morning voice raspy as she stretched her arms over her head. The soft cream Italian silk sheets moved with her.
You smiled sweetly up at her, loving the way the muscles in her stomach were already flexing to the feeling of you.
“You looked so cute sleeping. I couldn't really stop myself.” You whispered, almost shyly.
The room was still dark, a slither of morning light spilled in the corner of the large room, giving you some sense of sight. Not that you needed it, you knew Alexia's body like the back of your hand, every curve, every freckle was mapped out in your mind.
“I have no complaints.” Alexia hummed as you shuffled down lower, your face now in between her thighs.
Your cunt jumped with want when her large hand lazy tangled in your already messy bed hair.
You lathered her thighs in slow, wet kisses, sucking gently on her sensitive skin just to hear her breath skip in her throat.
Alexia had finally fully woken up now, she sat up on her elbows, wanting to fully see what you were doing to her. She watched as your naked body lay between her legs, worshiping her like the goddess she was, praying at the altar of her cunt.
Her eyes greedily took in the curve of your arse, traveling up the smooth skin of your back, watching the way your muscles moved. The tresses of your hair flowed down your spine, falling between your shoulder blades. You looked dreamlike. For a moment she wasn’t sure if she was still dreaming.
“You look so good, baby.” The brunette sighed happily as she leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, getting herself comfy for what was to come.
Her, hopefully.
You nuzzled your nose against her thigh giving her one last kiss before you flattened your tongue and tentatively gave a gentle lick between her lips.
“Fuck.” She sighed, her lashes fluttering from the feeling of you.
You hummed at the taste of her. Pressing your tongue inside her, greedily lapping at the already wet fluids escaping her.
You slowly licked your tongue from her entrance, through her folds, then gently wrapped your lips around her clit, sucking it teasingly against your tongue.
“Baby.” The brunette whimpered, her hips already grinding into your face.
“You’re so wet already, Ale.” You smirked, looking up at your wife through your lashes.
Alexia let out an airy chuckle trying to ignore the way your breath tingled against her wet skin. “And who’s the reason for that?”
You gave her lips another soft kiss before going back to your task.
Your hands wrapped around her strong thighs, opening her up fully for you, like she was your own personal buffet.
The brunette, relaxed sitting back, letting you eat her out while she watched you.
“Thats it.” She whispered before gathering your hair on one hand, pushing your face a little deeper. “Keep going.”
You groaned, feeling the pressure of her hand on you, doing exactly what she said without protest.
Alexia could feel her heart thumping against her chest as your tongue swirled with precision around her clit.
God, you felt so fucking good.
But your bliss was rudely interrupted as a blaring jingle went off besides Alexia’s head.
“Fuck.” The brunette grumbled before reaching for her phone to see who dared to call her at this early hour. “It’s Jenni.” She sighed.
But you didn't stop as she pressed the green button on her screen, and she made no effort to stop you.
“Si?”
You heard the familiar voice of Jenni.
“When?.... Today?” Alexia frowned, her hand still wrapped in your hair as she spoke to Jenni.
You flicked your tongue at Alexia's clit, quickening your movements before slurping at her wet folds.
The brunette gritted her teeth watching you like a hawk as you continued to pleasure her.
“Can’t it wait?” She sighed with annoyance.
Even as you greedily licked at Alexia's cunt you could hear Jenni’s own agitated tone simply state a firm ‘No’
You pulled back, Alexia watched as her shiny fluids stuck messily to your chin. You sweetly smiled before sticking out your tongue, showing her just how truly wet she was.
Her bottom lip came in between her teeth as she watched her juices drip from your tongue and onto the sheets beneath you. She looked utterly mesmerised by you, her mouth gapping open, lost in the filthy sight.
Then you went back to it.
“Fuck.” Alexia gasped, throwing her head back against the pillow.
You could hear the unmistakable, all knowing change in Jenni's tone through the phone.
‘That’s why you don't want to get out of bed.’ You heard the raven girl snigger through the speaker.
Alexia let out a frustrated groan as she hung up, blindly throwing her phone on the bed.
“I have to go.” She frowned before dramatically throwing her arm across her face. “I have a meeting with the board that I can’t get out of. I have to leave in 15 minutes.”
You stopped what you were doing and leaned your head against her thigh, giving her a pout that you’d normally save for when you really needed it.
Like the time you found a raggedy kitten on a holiday in Greece. You had begged Alexia to bring the flea ridden feline home with you. She of course had said no before the words had even fully left your mouth, but when you stuck your bottom lip out your wife never had the heart nor will power to not fold and not give you exactly what you wanted.
That raggedy old kitten was now named Falafel and had her very own playroom. Alexia was her favourite person, not that she'd admit it, but Falef's purrs said otherwise.
“Thats not fair.” You sulked.
“I know.” She sighed before releasing the hold on your hair.
You leaned up, Alexia’s hazel eyes watched you crawl from her shaky thighs and sat directly on her stomach before you lent down to give her a lazy kiss.
“Dios mio.” She whispered the moment she felt your wet cunt press against her tight abs.
“Thats okay, baby. We can come back to this later.” You murmured against her lips, before sneakily allowing your hips to roll against her skin.
Her hands automatically moved to grab your hips, but you were quicker, moving off of her before she could no doubt grind you against her.
“You better jump in the shower.” You sighed dreamily as you laid back on your side of the bed.
Alexia peered over at your naked body, you could see she was having second thoughts on whether or not to go to this meeting, but you both knew Jenni would gladly drag her out by her feet if she didn't show up.
The brunette grumbled as she left you in the sheets, seconds later you heard the shower turning on.
She was quick as she got ready, as the CEO she was used to having last minute meetings.
Alexia was in the walk-in wardrobe as she buttoned up the last button of her shirt, grabbing her sunglasses from the side before she came back into your shared room.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight, my love…” But her words were caught in her throat as she walked into the sight in front of her.
Your hand was between your thighs, your hair a mess of tresses over the dusty pink pillowcases as you boldly circled your wet clit.
You smirked when you heard the small whimper leave Alexia’s gaping mouth. The brunette comically looked between your legs, then your face, then back between your legs again.
“Oh, hey, baby.” You rasped, your wet fingers slick with your arousal.
And just as she began to walk towards you her phone rang again. No doubt Jenni telling her to move her arse.
She groaned, throwing her head back before she headed towards the door to leave, knowing full well if she stepped an inch closer to you she wouldn’t be making it to this meeting. “Amorrrr, why do you do this to me!”
You couldn't help but laugh.
The 32 year old stood in front of you. In full designer. Looking everything like the 5”8 CEO that she is. Silk shirt tucked into high waisted tailored trousers. At least 30 staff reported to her. Reported being the optimum word. They respected her but they feared her.
A room would fall into silence at just a glance from her. Analysts would break a sweat at a pointed cough, stock markets fell at the arch of her eyebrow. And here she was. Stomping her foot like a child who had been told Christmas was cancelled because of you. And some light fingering.
Maybe it was a bit mean of you but you had to keep your wife on her toes every now and again.
The brunette looked over her shoulder at you one more time before she left and mumbled. “You wait until I see you tonight.” She warned.
But you couldn't take the threat too seriously, not with the tantrum she just had.
“Can’t wait.” You winked cheekily before dipping a single finger inside yourself, keeping your eyes locked with hers the whole time.
Alexia’s eyes drifted down between your legs once more before she begrudgingly left.
—---------------------------------------
Now here she was. Her mind miles away, bored out of her skull while you were at home.
Being a brat.
Alexia sighed before she discreetly pulled out her phone under the table. Her fingers automatically opened the Instagram app.
She smirked when she saw the little round pink icon of your dp lit up with a story, but when she opened it her smirk faltered, her lips parted for the seventh time that morning due to you.
There you were, kitted up head to toe in fresh Nike, thanks to Alexia’s stakes in the brand. Your face sweaty, sporting a tight sports bra, your chest drenched wet with sweat. Your baby hair’s curling at the edges where you had just completed a work out.
The brunette licked her before she clicked on your next story.
Alexia closed her eyes in frustration as she looked over the new picture. It was a selfie. Close up. Your tight nipples were perking through the fabric. Your rosy pink lips were parted just like the way they were when she left you this morning, in the large king sized bed. The same cloudy eyes that looked at her with so much desire as you teasingly touched yourself.
The throb between her legs that had barely left her came back in full throttle as she imagined your mouth.
The way your tongue had pressed inside her, making her legs shake and back arch and–
“…Alexia?”
“Sweat.” She gently mumbled under her breath, too consumed in her thoughts to even realise she was talking out loud.
“...Erm, Alexia?”
The brunette nearly dropped her phone as her name was called again bringing her back to the real world.
“Huh?...What?” The CEO looked around the boardroom, slipping her phone back in her pocket as a room full of eyes looked at her for an answer.
Alexia must have looked like a dear in headlights, which wasn't often.
The new marketing girl cleared her throat a little nervously. “I-I was just asking what your thoughts were on maybe teaming up with Rosalia and h-her team? It would be great for traction on the new project.” She stuttered.
Alexia stared at her, blinked, once, twice, completely lost. Shit.
“I erm…”
“What she means to say is…” Jenni came in to save Alexia, giving her a shit eating grin as she did, “she thinks that's a great idea. We’ve been wanting to work with Rosalia for a little while and this is the perfect project for that.” The raven haired woman smiled reassuringly at her young colleague.
Alexia looked at Jenni, then back at the woman in front of her, her face looking a little less anxious at Jenni's words, but still looking at Alexia for her approval.
Alexia knew if Jenni liked whatever idea this was then she could let it pass.
“Si, I like the idea. Well done.” Was all she needed to say with a little head nod and small smile.
The room murmured in agreement, happy that Alexia liked the idea.
The brunette looked over at her oldest friend, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ her way.
“Shall we end it there. I think a quick coffee break would be good.” Jenni chimed, looking at Alexia, still smiling.
The room of course looked at Alexia for the go ahead.
Alexia nodded, clearing her throat as she pulled at her shirt collar. “Everyone take 15.”
The room slowly descended with gentle murmurs as everyone began to rise from their chairs. Eager to get their caffeine fix.
A low whistle came from the other side of the room. Jenni was standing now, her phone in her hand and that same wolfish grin on her face. “Aye, now I know why you were distracted." Jenni chuckled, showing her screen to Alexia, with your face plastered on her phone.
“She’s killing me.” Alexia breathed, covering her face with her hands before dragging her palms down her face.
The raven haired girl threw her head back, letting out a belly laugh. “You are so whipped. I love it.”
With a loud groan the brunette stood up from her chair, shaking her head at her oldest friend.
“I can’t even argue with that.” Alexia admitted, softly chuckling. “I owe you a coffee for saving me.”
“Can we go to the one with the cute barista?” Jenni wiggled her eyebrows.
“Sure.” Alexia agreed.
The two colleagues began to walk out the room, Jenni held open the door for Alexia as she walked out. The brunette pulled out her phone once more, smiling to herself when she saw she had a text from you.
Then she stopped dead in her tracks.
It was a photo of you. Hair freshly washed, in nothing but an old pj top, one of Alexia’s of course. You were clearly naked from the bottom down, smiling innocently at the phone. With a simple text saying ‘miss you’
Before she could reply the heavy glass door came hurling towards her, slapping her right in the side of her face.
“Oww! Merda!” She hissed, rubbing her now thumping head. She looked over at Jenni with a scowl, who had apparently let the door go.
Jenni smirked, holding her hands up in innocence.“Aye, it's not my fault you’re so distracted!” She smirked, walking ahead.
Alexia rubbed her head, already feeling the lump forming and quickly wrote out a reply.
‘Amor, you have to stop. I just banged my head, distracted by your face. Its dangerous for me x’
She can't help but laugh aloud at the reply that vibrates in her hand.
“Aw, my poor baby. Not the kind of head I had in mind, but I'll rub it all better. Come home soon x “
Alexia Putellas (Barcelona Era) x Female Footballer Reader!
Wc: 5k
For four years, the routine had been as steady and unyielding as the tides along the Barceloneta coast.
Whenever Alexia Putellas walked off the training pitch at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper—whether her legs felt like lead after a grueling Champions League semi-final or she was riding the euphoric high of another domestic masterclass, she never had to guess where her comfort lived. It lived in a pair of expressive, warm eyes, a soft, reassuring smile, and a girl who treated her like she hung the stars in the Catalan sky.
You were that girl.
As a fellow midfielder in the FC Barcelona Femení squad, you knew the exact physical toll the sport took on a body. You knew how Alexia’s right knee throbbed when the weather dropped, how she took her coffee with a very specific splash of oat milk and half a packet of raw sugar, and how her posture shifted from commanding captain to vulnerable, tired girl the second the heavy oak door of her home closed behind her.
You had loved her for so long that loving her felt less like a conscious choice and more like a vital biological function.
You spoiled her. There was no other word for it. If Alexia mentioned in passing that she loved a particular bakery in Gràcia, a fresh box of pastries appeared on her locker shelf the next morning before she even arrived. If she was too exhausted to untie her boots after a draining session in the rain, you knelt on the damp grass and unlaced them for her, your fingers brushing against her ankles with a reverence that made some of the younger academy call-ups whisper in the locker room.
You answered her texts within seconds. You cleared your weekends to accommodate her unpredictable media appearances, sponsor events, and family dinners. You gave her the world wrapped in quiet, undemanding devotion, never asking for a formal title, content simply to orbit the sun that was Alexia Putellas.
Or, at least, you had tried to be content.
The fracture line in your chest had begun as a hairline crack months ago. It was the subtle way Alexia’s eyes started drifting toward her phone during dinner. The dismissive little huffs of air when you rearranged your entire schedule to pick up her dry cleaning, as if your time had no intrinsic value of its own. The casual way she accepted every sacrifice you made, swallowing your devotion whole without ever offering a crumb of reciprocity.
And then came the Tuesday afternoon that broke the glass completely.
You were standing in the players' lounge, carefully peeling an orange for her because you knew she hated getting the bitter white pith under her fingernails. You handed her a segment, your thumb gently brushing the back of her hand.
Alexia didn’t take it. She didn't even look up from her iPad, where she was flicking through tactical footage. Her shoulders were bunched up near her ears, tight with post-training irritability.
"Y/N, stop” she snapped, her voice cutting through the hum of the lounge like a jagged knife. "Just... stop doing that."
Your hand froze mid-air. "Doing what?"
"All of this” she muttered, finally looking at you, her dark eyes flashing with an irritated, suffocating impatience. "The hovering. The bringing me fruit, the constantly making sure I'm comfortable, fixing my kit, rearranging your life. It’s too much."
A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. "I was just trying to help you, Ale. You said you were tired."
"I am tired” Alexia shot back, closing the iPad with a sharp, echoing thwack. "I’m tired of feeling like I have my mom following me around the club. Why do you even do it? Why do you keep trying so hard?"
You stared at her, the orange segments slipping from your fingers back onto the paper napkin. The question hung in the air, heavy and cruel, demanding an answer you suddenly didn't have the emotional energy to fabricate.
"Because I care about you” you whispered, your throat tightening.
Alexia let out a cynical, dry puff of air, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, don't. Save it. We're friends, Y/N. Just teammates. You act like you're my girlfriend, but you're not ever. So stop treating me like I'm special, because it's exhausting."
Just teammates.
The words echoed in your skull, tearing away the last four years of masonry you had built around your heart. The illusion shattered into fine, microscopic dust. She didn't want your care. She didn't want your devotion. She looked at everything you gave her and saw a burden.
You didn't cry. You didn't yell. A strange, numbing calm washed over you—the self-preservation mechanism of a soul that had endured too much abandonment in its lifetime.
"Okay” you said softly.
Alexia blinked, clearly taken aback by the lack of a fight, the absence of your usual tearful defense. "What?"
"Okay” you repeated, your voice entirely level, stripping every ounce of warmth, every shade of intimacy out of the syllable. "Got it."
The transformation was immediate, stark, and terrifyingly efficient.
If Alexia wanted friends, you would treat her like a friend. Not an enemy, you weren't malicious, and you didn't have a cruel bone in your body but the luxury car of your affection was suddenly downgraded to a local bus, running strictly on schedule and devoid of any extra amenities.
The next morning in the locker room, Alexia walked in carrying her heavy training gear and tossed her wet shinpads onto the bench. Out of pure, ingrained muscle memory, your hand reached toward them to move them out of her way so they wouldn't soak her spare socks.
Halfway there, your fingers stopped. You withdrew your hand as if the plastic had burned you, picked up your own kit, and walked right past her to tape your ankles.
"Morning” you offered, your tone light, breezy, and utterly transactional, the exact tone you used with third-string substitutes you barely knew.
Alexia paused; her boots half-zipped. She looked up at you, waiting for the usual sequence: the smile, the offer to fill her water bottle, the quiet check-in on how her sleep had been.
You just sat there, listening to music through your headphones, staring straight ahead.
During the tactical session on pitch three, the true shockwaves hit. In the past, whenever Alexia dropped deep to receive the ball under pressure, you were always the safety valve, running yourself into the ground to provide a passing lane, anticipating her movements before she even made them.
Today, when she called for a square ball under a heavy double-press from Mapi and Patri, you didn't force the pass. You calmly recycled possession to the opposite flank, choosing the safer, lower-risk option.
Alexia threw her arms up in the air, glaring at you across the grass. When the whistle blew for a water break, she marched straight over, her face flushed with heat and a strange, bubbling agitation.
"What was that?" she demanded, standing right in your personal space. "You had a clean passing lane to my feet. I called for it."
You took a slow sip from your water bottle, wiping your mouth with the back of your wrist. You looked at her with polite, detached curiosity, the way a customer service representative looks at a slightly confused client. "Option B was safer. The statistical success rate on the switch was higher. Pere wants us to minimize midfield turnovers."
"Since when do you care about statistical success rates over instinct?" Alexia snapped, her voice rising. "You always look for me."
"Well, I'm adapting my playstyle" you replied smoothly, offering a completely harmless, hollow smile. "We're just teammates, right? No need to overcomplicate the build-up. I'll see you on the next drill."
You turned on your heel and jogged away, leaving Alexia standing alone on the turf, her mouth slightly open, a deep, burning confusion warring with an unidentifiable anger in her chest.
Over the next week, the absence of you became a physical weight in Alexia’s daily life.
There were no more fancy coffees waiting in her locker. There were no more midnight texts checking if she had taken her magnesium for muscle recovery. When she dropped her water bottle during a shooting drill, you didn't scramble to pick it up; you simply stepped around it with a polite, "Careful there" and kept running.
You were polite. You were professional. You were a teammate.
And Alexia found herself slowly losing her absolute mind.
The privilege of being adored had become so woven into the fabric of her routine that its sudden removal felt like oxygen being slowly sucked out of an airtight room. She caught herself waiting for you to crack, waiting for the heavy sigh, the fond eye-roll, the inevitable softening where you would cave and bring her a towel.
You never caved. You were terrifyingly, consistently fine.
Football clubs are breeding grounds for chaos, gossip, and opportunistic flirtation, especially when a new transfer window brings fresh talent into the orbit of a powerhouse like Barcelona.
Her name was Louise. She was a twenty-six o-year-old French winger signed from Lyon, fast, flashy, entirely unapologetic, and possessed of a radiant, chaotic energy that could light up a room. She also had zero filter and an immediate, laser-focused fixation on you.
It started innocently enough during a recovery session in the gym. Louise, stretching her hamstrings near the resistance machines, struck up a conversation about tactical positioning, her English laced with a thick, charming accent. You laughed at one of her dry observations, leaning against the rack.
Across the gym floor, Alexia was doing core work on a stability ball. Her eyes were supposed to be fixed on her trainer, but her gaze kept darting magnetically toward your corner.
She saw Louise lean in close to your shoulder, whispering something that made you throw your head back and laugh—a genuine, melodic laugh that Alexia hadn't heard directed at her in months. She saw Lou’s hand lightly, lingeringly brush against your forearm.
And she saw you smile back. Not politely. Warmly.
A cold, vicious spike of jealousy ripped through Alexia’s ribs, so sharp and violent that she lost her balance on the stability ball, tumbling backward onto the rubber mat with an undignified thump.
"Everything alright, captain?" Pere asked, rushing over.
"I'm fine” Alexia hissed, shoving herself up off the floor, her dark eyes burning with an incandescent rage as she glared across the gym.
You weren't stupid. You knew Louise was laying it on thick, and you knew exactly what effect it was having on the woman standing forty feet away. You didn't feel any real romantic interest in Louise, your heart was still a bruised, stubborn landscape but after weeks of being treated like an annoyance, watching Alexia unravel from afar offered a dark, intoxicating validation.
So, when Louise leaned over the lunch table two days later and asked if you wanted to grab coffee in El Born after the afternoon tactical meeting, you didn't hesitate.
"I’d love to, Lou” you said clearly, making sure your voice carried just far enough across the canteen. "I'm completely free."
Lou flashed a brilliant, triumphant smile, reaching across the table to tap her fingers against your knuckles.
At the captain's table, the sound of Alexia’s fork snapping cleanly against her ceramic plate echoed in the sudden silence of the dining hall.
From that afternoon onward, Alexia stopped trying to pretend she was unaffected. The veneer of captainly composure melted away, replaced by a bitter, prickly hostility. She became short-tempered with the coaching staff, hyper-critical of the ball movement during drills, and outright mean whenever she had to interact with you.
"Can you actually run this time, or are you too distracted by your little French lady?" Alexia muttered loud enough for you to hear as you jogged back into position during a tactical walkthrough.
You didn't blink. You didn't offer a meek apology. You simply turned your head, looked her dead in the eyes with a chilling, utter blankness, and said, "Mind your spacing, captain. You're out of position and let me play."
Alexia looked like she wanted to physically lunge across the grass and throttle you.
The tipping point arrived on a rainy Thursday morning in late spring. A completely fabricated, absurd gossip item began circulating through the lower-tier Spanish sports blogs and filtered into the squad's group chats: FC Barcelona Femení star forward spotted holding hands with new signing in the Mercadona; rumored relationship blossoming.
It was entirely false. You had gone to that supermarket (the nearest from your house) to buy coffee beans and some oat milk, and Louise had merely bumped into you on the pavement and walked three blocks with you under an umbrella because it was raining.
But by the time it reached the locker room, it had mutated into a full-scale romance.
Alexia walked into the room ten minutes before team meeting, her face pale, her jaw clenched so tight the muscles flickered. She dropped her kit bag onto her bench with a force that rattled the metal lockers.
"Is it true?" she blurted out before she could stop herself, her voice shaking with an ugly mix of grief, humiliation, and furious possessiveness.
You were sitting on your bench, calmly pulling your boots on. You looked up slowly. "Is what true?"
"Don't play games with me" Alexia snarled, taking a step toward your bench, her chest heaving. "The whole club is talking. You and Louise. Are you actually dating her?"
The sheer hypocrisy of it hung in the air like tear gas. Alexia, who had spent months pushing you away, treating your devotion like a disease, and reminding you at every turn that you were just teammates was standing here looking like a betrayed lover.
You let out a quiet, humorless scoff. "What I do outside of training hours is none of your business, Alexia. We’re just teammates, remember? You made that crystal clear."
"That's different!" Alexia shouted, the word tearing out of her throat, drawing the startled eyes of every player in the room. "You can't just... you can't just be with someone else!"
"Excuse me?" you said softly, standing up to your full height, your brown eyes locked onto hers, steady and unyielding. "You don't get to dictate who I care about anymore. You gave up that privilege a long time ago."
Alexia’s face drained of what little color it had left. She looked shattered, her lower lip trembling slightly before her defensive walls slammed back down with brutal force. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you want. I don't care."
She spun on her heel and stormed out of the locker room, slamming the door so hard the glass pane rattled in its frame.
The training session that followed was a disaster of epic, catastrophic proportions.
Karma, or the football gods, or simply the dizzying weight of human misery, decided to collect its debts from Alexia Putellas that afternoon. From the very first whistle, nothing went right for her. Her first touch deserted her; her trademark diagonal passes sailed harmlessly out of bounds; her defensive timing was half a second too slow.
Every mistake compounded her frustration, turning her into a live wire of raw, jagged nerves.
And you didn't look at her. Not once. When she blew a simple possession in the central channel, you didn't cover for her; you let Mapi win the ball cleanly, forcing Alexia to chase leather.
During a high-intensity small-sided game thirty minutes into the session, the inevitable occurred. Alexia charged out to close down a loose ball, her studs catching awkwardly in a damp patch of turf just as she pivoted.
A sickening, muffled pop echoed across the grass, followed instantly by a sharp, agonizing scream that made the entire pitch freeze dead in its tracks.
"Stop! Stop training!" the coach bellowed, blowing his whistle frantically.
Players converged on the spot instantly. Alexia was down on her right side, clutching her right ankle, her face buried in the damp grass, her shoulders shaking with stifled, white-hot pain.
You stood ten yards away, your heart doing a terrifying, violent freefall into your stomach. Every instinct, four years of muscle memory, of unconditional devotion, of loving her above all else screamed at you to run to her, to drop to your knees, to cradle her head.
You forced your feet to stay planted in the mud. You swallowed the lump in your throat, folded your arms across your chest, and forced your expression into a neutral, detached mask.
She's just a teammate, you told yourself, a hollow lie tasting like ash on your tongue. Let the medical staff handle it.
-
They get her up eventually, one arm slung over a physio's shoulders, ankle already swelling visibly above her sock, and half-carry her off toward the medical room while training limps on around the gap she's left in it. You go back to the drill. Your finishing, again, is vicious and precise, and this time you know exactly why.
It's forty minutes later, showered and changed, gear bag over your shoulder, that you overhear it two of the physio staff, talking near the equipment room, not bothering to lower their voices because they don't think anyone's listening.
"…can't drive herself home like that, obviously, someone'll have to take her "
"Isn't her sister meant to be picking her up? Or Vicky?"
"Vicky's already gone, she had that appearance thing. And apparently, she doesn't want to call her sister, doesn't want to worry her " a small, exasperated laugh. "She's being very Alexia about the whole thing. Says she'll get a taxi. On a sprained ankle. In this weather."
You stand very still in the corridor, gear bag digging into your shoulder, and you think: everyone's gone. It's just me left in the building. She's going to end up alone in a taxi with a swollen ankle rather than ask.
And underneath that thought, quieter, truer: of course she won't ask me. Not after everything.
You know, with the particular clarity of someone who has spent two years learning a person's every stubborn edge, exactly what's happening in that medical room right now. Alexia, jaw set, insisting she's fine, insisting a taxi will be fine, because the alternative turning to you, the person she pushed away, the person she's spent three weeks being cold and sharp with is apparently a worse prospect to her than travelling home in agony with strangers.
You think about walking away. You think about it seriously, for about four seconds, standing there with your keys already half out of your pocket. Three weeks of hard-won distance, and here's the exact moment it would be easiest to protect, to let her sit in a taxi and be stubborn and prove some point to herself about not needing you.
But love doesn't leave just because you've asked it to behave for three weeks. You know this now in a way you only half-knew it before. It's still there, underneath all the careful coldness, patient and stupid and entirely undiminished, and it doesn't care what she said to you in the corridor five weeks ago. It just wants her to get home safely.
You go and find the team doctor first, not Alexia, you're not ready to face her yet, not without a plan.
"How's Alexia doing?" you ask, keeping your voice carefully casual, the tone of someone asking after any teammate.
He glances up from his clipboard. "Grade two sprain, could've been worse. She'll be in a boot for a couple of weeks. She's a bit sore and a lot stubborn, honestly, insisting on getting herself home, which is a terrible idea, but you know how she is." A small, tired smile. "She's through in the changing room now, getting dressed. Everyone else has already left, unfortunately."
"Right” you say. "Thanks."
You don't ask permission for what you do next. You go to the bench where Alexia's things always sit you know the spot without thinking, three weeks of distance hasn't erased two years of habit and you pick up her gear bag, and then, because you spot them sitting on top with her wallet, you pick up her car keys too.
You find her in the changing room, alone, sitting on the bench in her training kit with one boot off and the other leg propped up, her ankle already strapped and swollen, wincing every time she shifts her weight even slightly. Her hair's come loose from its bun. She looks, for the first time since you've known her, genuinely fragile, and something in your chest twists so hard it's almost painful.
She sees you in the doorway with her bag over your shoulder and her keys in your hand, and her whole face does something complicated surprise, then a flare of something defensive, then, underneath both, the faintest, most reluctant flicker of relief that she immediately tries to smother.
"I don't need you to do this” she says, before you've even said anything. Straight into it, the way she always does when she's trying to protect herself from something. "I've already called a taxi."
"You haven't” you say, calmly. "You've been sitting here for ten minutes arguing with the doctor about whether you need one."
"That's not…" she stops, flustered, because apparently that's exactly what happened. "It doesn't matter. I don't need you driving me home, Y/N. I'm perfectly capable of …"
"Of what? Hopping in a taxi with a sprained ankle in the rain?" You keep your voice even, not unkind, just factual. "I've got your bag. I've got your keys. I'm parked next to you, same as always. It's not a favour, Alexia, it's just getting you home. That's all it is."
"I don't want your help” she says, and her voice wavers slightly on want, betraying something underneath the stubbornness not dislike, you realise, but fear, the fear of needing something from someone she pushed away, the fear of what accepting might mean about everything she said five weeks ago.
"I know you don't want to need it” you say, gently. "But you do. So, let's not make this a whole thing. Come on."
She opens her mouth, you can see the argument forming, can see her gathering herself for one more round of insisting she's fine, that she doesn't need you, that she'd rather sit in pain than accept help from the person she hurt and you know, with sudden, weary certainty, that if you let her finish that sentence you're going to be standing in this changing room for another twenty minutes while she talks herself into a taxi purely out of pride.
So you don't let her finish it.
You cross the room, set her bag down, and before she's got more than half a syllable out, you lean down and kiss her.
It's quick barely two seconds, soft and sure and entirely without permission but it's enough to short-circuit whatever speech she'd been building, enough that when you pull back, she's just sitting there, boot half-on, mouth slightly open, staring up at you with an expression of such total, blank astonishment that you'd laugh if you weren't half-terrified of what you've just done.
You don't say anything. You'd meant to have something ready some explanation, some sorry, I shouldn't have, ignore that but looking at her face, dazed and open in a way you've genuinely never seen it, the words dissolve before you can use them. So instead, you just crouch down, sling her good arm over your shoulders, and say, "Right. Up you get. Careful of the ankle” as though you haven't just detonated something enormous between you.
She lets you help her up. That's the tell, really Alexia Putellas, who has spent weeks bristling at every offer of help you haven't made, who fought you on this exact thing forty seconds ago, goes utterly compliant, letting you take most of her weight, hopping awkwardly toward the door with an expression still fixed somewhere between shell-shock and something dazzled underneath it.
She doesn't say a word the whole way to the car park. Doesn't argue, doesn't insist, doesn't do any of the things Alexia Putellas usually does. She just leans into you, quiet, and every few seconds you catch her glancing sideways at your mouth like she's trying to work out whether the last two minutes actually happened.
You can't help it, the sight of her, the most stubborn woman you have ever met in your life, absolutely stunned into silence by one two-second kiss (well really was a litte peck) was too much, and a laugh escapes you before you can stop it, low and delighted.
"What” Alexia says, immediately defensive, though there's no real heat in it, just a kind of flustered scramble to reclaim some dignity. "What's funny."
"Nothing” you say, still smiling, guiding her toward the passenger side of her own car. "You've just got a very specific face on right now, so pouty."
"I do not have a face and I’m not pouty right now."
"You've absolutely got that face." You open the door for her, help her ease down into the seat, careful of her ankle, and she's still watching you with that same stunned, unmoored expression, cheeks gone pink, and you have to look away before you laugh again, because if you start properly laughing you might not stop, might end up crying instead, from relief or nerves or the enormous, terrifying hope suddenly unspooling in your chest.
You get her home. It's a quiet drive she doesn't say much, keeps stealing glances at you at red lights, and you keep your eyes very determinedly on the road, driving her own car with a peculiar, tender care, like the vehicle itself is something precious now simply by association.
Her flat is warm and a little too tidy, the way places get when someone spends more time on the training ground than at home. You get her settled on the sofa, prop her ankle up on a cushion the way the physio instructed, fetch her an ice pack from the freezer without needing to be told where it is old habits, you think, a little wryly, they don't actually go anywhere, they were just waiting.
By the time you've got her sorted, some of the shock has worn off her, replaced by something more like her usual self, though softer round the edges, less armoured. She watches you move around her kitchen with an expression you can't quite read.
"You kissed me” she says, eventually, like she's still confirming it happened, still testing the words in her own mouth.
"I did” you say, not turning around, focused very hard on filling a glass of water for her.
"Why?"
"Because you were about to spend twenty minutes arguing yourself into a car for pure stubbornness, and I didn't have the patience for it." You bring the water over, hand it to her, and finally let yourself meet her eyes. "Also, because I've wanted to for about two years and I'm tired."
Something in her face crumples, just slightly, at that’s not sadness exactly, something more complicated, guilt and hope tangled together.
"I'm hungry” she says instead, abruptly, which startles a small laugh out of you, because of course, of course this is how Alexia Putellas processes an enormous emotional confrontation by changing the subject to food, the same as she always has, the same stubborn, deflecting, utterly familiar version of her you've loved for two years.
"Alright” you say, easily, letting her have the deflection because you know her well enough to know she needs a minute. "What do you want?"
"I don't know. Something easy." She shifts on the sofa, wincing slightly at her ankle, and then looks up at you from underneath her lashes with an expression so deliberately pathetic, so exaggeratedly wounded, that you nearly laugh again the full puppy-dog routine, bottom lip very faintly out, eyes huge, the look she gives referees when she wants a foul given.
"What” you say, amused, "is that face for?"
"Nothing” she says, entirely unconvincingly. "I just my ankle hurts. And I'm cold. And you're just standing there so huggable."
"You want a hug."
"I didn't say that."
"You absolutely did say that, with your face and “huggable”" But you're already crossing the room, already lowering yourself onto the sofa beside her, careful of the propped ankle, and she doesn't hesitate at all just leans straight into you, tucks herself against your side like she's been doing it for years instead of never once before tonight, her head finding your shoulder with an ease that undoes something in your chest completely.
You wrap an arm around her carefully, mindful of her, and for a moment neither of you says anything. The flat is quiet. Somewhere outside, the rain that's been threatening all evening finally starts, soft against the windows.
"I'm sorry” Alexia says, into your shoulder, so quietly you nearly miss it. "For what I said. In the corridor. I didn't mean it the way it, I panicked. You were so… you were always doing so much for me, and I didn't know what to do with it, and I said the cruellest thing I could think of because it felt safer than admitting I liked it."
"I know” you say, softly, and you find you mean it the anger of the last five weeks has drained out of you somewhere between the medical room and this sofa, leaving only the old, patient love underneath, still there, exactly where you left it.
"And then you stopped” she goes on, voice small. "Doing all of it. The coffee, and everything. And I hated it. I hated it so much, Y/N, I didn't understand why it felt like losing something when I was the one who said I only wanted a friend."
"Because you didn't actually want a friend” you say, gently. "You wanted someone to love you the way I do, without having to call it that. And I couldn't keep doing it once you said what you said. It would've broken something in me."
She's quiet for a moment, and when she lifts her head to look at you, her eyes are shining, overbright, and there's none of the armour left in her face at all.
"I don't want to just be friends” she says, low, almost frightened by her own honesty. "I never wanted that. I don't know why I said it."
"I know why” you say. "You've said it yourself. Panic."
"Can I " She stops, swallows, tries again. "Can I kiss you properly? You only gave me about two seconds earlier and I've been thinking about it for the last forty minutes and I want to actually"
You don't let her finish that sentence either. You lean in and she meets you halfway, and this time there's nothing quick about it, this time it's slow, and soft, and certain, her hand coming up to rest against your jaw like she's making sure you're really there, and you feel something in your chest that's been clenched tight for five weeks finally, finally let go.
When you break apart she's smiling, properly smiling, the kind you haven't seen from her in weeks, unguarded and a little disbelieving, like she still can't quite work out how she got here.
"So” she says, a little breathless, "friends don't do that."
"No” you agree, smiling back at her, brushing a strand of hair off her face with a tenderness you've been rationing for five weeks and are no longer interested in rationing. "They really don't."
"Good” Alexia says, decisively, settling back against your shoulder with the satisfied air of someone who has just won an argument she started against herself. "Because I'm done with just being friends. I want the coffee. And the water bottles. And you carrying my bag through airports even though I do, in fact, have arms."
"You'll have to ask nicely maybe bribe me with a kiss or two."
"I'll ask however I like” she says, but she's laughing now, soft and warm against your shoulder, and outside the rain keeps falling, gentle against the windows, and inside, finally, everything that's been circling for two years settles quietly into place, the way the truest things always do not with fireworks, but with an ordinary evening, an ice pack, a bad joke about arms, and a girl who has finally stopped pretending she didn't want to be loved exactly the way you'd always loved her.
You order food eventually, something easy, like she asked for, pasta from the place two streets over that she likes and you eat it curled together on the sofa with her ankle propped on a pillow between you, and she keeps stealing glances at you between bites like she's checking you're still there, and every time you catch her doing it she goes faintly pink and pretends to be very interested in her food instead.
"I'm going to be insufferable now” she warns you, later, when the food's gone and the rain's settled into something steady and comfortable outside. "I'm going to want the coffee every single morning and your hugs and kisses and everything."
"I know, I want some kisses and hugs too. It´s what I expect when I’m dating someone."
"And I'm going to expect you to still jump in front of footballs for me."
"You always did expect that. You just weren't going to admit you liked it."
She goes quiet at that, thoughtful, tracing an absent pattern against your knuckles where your hand rests over hers. "I liked all of it” she admits, finally, so quietly it's almost lost under the rain. "I liked it so much I didn't know what to do with myself. It felt like too much. Like I didn't deserve someone loving me so carefully, so I pushed it away before I could ruin it myself."
"You didn't ruin it” you say. "You're here. I'm here. The ankle's the only casualty."
That gets a proper laugh out of her, surprised and bright, and she tips her head back against your shoulder, eyes closing, entirely at ease in a way you've genuinely never seen her before, not on the pitch, not in the dressing room, not anywhere. Just soft, and certain, and yours, finally, the way you'd quietly hoped she might be for two long years of coffee and stray footballs and a love you never once needed her to notice, because you knew, somewhere underneath all the patience, that eventually one way or another, whether by injury or stubborn
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Summary: Securing a massive contract to supply the flowers for FC Barcelona’s women’s football team was supposed to be strictly business. But as the football season unfolds, the quiet routine of your flower shop is entirely upended by the unexpected, frequent visits from some of the team’s top players, especially a certain regular named Alexia.
Word count: 15,4 k
(it's a slow burn)
The heavy summer heat of Barcelona hung thick and sticky over the avenues, but inside Floristeria Arrels, the air was a cool, damp sanctuary smelling faintly of crushed green stems and wet earth.
You stood behind the wide zinc counter, your hair pulled back with a simple green silk ribbon, your eyes scanning the terrifying financial spreadsheet on your screen. Your family’s shop was a neighborhood staple, a shaded haven of high ceilings and weathered stone walls, where zinc and wooden buckets overflowed with seasonal blooms. But over the last year, keeping the doors open had become a grueling uphill battle. The neighborhood was changing, rent was skyrocketing, and the independent budget your father had run for decades was stretched to its absolute limit.
“Y/N! The heavy lifting is for the youth, and you are wasting the prime of your twenties staring at a glowing rectangle!”
You turned around, an amused smile breaking across your face. Your father was leaning against a stack of ceramic pots, holding a pair of rusted pruning shears like a scepter. He was seventy-two, stubborn to a fault, and supposedly retired.
“Papa, I am twenty-seven, and I am technically the owner,” you reminded him gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with your dark green apron. “And you aren’t supposed to be lifting anything either. Where are the boys?”
“Your brothers are married men with responsibilities, apparently,” your father scoffed, though there was a deep warmth in his eyes. “Which means they dropped off the kids and fled the manual labor.”
Right on cue, an eight-year-old boy burst through the back-room door, brandishing a plastic dinosaur. “Tia Y/N! Leo says that if I eat a marigold, I’ll turn into a dragon. Is that true?”
“No, Lucas, and please don’t eat the stock,” you laughed, catching him by the shoulders before he could collide with a massive vase of hydrangeas.
This shop was your entire life. When your mother passed away, your father had been ready to close the doors forever. Your older brothers, both established in their own careers, hadn't cared enough to step in. But you couldn’t let it go. You had spent your childhood doing homework on the overturned wooden crates in the back. You had a business degree now, sure, but your heart belonged to the flowers. You had a terrible habit of wanting to save everything: drooping ferns, stray cats, and your family’s heritage.
Which was exactly why the official letter sitting next to your keyboard felt like a literal lifeline. Floristeria Arrels had just been awarded an exclusive, year-long corporate contract with FC Barcelona to provide all floral styling for the VIP boxes, the presidential suites, and the official club events. Today was your very first task: delivering the massive centerpieces for the welcoming lunch for new signings at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper training complex.
“Wish me luck,” you muttered, lifting a massive, intricately designed ceramic vase filled with vibrant tropical greenery and striking orange bursts.
“Don’t trip over your own feet,” your father called out. “You have your mother’s eyes, but you inherited my coordination. God help the football club.”
The media lounge at the sports complex was a chaotic blur of activity. Journalists were setting up heavy tripods, PR representatives were speaking rapidly into headsets, and caterers were bustling past with silver trays.
You felt entirely out of your depth. You were dressed in a simple linen dress, your hands slightly damp, carrying a floral arrangement that weighed nearly fifteen kilos.
“Right on the center glass table, please,” a stressed-looking woman in a club blazer directed, pointing toward the middle of the room.
You nodded, taking careful, deliberate steps. Do not trip. Do not drop the five-hundred-euro vase.
Naturally, just as you reached the table, your sandal caught on a thick, stray television camera cable.
You gasped, your balance tilting dangerously forward. The heavy ceramic vase slipped from your grip, tilting at an angle that promised a catastrophic, public shatter against the glass table. You braced yourself for the impact and the humiliation.
It didn’t come.
Instead, a pair of strong, athletic hands shot out from the side, catching the base of the heavy ceramic vase with incredible, lightning-fast reflexes. A firm shoulder brushed against yours, steadying your stance before you could go down with it.
“I’ve got it,” a calm voice said. “Steady.”
You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You looked up, and your breath caught all over again.
Standing right there, holding the weight of the vase effortlessly, was Alexia Putellas. The captain of FC Barcelona was wearing a crisp white club polo shirt, her hazel-brown eyes looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. Away from the flashing stadium cameras, she possessed an effortless, commanding presence that made your stomach do a strange, fluttery flip.
“Are you okay?” Alexia asked, easily shifting the heavy vase onto the center of the table.
“I… yes. Yes, thank you,” you stammered, your cheeks burning a sudden, bright crimson as you smoothed down your apron. “I’m so sorry. I’m incredibly clumsy. It’s a family trait.”
Alexia let out a soft, warm laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Good reflexes are part of the job description around here.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting over the striking arrangement. “Wow. Did you make this? It’s beautiful.”
“I did,” you said, your voice growing steadier as you returned to a subject you actually understood. A quiet confidence took over your posture. “I’m Y/N. My shop is doing the arrangements for the club this season. I wanted to make sure the workspace felt right.”
“Well, Y/N,” Alexia said, extending a hand. You took it, noting how warm and firm her grip was, her skin slightly rough from training. Her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a sharp look of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the florist behind the contract to possess such a calm, grounded energy. “The club’s flowers used to look like they were bought from a petrol station at the last minute. What are these orange ones?”
“They’re Alstroemeria,” you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, knowledgeable register as you looked from the blooms back to her eyes. “Peruvian Lilies.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Alexia asked, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing her arms. She looked genuinely interested, the guarded, professional mask she usually wore for the media completely dissolving.
“They do,” you said, a soft, passionate light entering your hazel eyes. “In the old language of flowers, they don't represent flashy, temporary success. They symbolise mutual support, devotion, and endurance. Because the petals grow in a tight, resilient cluster before opening up spectacularly, it represents a strong bond that can withstand trials. I thought... well, for a long, grueling season where you have to hold everything together under pressure, the team lounge needed something that represents standing firm. Not a standard rose that withers in a week.”
Alexia stared at the orange petals for a long moment, the playful look fading into a profound, quiet stillness. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely capturing you in the busy room.
“Mutual support and endurance,” Alexia repeated quietly, her voice carrying an unspoken weight that sent a sudden rush of heat straight down your spine. A genuine, incredibly soft smile broke across her face. “I think you’re exactly right. We could use a bit of that magic this year.”
A PR coordinator suddenly shouted from across the room. “Alexia! We need you for the photos with the new signings!”
“Coming!” Alexia called back. She turned back to you, her hazel-brown eyes lingering a little longer than necessary on your face. “It was nice to meet you, flower girl. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot more of your work around here.”
“Nice to meet you too Alexia,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The August humidity in Barcelona was a different beast entirely. It turned the city into a slow-moving oven, forcing everyone to seek the mercy of blasting air conditioning or the dense shade of old stone alleys. Inside Floristeria Arrels, the fans hummed a steady rhythm, circulating the comforting scent of damp soil, fresh eucalyptus, and sweet jasmine.
You were standing behind the long zinc counter, carefully binding a bundle of vibrant, spear-like stalks together with twine. Your hair was pinned up haphazardly with a claw clip to keep it off your neck, a few stray strands framing your face as you focused.
“Tia! Tia, look! I made a fortress!”
You looked up to see your nephew, Lucas, sitting on an upturned wooden crate in the corner. He had successfully built a barricade around himself using empty terracotta pots and plastic plant markers.
“That’s a very impressive fortress, Lucas,” you said, offering a warm smile. “But if any of those pots break, your grandpa is going to make you sweep the entire sidewalk.”
“Grandpa is asleep in the back,” Lucas whispered conspiratorially, pointing a plastic dinosaur toward the break room door. “He won't know.”
“I hear everything, you little monster!” your father’s booming voice echoed from the back room, making Lucas giggle and dive behind his ceramic wall.
You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you. This was your daily reality, always chaotic, loud, but grounding. You had been running the shop full-time since your mother passed, balancing the books, managing deliveries, and dealing with a family that treated the retail space like an extended living room.
The brass bell above the front door chimed, cutting through the hum of the fans.
“Welcome to…” You started to look up, wiping your hands on your apron, but the words caught in your throat.
Two tall, athletic women walked into the shop. They were wearing casual athletic gear: shorts, slides, and training shirts that bore the unmistakable crest of FC Barcelona. You recognized them instantly from the sports pages your nephews always left lying around. It was Patri Guijarro and Kika Nazareth.
“Hola,” Patri said, offering a friendly, easygoing wave as she looked around the lush, green interior. “Wow, it really does smell amazing in here. Alexia mentioned your shop has a reputation for the good stuff.”
Your heart did a tiny, unexpected skip at the mention of the captain’s name. You hadn’t seen Alexia since that breathless encounter in July, though you had thought about her crisp white polo shirt and those warm, hazel eyes far more than a vendor should.
“Hola,” you replied, leaning against the counter and offering your best welcoming smile. “Welcome! What can I help you find today?”
Kika wandered over to a display of ferns, poking a frond curiously. “We need something for the locker room. The Joan Gamper Trophy match is coming up, the season is officially starting, and the old fake ivy we had in there looks like it died in 1998.”
“And it’s depressing,” Patri added, walking up to the counter. She looked at you, her eyes narrowing slightly in realization. “So... you’re the famous florist who almost crushed our captain with a ceramic vase last month.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable pink. You instinctively tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Word travels fast, apparently. Yes, that was me. My clumsiness precedes me.”
Patri burst into a hearty laugh. “She told us the new florist looked like a classic Hollywood movie star but had the coordination of a newborn giraffe. I see she was right about both.”
Before you could process the movie star comment or the fact that Alexia Putellas had been describing your appearance to her teammates, Lucas popped his head out from behind his terracotta fortress.
“My tia is not a giraffe!” Lucas announced loudly, pointing his plastic T-Rex at Patri. “She just trips over things because she looks at flowers instead of her feet!”
Kika let out a delighted wheeze, immediately abandoning the ferns to walk over to Lucas's fort. “Who is this? The bodyguard?”
“I’m Lucas,” he said proudly. “And this is my fortress.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m Kika,” she said, crouching down to be at eye level with him, completely charmed. “Do you think your fortress could survive a dinosaur attack?”
While Kika distracted your nephew, Patri turned back to you, an amused smirk on her face. “Anyway. We need something hardy. Something that can survive twenty-five footballers celebrating a win, or a lot of steam from the showers.”
You cleared your throat, grateful to focus on your craft rather than your burning face. You reached behind you, tapping one of the tall, striking stalks you had been binding earlier. They were lined with brilliant, trumpet-shaped blossoms that shot upward like spikes.
“For a locker room at the start of the season? You want Gladiolus,” you said, your voice growing confident and passionate as you spoke about the blooms.
Patri tilted her head, inspecting the tall stalks. “Gladiolus? Why those?”
“The name comes from the Latin word gladius, which means sword,” you explained, looking into Patri’s eyes. “Because of their shape, they historically symbolize strength, moral integrity, and preparedness. They’re a warrior’s flower. They don’t look delicate; they look like they’re ready for a challenge.”
Patri stared at the flowers, then looked back at you, thoroughly impressed. “A warrior’s flower. Damn. That’s actually perfect for us.” She turned her head. “Hey, Kika! We’re getting the sword flowers!”
“Get the sword flowers!” Kika called back, currently engrossed in a fierce dinosaur battle with Lucas on the floor.
“We’ll take a big arrangement of those for the lockers,” Patri said, pulling out her phone. “Oh, and before I forget…” She tapped her screen. “Our ex-teammate, Ingrid, texted me. She’s currently playing over in France for Lyon, so being long-distance with Mapi is tough. She wants to set up a regular ‘just because’ delivery to surprise Mapi here in Barcelona since she can’t exactly hand her a bouquet herself. Can I leave the details with you?”
“Of course,” you said, pulling out your order book and grabbing a pen. “I can take Mapi’s address down now, and Ingrid can just text the shop’s business line directly for any future updates. We handle a lot of our long-distance accounts that way.”
“Perfect. I’ll pass the shop’s number along to her,” Patri said, forwarding the contact information. “She wants to set up a steady routine so Mapi gets fresh flowers sent to her place every week.”
“I understand. It’s a hectic calendar for both of them,” you noted practically, jotting down Mapi's Barcelona delivery address in the logbook. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it on a strict schedule so the quality stays consistent every Monday morning.”
Patri smiled, watching your efficient handwriting. “Appreciate it. You run a tight ship here.” She capped her phone and leaned against the counter, casual again. “By the way, Alexia wanted to come today to see the shop, but she got stuck in a late tactical meeting with the coach.”
You tried to keep your hand steady as you shut the logbook, but a tiny flutter in your chest betrayed you. “Oh? Well, she's a very busy woman.”
“She is,” Patri murmured, a knowing, slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. “But she was pretty disappointed she missed the trip. She mentioned she wanted to see what the place looked like.”
You offered a polite, professional smile, though the warmth in your face gave you away. “Well, tell her she’s welcome anytime. Hopefully, I won’t drop anything on her next time.”
“I’ll tell her,” Patri winked.
Ten minutes later, after Kika officially declared a truce with Lucas and promised to bring him a Barça sticker next time, the two players left the shop, carrying a smaller starter plant Patri had insisted on buying for her own kitchen.
As the brass bell chimed shut, the shop fell quiet again. You looked over at the tall, proud stalks of the gladiolus sitting on your counter. A warrior's flower.
Your phone on the counter suddenly buzzed with a notification: a new message from a French country code, displaying a profile picture of Ingrid Engen and Mapi León laughing together in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Hi! Patri gave me your number. I’m Ingrid. Can we set up that weekly delivery for Mapi? I want her to have fresh flowers every Monday morning so her week starts right, even if I’m not there to make her coffee.
You smiled, typing back a swift, professional confirmation.
September brought the start of the UEFA Women’s Champions League group stages and the frantic pace of the Liga F kickoff. For the club, it was a high-stakes whirlwind. For your shop, it meant a steady, thrilling influx of business. You had spent the last two weeks coordinating with the club’s PR department for press room backdrops, but your favorite order of the week had quickly become Ingrid’s Monday morning delivery for Mapi.
She relied completely on you to be her hands and eyes in Barcelona. She would send quick, excited messages from France: Mapi had a really tough match, can we do something super bright today? or It’s our anniversary next week, let’s go all out! You took immense pride in nailing every detail, making sure the long-distance deliveries were flawless. It was a massive account for your shop, and you were determined to keep it perfect.
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when the brass bell above the door chimed. You were sitting on a stool behind the counter, sketching a new layout for the autumn window display.
You looked up, expecting to see your father or one of your weekly dinner friends. Instead, your heart did a violent, sudden stutter against your ribs.
Alexia Putellas walked in.
She wasn’t in her training kit this time. She wore a casual, oversized black blazer over a simple white tee, dark jeans, and her hair was down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She looked effortlessly chic, but as she walked closer to the counter, you noticed the slight tension in her jaw and the faint dark circles under her hazel eyes. The weight of being the captain during a demanding triple-match week was clearly taking its toll.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low. A small, genuine smile broke through her tired expression as her eyes met yours.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied, giving her a warm smile, though you secretly hoped she couldn’t hear the frantic pacing of your heart. You leaned on the counter, looking at her with all the soft, classic warmth of someone completely at home in her own space, even if you currently had a stray piece of green floral tape stuck to your wrist. “What brings you into my jungle today? I thought Patri and Kika were the designated team shoppers.”
Alexia let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning against the counter just a few inches away from you. “They wish. But this isn’t a club order. This one is personal.” She shifted her weight, a subtle shadow passing over her features. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to get her something... special. Something elegant, but bold.”
A sudden, sharp pang twisted in your chest. It was an annoying, unwelcome feeling, and it caught you entirely off guard. Of course she has a girlfriend, you scolded yourself internally. She’s Alexia Putellas.
Brushing the feeling aside, you instantly locked into your professional element. You wanted to make sure the club captain walked out with something spectacular that represented your shop well.
“I can absolutely help with that,” you said, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing for her to follow you over to the refrigerated display of premium imports. “Tell me a bit more about her style. Is she minimalist, or does she like drama?”
“Drama,” Alexia said instantly, standing close behind you as you slid open the glass doors. The cool, flower-scented air rushed out. “She likes things that look striking. Memorable.”
Your eyes scanned the shelves, bypassing the soft pastel roses and the delicate lilies. Then, you spotted them. Tucked in a protected, chilled bucket were a few pristine, heavy stems with deep crimson and burgundy blooms, their paper-thin petals arranged in tight, heavy, perfectly symmetrical layers. They looked like velvet.
“Burgundy Ranunculus,” you murmured, reaching in to gently pull a stem out.
Alexia leaned in, looking over your shoulder. You could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, something woody and expensive, and it made your breath catch. “They’re stunning,” Alexia whispered, her eyes tracking the rich, dark petals. “What do they mean? Patri told me you’re really a walking encyclopedia for flower language.”
You turned your head slightly, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia's face. Her hazel eyes were locked onto yours, waiting.
“They’re incredibly unique because of how they grow, they start as these tight, guarded little buds, and then they slowly unfold into these massive, complex masterpieces,” you explained quietly, your voice dropping a register in the quiet space. “In the traditional language of flowers, they don’t represent a loud, flashy confession. They symbolize radiant charm and complete captivation. Sending them to someone means: I am completely dazzled by your light. It’s a sophisticated kind of devotion. It says that even in the biggest crowd, they’re the most brilliant thing you see.”
For a long moment, Alexia didn’t say anything. She just stared at the burgundy ranunculus in your hand, her expression unreadable. There was a strange, distant look in her eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic nature of the bouquet she was buying.
“Radiant charm,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up, her gaze lingering on your face, taking in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnestness in your hazel eyes. She cleared her throat, a polite smile stretching across her lips. “Yes. Let’s do those. A large bouquet of those, please.”
“You got it,” you said, giving her a reassuring nod.
You walked back to the workstation and began to craft the arrangement. You spent twenty minutes meticulously layering the ranunculus with textured sprigs of frosted eucalyptus and delicate, dark foliage to let the deep jewel tones pop. You used thick, luxurious black paper and tied it with a heavy silk ribbon, ensuring it looked flawless.
Alexia watched you the entire time, her chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the counter. She didn’t look at her phone once. She just watched your hands move with practiced grace.
“You’re very good at this, flower girl,” she said softly as you snipped the ends of the ribbon.
“I grew up doing it,” you smiled, looking up. “My mom taught me how to find the rhythm in the flowers. When she passed, it felt right to step in and keep the business going. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.”
Alexia’s expression softened completely, a look of profound respect crossing her face. “It shows. Your family must be very proud of what you’re doing here.”
“They mostly just like the free flower arrangements for Sunday dinners,” you joked, breaking the heavy emotional air with your usual self-deprecating humor.
You handed the massive, stunning bouquet over the counter. Alexia took it, her fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second. A jolt of warmth shot up your arm, and by the look in Alexia’s eyes, she felt it too.
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia said, holding the bouquet carefully. She tapped her card to pay, giving you one last, lingering look before she headed to the door. “Wish me luck for the match on Thursday.”
“Good luck, Ale,” you called out. “Bring back a win.”
As the brass bell chimed her departure, you let out a long, shaky breath, sinking onto your stool. You looked at the empty space where the red camellias had been. You had just made the perfect, romantic bouquet for another woman to receive from Alexia Putellas.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. It was a message from Ingrid in Lyon.
Hey! Mapi loved the Monday bouquet, she literally cried. You’re an angel! Sending you a massive hug from France!
You smiled, typing back a professional, sweet reply. Your shop was successfully handling everything from long-distance love to the club captain’s relationships. But as you looked out the front window, watching Alexia’s tall figure disappear down the sunlit Barcelona street, you couldn’t help but wish, just a little bit, that someone would buy a bouquet of burgundy ranunculus for you.
October brought a welcomed break from the grueling summer heat, replacing the sticky air with crisp, golden autumn mornings. For the club, the schedule was tightening, packed with mid-week fixtures and high-profile sponsor events. For you, it meant adapting the shop’s palette to rich ochres, burnt oranges, and deep plums.
Your biggest project of the month was a massive corporate order for a major FC Barcelona sponsor gala hosted inside the luxury lounges at Spotify Camp Nou. The club’s PR department had requested twenty elegant, low-profile centerpieces that wouldn’t block the guests’ views across the tables. It was a high-earning contract, and you had spent the last two days meticulously prepping the vessels.
Naturally, because your family treated your workplace like a communal living room, the pristine prep area was currently shared with a hyperactive toddler.
“Tia! Look! I’m a bird!”
Your three-year-old niece, Sofia, was currently flapping her arms wildly, running circles around a stack of plastic crates. She was wearing a tiny Barça jersey, a gift from your older brothers, who were die-hard culés, and her pigtails were flying.
“You’re a very beautiful bird, Sofi,” you laughed, keeping one eye on her and the other on the delicate stems you were trimming. “But birds need to stay away from the glass vases, okay? Otherwise, the bird goes into the cage.”
“No cage!” she shrieked happily, veering sharply toward the front of the store just as the brass bell above the door chimed.
“Hola! Is anyo… oh, hello!”
Clara Serrajordi walked into the shop, only to be immediately ambushed at the knees by a small, flying toddler. Sofia had firmly wrapped her arms around Clara’s shin, looking up at the young midfielder with wide, innocent eyes.
Clara froze, her cheeks flushing pink as she looked down at the child, then up at you. She looked a bit shy and completely out of her depth, awkwardly holding a small gym bag. “Oh, um... hola.”
“Sofi, no! Let go!” you gasped, quickly coming out from behind the counter. “I am so sorry. She thinks everyone wearing athletic gear is a playground structure.”
“No, it’s okay,” Clara said quietly, a small, polite smile breaking through her shyness. She carefully squatted down, adjusting her bag so she didn’t drop it. “Hola, little one.”
“I’m a bird,” Sofia corrected solemnly.
“A bird? That’s cool,” Clara murmured, her voice soft and gentle.
You reached down to gently pry your niece away, offering Clara an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind her,” you smiled, straightening up. “I thought the PR team told me I was driving the delivery over to the stadium today?”
“Oh, you are!” Clara nodded, standing up and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I had a break between training and media, and since I live right around the corner, they asked if I could just stop by to escort you through the stadium security gates. They’re doing a high-security sweep for the gala sponsors today, so it’s easier if a player is in the van with you to bypass the main checkpoints.”
She looked around the shop, her eyes wide as she took in the lush, autumnal atmosphere. “Wow. It really is beautiful in here. The captains told us about it, but... yeah.”
“Thank you,” you said warmly, gesturing to the rows of beautifully arranged wooden boxes on the side counter. “They’re all secured in the transport crates. Let’s get them loaded into the van.”
Before you could start lifting, Sofia decided she hadn’t had enough attention. She crept back over to the counter, reached her tiny hand up, and triumphantly swiped the heavy shop keyring with its bright green Floristeria Arrels lanyard right out from under Clara’s nose.
“Keys!” Sofia cheered, running off toward her fort of plastic crates.
“Sofia! No, bring those back!” you called out, about to chase after her, but Clara just let out a quiet, nervous giggle.
“It’s okay, really,” Clara said, rubbing the back of her neck. “We have a few minutes before we need to head out.” She walked over to the counter, watching you lift the first heavy crate. She pointed to the spectacular, multi-petaled blooms sitting in the display tray, showing off shades of dusty rose, deep plum, and metallic, earthy greens. “What are the moody-looking ones? They look like vintage roses, but sharper.”
You smiled, always happy to talk about the stock. “Those are Hellebores. They’re incredible for low-profile gala centerpieces because they sit so elegantly and look high-fashion under dim lighting.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Clara asked, tilting her head curiously.
“They do,” you nodded, securing a low glass trough with tissue paper. “Hellebores represent resilience, survival, and enduring power. In old traditions, they symbolize a strength that protects your peace. What makes them unique is that they actually thrive and bloom in the freezing mud of winter, when most other flowers are dying off. I chose them for the gala because they perfectly mirror the club’s long-standing resilience, no matter how harsh the environment gets, you still produce something beautiful.”
Clara stared at the flowers, nodding slowly. “Resilience and enduring power. Yeah... that definitely fits. Especially with the pressure right now.” She quieted for a second, looking down at the counter before speaking softly. “Alexia actually wanted to ride along with you to deliver these today. She was complaining in the locker room that her tactical meeting ran long and she couldn't make it.”
Your hands froze for a fraction of a second over the cardboard box. You kept your face down, trying to control the sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks, your eyes darting to the floor. “Oh? I’m sure the captain has much more important things to do than haul boxes of flowers in a delivery van.”
“No, she really wanted to,” Clara insisted, her voice quiet but honest. “She keeps telling everyone how knowledgeable you are. Patri and Kika tease her about it, but... I think she just really likes hearing about your work.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. Before you could respond, Clara’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden counter. She picked it up, her eyes widening slightly when she saw the caller ID.
“It’s Alexia,” Clara whispered, looking a little nervous as she swiped to answer. “Hola, Ale?”
“Clara! Where are you?” Alexia’s smooth, commanding voice echoed clearly through the quiet shop, sounding a bit stressed. “The PR team is asking if the van has arrived at the stadium gates yet. Did you get lost?”
Clara looked at you, her cheeks turning pink again as she spoke into the phone. “I’m at the flower shop, Alexia. We’re just... loading the van now. But Y/N’s niece took the van keys hostage.”
There was a sudden, dead silence on the other end of the line. You held your breath, your face burning.
“Clara,” Alexia’s voice came back, noticeably lower and completely stripped of its previous irritation. “Stop bothering the florista and get on the road.”
“I’m not bothering her!” Clara said quickly, looking at you for help.
You finally stepped in, leaning closer to the phone. “The arrangements are fully loaded, Captain. Clara is doing a great job, we’re just handling a minor toddler situation.”
Another brief pause on the line. When Alexia spoke again, her tone was entirely soft, a quiet warmth bleeding through the speaker. “Hola, flower girl. Don’t let her break anything. I’ll see you at the stadium gates in twenty minutes, then. I’ll make sure security lets your van right through.”
“Looking forward to it,” you murmured quietly.
“Drive safely,” Alexia ordered, though there was a clear smile in her voice before she hung up.
Clara let out a breath, retrieving the van keys from a very cooperative Sofia in exchange for a piece of wrapped candy from your counter bowl. Together, you walked out to the alley where the shop’s delivery van was parked.
“Thanks for the explanation about the hellebores,” Clara said as she climbed into the passenger seat next to you. You adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, shifting the van into gear. As you pulled out into the Barcelona traffic, Clara turned to you with a shy, friendly smile. “I’ll tell Alexia about the resilience part.”
November brought a heavy, damp chill to Barcelona. The vibrant autumn colors of the previous month began to give way to grey skies and a persistent, biting wind that swept through the streets. For FC Barcelona, the honeymoon phase of the early season was officially over. The match schedule was grueling: midweek Champions League fixtures followed by intense away games in Liga F. You could see the toll it was taking on the team just by looking at the sports pages your father left on the counter.
For your shop, November was defined by a monumental contract: the grand opening of a brand-new, permanent exhibition pavilion at the FC Barcelona Museum, dedicated entirely to the history, trophies, and cultural impact of the women’s team. Because the museum was one of the most visited cultural spaces in Spain, the club’s design directors wanted sleek, high-end floral installations to anchor the entrance and the VIP preview lounge. It was a massive architectural project for Floristeria Arrels, requiring structural arrangements that would look flawless under museum spotlighting and hold up against the thousands of fans expected for the opening week.
Behind the large wooden workstation, you were deep in prep mode, snipping the sharpest thorns off a pile of dark, sturdy branches. With your hair piled into a quick, messy bun to keep it out of the way, your hands moved with practiced precision, weaving a spool of thin green wire into the base of a new display.
The brass bell above the door chimed, a sudden gust of cold November air rushing into the warm, earthy sanctuary of the shop.
You looked up, a welcoming smile already forming on your lips. It faltered slightly, your pulse kicking into a familiar, rapid rhythm.
Alexia walked in.
She was pulled tightly into a heavy, dark winter coat, the collar turned up against the wind. But as she stepped up to the counter and unbuttoned her coat, you saw how exhausted she looked. Her shoulders were tense, the usual bright spark in her hazel eyes muted by sheer physical and mental fatigue. The weight of captaining a team through a high-pressure mid-season slump was practically visible.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said. Her voice was lower than usual, a bit rough around the edges, but she still managed to give you a genuine, tired smile.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied softly, your natural empathy instantly tuning into her heavy mood. You leaned against the counter, looking at her. “You look like you’ve been run over by a tractor. Rough week?”
Alexia let out a dry, breathy laugh, running a hand through her hair. “A tractor might have been gentler. We had a late flight back from Sweden, training at dawn, and now I have to spend the afternoon at the museum preparing for the grand opening of the pavilion.” She sighed, looking around the quiet, warm shop as if it were a life raft. “Your brother already has the main transport crates at the stadium, but I told the PR team I’d come swing by to check on the final VIP accent pieces. Mostly, I just wanted to escape the stadium noise for a minute.”
“You have fifteen minutes before you need to be there?” you asked, noticing the way her fingers were tightly laced together.
Alexia blinked, checking her watch. “Yeah. About that. Why?”
“Sit,” you said, gesturing to the heavy wooden stool on the customer side of the counter. “I just brewed a fresh pot of chamomile and honey tea in the back. You’re not leaving this shop looking that stressed. It’s bad for my brand.”
Alexia stared at you for a second, surprised by your quiet assertiveness. Then, the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders all at once. “Okay,” she murmured, pulling herself up onto the stool. “Thank you.”
You disappeared into the back room for a moment, returning with a steaming ceramic mug. You slid it across the counter to her. Alexia wrapped her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the sweet, herbal steam. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the shop’s heaters and the rustle of the wind outside. You turned back to your workstation, giving her space to just breathe, your hands methodically wrapping floral wire around a thick stem.
“What are you working on?” Alexia asked quietly, breaking the silence. She was watching your hands move, her chin resting on her palm.
You looked down at the bundle of small, paper-like blossoms in your hands. They were a deep, striking purple, clustered tightly together on stiff, branching stems. They didn’t look like traditional, delicate flowers; they felt rugged, papery, and completely indestructible.
“These are Statice,” you explained, your voice soft in the quiet room. “Most people call it Sea Lavender.”
“Statice,” Alexia repeated, testing the word. “Like statistics?”
You laughed softly, your hazel eyes crinkling. “No, though I’m sure your analysts love those. It comes from the Greek word for ‘causing to stand’, because the flower holds its color and shape for years, even after it’s been cut and dried. It practically never fades.”
Alexia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze locked onto yours. “Does it also have a meaning?”
“It does,” you nodded, setting the bundle down. “Statice symbolizes remembrance and sympathy, but in modern botany, it represents success and turning adversity into triumph. Because it can grow in harsh, salty coastal soils where nothing else survives, it’s the flower of endurance. It tells someone that no matter how grueling the winter gets, they have the permanent strength to see it through.”
Alexia stared at the purple blossoms for a long moment. The heavy, quiet tension from September felt like it was shifting into something deeper, a silent understanding passing between you. She looked up from the flowers, her hazel eyes searching your face, lingering on the soft curve of your lips.
“Endurance,” Alexia murmured, her voice carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “I think I needed to hear that today.”
“I know,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring, warm smile. “That’s why I’m the florist and you’re the captain.”
Alexia smiled, a real, bright smile that reached her eyes this time. She finished the rest of her tea and stood up, looking visibly lighter, the exhaustion pushed to the background. She picked up the small, beautifully styled box of VIP table accents you had set aside. “I should get back to the museum complex before they send a search party for me.”
“Let me walk you to the door,” you said.
You walked around the counter, opening the heavy wooden door for her. The cold November wind instantly caught your hair, blowing a few blonde strands across your face. Alexia stepped closer to you for a brief second, using her tall frame to shield you from the biting gust.
As she tucked her hands into the deep pockets of her coat, you quickly reached into your apron.
“Here,” you said, slipping a small, dried sprig of the deep purple Statice into the front pocket of her heavy coat, right beside her fingers.
Alexia froze, looking down at your hand, then up at your face. Her breath hitched slightly in the cold air, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to your eyes.
“For luck,” you whispered, your cheeks flushing from more than just the cold. “A reminder that you endure.”
Alexia’s expression softened into something intensely private, a look that made your heart do a violent flip. She reached up, her thumb brushing against your cheek for a fleeting second, sending a jolt of pure warmth straight down your spine.
“Thank you, flower girl,” she said quietly, her voice full of an unspoken weight. “For the tea. And for the flowers.”
You watched her drive away into the grey November afternoon, your hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on your cheek where her thumb had rested.
December transformed Barcelona into a city of lights. The streets were filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts, and festive decorations lined the shopfronts. Inside your shop, the air was a rich, intoxicating mix of fresh pine needles, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange slices. The annual Barça Christmas charity gala was coming up, and the club had commissioned you for massive festive wreaths, garlands, and dozens of premium poinsettias. Your shop looked like a winter wonderland, albeit a very busy one.
The holiday rush was in full swing, and you were currently losing a wrestling match with a massive, incredibly stubborn pine garland. A festive red velvet ribbon kept your hair pinned back and out of the line of fire, leaving you free to squint through a shower of flying needles as you used both hands to heave the heavy, fragrant greenery onto the display rack.
“Tia! Tia, look at me! I’m a Christmas elf!”
You turned around to see Lucas, wearing a floppy green felt hat he had found somewhere, trying to balance a pinecone on his nose.
“You’re a very helpful elf, Lucas,” you laughed, adjusting a stray piece of twine. “But if you want to be a real elf, you need to help me move these heavy crates of soil to the back before the delivery van arrives.”
“Elves don’t do heavy lifting, Tia. That’s for trolls,” Lucas said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.
“I heard that!” your father’s voice barked from the back room. “And I am not a troll, I am your grandfather! Go sweep the entrance!”
Before Lucas could argue, the brass bell above the front door chimed, letting in a swirl of crisp December air and a burst of loud, familiar laughter.
You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. Your heart instantly did a familiar, erratic skip. It wasn’t just one player this time, it was a whole delegation. Patri, Kika, and Clara all walked in, led by Alexia. They were bundled up in thick winter jackets and beanies, their cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hola!” Patri announced loudly, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “We heard the florist was drowning in pine needles, so we came to inspect the goods.”
“And to escape fitness training,” Kika whispered, giving Lucas a high-five as she walked past him. “Hey, Lucas. Nice hat.”
“Hola, everyone,” you smiled warmly, your eyes instinctively finding Alexia. She was wearing a cream-colored knit beanie and a dark coat, and the moment her eyes met yours, the tired lines on her face seemed to soften. She gave you a quiet, lingering nod, her gaze dropping briefly to the red ribbon in your hair before looking back at your eyes.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, stepping up to the counter. “We were driving past and saw the delivery van outside. We figured you had a lot to load for the gala tomorrow, so we came to help.”
“You... came to help load crates?” you blinked, looking at the four professional athletes standing in your small shop. “I don't think the club’s insurance covers the captain straining her back lifting my poinsettias.”
“Please,” Patri scoffed, already grabbing the handles of a heavy wooden crate full of festive centerpieces. “We lift weights for a living, Y/N. This is a warmup.”
“I’ll help!” Clara said quietly, stepping forward with a shy smile. She carefully lifted a delicate tray of white cyclamen, making sure not to crush the leaves, looking very focused on doing a good job.
For the next fifteen minutes, your quiet shop was filled with absolute chaos. The players formed a mini-assembly line, carrying the heavy arrangements out to your delivery van. At one point, your friends happened to walk past the shop window on their way to a café. They froze, their jaws dropping as they saw the captain of FC Barcelona carrying a box of pinecones while Kika chased Lucas around a display of ferns. They caught your eye through the glass, pointing and mouthing, ‘What is happening?!’ You just flushed bright red and shrugged, waving them off.
Alexia carried the final, massive holiday wreath inside from the prep table. As she set it down on the counter, she breathed out a puff of air, her cheeks rosy from the chill.
“That should be everything,” Alexia said, leaning against the counter, just inches away from you. She looked down at a stunning arrangement you had set aside on the corner display. It featured a towering, majestic white flower with thick, velvety petals blooming spectacularly from a bulb. “Wow. What is this one? It looks like a crown.”
You smiled, stepping closer to her, your shoulder brushing lightly against hers. A sudden, electric warmth bloomed in your chest despite the December chill.
“That’s an Amaryllis,” you explained quietly, your voice soft and confident. “Specifically, a winter Amaryllis.”
“Does this one have a story?” Alexia asked, turning her head to look at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours.
“It does,” you nodded. “The name comes from the Greek word amarysso, which means ‘to sparkle.’ In botanical lore, it symbolizes splendid beauty, worth beyond beauty, and determination. Because it’s a bulb that sleeps all through the autumn and then blooms in the absolute dead of winter, it represents a deep, indestructible pride. It says that even in the darkest, coldest times of the year, something breathtaking can grow if you give it time.”
Alexia stared at the white petals, her expression turning quiet, a sudden, heavy shadow crossing her eyes. She looked down at her coat pocket, the very pocket where you had slipped the purple statice flower a month ago.
“Something breathtaking in the dead of winter,” Alexia murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense and searching, lingering on your lips for a second too long.
Before the silence could stretch, Patri called out from the doorway. “Hey, Ale! Are you buying that bouquet for the gala, or are we heading out?”
Alexia blinked, pulling herself out of the moment. She cleared her throat, a slightly forced, distant smile appearing on her face. “Right. Um, actually... can you wrap up a separate bouquet of red roses and holly? I need to take it with me tonight.”
Your chest tightened, a familiar, cold pang of reality hitting you. The girlfriend. You had almost forgotten, caught up in the warmth of the shop and the way Alexia looked at you.
“Of course,” you said, your professional mask slipping back on perfectly. “Give me five minutes.”
You wrapped the holiday bouquet with practiced efficiency, tying the ribbon tightly. You handed it over the counter, ensuring your fingers didn’t brush against hers this time. You didn't want to complicate things.
“Thanks, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, holding the romantic bouquet in her arms. She looked like she wanted to say something else, her eyes scanning your face, but she held back.
“Thank you all for the help,” you told the group, forcing a bright, cheerful smile. “See you at the gala tomorrow.”
After the players piled out of the shop, laughing and shoving each other into the cold evening air, the store felt suddenly huge and incredibly quiet. Lucas came over, taking off his elf hat and looking up at you with his smart-aleck eight-year-old eyes.
“Tia,” he said thoughtfully. “She looked sad when you gave her those roses.”
“Go sweep the entrance, Lucas,” you murmured, turning back to your counter.
You looked at the white amaryllis, sparkling under the shop lights. Splendid beauty, waiting in the dark.
x bonus chapter x
The Spotify Camp Nou hospitality suite was transformed into a glittering winter wonderland for the annual Christmas charity gala. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the massive room, reflecting off the silver trimmings and the dark green velvet tablecloths.
You stood near the grand entrance, smoothing down the skirt of your dark emerald dress. You had opted to leave your hair down, the soft waves brushing past your shoulders, and your eyes swept over the room with a sense of quiet pride. Every single table was adorned with your low-profile centerpieces, the rich pine, cinnamon accents, and striking white amaryllis catching the light perfectly. The club’s PR director had already stopped by to praise your work, noting that the atmosphere had never felt so elegant.
But despite the success, you felt entirely out of your element. You were a florist, used to dirt under your fingernails and the quiet hum of your family’s shop, not the clinking of champagne glasses and the flashing cameras of the Catalan media.
“You look like you’re plotting a getaway,” a smooth, familiar voice murmured from beside you.
You turned your head, your heart instantly doing a violent, familiar flip.
Alexia was standing there. She had traded her usual training gear and casual blazers for a breathtaking, floor-length gown in a deep midnight blue that hugged her athletic silhouette perfectly. Her hair was styled in sleek, polished waves cascading down one shoulder, and her eyes were looking down at you with an intense, quiet focus. Up close, her presence was almost dizzying.
“Alexia,” you said, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face as you looked her up and down. “I could say the same about you. The dress suits you much better than a football kit.”
Alexia let out a low laugh, a genuine warmth spreading across her features. “Don’t let the managers hear you say that. But thank you. You look... incredible, flower girl. Truly. The emerald suits you.”
“Thank you,” you replied, your cheeks heating up slightly. You gestured to the room around you to redirect the focus. “What do you think of the arrangements? They look okay under the bright lights?”
“They’re perfect,” Alexia said softly, her gaze drifting over the room before settling right back on your face. “Everyone is talking about them. You completely transformed the space.” She paused, shifting her weight as she took a sip from her glass. “I saw your friends’ faces through the window yesterday, by the way. I think Patri scarred them for life.”
You laughed, the tension leaving your shoulders. “They texted me immediately demanding to know why the Barça captain was acting as my personal delivery courier. I told them I just have excellent customer service.”
“Clearly,” Alexia smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Before the conversation could deepen, a sudden shift in the room caught your attention. A stylish, striking woman walked up to the bar a few meters away, gesturing for Alexia to join her. It was the girlfriend. You recognized her instantly from some late-night stalking.
Your chest tightened with that familiar, unwelcome pang of reality. You instinctively stepped back, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind your ear as your professional mask slid firmly into place. “Your guest is waiting. You should go, Ale.”
Alexia looked over her shoulder, her smile faltering. The lines of exhaustion and tension you had seen in November seemed to flash across her face for a brief second. When she looked back at you, her hazel eyes were guarded, lacking the easy warmth she had just shared with you.
“Right,” Alexia said quietly, her voice dropping a register. She looked at you for a long, lingering moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but the noise of the gala swallowed the space between you. “Enjoy the night, flower girl.”
“You too,” you murmured.
You watched her walk away, watching the way her posture shifted back into the rigid, perfect composure expected of the club's leader as she greeted her partner.
You didn’t stay much longer after that. You slipped out of the gala before the main courses were served, taking a taxi back through the brightly lit streets of Barcelona.
January in Barcelona arrived with a biting, crisp clarity. The holiday lights were packed away, leaving the city streets feeling stark and quiet under the pale winter sun. At the Ciutat Esportiva, the atmosphere was thick with intense focus; mid-season awards were being announced, and the press room was constantly booked for high-profile mid-season press conferences.
For your shop, January meant providing clean, minimalist arrangements for the media rooms: lots of structured greenery and sharp white accents that looked professional on television.
A persistent draft from the front door had you shivering slightly, prompting you to pull your thick wool cardigan tighter around your shoulders. A neat, high ponytail kept things out of your way as you leaned over the counter, the bright glow of your phone screen lighting up your face during your favorite Monday morning ritual: trading quick texts with Ingrid.
Hi Y/N! Let’s do something warm and bright for Mapi this week, Ingrid’s text from Lyon read. She’s feeling a bit down with the winter training schedule. Maybe some yellow or orange?
I have some stunning winter marigolds and orange ranunculus that just arrived, you typed back quickly, a soft smile on your face. I’ll make it look like a little burst of sunshine. How is France treating you?
Freezing! 🥶 But the football is good. Hey, by the way... is the vibe at the club offices as weird as Patri says it is? She texted me saying the locker room has been completely silent all week.
You paused, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. I haven’t been to the club this week, just the press room. Why is it silent?
There was a pause, the little typing bubbles appearing and disappearing before Ingrid’s reply popped up. Alexia is single again. Apparently, it happened right after the New Year. Nobody is brave enough to ask her about it, but Patri says she’s just throwing herself entirely into training.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs. You stared at the words on the screen, a flood of conflicting emotions rushing through you. Single. The relationship you had meticulously crafted bouquets for was over. You thought back to the Christmas gala, the heavy, guarded look in Alexia’s eyes and the forced smile she had worn.
Before you could type a response, the brass bell above the door chimed. You looked up instantly, your breath catching in your throat.
But it wasn’t Alexia. It was Patri.
The midfielder walked in, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her heavy Barça parka. She looked tired, the usual mischievous spark in her eyes replaced by a quiet, subdued sigh as she approached the counter.
“Hola, chica,” Patri said, offering a small, weak wave.
“Hola, Patri,” you replied softly, setting your phone aside. “You look like you’ve been freezing on the pitch all morning.”
“Pretty much,” Patri muttered, leaning against the counter. “I’m here to pick up the press room displays for tomorrow’s briefing. Are they ready?”
“They’re right here,” you said, gesturing to the sleek, white ceramic vases filled with elegant eucalyptus and structured white stems. As you began to carefully wrap the base of the vases in protective paper, you kept your tone casual, though your pulse was racing. “Ingrid actually just texted me. She mentioned things have been a bit heavy at the training ground.”
Patri let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing her face with her hands. “Yeah. It’s tough. Alexia... she’s going through a lot right now. The breakup was rough, and instead of taking a breath, she’s just practically living on the pitch. First one there, last one to leave. She won’t talk to any of us about it.” Patri looked around the shop, her eyes landing on a display of small, delicate plants in the corner. “She usually comes here when she’s stressed, but she told me to pick these up today. I think she’s just hiding.”
Your chest pulled tight with a quiet, aching empathy. You didn’t want to fix Alexia’s problems, that wasn’t your place, but as a florist, you knew that sometimes when people couldn’t find the words, the flowers could speak for them.
You stopped wrapping the vase and walked over to a specific wooden shelf near the window. Tucked away in a small terracotta pot was a cluster of hardy, delicate white blossoms that looked like tiny, frozen bells.
“Take this to her,” you said quietly, bringing the pot back to the counter.
Patri tilted her head, looking at the small white flowers. “What is it?”
“It’s White Heather,” you explained, your voice soft and steady in the quiet shop. “It’s one of the few things that can bloom beautifully in the dead of January. In old botanical language, white heather symbolizes protection, good fortune, and the fulfillment of wishes.”
You looked up, meeting Patri’s eyes. “It’s not a romantic flower, and it’s not flashy. It’s a flower given to tell someone that you wish them peace and safety while they navigate a storm. Tell her... tell her it’s just a sponsor’s gift for the captain. A wish for a good second half of the season.”
Patri stared at the white heather, a soft, knowing expression gradually overtaking her tired face. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “A sponsor’s gift. Right.” She took the little pot gently, nesting it into her arm. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I think she really needs a little bit of protection right now.”
After helping Patri load the sleek arrangements into her car, you stood inside the doorway, watching the vehicle pull away into the cold January afternoon.
You walked back to the counter, picking up your phone to see a final text from Ingrid: Make sure to look after Ale if she stops by! x
You looked out the window at the grey Barcelona sky. Alexia hadn’t come to the shop this month, choosing to hide away in the noise of her training.
February brought the frenetic, dizzying rush of the Valentine’s Day season. For your shop, it was easily the most chaotic week of the winter. The counter was practically buried under mountains of crimson roses, delicate pink tulips, and heavy satin ribbons. Your father had been brought out of retirement (again) to handle the delivery logs, and your friends had even offered to help clip thorns after their corporate day jobs.
To make matters more intense, FC Barcelona had a massive home game at the stadium on Valentine’s Day weekend, meaning the club had ordered dozens of presentation bouquets for the VIP suites and the pre-match ceremonies. You had been working fourteen-hour days, your hair thrown into a messy bun with a pink silk ribbon, your eyes bright but exhausted.
It was late on a Friday afternoon when the heavy Valentine’s rush finally hit a brief, blessed lull. Your father had taken Lucas to get hot chocolate, leaving the shop quiet save for the hum of the coolers.
The brass bell above the door chimed, letting in a crisp breeze.
You looked up, automatically reaching for a fresh sheet of wrapping paper. “Welcome to Floristeria Arrels, give me just one second…”
The words died in your throat.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was wearing a casual green-colored hoodie under a dark jacket, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her hands shoved into her pockets.
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. You hadn’t seen her in almost two months, and up close, you could see the change. She still looked tired from the grueling winter season, but the heavy, suffocating shadow she had carried in December was gone. Her eyes looked clear, grounded, and entirely focused on you.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low in the quiet shop as she walked up to the counter.
“Hola, Alexia,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter. You offered a warm, slightly tentative smile. “You survived the January schedule, I see.”
“Barely,” Alexia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that sent a sudden rush of warmth straight to your core. She leaned against the wooden counter. “Patri gave me the white heather, by the way. She said it was a ‘sponsor's gift,’ but somehow I didn’t think some sponsor’s administrative office was choosing specific botanical wishes for my peace and safety.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable crimson. You instinctively tucked a stray blonde curl behind your ear, looking down at your hands. “Well... I just thought the captain could use a little luck for the second half of the season.”
“Thank you,” Alexia said quietly, her voice full of sincere warmth. “It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. It helped, flower girl. Truly. It was nice to have a bit of quiet luck around.”
A heavy, incredibly soft silence fell between you. The sharp, romantic tension from the autumn hadn’t disappeared; instead, it felt like it had thawed into something much more intimate, stripped of the boundaries that had kept you apart before.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a soft smile as you gestured to the sea of red roses surrounding you. “Are you here to brave the Valentine's Day madness? I can whip up a custom bouquet if you need one.”
“No,” Alexia said instantly. She looked at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly direct focus. “No more red roses. I’m actually just here for my own apartment. I wanted some fresh greenery. Eucalyptus, maybe? Something clean.”
Your chest loosened, a wave of relief washing over you that you couldn’t quite hide. “I can definitely do eucalyptus. Let me grab the fresh bunches from the back.”
You walked over to the cold storage, pulling out a lush, fragrant bundle of silver-dollar eucalyptus. As you brought it back to the workstation, you noticed a small, rustic clay pot sitting on a lower display shelf, holding a cluster of delicate, low-growing purple flowers. They were simple, wild, and blooming right out of the dark, rich soil.
“Here,” you said, setting the eucalyptus down and carefully leaning over to tend to the little plant.
Alexia leaned in, her chin resting on her hand as she watched your fingers gently brush a stray speck of dirt off one of the heart-shaped leaves. “What are those?”
“These are Violets,” you murmured, looking up to meet her gaze. “They’re traditional February blooms. In old floral language, they symbolize modesty, faithfulness, and subtle, unspoken affection.”
You gently traced the edge of a velvet petal, your voice soft and steady. “Because they’re small and grow close to the earth, they don't shout for attention like roses do. But they’re incredibly hardy. They bloom right out of the soil even when the ground is still cold, signaling that the winter is ending. It’s a plant that represents a quiet, fresh start.”
Alexia stared at the tiny purple flowers, then slowly raised her eyes to your face. She took in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnest warmth in your hazel eyes. She didn’t look away, the silence stretching between you until it felt completely breathless.
“A quiet, fresh start,” Alexia repeated, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. She stared at the tiny purple flowers for a long moment, then looked up, her eyes locking onto yours. “I think a fresh start is exactly what I’m looking for.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs, the silence between you suddenly feeling completely breathless. You managed a small smile, lifting the little clay pot. “Then the violets are yours. On the house.”
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia whispered, her eyes softening with a genuine warmth.
You turned to the workstation to package everything up, laying out a large sheet of thick brown kraft paper to bundle her heavy branches of silver-dollar eucalyptus. Because the stems were springy and full, the paper kept unrolling and snapping back as you tried to fold it.
Seeing you struggle slightly, Alexia instinctively leaned over the counter and reached out to press her palm down on the edge of the paper to hold it steady for you.
As you brought your hand down to tape the seam, your fingers slid right across the back of her hand. It was a complete accident, a sudden brush of skin against skin. You caught your breath, your hand freezing for a split second against hers. Alexia didn’t move her hand away either; she just kept holding the paper flat, her hazel eyes flicking up to catch yours with a quiet, lingering intensity that made your skin tingle.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice a little breathier than intended as you quickly finished taping the paper.
“Anytime,” she replied softly, a slow, amused smile playing on her lips as she finally pulled her hand back. You leaned against the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you picked up your shears.
March brought the long-awaited arrival of spring. The biting winter winds softened into gentle, warm breezes, and the sun lingered just a bit longer over the city’s plazas each evening. For the club, March meant the intense preparation for the final stretch of the season, split up by a brief international break. For your shop, it meant a vibrant explosion of color as the first true spring blooms began to arrive in heavy wooden crates.
A heavy delivery crate sat open on the counter, trailing loose packing straw onto the floor as you worked. With your hair swept up and held securely out of your face by a smooth silver clip, you lifted out the final tray of potted bulbs. They weren’t quite blooming yet, but the tightly closed green buds were fat and bursting at the seams, showing just enough hints of bright yellow to promise a sea of golden warmth in a few days’ time.
The brass bell above the door chimed cheerfully.
“Hola!” Patri’s boisterous voice echoed through the shop before she even fully stepped inside.
You looked up, a bright smile instantly taking over your face as Patri walked in, closely followed by Kika. Both were dressed in casual tracksuits, looking relaxed and sun-warmed from an early training session.
“Hola, regulars,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you today? Don’t tell me Patri already managed to kill that pothos she bought in January.”
“No, that thing is indestructible, just like you said,” Patri laughed, walking up to the counter and resting her elbows on the wood. “We actually need a nice birthday plant for Kika’s aunt. Something that says ‘I love you’ but also ‘I forgot your birthday was this week and ordered this at the last minute’.”
“Hey! I didn’t forget,” Kika protested, though she was grinning as she wandered over to inspect a shelf of flowering cacti. “I just... misplaced the date.”
“Right, right,” you chuckled, stepping out from behind the counter to help them browse. “I have some beautiful potted orchids, or some fresh jasmine that smells amazing.”
As you walked them through the options, Patri kept casting sideways glances at you, a mischievous, knowing smirk playing on her lips. Finally, as you reached for a lush potted jasmine, Patri casually leaned against a display rack.
“So, chica,” Patri started, her tone entirely too innocent. “Alexia’s apartment has been smelling a lot like eucalyptus lately. I visited her apartment last night, and the girl who can barely keep a cactus alive has a perfectly manicured, tiny clay pot of purple violets sitting in prime real estate on her kitchen windowsill. Care to comment?”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, instant pink. You instinctively tucked a loose blonde curl behind your ear, your hazel eyes darting down to the plant in your hands as you tried to maintain your professional composure. “I just sold Alexia some fresh greenery, Patri. It's my job.”
“Uh-huh,” Kika chimed in, abandoning the cacti to join the interrogation, a massive grin on her face. “And is it your job to make our captain smile at her phone in the middle of video analysis? Because she’s been doing that a lot. Especially on Monday mornings after she sees the arrangements you send for Mapi.”
“I... I just provide good customer service,” you stammered, looking every bit the flustered, classic beauty as you tried to dodge their playful glare.
“Right, ‘customer service’,” Patri purred, swapping a highly amused look with Kika. “Well, just so you know, the captain’s schedule is absolute madness right now, but she’s suddenly magically free every single Tuesday afternoon. Completely single, too. And she really likes flowers. In fact, she’s been complaining that she doesn’t have a good excuse to come by the shop this month because the administrative team handled the international break orders online.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. The realization that Alexia was talking about you, that she was looking for reasons to see you, sent a wave of pure, thrilling heat through your chest.
To hide your burning face, you quickly turned back to the workstation, picking up a small trowel and reaching for a tray of vibrant potted bulbs you had been sorting earlier.
“If you two are quite finished playing matchmaker,” you said, your voice breathless but carrying a playful edge, “I need to finish processing these.”
Patri walked over, tilting her head at the rows of green, goose-necked stalks pointing out of the dark soil. She nudged one of the fat, swollen tips where a sliver of bright yellow was tearing through the papery casing. “Well, these look ready to burst. What are they?"”
“They’re Daffodils,” you murmured, grateful to anchor yourself back into your craft. You carefully brushed a bit of loose earth from the rim of a small pot. “They’re the ultimate flower of March. In traditional botanical lore, daffodils have a bit of a dual meaning. Historically, they could represent unrequited love, but globally, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, and unequaled affection. They’re the very first flowers to break through the soil after the frost, showing that the sun is finally back.”
Patri stared at the yellow flowers, then looked up at your flushed face, her expression softening into a genuinely warm, supportive smile. She reached out, lightly tapping the counter.
“Let’s go with the new beginnings part,” Patri said softly, giving you a reassuring wink. “I think the frost has officially melted, chica. You just have to wait for the sun to walk through the door.”
“Yeah,” Kika agreed, nodding enthusiastically as she picked out the jasmine plant. “And definitely don’t charge her for the next batch of eucalyptus.”
You laughed, the nervous tension giving way to a soft, bubbling happiness. After wrapping up Kika’s aunt’s plant and waving the two mischievous midfielders away, the shop fell into a quiet afternoon lull.
You looked down at the bright yellow blossoms growing from the little pot, their golden petals catching the warm March sunlight streaming through the storefront window. A fresh start. A new beginning.
April arrived with a sky-high spike in adrenaline. The city was practically vibrating with anticipation as FC Barcelona rolled into the Champions League Semifinals. The pressure on the squad was immense; every training session was hyper-focused, and the media presence at the Ciutat Esportiva was constant.
For your shop, April meant a flurry of quick, efficient corporate orders for the stadium’s luxury boxes. But inside Floristeria Arrels, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the high-stakes football world. It was a haven of soft rain, damp pavement outside, and the intoxicating, sweet scent of blooming spring bulbs inside.
Rain lashed violently against the storefront glass as the clock ticked past closing time on a stormy Thursday evening. A few loose strands of hair had escaped your bun, framing your face as you hoisted a heavy, freezing zinc bucket into place, determined to get the last of the fresh imports organized before finally calling it a night.
The brass bell above the door gave a sudden, sharp chime as the door pushed open against the howling wind.
You looked up, surprised. “Oh, sorry, we’re just about to…”
The words evaporated.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was pulled into a dark, rain-slicked club jacket, her hood pushed back to reveal her hair, which was slightly damp from the storm. She looked completely worn out, not just physically, but mentally. The sheer weight of captaining the team through the highest-stakes week of the season was evident in the tight line of her jaw.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said quietly, her voice low and carrying a hint of hesitation. “I saw the lights were still on. I know it’s late.”
“Hola, Ale,” you breathed, setting the heavy bucket down. Your heart kicked into that familiar, erratic rhythm, but your immediate instinct was to offer her a reprieve from the storm outside. “Don’t worry about the time. Come in. You look like you just played ninety minutes in a downpour.”
Alexia let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, stepping further into the warm, fragrant sanctuary of the shop. She didn’t stay by the door; she walked right up to your workstation, leaning her hands against the aged wood. “Just ran from the car. The pressure this week... it’s loud. Everywhere I go, people are talking about the semifinal. I just needed twenty minutes where nobody asks me about tactical formations.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” you smiled warmly, your eyes locking onto hers. “The flowers don’t care about football.”
Determined to keep things light and give her the distraction she desperately needed, you went to move a large bucket of water and fresh cuttings out of her path. But your natural coordination chose that exact moment to fail you.
Your sandal slid on a slick spot of wet tile.
“Whoa!” you gasped, your arms flailing.
In your panic, your elbow clipped the rim of a heavy plastic bucket, sending a tidal wave of cold water splashing across the floor. You went down, landing awkwardly on your knees amidst a sea of scattered green stems and puddles.
“Y/N!” Alexia reacted with lightning-fast athlete reflexes, instantly dropping to her knees beside you on the wet floor. Her strong hands caught your forearms, stabilizing you. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your wrist?”
Your cheeks burned a violent, brilliant crimson. You looked up, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia’s face. The proximity was dizzying. You could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. You looked incredibly striking in your flustered state, your breath hitching.
“I’m fine,” you squeaked, your voice breathless as you looked down at the absolute disaster on the floor. “I told you... giraffe coordination. I just ruined my clean floor.”
Alexia stared at you for a heartbeat, taking in your wide eyes and your bright blush. Then, a sudden, beautiful sound broke through the quiet shop. Alexia laughed. It wasn’t the polite, guarded chuckle she gave to the media; it was a deep, genuine, chest-deep laugh that completely wiped the exhaustion from her face.
“You really are a hazard, flower girl,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with pure amusement as she let go of your arms to pick up a wet leaf.
“I’m a professional, I swear,” you laughed along, the embarrassment melting into a soft, bubbling happiness.
Together, sitting on the floor of the closed shop, you began grabbing the scattered stems. Alexia reached for a bundle of elegant, unbroken flowers that had escaped the water. They were sleek, cup-shaped blossoms of a stunning, soft pastel pink.
“Tulips, right?” Alexia asked softly, holding one up between you. The playful mood suddenly shifted, dropping into a quiet, heavy intimacy.
“Yes, those are Pink Tulips," you murmured, your voice steadying as you looked from the flower to her eyes. “They’re the heart of spring.”
“Do they have a meaning too?” Alexia asked, her voice dropping a register, her hazel gaze locking onto yours.
“They do,” you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Unlike red tulips, which are very bold and aggressive about love, pink tulips are different. They symbolize affection, deep caring, and the attachment of a budding romance. They represent a feeling that is growing quietly, carefully... but securely. It’s the flower you give when you realize you're forming a bond you don’t want to lose.”
The silence that followed was completely breathless, heavy with a thick, undeniable tension. The storm outside seemed a million miles away.
Alexia didn’t look down at the tulip. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, intense and completely focused. Slowly, deliberately, she reached her hand up. Her warm fingers gently tucked a stray, damp lock of your blonde hair behind your ear, her thumb lingering against your jawline for a fraction of a second. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight down your spine.
“A budding romance,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze dropping briefly to your lips before rising back to your hazel eyes. “I think that’s a very beautiful meaning, flower girl.”
You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe. The promise of what was growing between you felt completely overwhelming.
Alexia gently broke the spell, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you up from the floor. You took it, your skin tingling at the contact. She helped you grab a towel to quickly dry the rest of the floor, the heavy atmosphere shifting into a comfortable, warm hum.
When she finally prepared to leave, holding a simple bunch of the pink tulips you had wrapped for her, she stood by the door for a long moment.
“Thank you for the distraction,” Alexia said softly, her hand on the brass handle. “I think I’m ready for the match now.”
“Go win it, Captain,” you smiled, looking at her with all the earnest support you possessed.
As the door closed and she stepped out into the April rain, you leaned back against the wooden counter, your fingers tracing the spot on your jaw where her thumb had rested.
May in Barcelona was a golden, chaotic blur. The city was completely painted in blaugrana as the FC Barcelona women’s team pulled off a historic, breathtaking run, securing both the league title and the Champions League trophy. The entire city was in a state of absolute euphoria.
For you, May was a beautiful war zone. The club had put in massive, sweeping orders for the victory parade, the stadium gala, and the official team reception. Your shop had been working around the clock, but for the final presentation, you had to bring your craft directly into the heart of their celebration.
The media lounge at the Ciutat Esportiva was humming with organized energy. Security guards were tightly managing the perimeter, team photographers were uploading files, and the back of the room had been cleared out specifically for your workstation. You stood behind a long, white-draped table, focusing entirely on the grueling task of assembling the final massive presentation bouquet for the evening’s formal gala.
Your hair was pulled back securely in a claw clip to keep it out of your eyes, and you wore your dark green Floristeria Arrels apron over a clean linen blouse, your hands moving with practiced efficiency.
“The last of the stadium crates are fully secured in the van, Y/N,” your older brother said, walking up to the table with a clipboard. He had volunteered to manage the heavy loading today, and his calm, reliable presence was the only reason you were keeping up with the club's strict schedule. “Lucas is just finishing up the final inventory check.”
You looked over to see your nephew standing dutifully by the transport boxes. He took his job incredibly seriously, wearing a playful cardboard “gold medal” around his neck that he’d made to match the team’s achievements.
“Perfect. Thank you both,” you smiled, exhaling a soft breath of relief as you bound the thick floral stems with green twine. “Lucas, you’re officially the best assistant manager I’ve ever had.”
Lucas beamed proudly, checking off the last item on his list. “All thirty gold-ribbon packages are accounted for, Tia.”
Before you could praise him further, a sudden wave of lighthearted banter and clear, echoing laughter spilled into the lounge from the main corridor, signaling that the morning media restrictions had finally lifted.
The busy room instantly fell into a respectful hum as the players began to flood into the space. It was Patri, Kika, and Clara Serrajordi, all grinning from ear to ear, laughing loudly. And walking right in the center of them, looking completely radiant, was Alexia.
They weren’t in their formal gala gowns yet; they were wearing their official victory shirts, their faces glowing with the sheer, unmatched high of being champions of Europe.
“The champions are here!” Patri announced, throwing her arms wide as she spotted your workstation.
Your brother’s eyes widened, and he immediately grabbed Lucas by the shoulder, pulling him back to give the players room. “Hola, everyone,” you smiled, a rush of genuine, thrilled happiness washing over you as you looked at them. “Congratulations! The whole city is so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Y/N,” Clara Serrajordi said quietly, giving you a shy, proud wave from behind Patri.
Your eyes instinctively traveled across the crowded space, instantly locking onto Alexia. The moment her eyes met yours, the celebratory, public mask she had been wearing all morning seemed to drop. A quiet, incredibly deep warmth flooded her expression. She didn’t say anything at first; she just stood there, taking you in: your messy hair, your flushed cheeks, and the absolute focus with which you were navigating their high-profile chaos.
“We came to check on the final presentation bouquets before the media team takes them,” Patri said, leaning over the table to peek at your work. “Are we good to go?”
“Everything from the van is already styled in the main reception hall,” you said, nodding toward the majestic, sprawling arrangement on your table. “I’m just finishing up this last one.”
The bouquet was spectacular, filled with massive, lush flowers with incredibly thick, tightly packed layers of soft, voluminous petals that looked like ruffled silk.
Alexia stepped closer, bypassing her teammates to stand on the other side of your white-clothed table. She looked down at the breathtaking arrangement, her voice dropping into a low, private register. “Wow. These are incredible, flower girl. They look so heavy, like clouds.”
“They're Peonies,” you murmured, your voice dropping into that soft, confident register as you looked up into her hazel eyes.
“Peonies,” Alexia repeated softly, her gaze locked onto yours over the sea of pink and white petals. “What do they mean for a victory?”
“They’re the flower of honor and prosperity,” you explained, your heart doing a familiar, rapid thud against your ribs. “In old traditions, peonies represent good fortune and a legacy of success. But because they take years to establish their roots deep in the soil before they can bloom this spectacularly, they symbolize a triumph that was earned through deep, patient dedication. They say that the glory is real because the work behind it was real.”
Alexia stared at the peonies, a profound, quiet emotion passing over her face. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely full of an unspoken weight. The bustling lounge, your family, her teammates, everything seemed to fade into the background for a long, breathless moment.
“Patient dedication,” Alexia whispered, her voice carrying a promise that made your chest tighten with a thrill of anticipation. “I think that’s the most perfect meaning yet.”
“Hey, Capi! The media director needs us for the trophy photos!” Patri called out from the other side of the lounge, breaking the spell. Kika and Clara were already moving toward the backdrops, waving to the staff.
Alexia blinked, pulling herself back, but she didn’t move away immediately. She reached across the workspace, her fingers lightly brushing against yours for a brief, electric second that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.
“I have to go do the media rounds,” Alexia said softly, her eyes searching your face one last time. “But as soon as the madness of this week ends... I’m coming to the shop. We need to talk.”
“I’ll be there,” you whispered, a soft smile breaking across your face.
You handed her a single, perfect pink peony from the leftover batch on your table. Alexia took it carefully, holding the stem lightly against her victory shirt like a badge of honor, before turning to join her team under the bright flashing cameras.
You stood behind the table, watching her walk away into the golden afternoon light of the complex, your heart beating wildly.
June arrived with a quiet, golden stillness that settled over Barcelona. The roaring crowds at Spotify Camp Nou had cleared, the parade confetti had finally been swept from the avenues, and the relentless, high-octane pressure of the football season had officially evaporated into the off-season. For the club, the year was a wrap. For your shop, the heavy corporate contracts were successfully completed, leaving Floristeria Arrels in a peaceful, lazy summer lull.
You were standing by the front window, the afternoon sun warming your skin. Your hair was loosely braided and tied back with a simple green silk ribbon. The shop was a fragrant paradise of summer blooms, but without the chaotic rush of the past few months, it felt incredibly spacious.
Your contract with FC Barcelona was officially up for renewal. The paperwork was sitting on your counter, waiting for your signature, a testament to a year of hard work, flawless execution, and a family business preserved.
The brass bell above the door gave a soft, familiar chime.
You turned around, a welcoming phrase already on your tongue, but the words instantly caught in your throat.
Alexia walked in.
She wasn’t wearing a club jersey, a sponsor’s tuxedo, or a rainy-day training jacket. She was dressed in a casual, crisp white linen button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, light jeans, and white sneakers. Her hair was down, catching the golden June light, and her eyes looked completely relaxed, free of the crushing weight of the captaincy.
But as she approached the counter, you noticed something you had never seen on Alexia Putellas before. She looked nervous. Her hands were tucked behind her back, her posture slightly tentative.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth, low, and carrying a soft, hesitant warmth.
“Hola Ale,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter to meet her in the center of the shop. You offered a warm, genuine smile, your heart beginning to hammer a familiar, frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Or should I say Champion? What brings you by? I thought the club orders were officially done for the summer.”
“They are,” Alexia said, stepping closer. The faint, clean scent of her woody perfume immediately enveloped you. “The club is done. I’m not here for Barça, I’m here for myself.”
Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands out from behind her back.
Your breath hitched, your hazel eyes widening in complete surprise. Held carefully in her hands was a bouquet. It wasn’t one of the grand, perfectly symmetrical corporate arrangements you usually made. It was small, slightly rustic, and clearly wrapped by hand. It was a beautiful, striking mix of deep crimson roses and delicate, star-like blue forget-me-nots.
“I, uh... I went to a little shop on the other side of the city,” Alexia admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up her neck as she looked down at the flowers, then back up into your eyes. “Because I knew if I tried to buy flowers from you, you’d just give me a lecture on botanical history or try to give them to me on the house. And I wanted to buy these for you.”
You stared at the bouquet, a profound, overwhelming wave of emotion rushing through your chest. You looked up at her, your eyes bright and soft. “Alexia…”
“I looked up the meanings,” Alexia continued, her voice dropping into a low, intensely private register as she stepped even closer, completely closing the distance between you. “The pink roses are for admiration and new beginnings. No pressure, no complications. Just... the joy I feel whenever I’m around you.”
She offered the bouquet to you, the tall, striking stalks of vibrant blue delphinium framing the soft pink petals beautifully. Your fingers brushed against hers as you took the stems, sending a warm, electric jolt straight to your core.
“And the delphinium is for an open heart,” she added softly, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Because this entire season, through the hardest months and the highest pressures, coming into this shop and seeing you was the one thing I couldn’t forget.”
Your heart did a violent, joyful flip. You held the rustic bouquet against your linen shirt, looking up at her with all the striking, classic warmth you possessed. “You did your homework.”
“I had a very good teacher,” Alexia murmured, a beautiful, relieved smile breaking across her face. She reached out, her warm hand gently cupping your jaw, her thumb tracing your skin just like she had in the April rain. This time, there was no storm, no phone calls, and no relationship boundaries keeping you apart. “The season is over, flower girl. No cameras, no press, no football. Just me. I want to take you out on a proper date. If you’ll have me.”
“I would love to,” you whispered, leaning into the warmth of her hand, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
Alexia’s eyes darkened with a sudden, deep affection, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your hazel eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting months to do this.”
Slowly, she leaned down, her lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet, and lingering kiss. It tasted like summer, like a fresh start, and like the perfect culmination of a year spent growing roots in the dark.
Summary: The daughter of a legendary football manager has one simple dating rule: no footballers - a rule that becomes increasingly difficult to follow after meeting Alexia Putellas
Word Count: 8.5k
You hate football.
You hate the sound of a ball striking a boot, that sharp crack that seems to follow you everywhere no matter how many years you spend trying to distance yourself from it. You hate the smell of freshly cut grass because it instantly transports you back to training grounds and stadium tunnels and endless afternoons spent waiting around while other people obsessed over a game you never cared about. You hate the sight of floodlights illuminating a pitch at dusk, hate the television commentators who speak about football as though it is the most important thing in the world, hate the way complete strangers seem to believe they know your family simply because they know your surname.
Most of all, you hate the way football consumed your childhood.
Your papa’s playing career had already ended when you were still young enough to think adults knew everything, but by then his managerial career was ascending so quickly that it felt as though football had just found a new way to claim him. Success turned into reputation, reputation turned into influence, and influence eventually became something larger than any individual person. It became legacy.
People spoke about him with a reverence that sometimes bordered on worship. Journalists dissected every decision he made as though it were a matter of national importance. Fans crossed streets just for the chance to shake his hand. Other managers studied his teams, copied his tactics, and spent entire press conferences discussing his ideas. Everywhere you went, there were reminders that your father was not simply a man anymore.
He was a symbol.
Maybe, at twenty-eight, you should appreciate that more than you do.
Maybe you should be grateful for the opportunities his career created for your family, for the doors that opened before you ever had to knock, for the experiences that most people only dream about. Maybe you should feel proud every time somebody recognizes your surname and their eyes widen in admiration.
You try. You really do. But it is difficult to feel grateful for a legacy that demanded so much from the people who loved him.
It is difficult to celebrate football when football stole countless evenings that should have belonged to your family. Difficult to romanticize success when it meant birthdays spent waiting for him to return from away matches, school performances where an empty seat sat beside your mother, and holidays interrupted by phone calls that inevitably dragged his attention back to training sessions, injuries, transfers, and tactics.
Football never stopped asking for more.
And because football never stopped asking, neither did life.
One day you were running barefoot across the warm sand of Barcelona’s beaches, speaking Catalan with your friends, convinced that the Mediterranean sun would shine forever. The next, your entire life had been packed into boxes because your father had accepted a new challenge in Munich.
You still remember how cold it felt.
The language sounded harsh and unfamiliar, all sharp consonants and impossible grammar, and no matter how hard you studied, you never felt as though you truly belonged there. The city was beautiful, people always insisted that when you complained, but beauty means very little when you are eleven and homesick. What you remember is the grey sky, the endless winter, and the feeling that everyone around you understood a world that remained stubbornly closed to you.
Before you could fully settle, football moved your family again.
Manchester was somehow worse.
The rain seemed endless. The sky existed in varying shades of grey. Entire weeks passed without seeing proper sunlight, and you became convinced that British food was an elaborate punishment disguised as a national cuisine. Every conversation somehow circled back to football. Every newspaper featured football. Every radio station discussed football.
You could never escape it. Not even in your own home.
And yet, despite everything, despite your resentment and frustration and the years spent insisting that you wanted absolutely nothing to do with the sport that had dictated so much of your life, you never stopped loving your father.
Because your papa never brought football through the front door with him.
The moment he stepped inside, he became simply Papa.
The father who woke you up early on weekends for bike rides along the coast whenever the family was back in Spain. The father who spent hours researching restaurants because he wanted to surprise you with somewhere new. The father who never missed an opportunity to take you to the cinema, even if it meant staying out far later than he probably should have before training the next morning.
When you graduated from law school, he celebrated with more enthusiasm than he had ever shown after winning a trophy. When you secured your first prestigious internship, he called every member of the family before you even had the chance to tell them yourself. When you received the offer for your dream position back in Catalonia, he looked prouder than any photograph you had ever seen of him lifting silverware.
Football trophies decorated museums and boardrooms. Your achievements decorated conversations. And there was never any doubt which mattered more to him.
You were the apple of his eye and everyone knew it.
Your brothers teased him about it relentlessly, your mother rolled her eyes whenever he tried to deny it, and even he occasionally admitted it with a sheepish smile when he thought nobody important was listening.
You were his little girl - always.
So when you finally came home, part of you wondered if something in him had quietly settled too.
After nearly two decades of living abroad, after years spent building a life around airports and moving trucks and temporary addresses, you returned to Barcelona for good. You found an apartment overlooking streets you actually recognized. You reconnected with old friends. You started the career you had worked so hard to build.
For the first time in years, home felt like home again.
And not long after you settled back in Catalonia, he announced he would be leaving Manchester. Maybe it was coincidence or maybe he was simply ready to rest and enjoy everything he had spent decades building instead of always chasing the next challenge. But regardless, the football world reacted with the kind of dramatic disbelief usually reserved for royal abdications.
Television channels dedicated entire evenings to discussing his decision. Former players gave emotional interviews. Journalists wrote lengthy retrospectives examining every trophy, every tactical innovation, every rivalry, and every triumph. Fans treated it like the end of an era.
Your father just seemed relieved.
While the rest of the world searched for hidden meanings and secret plans, he spent his days taking long walks with your mother, drinking coffee on terraces overlooking the sea, and rediscovering hobbies that football had stolen from him years ago. For the first time in your life, he looked like a man who wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire club on his shoulders.
He was sometimes a little too relaxed though, in your opinion.
You arrive at your parents’ new house on a warm afternoon, letting yourself in through the front door without bothering to knock. The house sits along the coast, tucked away from the attention that had followed your family for most of your life, and it already feels more like home than any of the temporary houses you had occupied in Munich or Manchester. Sunlight pours through enormous windows overlooking the water, filling every room with a warm golden glow. The distant sound of waves drifts through the open terrace doors and mixes with the faint commentary coming from a television somewhere deeper inside the house.
Following the noise into the living room, you find your parents exactly where you expected them to be.
Curled together on the sofa, practically intertwined, your mother’s legs stretched across your father’s lap while his arm rests comfortably around her shoulders. Some football match plays quietly in the background. The local women’s side, you think after sparing the screen barely a second of attention before immediately losing interest.
The sight would probably make most people smile. It mostly makes you roll your eyes.
Thirty years of marriage and somehow they are still disgustingly in love.
The moment they notice you, their faces brighten in perfect unison. They exchange identical smiles before rising from the couch together, both already reaching for you before you’ve even crossed the room. Your father gets there first, wrapping his arms around you with enough enthusiasm to make it clear that retirement has done absolutely nothing to reduce his affection. You lean into the embrace for a brief moment before your mother steals you away for one of her own.
They have become unbearable since you moved home.
Years of complaining that you lived too far away have apparently convinced them that physical affection must now compensate for every lunch, celebratory dinner, and ordinary afternoon they missed while you were building your career elsewhere.
You allow it because, despite your complaints, you’ve missed them too.
The three of you settle into the living room and fall easily into conversation. Your mother disappears briefly to bring coffee and pastries while your father asks about work, genuinely interested in the answer despite understanding almost nothing about corporate law. He listens anyway, nodding thoughtfully while you complain about difficult clients and impossible deadlines, asking questions with the same focus he once reserved for post-match tactical analysis.
The conversation drifts naturally between subjects until you notice a look pass between your parents.
The tiny exchange lasts less than a second, but after twenty-eight years of being their daughter, you recognize it as something immediately.
Your father suddenly becomes very interested in his coffee while your mother struggles to hide an amused smile behind her hands.
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
Your mother’s smile widens. Your father sighs. And suddenly you know with complete certainty that whatever is about to happen is going to inconvenience you.
“Carinyo…” your father begins, setting his drink down on the table with a level of caution that makes you suspicious. “I have a favor to ask you.”
You narrow your eyes at him.
Across the sofa, your mother seems very interested in stirring her coffee despite the fact that she hasn’t added anything to it.
That alone tells you everything you need to know.
“What kind of favor?”
Your father shifts slightly in his seat.
“Your mother has that baby shower tomorrow. You know, for your cousin.”
A very distant cousin, but yes, you know exactly which baby shower he means. Your mother has been talking about it for weeks despite the fact that neither of you could confidently identify the woman in a lineup.
You wait patiently for him to continue.
“Well,” he says, drawing the word out slightly, “Barça is hosting a gala tomorrow night for the foundation. They’ve asked me to speak because apparently they think seeing your old man back in blaugrana colours will encourage people to donate more money.”
He rolls his eyes as though the idea is completely ridiculous, which is particularly rich coming from a man who could probably convince half of Catalonia to buy bottled tap water if he attached his name to it.
You continue staring at him. The favor still hasn’t arrived. Your father notices your blank look and suddenly looks far less confident.
The sheepish expression that crosses his face is answer enough.
“Oh no.”
His shoulders sag, “Listen-”
“No!”
“I haven’t even asked yet.”
“You don’t need to.”
A laugh escapes your mother before she quickly hides it behind her coffee cup. Your father points at her accusingly before turning back toward you.
“I was wondering…” He hesitates for a moment, clearly aware that this conversation is not heading in his favor. “Well, since your mother can’t come…”
You already know where this is going. You know it before he even finishes the sentence. You know it so certainly that your eyes close in defeat.
“Maybe you could come with me?”
There it is. The disaster. A football gala.
An entire evening surrounded by former players, club executives, sponsors, journalists, donors, and every other category of person you have spent your entire adult life trying to avoid.
“Be my date?"
“Papa,” you groan, dropping your head back against the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling as though divine intervention might still save you.
“It won’t be that bad.”
It will undoubtedly be that bad.
Your father, unfortunately, mistakes your silence for uncertainty and quickly launches into his defense.
“You can pretend it’s some lawyer event! There’ll be loads of lawyers from the club there.”
Wonderful, your favorite.
An entire room filled with wealthy old men who would spend the first few minutes of every conversation staring at your chest and the remainder trying to impress you with stories about their glory days. At least until they realized who your father was, at which point they would inevitably begin treating you like some extension of him rather than an accomplished lawyer in your own right.
The more you think about it, the worse it becomes.
Unfortunately, Papa is looking at you with the same hopeful expression he has worn your entire life whenever he wants something from you, and that expression has always been your weakness.
He rarely asks for anything at all so when he does you’re basically a goner.
The sigh that leaves your mouth is long and dramatic enough to make your mother smile.
“Okay. Fine… I’ll go.”
The relief that floods your father’s face is so genuine that it almost makes the sacrifice feel worthwhile. Almost.
You hold up a finger before he can thank you.
“But I expect to buy a beautiful new dress on your dime.”
His grin arrives instantly. He doesn’t seem remotely surprised or concerned about the expense.
“Done.”
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. That agreement had come far too quickly.
Your father only looks more pleased with himself, leaning back into the sofa with the satisfied expression of a man who had anticipated every step of the negotiation before it even began.
And perhaps he had.
After all, his daughter might be a lawyer and a professional negotiator, but he had spent twenty-eight years studying her habits, weaknesses, and bargaining tactics.
In many ways, he was the only person in the world who negotiated with you better than you negotiated with everyone else.
------
The following evening, a sleek black town car waits outside your apartment building, its polished exterior reflecting the golden glow of the streetlights as the driver stands patiently beside it. The entire scene feels unnecessarily dramatic, which is exactly what you would expect from an event connected to football. Somewhere along the way, the sport had apparently decided that everything needed to feel larger than life.
The chauffeur moves toward the rear door the moment you emerge from the building, but he barely has time to reach for the handle before the opposite door swings open.
Your father steps out. You can’t help smiling.
For all the wealth and status and prestige that surround him, he has never quite mastered the art of letting other people do things for him.
His face brightens when he sees you and for a moment, he just stares.
The expression is familiar. It’s the same expression he wore at your university graduation. The same expression he wore when you passed the bar exam. The same expression he wore whenever you accomplished something that made him proud.
Only tonight you’re fairly certain he’s just admiring his beautiful daughter.
The black gown hugs your frame perfectly before flowing elegantly toward the floor, simple enough to be sophisticated and expensive enough to make your father wince slightly when the credit card bill eventually arrives.
“You look stunning, darling.”
A warmth spreads through your chest despite yourself.
“Gràcies, Papa.”
You step closer, reaching up automatically to straighten his bow tie. It has shifted slightly to the left, something no one else in the world would probably notice. Your father remains perfectly still while you adjust it, smiling softly the entire time.
“There,” you murmur. “Now you look presentable.”
He laughs. “Thank you for coming.”
The words are simple, but there is a sincerity behind them that softens whatever complaints you had prepared.
“I really am happy you’ll be by my side tonight.”
"Me too." You squeeze his arm affectionately. “And when you inevitably get kidnapped by hundreds of middle-aged fanboys who want to tell you where they were when Barça won some trophy fifteen years ago, you can find me at the open bar.”
His laughter echoes across the quiet street. The look he gives you says he knows you’re absolutely right.
Unfortunately, you are.
The moment the two of you arrive at the gala and step into the ballroom arm in arm, it feels as though half the room suddenly remembers your father exists.
People begin approaching from every direction almost immediately.
Former players, executives, sponsors, club officials. Men who have apparently spent the last decade waiting for an opportunity to tell your father the exact same stories he has heard three dozen times before.
Hands are shaken. Introductions are made.
Your father proudly introduces you at every opportunity, his arm occasionally settling around your shoulders as though he cannot resist reminding people that you are his golden child. For a few brief moments the conversations remain balanced, the guests politely asking about your work and your life before inevitably gravitating back toward football.
They always gravitate back toward football. Every single time.
You stand there smiling politely while listening to conversations about matches, transfers, tactical systems, club politics, and moments from seasons that happened so long ago they should probably be considered historical events.
The muscles in your face practically ache from resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
Eventually your father catches your expression.
His mouth twitches and a small apologetic grimace flashes across his features as another group begins steering him toward a gathering of board members and club leadership waiting across the room.
You simply gesture toward the bar. He nods in understanding.
You have performed this dance together your entire life. He gets absorbed into football. You escape. Everyone wins.
The bar occupies one corner of the ballroom beneath a cascade of crystal chandeliers, and you settle onto one of the empty stools before ordering a glass of wine. The bartender delivers it moments later and you take a long sip, grateful for both the drink and the temporary solitude.
From your seat, you can observe the entire room.
The gala is fully alive now. Clusters of elegantly dressed guests fill every corner of the space. Women in designer gowns drift between conversations while men in tailored tuxedos cradle glasses of expensive liquor. Laughter rises above the soft music playing in the background. Waiters weave effortlessly through the crowd carrying silver trays piled high with champagne flutes.
The amount of wealth concentrated inside the ballroom is honestly staggering.
You suspect there are enough questionable offshore accounts in attendance tonight to single-handedly support several Mediterranean economies. The thought makes you smirk into your wine.
Unfortunately, your solitude doesn’t last long. It never does.
You notice the older man approaching several seconds before he reaches you.
Expensive watch, expensive suit, and the particular confidence of someone who has spent decades assuming that women will be delighted by his attention.
You suppress a sigh. What exactly about sitting alone at the end of a bar while staring into a glass of wine suggests that you are hoping to be interrupted?
You brace yourself for whatever painfully rehearsed line he is about to deliver.
Thankfully, he never gets the chance.
Another figure appears seemingly out of nowhere, slipping smoothly into the space between the two of you before the man can even open his mouth. The movement is so natural and effortless that it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.
The woman leans casually against the bar beside you, one arm resting lightly on the polished countertop as she lifts a hand to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Sparkling water, please.” Her voice is warm and confident.
Then she glances toward you. “And another…”
The sentence trails off as she gestures politely for you to finish the order yourself.
“White wine,” you tell the bartender. “Please.”
Only then do you risk looking past her shoulder.
The older man has stopped several feet away, apparently receiving the message loud and clear. After a brief moment of hesitation, he turns and heads toward another bar on the opposite side of the ballroom.
Your shoulders relax immediately.
The stranger notices, a faint smile touches her lips.
Moments later, the bartender returns with both drinks. She thanks him before carefully taking your wine glass and handing it to you.
For the first time, you properly look at the woman who has just rescued you. And for the first time all evening, something about the gala becomes interesting.
“Thanks,” you say as your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass.
The woman offers a small shrug, as though stepping in to save complete strangers from uncomfortable conversations is something she does every day.
“No problem. I saw him making a beeline toward you and you didn’t seem particularly interested.”
You let out a quiet laugh at that.
“Yeah,” you admit. “Definitely not.”
Her smile widens slightly, seemingly pleased that her assessment had been accurate. For a moment neither of you says anything, the comfortable silence settling naturally between you as the noise of the gala swells around the bar. Conversations overlap across the ballroom, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of crystal, while somewhere near the stage a photographer calls for attention from a cluster of former players posing together.
The woman lifts her sparkling water in a small gesture of farewell and begins to turn away.
For reasons you can’t entirely explain, you find yourself stopping her.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
She pauses and glances back over her shoulder.
“Alexia.”
Just Alexia. No surname or explanation or attempt whatsoever to clarify who she is.
You find yourself studying her more openly now that you have an excuse to do so.
She is undeniably beautiful, though not in the polished, manufactured way so many people at events like this seem determined to be. Her beauty feels effortless.
Her dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder, framing striking hazel eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing, while the understated elegance of her dress somehow draws more attention than the far more extravagant gowns scattered throughout the ballroom.
There is a quiet confidence about her, the sort that cannot be purchased or practiced in front of a mirror. She carries herself like someone completely comfortable being noticed, yet entirely uninterested in demanding attention.
Perhaps she notices your prolonged inspection or perhaps you’re just less subtle than you think. Because when your eyes meet hers again, there is unmistakable amusement dancing there.
“Alexia no last name?” you ask lightly, attempting to recover some dignity by shifting the attention back onto her.
The knowing smile that follows is immediate. The sort of smile that suggests she understands exactly what game you’re trying to play.
She merely nods.
You can’t stop your own smile from appearing.
“Fair enough.”
Extending your hand, you introduce yourself exactly the same way she had, offering only your first name and nothing else. If she wanted to play mysterious, you were more than capable of meeting her on equal footing.
The look in her eyes brightens instantly. The challenge has been accepted.
When she takes your hand, you’re struck by how confident the gesture feels. Her grip is firm without being aggressive, practiced without feeling rehearsed, and accompanied by steady eye contact that somehow manages to feel both professional and deeply personal at the same time. It reminds you vaguely of networking seminars during law school, where entire lectures had been dedicated to first impressions and the psychology of handshakes.
Yet nothing else about her suggests lawyer.
She carries herself differently, more comfortably and naturally. She is far too sun-kissed to spend every day trapped inside offices, conference rooms, and court buildings. And there is none of the carefully managed tension that seems to plague everyone in your profession.
Instead, she appears completely at ease within herself, as though she has long since stopped worrying about how others perceive her.
Your curiosity grows.
“So what brings you to the gala?” you ask, hoping to fill in at least some of the increasingly obvious gaps in her story.
Alexia takes a slow sip of her water before answering.
“I’m affiliated with the club.”
The response is so vague that it borders on parody. The smile she gives you is suspiciously innocent.
You stare at her. She stares right back, completely serious. Your head tilts slightly and her smile widens.
Before you can press for clarification, she smoothly redirects the conversation back toward you.
“And you?”
The challenge is obvious.
You laugh softly despite yourself. “My father is affiliated with the club.”
For the first time, genuine amusement flashes across her face. The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. Touché.
The conversation continues from there with surprising ease.
What begins as polite small talk somehow stretches into something far more engaging, neither of you appearing particularly interested in discussing the things that should logically dominate a conversation between two strangers at a gala. Instead of careers or accomplishments or the carefully curated biographies that people usually exchange at events like this, the discussion drifts effortlessly toward entirely different subjects, as though both of you have silently agreed that those details can wait.
You compare childhood neighborhoods and debate which corners of Catalonia are still worth visiting before tourists inevitably discover them. You argue over the best cafés in Barcelona, exchange stories about terrible landlords and nightmare neighbors, laugh about absurd encounters with overly entitled strangers, and commiserate over the strange experience of returning to a city that once felt like home only to discover that it has somehow changed while remaining exactly the same.
One topic melts into the next so naturally that you eventually lose track of how the conversation keeps evolving. There are no awkward pauses, no desperate searches for something new to discuss, no moments where either of you scans the room for an escape route. Every answer seems to create three new questions, every story sparks another memory, and before long the noise of the gala has faded into little more than background static.
At some point you find yourself telling her about growing up in Barcelona before moving away, about how strange it felt watching your childhood disappear through the rear window of a moving car while every adult around you insisted that the next city would be an exciting adventure. You tell her about Germany and the endless struggle of learning a language that always seemed to have twice as many rules as necessary, about England and its relentless grey skies that somehow managed to make even summer feel overcast, and about the peculiar loneliness that comes from constantly arriving somewhere new only to know that eventually you’ll be expected to leave again.
Most people hear stories like that and immediately begin searching for opportunities to tell stories of their own. They wait just long enough for you to finish speaking before redirecting the conversation back toward themselves, eager to compare experiences or share an anecdote that proves they understand exactly how you feel.
Alexia doesn’t. Instead, she listens. Actually listens.
Her attention never seems to wander despite the chaos unfolding around you. She doesn’t glance over your shoulder searching for someone more important. She doesn’t check her phone. She doesn’t interrupt with stories designed to redirect the spotlight back onto herself. She just watches you with genuine interest, occasionally asking a question that reveals she has been paying far closer attention than most people ever do.
It is unexpectedly disarming.
You have always been a gifted storyteller. Long before law school taught you how to construct arguments and command a room, you possessed an instinctive understanding of narrative, timing, and audience. You know how to hold someone’s attention. You know how to make people laugh at exactly the right moment. You know how to guide a conversation wherever you want it to go and leave people feeling as though they arrived there naturally.
Yet with Alexia, you find yourself becoming unusually aware of that instinct.
You’re not even consciously trying to impress her, if anything, the realization sneaks up on you slowly. Somewhere between discussing childhood memories and trading stories about cities that never quite felt like home, you discover that you care whether she finds your stories interesting. You care whether she laughs. You care whether that attentive look remains in her eyes.
Every time her expression softens with interest, you find yourself elaborating slightly more than necessary. Every time she laughs, warmth spreads through your chest with surprising ease. Every thoughtful question encourages another story, another memory, another piece of yourself that you wouldn’t normally volunteer to someone you’ve known for less than an hour.
Gradually the rest of the gala begins to fade into the background.
The donors and executives become little more than moving shapes beyond the bar. Conversations that had once seemed annoyingly loud blur into an indistinct hum. Bursts of laughter rise and fall somewhere across the ballroom without ever fully registering. Even Papa, who had been the entire reason for your attendance tonight, slips from your thoughts entirely as the world narrows down to the space occupied by two bar stools and a woman with hazel eyes.
For nearly an hour, the woman who introduced herself only as Alexia somehow becomes the most interesting person in a room filled with football legends, celebrities, politicians, and people wealthy enough to purchase entire islands if the mood ever struck them.
And judging by the way she continues looking at you, as though every story is worth hearing and every answer only creates a dozen new questions, you begin to suspect she is finding you equally difficult to walk away from.
The announcement comes far too soon.
A man’s voice echoes through the ballroom speakers, warm and polished in the way that only people who spend their lives hosting charity galas seem capable of sounding, thanking everyone for their generosity before informing the room that dinner would be served shortly and asking guests to begin finding their assigned tables.
Around you, conversations begin dissolving. Clusters of people separate with reluctant smiles and promises to continue discussions later, while waiters appear as if summoned from nowhere and begin directing guests toward the dining area.
Beside you, Alexia huffs softly in irritation. The sound pulls a smile from you because it mirrors your own disappointment almost perfectly.
You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until now. Somewhere between discussing childhood friends and comparing favorite vacation destinations, an hour had disappeared without either of you seeming to notice.
Apparently neither of you had wanted the conversation to end.
Alexia rises from her stool with obvious reluctance, smoothing a hand along her dress as she glances toward the dining area where guests are already beginning to find their seats. For a moment she just stands there, as though considering whether there might be some socially acceptable way to ignore the announcement altogether and remain exactly where she is.
Then her eyes find yours again and without a word, she extends her hand.
The gesture is simple and effortless. Yet something about it makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.
You are perfectly capable of standing on your own. In fact, you have spent most of your life being fiercely independent, stubbornly refusing help even when you probably should have accepted it. Yet the offered hand feels less like assistance and more like an invitation, and you find yourself taking it before you’ve fully thought through why.
Her fingers close around yours warmly.
The contact is brief, lasting only long enough for her to help you from the stool despite the fact that neither of you actually needed the assistance, yet you become acutely aware of it anyway. The softness of her hand. The quiet confidence in the gesture. The way her thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles as she releases you.
By the time your feet are firmly beneath you, the moment has already passed. Still, the sensation lingers.
You hesitate for a second, caught between caution and curiosity, between the instinct to protect yourself and the increasingly powerful desire to see where this might lead. Normally you would overthink it and spend ten minutes analyzing every possible outcome before saying anything at all.
Instead, before your better judgment can intervene, you decide that being brave for once might actually be worth it.
“Come find me after the auction?”
The question leaves your mouth before you have the opportunity to reconsider it.
For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickers through you. Maybe she was simply being polite. Maybe she had enjoyed the conversation in the pleasant, fleeting way people often enjoy conversations at events like this, with no expectation of ever continuing them. Maybe you had mistaken friendliness for interest, curiosity for chemistry. Maybe the easy rhythm that had developed between the two of you existed only in your imagination.
The doubts barely have time to form before Alexia’s face brightens. The reaction is so immediate and so genuine that it erases every one of them at once.
“Yes,” she says, the answer arriving almost before you’ve finished speaking, as though there was never any possibility of a different response. “I’d like that.”
Something warm unfurls inside your chest.
It is an embarrassingly satisfying reaction, made worse by the fact that you cannot seem to stop the smile spreading across your face. For someone who prides herself on being composed, on remaining rational and measured and entirely unaffected by attractive strangers, you are suddenly doing a remarkably poor job.
Alexia notices. The amused softness that settles into her expression suggests she is having far too much fun watching you try and fail to appear unaffected.
Still smiling, you give her hand one final squeeze before finally letting go.
For a few lingering seconds, the two of you remain exactly where you are, standing beside the bar as though neither is particularly eager to be the first one to leave.
Eventually reality reasserts itself. Dinner, tables, responsibilities. The endless procession of speeches and fundraising and networking that accompanies every event of this kind. The evening begins pulling you in opposite directions, demanding your attention whether you are ready to give it or not.
Reluctantly, the two of you separate.
You take several steps toward the dining area before glancing back over your shoulder.
Alexia is already looking. The discovery sends an entirely unreasonable amount of satisfaction rushing through you.
For a brief moment your eyes meet across the growing crowd, both of you caught in the act, and neither bothering to pretend otherwise. Then she laughs softly and shakes her head before turning toward her own table.
You continue walking with a smile that refuses to leave your face.
The ballroom has transformed while you were distracted. The lights have been dimmed slightly, softening the vast room into something warmer and more intimate, while the enormous chandeliers overhead cast everything in a golden glow that reflects off crystal glasses and polished silverware. Elaborate floral arrangements sit at the center of every table, their carefully arranged blooms competing for attention with the designer gowns, tailored tuxedos, and enough expensive jewelry to fund a small nation. Around you, VIPs, politicians, former players, sponsors, and donors settle into their seats, conversations gradually quieting as the evening shifts from cocktails and mingling into the more formal portion of the program.
Your own table appears to contain precisely the sort of people you had spent the first half of the evening trying to avoid.
The executives are already deep into discussions about sponsorship agreements and broadcasting rights. A politician whose face you vaguely recognize from television is attempting to charm everyone within earshot. Two former directors are comparing stories from decades ago as though they personally built the club brick by brick.
You slide into the empty seat beside your father, offering the polite smile expected of you before settling comfortably into your chair.
As soon as you settle in, your father leans slightly in your direction.
“Having a nice time?”
The question itself is perfectly innocent, his expression, unfortunately, is not.
You know that look. The faint curve threatening at the corner of his mouth. The glimmer of amusement dancing behind his eyes. The unmistakable expression of a man who has noticed something and is enjoying the fact that you haven’t caught up yet.
Your own eyes narrow instantly.
“Yes,” you answer honestly, because there is little point pretending otherwise. “It’s actually been better than I expected.”
The smile grows enough to send alarm bells ringing somewhere deep inside your head.
“I thought you always said no footballers.”
You blink. “What?”
The single word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
For a moment your father appears as though he might elaborate. His smile widens further, clearly delighted by your confusion, and you can practically see the response forming behind his eyes.
Unfortunately, before he can say another word, the foundation president steps onto the stage.
The ballroom gradually falls silent - conversations fade and heads turn. Attention shifts toward the podium as the evening’s official program begins. Your father is forced to abandon whatever explanation he had been preparing and straighten in his chair, his focus returning to the stage.
The moment passes, at least for him. For you, however, the damage has already been done.
You barely hear a single word of the speech. The president could be announcing the discovery of extraterrestrial life and you aren’t entirely sure you would notice, your brain is too busy replaying that sentence.
For as long as you can remember, those two words had been one of the few constants in your life.
No footballers.
The rule had first emerged when you were a teenager, born out of years spent watching football dictate nearly every aspect of your family’s existence. You remembered crying to your mother after another school performance where your father’s seat remained empty despite his best intentions. You remembered holidays interrupted by transfer negotiations and urgent phone calls. You remembered constantly packing boxes and saying goodbye to friends because football had decided your family belonged in a different country. You remembered loving your father fiercely while simultaneously resenting the profession that always seemed to claim the largest share of him, no matter how desperately he tried to shield you from that reality.
Football had given him everything. Football had taken a great deal too. And somewhere amidst all those years of airports, moving vans, and missed moments, a rule had quietly taken shape.
No footballers.
The rule had only strengthened with age.
When friends attempted to set you up with players, the answer had been no. When athletes approached you in bars and restaurants, the answer had been no. When people insisted you were being unfair, that you might be surprised if you actually gave one a chance, the answer had remained exactly what it had always been: no.
The specifics had never mattered - tall or short, blonde or brunette, funny or serious. None of it had ever been relevant.
The only requirement had always been painfully simple.
No footballers.
Which was precisely why your father’s comment now felt so suspicious. Because it hadn’t been random. Your father never said things randomly.
Not after decades spent navigating dressing rooms filled with enormous personalities, boardrooms filled with competing agendas, and press conferences where every word was analyzed from a dozen different angles. He observed everything. He noticed everything. Entire careers had been built on underestimating how much information he absorbed simply by paying attention.
If he had said it, there was a reason.
Slowly, your eyes drift across the ballroom. Toward the tables positioned near the stage. Toward the section where Alexia had disappeared after leaving the bar.
The realization begins forming before you consciously reach it.
Too tan to be a lawyer. Too young to be an executive. Far too comfortable in this environment to just be some donor or guest.
You had spent the better part of an hour trying to place her without ever quite succeeding. At various points you had convinced yourself she might be a doctor, something about her attentiveness and the way she listened fitting neatly into that image. Other times you had wondered if she was an entrepreneur, a foundation director, or perhaps someone involved with one of the club’s charitable projects. Her calm confidence, thoughtful questions, and complete lack of pretension had pointed your imagination in a hundred different directions.
Just not the correct one.
Because of course the answer had been staring you directly in the face the entire time. This was a Barça gala. A Barça foundation event. A room filled almost exclusively with people connected to football in one way or another.
Your stomach drops. The feeling is immediate and absolute.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Across the room, Alexia laughs at something someone says beside her, her head tilting back slightly as the warm light catches the features you had spent the last hour trying not to admire too openly.
And suddenly everything clicks into place.
The woman who had rescued you at the bar. The woman who had somehow made this entire evening enjoyable. The woman you had been looking forward to seeing again after dinner. Had to be a footballer.
The realization makes you close your eyes briefly and resist the urge to bang your forehead against the table.
Because after twenty-eight years of maintaining exactly one dating rule, after a lifetime spent insisting that footballers were categorically off limits, the first person to genuinely capture your attention in over a year had turned out to be the one thing you had always sworn you would never touch.
And the truly infuriating part was that the knowledge changed absolutely nothing about how excited you still were to see her again after the auction.
The eruption of applause around the ballroom drags your attention back to the present before you can disappear completely into your own thoughts.
You blink and straighten slightly in your chair as your father rises beside you, earning another standing ovation simply for existing.
The reaction is almost comical at this point. Years have passed since he last stood on the touchline at Camp Nou, decades since he wore the club’s colors professionally, yet the affection people feel toward him remains almost untouched by time. Executives applaud enthusiastically. Former players beam at him from neighboring tables. Wealthy donors who probably couldn’t explain a single tactical system clap like devoted disciples greeting a prophet.
Your father, meanwhile, looks mildly embarrassed by all of it.
The sight makes you smile despite yourself as he buttons his jacket and begins making his way toward the stage. For all the attention football has forced upon him throughout his life, he has never quite become comfortable being the center of it. The trophies and documentaries and statues and endless praise have somehow failed to cure him of the instinctive discomfort that always appears whenever people celebrate him too loudly.
As he climbs the steps toward the podium, your attention begins drifting around the room again. Toward the hundreds of guests seated beneath glittering chandeliers. Toward a woman whose charming smile has managed to completely derail your evening.
Your father reaches the microphone and immediately attempts to begin speaking over the applause.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Eventually the room settles enough for him to continue.
“I’m so honored to be invited to speak tonight and to be welcomed back with such open arms. This truly is the club of my life, and I know I strayed away for a little while.”
Laughter ripples throughout the ballroom at the understatement. Even your father smiles.
“But Barça always has been and always will be my home. No matter where football took me, no matter what challenges came next, this club and the people connected to it remained part of who I am. I owe so much to everyone in this room, and I owe even more to the supporters who believed in me long before I deserved it.”
The applause returns briefly before fading once more.
You have heard variations of this speech your entire life. Different clubs, different trophies, different cities. Yet the sincerity always remains the same.
Your father was never particularly good at pretending to care about things he didn’t actually care about, which is probably why people trusted him so much. When he spoke about football, about family, about loyalty, there was never any doubt that he meant every word.
His gaze sweeps across the ballroom before eventually landing on your table.
Instantly, a familiar feeling of dread settles into your stomach. You’ve known that look since childhood. The look that always appears right before he embarrasses you in public.
“And I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me and for my family. My beautiful wife unfortunately couldn’t be here tonight because of a prior commitment.”
A chorus of sympathetic murmurs rises from the crowd.
“But thankfully my wonderful daughter agreed to accompany me.”
There it is. You close your eyes briefly. The smile in his voice is practically audible now.
“You all know I’d be completely lost without her.”
The spotlight finds you immediately and the entire ballroom seems to turn as one. Hundreds of faces. Hundreds of eyes. Hundreds of people looking directly at you.
Years of practice save you and the panic never reaches your expression.
Instead, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin slightly, and produce the polished smile that has been perfected through decades of public appearances, family photographs, charity events, and championship celebrations.
The crowd reacts exactly as expected. Applause breaks out throughout the room. Several people whistle. A few call your name.
The beloved daughter of their beloved manager.
You smile graciously while internally considering whether it is possible to legally disown a parent at twenty-eight.
Eventually the spotlight drifts away.
The sudden darkness leaves dancing spots across your vision and you blink repeatedly, waiting for your eyes to adjust while your father continues speaking somewhere above you. The words barely register. Something about community. Something about the foundation. Something about giving back.
Your attention is elsewhere.
As the dark spots finally begin fading, your gaze drifts instinctively across the room and immediately collides with Alexia’s. For a moment neither of you looks away.
The expression on her face is almost enough to make you laugh.
It's shock - pure, unmistakable shock.
The easy confidence that had defined every second of your conversation disappears completely as her gaze flickers from you to the man standing at the podium and then back again, her brows drawing together as she tries to process what she’s seeing. You can practically watch the pieces falling into place in real time.
The woman she’d spent the last hour talking to wasn’t simply attending with someone connected to the club. She was attending with the greatest manager to ever live. Who just so happened to be her father.
The realization unfolds across her features one detail at a time. First recognition, then disbelief, then understanding.
Suddenly every vague answer you’d given her begins snapping into focus. Every time you’d referred to your father as merely “affiliated with the club.” Every carefully sidestepped question. Every missing detail and intentionally incomplete explanation that had seemed amusing at the time.
You can almost hear the conversation replaying in her head as she reconstructs it with this new information.
And then, rather uncomfortably, you realize you’re doing exactly the same thing.
Because if she hadn’t recognized you, it means she hadn’t known who your father was when you were sitting together at the bar. Which means she hadn’t approached you because of him or stayed because of him or spent nearly an hour laughing at your stories because of him.
The realization sends unexpected butterflies through your gut.
Unfortunately, it also forces another realization to the surface. One that is significantly less comforting.
Because now that Alexia knows exactly who your father is, there is no longer any plausible explanation for how comfortably she had navigated this room, how effortlessly she had moved through a gala filled with football royalty, or why your father had immediately known who she was without needing an introduction.
Slowly, painfully, the final pieces click into place.
The confidence. The athletic build hidden beneath the elegant dress. The non-answers to your probing questions. The fact that she had introduced herself as simply Alexia and somehow expected that to be enough.
At the time, you had assumed it was part of the game the two of you were playing. A harmless attempt at mystery. A way of teasing each other while carefully avoiding the details that usually dominate conversations between strangers.
Now you realize it was something else entirely. Because even in a room like this, she didn’t need a surname. Everyone already knew it.
Your stomach drops.
The woman who had spent the last hour completely captivating you isn’t some reserve player or academy coach or random club employee.
She is important.
The kind of important that transcends introductions. The kind of important that allows a person to identify themselves with a single name and expect recognition. The kind of footballer whose face appears on billboards, whose jersey hangs in children’s bedrooms, whose name is spoken with familiarity by people who have never met her.
And judging by the slow, increasingly amused smile beginning to spread across her face from across the ballroom, she has reached exactly the same conclusion about you.
The two of you had spent an entire hour carefully concealing your identities from one another while unknowingly discussing everything except the one thing that connected you both.
Now, across a crowded ballroom filled with some of the most influential people in European football, you watch recognition fully settle into her beautiful hazel eyes.
And the worst part is that, instead of making her any less interesting, it somehow makes her even more so.
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Author's Note: New story idea even though I should be writing under her wing iii 🫣. I don't have an established storyline for this fic yet so if you have any ideas please share. I love and appreciate you all as always ❤️
Beyond the Badge | Alexia Putellas x reader - Part 11
Part 11
Summary : You're Real Madrid Femenino personified, the captain, the one who joined the day the club was born. A 15-2 agreggate against Barça makes you wonder if loyalty is enough, and the Spanish camp that follows only make it worse. You've known Alexia Putellas for years but have never been close. This camp has other ideas for you both.
Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Real Madrid! Reader
Word count : 10.4k
Warnings : 18+ (a small scene)
A/n : A bit late with this one, partly because of a birthday weekend and a left-arm injury, partly because I didn't know how to write it, but it's finally here ! It's more of a transition chapter with a lot of fluff (some angst too, but not much).
Masterlist
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Following lunch, there is a window of free time before the mandatory recovery and video sessions scheduled for later in the afternoon. Your original plan was simple : spending the hour with Alexia in her bed, trying to stay silent while she is between your legs.
Life has other ideas.
Vicky catches as you're stepping away from the dining hall. “Hey ! I really need your help with something, please ?”
“Vicky, I already promised Aitana I’d hang out with her,” you sigh. “Can’t we do it later ?”
“No, because Ona’s going to be around later, please.”
She looks genuinely desperate, pulling out full puppy-dog eyes that make you let out a defeated sigh. “Is this actually that important ?”
She nods frantically.
“Alright, fine. Yeah, I’ll come with you.”
She jumps on you with an enthusiastic hug, and you inwardly pray that whatever this is, it’s worth sacrificing time with your girlfriend. As you walk down the hotel corridors behind her, you quickly pull out your phone to text Alexia, apologizing profusely and explaining that Vicky essentially begged you. You turn off the screen before Vicky can catch a glimpse of the contact name.
As you get to her room, Vicky is fidgeting. It isn't her normal inability to stand still, but rather an ‘I have an announcement to make’ kind of way. You sit next to her on her bed, waiting patiently while she kneads a Stitch plushie so hard it would probably be crying for help if it was conscious.
She locks eyes with you. “How much can I trust you?”
You shrug, trying to keep things light. “I mean, it depends. What did you break ? Who’s coming for you ? Just so you know, if you snoop through Alexia’s room and found another strap, you're on your own.”
“Please, I’m serious.”
The tone makes you stop immediately. You have never heard Vicky this serious about something that wasn’t football. You eye her carefully, sensing the stress radiating from her.
“Hey, what is it, kid ? I promise whatever it is stays between us.”
Vicky looks through the window, her face flushed and refusing to meet your eyes as she mumbles, “I have a crush on someone, and I don’t know what to do.”
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. You were mentally preparing to hide a body or take the blame for breaking hotel property, not navigate teenage romance.
“Do I know her ?”
She nods in lieu of an answer.
“Okay, so a footballer,” you summarize. You wait for her to elaborate, but it seems her initial bravery evaporated the moment those words left her mouth.
“Who is it ?”
More silence. Her gaze refuses to budge from the window while poor Stitch takes the brunt of her nervous breakdown.
“Vic, hey. I can’t give you advice if you shut down on me.”
“It’s Clara,” she admits, so low you barely catch it.
You freeze, because her attitude is starting to make a lot of sense.
You shift closer, wrapping a warm arm around her shoulders as she leans over to rest her head against yours.
“What do you like about her ?” you ask gently, keeping your tone quiet and safe.
“She’s so sweet, and cute, and we can just talk for hours without it feeling forced,” Vicky rambles, her guard finally dropping. “She keeps me grounded, you know ? She’s way more level-headed than me, I want to be around her all the time, and she gets football.”
Adorable.
You rest your chin on top of her hair with a quiet smile. “So, what do you need from me, kid ?”
“I don’t even know,” she murmurs weakly into your shirt. “Your opinion, I guess. Help.”
You turn your tongue in your mouth, carefully measuring your words. Given the situation, the consequences could end up being huge.
“My initial opinion would be to tell you that having a crush on a teammate isn’t the wisest thing in the world.”
Her shoulders drop. You catch where her heart wants this conversation to go.
“But it’s a bit too late for that. If you’re sure about your feelings, go for it. Just do a little recon first and make sure she likes you back, unless you want to spend the next five years surviving pure awkwardness.”
She falls back onto the bed dramatically. “That’s the problem ! I have literally zero idea how to figure that out.”
“Look for the subtle signs,” you explain. “When you look across the room, is she already staring at you and looking away real fast ? Does she crack up at every dumb thing that comes out of your mouth ? Is she always mysteriously showing up wherever you are ? Stuff like that.”
She turns her head toward you. “Do you think she does that with me ?”
“Do I think?” You furrow your brows, looking down at her. “Vicky, you’re the one with the crush ! How am I supposed to know what she’s doing ?”
“Well, you hang out around us all the time !” she insists, gesturing with her hands. “And, I mean, you’re our captain. You’re observant. You’re experienced—”
“Did you just call me old ?”
She doesn’t even bother to deny it. “Look, I need your help ! Couldn’t you just... try to become her friend or something and subtly bring me up ?”
You roll your eyes. “Vicky, I’d like to point out to you that I’ve finished high school.”
“I have too !”
“Anyway, I am not doing your covert espionage for you. Besides, I barely know Clara.”
The simple sound of Clara’s name makes Vicky flush, making you fight off a laugh.
“If you want a real idea of where her head is at,” you continue, softening slightly, “you should ask someone who actually knows you both well. Have you told anyone else ?”
“I told Jana.”
“And what was Jana’s expert assessment ?”
Vicky grunts, burying her face into her knees. “Jana is useless ! She sees romance in literally everything, so she’s convinced Clara likes me back. I mean, come on, last camp she was dead sure you and Alexia had a secret thing going on. She’s completely delusional.”
Well then, maybe Clara does have a crush on Vicky.
You force out a nonchalant laugh, playing it cool. “Yeah, fair point. Sounds like Jana’s radar for team romance is broken.”
Vicky doesn’t seem to process your reaction at all, far too consumed by her own internal crisis to overthink the brief flicker in your voice.
“Have you told anyone else ?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation away.
“No, nobody who knows both of us,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn't want to make things weird for our friends, especially if there is nothing on her end.”
You let out a soft, resigned sigh. You know there's no way you're winning a logical argument against a teenager in love. “Alright, look. I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I catch a vibe,” you offer, raising a cautionary finger. “No promises, though. Got it ?”
Before you can even finish the sentence, she throws her arms around you in a bone-crushing hug.
That is how you end up seated across from Clara at dinner. Vicky has slyly positioned herself diagonally behind you at the adjacent table, perfectly angled so you can catch every tiny eye contact or reaction.
You find yourself asking, for the thousandth time today, how on earth you let yourself get roped into this.
Alexia slides into the empty chair right next to Clara. If you happen to flash a quick wink toward Jenni when Alexia decides to join your table instead of sitting right next to her, it’s nobody’s business.
Alexia is deep in a passionate explanation to Clara about a tactic that was briefly mentioned during the afternoon video session. Clara is drinking in every word, nodding at every sentence like it's gospel, both of their plates sitting entirely ignored.
You’re sent back to what will soon be a decade ago, your very first call-up for the national team, when you were still wide-eyed and trying to figure out where you fit.
It had been right after your first official video session, and you were hopelessly confused by half of the tactical instructions the coach had thrown at you. Vero Boquete had been kind enough to break it all down for you at dinner, while Alexia sat directly across from you.
Back then, Alexia had worn that exact same expression Clara is wearing right now : brows drawn tight in intense focus, head tilted slightly, nodding along in rapt attention. The only noticeable difference is that Clara has more of a baby face than Alexia had at the time.
It stuck with you because that was the very first time you truly felt like you belonged with the national team. Just sitting around, talking football with your peers. You simply never clicked with Alexia beyond those pitch-side conversations. She already had her established circle with the Barça players, and she’s never been one for small talk.
Whenever the two of you tried to talk about literally anything other than football, it was painfully awkward. Neither of you knew what to say, and you never had enough forced proximity to figure it out. The one time she tried to make friendly conversation about Barça, you instantly shut it down with a blunt, “Real Madrid is way better.” You silently agreed to stay out of each other's orbits after that.
Looking back, it’s crazy how effortless it is to spend years in the same room with someone and never truly know them, especially considering how compatible you are with Alexia. Aitana even told you once that half the Barça girls assumed you were deliberately avoiding them, when in reality you were just minding your own business.
You get hit on the shoulder, a bit too hard in your opinion. “Ow !”
“Oh, sorry ! You just seemed totally spaced out,” Clara says quickly, meeting your gaze with apologetic, wide eyes. Between that and the baby face, it’s obvious why Alexia can never stay mad at these kids for long. “What were you thinking about ?” she asks, tilting her head.
“You just remind me a lot of a younger Ale,” you admit, pointing your fork directly at the woman sitting next to her. “Same face, same expressions, same complete inability to stop thinking about football for five seconds.”
Clara reddens, though she doesn't seem surprised by the comparison.
“I honestly have no idea why everyone keeps making that comparison. We really don’t look that much alike,” Alexia chimed in.
You scan her up and down, an amused smirk tugging at your lips. “Go look at pictures of yourself from back then. You really do.”
Alexia furrows her brows, instantly defensive. “No, I don’t !”
“Ale, I literally knew you when you were twenty-two,” you counter. “You had slightly less of a baby face than Clara does now, but that’s about it.”
“We’re just both brunette,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.
“It’s not just the hair, it’s how you act whenever someone talks tactics,” you explain, leaning back slightly. “The tiny head tilt, the way you refuse to blink like you’re terrified of missing a single detail, the little crease right between your eyebrows...”
Alexia crosses her arms, dropping into a dramatic pout that pulls affectionate laugh out of your chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You’re about to retort, but you feel Clara’s gaze on you and turn to look at her. There’s a flicker of confusion on her face, and it suddenly hits you : you are never this openly familiar with Alexia in public.
“Whatever, Capi,” you scoff, playing it off.
She only rolls her eyes in answer, while the suspicion slowly leaves Clara’s face. Thank God she isn’t the most drama-hungry one of her group. You have a feeling this would be going very differently if Jana was sitting in her seat.
You notice Clara’s gaze drift diagonally across the room instead, a shy smile appearing on her face, and you file that away in your mental evidence folder for Vicky.
The rest of the evening is spent playing Monopoly with a few of your Real and ex-Real teammates, while Alexia has plans with her own circle. You had wanted some alone time with her, but she pointedly reminded you that you stood her up for Vicky earlier. Naturally, she also tried to grill you about what you and the kid were talking about, but you didn't break.
The day of the game against England is one of focus. A win today will officially secure your qualification for Brazil, a fact that hums like an electric current through the entire squad. On top of that, even with the victory two months ago, there is still a deep need to send a clear message to the European champions.
The only almost-alone time you manage to get with Alexia is after morning training, back in your room. She rests securely in your arms, a soft sense of contentment washing over both of you as her fingers idly trace soothing patterns down the side of your leg.
“I told you, it’s just so weird to see,” you hear Aitana whisper, her voice not nearly as discreet as she thinks it is.
“Weird doesn’t even cover it,” Misa mutters right back, seated next to her on Aitana’s bed.
You eye them both, giving them the finger.
Misa doesn't even flinch, a wicked grin spreads across her face. “Does that finger go inside Alexia ?”
Alexia freezes in your arms, while Aitana is seized by a violent coughing fit, choking on her own air. You and Misa both lose it, cackling as you slide out from behind Alexia to high-five with the goalkeeper.
“Ale, oh my god, you should have seen your face !” Misa exclaims, doubled over and still laughing.
Alexia lets out a long groan. You press a tender kiss to the side of her head, and she tugs at your hands, pulling you back into place until you're wrapped around her again, her cheeks still flushed.
“Amor, that was a tame one,” you tease, nudging her playfully.
She throws you a warning glare, but the tough facade crumbles the second you lean in and press a soft peck to her lips.
“Yep, still weird,” states Misa.
Aitana swats at Misa's arm. “You’re the one who started that one ! Honestly, this idiot” she gestures at you, “should have unloaded all those lewd details on you instead of traumatizing me.”
“What exactly have you told her ?” Alexia turns in your arms, her brows furrowing.
Suddenly, the hotel ceiling becomes the most fascinating thing in the entire world.
“Everything,” Aitana answers for you, stressing every syllable.
Misa perks up like a hawk. “Hold on... is there actually stuff that interesting ?”
The room goes dead silent. You can practically feel Misa narrowing her eyes at the shift in the air, her internal radar spiking.
“It cannot be that interesting.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not,” Alexia snaps back.
That brief dismissal doesn’t deter Misa at all. If anything, it only cements her suspicion that there’s gold buried right under the surface. It takes a few seconds, but a delighted "Oh my god" pierces through the heavy silence.
Her gaze darts back and forth between the two of you, a massive grin spreading across her face.
“No,” Alexia states firmly, attempting to shut it down on pure captain authority.
“Ale, your throat,” Misa points dramatically at her friend, whose facial expression suggests she’s seriously weighing the pros and cons of jumping off the 10th-floor window right then and there.
“Misa,” you warn, because you can sense how uncomfortable your girlfriend is becoming.
“Don’t Misa me. How did that happen ?”
“Misa, seriously,” you sigh, running a hand over your face. Alexia has turned a worrying shade of red.
“Oh, just wait until Jenni finds out !” Misa laughs, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Jenni is not finding out,” Alexia fires back, finding her voice beneath the sheer humiliation.
You decide to keep your mouth shut, recognizing that right now is not the time to drop the bomb that you might have already spilled it to Jenni.
“How can you be this much of a prude and still let her do that to you ?”
“Misa, shut it,” you cut in sternly, before Alexia passes out or drops out from the national team. Misa eyes you, trying to gauge if you’re serious. You return a hard stare, and she clamps her mouth shut, sensing that you are not joking around anymore.
You press a soft kiss to the top of Alexia’s head and gently pull her closer, repositioning her against your chest until you hear her quiet groan of satisfaction. Staying carefully away from the subject after that, you manage to smoothly diffuse the rest of the lingering tension.
The afternoon is spent entirely on game preparation. Alexia manages five minutes of peace with you in her room right before the bus leaves for the game. Your tongue spends most of that time inside her mouth. You can’t wait for some uninterrupted time with her, preferably naked.
The bus ride to the stadium is buzzing, you can tell the squad feels good about tonight. During pitch walk, you have a slightly awkward run-in with Lauren James. She cracks a quick joke referencing last camp, clearly throwing out a line to see if you'll bite. You just laugh politely and shut the conversation down cleanly.
The team was right to be confident. It’s a demonstration by your side, securing an easy 4–0 win. It includes a brace by Alexia and, to your displeasure, a late goal by Jenni after she is subbed in. Aitana providing the assist makes the whole thing a little easier to digest.
The bus ride back is a full-blown party with Samba music blasting over the speakers, and even Alexia loosens her grip on her usual stoic captain persona. You catch her doing a little dance, though you know for a fact she’ll swear up and down it never happened if you call her out on it.
While a bunch of the girls gather in someone's room to celebrate the victory, you opt for a peaceful night in your own room, exhausted from ninety minutes on the pitch and in serious need of recovery.
Sleep, however, refuses to cooperate. You finally give up the fight long past midnight and head down to the hotel break room to grab a cup of tea, hoping it might help you unwind.
Jenni is here, because of course she is. You genuinely start to wonder if the universe has a personal vendetta against you. Neither of you says a word as you fill the kettle and set it to boil.
You turn around to look at her. She’s leaning back against one of the tables, a warm mug cupped in her hands. From this angle, you can clearly see the 1994 tattoo on the outside of her wrist. It’s fading, clearly in the slow process of being laser-removed, but seeing it still causes something bitter and ugly to flare up inside your chest.
“Great goal, by the way. Must feel good to get on the scoresheet as a sub,” you say, throwing a playful wink her way.
Jenni tilts her head. “What are you trying to accomplish here ?”
“Just trying to congratulate a teammate,” you answer with an easy shrug.
She lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re such a shit-stirrer.”
In truth, you have no idea what your end game is here. You just need her to snap. If she gets mad, you get to be mad back, and anger is a blissfully uncomplicated emotion. There’s a quiet resentment brewing inside you toward Alexia for laying all her emotional baggage on you right in the middle of camp, but you can’t lash out at your girlfriend. Jenni, on the other hand, is easy.
“Must be tough,” you remark casually, watching the kettle steam, “getting used to being just another average player.”
Her knuckles turn white around her cup, but she keeps her composure. “Must be hard,” she fires back coldly, “knowing your importance in this team is due to how docile you are.”
“Pretty sure my position on top of Alexia has nothing to do with being docile.”
Jenni chuckles. “You make sex jokes about Ale because you lack self-confidence in every other aspect of the relationship. Being great in bed will only keep Alexia hooked for a few months at best.”
You take the hit silently, clinging to every soft, quiet moment you’ve shared with Alexia outside the bedroom just to numb the sharp sting of the words.
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
“No great relationship relies on sex as its foundation,” she replies, taking a measured sip from her mug.
“It’s not the foundation of my relationship.”
“You talk an awful lot about it, then,” Jenni counters, leaning back against the counter with a cold smile. “I mean, I know firsthand Ale is incredible in bed, but let’s be serious for a second, it won’t save it.”
You feel the fire you started beginning to burn you, scorching hot and dangerous. But like an arsonist, you just can’t bring yourself to stop.
“It’s funny how you still think you’re an expert on Alexia when you haven’t been together for years,” you push, leaning in close.
“For someone who was so damn quiet during an important fight, you certainly run your mouth an awful lot with me,” Jenni snaps back, her eyes narrowing.
The kettle beeps, signaling the water is ready, but you ignore it. “Talking shit with you has zero consequences. We’re going to hate each other the exact same amount before and after this conversation.”
Jenni blinks, visibly taken aback by your honesty. “You’re a deeply fucked-up person, I hope you know that,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “What do you think I am ? Your personal punching bag ?”
You shrug in lieu of an answer, letting the silence settle between you.
Jenni eyes you up and down, her expression turning cool and calculated. “You know your relationship with Alexia is built on a foundation of sand. Alexia will act like it doesn’t matter, but I’m sure we both know her enough to know how much importance she gives to the opinions of the people she’s close with. Sure, people like Vicky and Misa like you. But then there’s me, Irene, Mariona, Patri, Mapi... and we both know the list goes on for longer. It’s going to eat her up inside until it breaks the relationship.”
She pauses, watching the hit land. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Jenni intentionally clips your shoulder hard as she pushes past you toward the door. You stand there next to the steaming kettle, knowing damn well that tea isn't going to fix the knot currently twisting in your chest.
The day after beating England is an off day. You and Alexia had been back and forth on what to do with it. Most of the team had pitched in to rent a boat with a skipper for the day, and you originally planned to go. But Alexia campaigned hard for a day just for the two of you.
In the end, the lingering mess with Jenni combined with your need for freedom and uninterrupted time with Alexia won out. You made up an excuse about visiting a friend in Mallorca, while Alexia claimed a last-minute sponsor commitment. It’s a cover story both of you have used in the past, so nobody bats an eye.
To ensure you don't accidentally run into the squad, you use Misa to gather subtle intel on their itinerary. You and Alexia slip out of the hotel long before the rest of the team even wakes up, meeting with Alba and Eli for an early breakfast.
You triple-check with Alexia to make sure she doesn't regret skipping time with her family, but with the end of the season just one match away, she dismisses it, reasoning that she'll be seeing plenty of them soon enough anyway.
Breakfast is spent inside their hotel room, eating room service out on the small balcony. You couldn’t risk going out to a public cafe, not with Mallorca currently crawling with women’s football fans.
The morning starts off quietly, everyone slowly waking up. Naturally, the conversation drifts back to camp, which forces you and Alexia into some uncomfortable lying.
“So,” you start, eager to steer the conversation away from the team. “What have you two been up to in Mallorca ? Especially you Alba, you got here early, right ?”
“What everyone does in Mallorca, enjoying the sea, obviously,” Alba replies. “We also went to Sóller with Judith on Thursday, grabbed Mami from the airport when her late flight got in, and then took a boat trip yesterday before watching your game.”
You nod in acknowledgment. “Judith went back to Barcelona already ?” you ask, curious.
The mood at the table instantly shifts. Alba glares at Alexia, who suddenly finds the hotel pool down below extremely interesting, while Eli gives a heavy sigh.
“She would have loved to be here with us,” Alba says, pointing at Alexia with her knife. “But this one doesn’t think the same.”
“Don't point with the knife,” Eli interjects, placing her hand on Alba’s wrist.
“Only like three people in football know,” Alexia shoots back, her tone sharp with frustration. “It’s not an unreasonable ask for you to keep it from her, Alba.”
“Fa anys que estem junts, per què parles com si fos una noia qualsevol a qui només li interessin les xafarderies del futbol ?” Alba shoots back in Catalan, making your brows furrow at the sudden language shift. [We’ve been together for years, why do you talk like she’s just some random girl who only cares about football gossip ?]
“Quan dius anys, comptes totes aquestes vegades que vas trencar ?” [When you say years, are you counting all those times you broke up ?]
“Noies,” Eli interrupts, her voice low firm. “Stop having the same fight over and over. Alba, let Alexia choose who knows about her girlfriend. Alexia, leave Alba’s relationship alone.”
Both sisters cross their arms and pout simultaneously in a synchronized movement. Looking at them now, there's no doubt they’re related.
“And stop switching to Catalan when there’s someone at the table who doesn’t speak it,” Eli adds, giving them both a pointed look.
The two of them lower their heads, looking like scolded teenagers with their flushed cheeks. You can’t help but chuckle, which earns you a death stare from Alexia.
You reach out and poke her nose. Even though she swats your hand away, it tugs a little smile onto her face. Across the table, Alba makes a dramatic gagging sound that breaks the tension, getting a laugh out of everyone.
“So, you don’t speak any Catalan?” Alba asks, leaning forward on her elbows.
You shrug, setting down your cup. “My best friend is Aitana, so she’s taught me the basics, but I can’t follow a conversation. It could be cool to learn it properly at some point.”
“You don’t need to,” Alexia interjects.
“I know, but I still think it’d be nice,” Then, because you simply can’t resist teasing her, you add, “Plus, then I’d understand what you mumble in your sleep. It’s strictly in Catalan, by the way.”
A deep crease forms between her brows. “I do not mumble in my sleep.”
“You totally do !” Alba insists, jumping on the opportunity. “I’ve been telling you that for years. Tell her, Mami !”
Eli takes a calm sip of her drink, thoroughly enjoying her daughter’s denial. “Alexia, you’ve done it ever since you were a little girl. You just refuse to believe anyone who tells you so.”
“Because I don’t.”
“It’s cute when you do,” you offer.
“Doesn’t matter, because I don’t,” she insists. Despite the defensive pout, you catch the tiny twitch at the corner of her lips, she’s struggling not to break character.
“Honestly, save your breath,” Alba interrupts with a wave of her hand. “We’ve been trying to get her to confess to that for years. She’s never going to admit it.”
It’s officially a challenge, and you have zero intention of losing.
You turn fully toward Alexia, your fingers trailing lightly up the inside of the arm resting on the back of your chair. Throwing in your best puppy-dog eyes, you ask, “You’re sure you don’t, amor?”
She visibly swallows, her eyes darting away for a split second before snapping right back to yours. A light flush creeps up her neck to her cheeks.
“I don’t ?” she attempts. You arch a single eyebrow, your thumb idly caressing the delicate skin over the veins on her wrist. “Maybe... sometimes ?” Her voice drops, small and hesitant, but the concession is unmistakable.
The table bursts out laughing, sending a much deeper red rushing into Alexia's cheeks. “It’s not fair,” she mumbles, glaring at her plate.
“God, you are so whipped,” Alba mocks.
Before Alexia can pull back or cross her arms in defense, you interlace your fingers with hers and lift her hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.
The rest of the meal passes easily over talk of summer break, vacation itineraries, and the upcoming trip to Mexico, leaving the tension of camp feel far away.
It’s still early when you arrive at the boat rental. Misa has texted you to confirm that the team hasn’t even left the hotel yet.
Alexia is still bundled up in a sweatshirt, because apparently 23° isn’t warm enough to warrant a t-shirt. Luckily, the tournament draw didn’t send you to Iceland in February.
With your caps pulled low and sunglasses firmly in place, you navigate the paperwork with the rental agency. They double-check your boat permit before handing over the keys. Alexia lets out a dramatic sigh of relief once you step away, as if the entire fifteen-minute administrative check had taken several painful hours.
While she organizes your stuff on board, you take your position at the helm.
“Am I down bad if I say that knowing you can captain a boat is weirdly sexy ?” Alexia calls out, looking over at you from the aft deck.
You shake your head, feeling a warm blush creep up your neck while she smirks, proud of herself. “You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.
The initial stretch of the ride is quiet in the best way possible. The gentle splash of the sea air and the rhythmic roar of the engine fill the space as you steer, occasionally gesturing toward a scenic view in the distance. You catch Alexia’s gaze alternating between the passing shoreline and you as she stretches out on the deck, letting the sun warm her skin.
Eventually, satisfied with her sunbathing, Alexia stands up and comes to join you at the helm, now down to just her bikini top and a pair of loose white cotton shorts. She presses a lingering kiss against your shoulder before resting her chin right there.
“You’re going to have to claim your 'sponsorship commitment' was outdoors with the tan you’re picking up today,” you observe, a small smile playing on your lips.
“I’ll figure something out,” she says, her voice trailing off with a faint trace of tiredness. She shifts her weight, pressing her body flushed against yours so her head rests against your shoulder.
“Go to sleep for a little bit, amor,” you tell her, pretty sure she’s already halfway there.
A stubborn hum vibrates against you. “No. I’m here for you. Not to nap on a boat.”
A quiet smile touches your lips. Within minutes, she shifts, stretching out across the seating cushions with her head resting comfortably in your lap. Every few moments, your free hand drops from the helm to gently brush through her hair or stroke her warm skin, letting the quiet sea stretch out ahead of you.
You think back over the last few days and the mess that camp has become. A mess that, if you're being completely honest with yourself, is partly your own fault. You know your insecurities and tension aren't making an already volatile situation any easier.
“Ale ?” you speak up, testing the air.
There must be an edge to your voice, because she reacts instantly, sliding her sunglasses up onto her head so her eyes can meet yours. You gently trace the line of her jaw with your thumb, trying to ground yourself as much as her. You look down at her face, momentarily derailed by the worry written in her features, before flicking your gaze back up to the open water ahead to keep the boat on course.
“What’s wrong, cari ?” she asks softly. She takes the hand resting against her jaw, guiding it slightly so her thumb can lightly trace the inside of your wrist, offering a soothing touch.
“I wanted to apologize,” you start, swallowing the heavy lump in your throat. Those words never come easily. “For the mess at camp with Jenni. I know we’re both being... difficult. I should act more maturely when we’re around the team, and I know it matters to you.”
Alexia studies you quietly for a beat. “I heard the conversation you two had late last night. Irene also mentioned the run-in you had a few days ago, even if she had no idea what it was about.”
You freeze. Shit.
“Were you just waiting for me to say something first ?”
“Not really,” she replies softly, her thumb continuing its steady, reassuring rhythm against your wrist. You’re forced to free your hand for the boat driving. “I was planning to bring it up later today. I just didn't want to start our day off with it.”
“Are you mad at me ?” you ask, biting down on your bottom lip.
She shifts, pulling herself up from your lap until she’s sitting beside you again. “Yeah,” she says plainly. “Like Jenni said last night, I really don’t understand what you’re looking for here.”
You can’t exactly tell Alexia the truth. That your anger was directed at the world for the weight of what she had confessed to you, or that Jenni embodies the fear of losing what you two have. You refuse to make her regret opening up to you.
“I don’t know,” you offer weakly, staring ahead at the cresting waves. “Have you ever met someone who makes you angry on sight ?”
She sits in silence for a few seconds, looking out over the sea. “The Real Madrid crest,” she deadpans
You let out a sigh, though despite yourself, the joke cuts through the panic and calms you down. “Ale, please...”
“Sorry, sorry. Have you ever tried to work out the why with Jenni ?”
You focus on the steady hum of the boat beneath your hands, letting the vibration of the helm ground you while you pull together an honest answer.
“We just... never clicked, and I don’t even fully know why,” you say slowly. “I think part of it is her need to be the center of attention. I’ve just never really gravitated toward people like that.”
“We never got along from day one, honestly. I think her loud, center-of-the-room energy just isn't something I naturally feel comfortable around.” You pause, staring out at the open water as a deeper truth bubbles up.
“Plus... I think back then, it bothered me how easily she fit in while I was struggling just to exist in the squad. I was young, closeted, homesick, and insecure. She was a top player, living openly with her girlfriend, and everyone adored her.”
“Sounds like you had a crush on her,” Alexia mocks gently, likely more to make the conversation feel less heavy.
You chuckle, shaking your head. “Fun fact : Aitana said the exact same thing when we talked about it during the Olympics.”
You can feel Alexia’s surprise. “Our special knack for setting each other off goes back years, Ale. The World Cup was just the spark that made us start going at each other instead of just quietly ignoring one another, I’d say. That’s why I brought it up with Aitana, she’s good at psychoanalyzing these things.”
You pause, looking back down at her with a wry smile. “Oh, and as for the crush thing ? We concluded that it was way more about envy than anything else. Like... I have never wanted to fuck Jenni.” You pull a face of disgust at the mere thought.
“Yeah, I can’t really see that happening either,” Alexia jokes, the tension easing slightly. “I didn’t need the image, by the way.”
Then her tone shifts, grounding into something more serious. “While I understand where it stems from now, I really need you to try to bury the hatchet. I’m not asking you to become best friends with her, just stop going at each other’s throats every time you end up alone together.”
In the back of your mind, an ugly truth lingers : part of why you dig your heels in with Jenni is because you finally have something over her, and that "something" is sitting right next to you at the helm. It’s obviously not even close to the reason you’re dating Alexia, but it’s certainly been a nice, p(r)etty side effect. That’s a thought you plan on taking to the grave, it definitely wouldn't go over well with your girlfriend.
“I can try that... for you.”
“Thanks,” Alexia murmurs. She presses a tender kiss against your temple before settling her head back down into your lap. “And maybe... try having an actual, mature conversation with her ? It might clear the air.”
The stillness stretches out until Alexia speaks up again, her tone thoughtful. “You know, Jenni was wrong about what she said regarding our teammates.”
You look down at her in your lap, doubtful. “You really believe that ?”
“Look, I’m not saying there won't be drama initially,” she says softly, reaching out to gently trace your knee. “But they’ll accept it when they see how happy you make me.”
You can’t hold back the silly grin spreading across your features. “Stop being such a simp.” She swats you across the stomach, making you laugh as you catch her hand.
“Also...” she continues, her tone dropping into something more guarded, “can you just... not speak about our sex life with the others ? Please ?”
“Even Aitana ?”
Alexia sighs, rolling her eyes. “At most Aitana,” she concedes.
“Noted, amor.”
Despite her promise to stay awake and spend the day with you, you feel the moment Alexia drifts off. Her breathing evens out, her body going soft against your lap. She doesn't even stir when you cut the boat's engine an hour later for lunch.
Moving as carefully as possible so you don't wake her, you step away to unpack the food you ordered from the rental company. You take a quick look around the horizon, double-checking that no other boats are anchored anywhere near your quiet spot.
When you walk back over to her, she looks so peacefully that you can't resist pulling out your phone to snap a picture. Setting it aside, you crawl over her, lowering your weight to gently lick and bite along her midriff to wake her up. You simply can't help yourself when she looks this good, the usual cut of her abs less pronounced in that resting posture.
Alexia comes back to her senses, letting out a low groan as her hand instinctively reaches up to tangle in your hair, giving it a light, firm tug. “You should have woken me up,” she grumbles, her eyes blinking open lazily.
You just kiss a slow path up her chest and neck, finishing right against her lips. “You were far too cute to disturb. Now move, it’s time to eat.” You drop one last, lingering kiss on her lips before pulling away, heading up to the upper deck with the lunch setup.
Alexia wanders up to the upper deck shortly after, still bearing all the sweet, sleepy signs of someone who was completely passed out five minutes ago. Sitting down across from you, she casually steals the non-alcoholic beer you just opened, taking a sip before handing it back with a teasing smile.
The oysters are fresh, the vegetables crisp, and the atmosphere between you is light. Between bites, the two of you fall into an easy, laughter-filled conversation, trading stories of the most unforgettable meals you've had in random corners of the world while traveling for matches and holidays.
With no other boats appearing on the horizon, you decide to stay put for a while. You both head to the aft deck to stretch out on your stomachs to tan, loosening your tops to keep tan lines to a minimum.
“I can’t believe we’re in the middle of national team camp,” you declare.
Alexia hums in quiet agreement. Her face is buried in her arms, giving you a completely unobstructed view of her back and the gorgeous curves of her body. You’re no better than a man, because God, that ass.
She clears her throat, making you jump. “Cari, I was asking you something.”
You quickly glance back at her face. She’s turned her head, watching you with a knowing expression. “I was lost in thought,” you justify lamely. She arches a single eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. You wisely decide not to dig your hole any deeper. “What were you asking ?”
“I asked when we have to return the boat,” she repeats, her lips twitching with smug satisfaction.
Refusing to let her win that easily, you roll over onto your back. Just as expected, her eyes immediately drop to your bare chest, her smugness faltering.
“It depends. We could stay here way longer, but it could also be great to ride the boat more.”
You strongly doubt Alexia heard a single word you just said. In one smooth motion, she shifts over, settling her weight on top of you. Your hands instinctively slide up her bare back to keep her close as her mouth meets yours.
“Ale... we’re in public,” you murmur against her mouth, trying, and failing, to sound like the responsible one.
She pulls back just enough to glance around the empty blue water. “There’s no one here, cari.” Her hands drift upward, fingers skimming the sides of your ribs just under your breasts while her lips trace a warm path down your jawline. A small, helpless sound slips past your lips before you can catch it.
“We’re public figures,” you remind her, reaching up to catch her wrists and guide her hands back down to your hips. “I would very much like to avoid my parents seeing me fuck you because we’re on the front page of Marca.”
She ignores the reprimand, pressing a soft kiss against the pulse point in your throat. “We’re in open water, we’d see a paparazzi boat coming from a mile away.” She nuzzles her way up to your ear, her breath warm against your skin as her tone softens. “Though, obviously, if you really don’t want to, we won’t.”
You quickly weigh your options, coming to the realization that you want Alexia right now. Badly. It’s been an agonizing week of staying in close quarters, constantly around her without a single moment of real intimacy. So, if the bay really is clear...
“Let’s at least move to the bench seat, then,” you give in with a breathy laugh. “The hard deck isn’t going to be comfortable.”
Alexia’s smile turns triumphant. She presses a quick peck to your lips before popping up onto her feet, extending a hand to help pull you up after her.
Once you reach the padded bench, Alexia pushes you down, settling her body over yours once again. Her mouth finds yours immediately, deep and lingering. Neither of you rushes. You let the rhythm stay unhurried and languid, knowing you have all the time in the world right now to just enjoy each other, a that might not happen again for quite some time.
Your hands travel slowly up and down Alexia’s sides, tracing the contrast between her soft curves and firm muscles, her skin still radiating the heat of the sun. She holds most of her weight off you with one arm, her other hand making lazy circles against your hip.
The kiss turns hungrier, the slow buildup giving way to a shared ache. You slide one hand up to her chest, cupping her breast. A low groan escapes her against your mouth when your thumb and index finger find her sensitive nipple, rolling it.
Your other hand slips up to join the first, both of them working over the soft flesh. Alexia lets out a breathless sigh, her forehead dropping onto your shoulder, her breath coming fast and hot against your skin as she shifts onto both forearms to give you free rein.
Your right hand glides downward, nails lightly dragging over the skin of her contracted abs before sliding between her thighs. The heat radiating off her is palpable before you even make contact.
“All of that from a few kisses and me touching your breasts, hum?” you tease.
“Shut up.” Her breath hitches into a whimper as you drag your tongue up the vein on the left side of her neck. You bite down lightly beneath her jawline, feeling her pulse jump under your teeth as she arches her hips down against yours. “Please, cari.”
You're not in as much of a teasing mood as usual, far too eager to hear her moan against your ear. You hook your fingers into her swimsuit bottoms and peel them down her thighs, Alexia impatiently kicking them aside as they reach her ankles.
She is completely soaked. You start slowly as you slide your first finger inside, even though you know her body is more than ready, simply because you love the tiny, breathless whimper it draws from her throat.
When your thumb grazes her clit, her hips grind down instinctively. “Easy, amor,” you whisper against her skin. Your free hand finds the firm curve of her ass, your fingers sinking into her flesh.
You stay in that steady, deliberate rhythm, letting the friction build between you. Alexia tilts her head deeper in your neck when you add a second finger, leaving you intoxicated by her quiet moans and the way she grips around you.
She starts to bite down on your neck to muffle her sounds, but you pull back to escape her teeth. “Marks, Ale. The whole team is gonna think I’m some fuckboy who hooks up with girls at every camp.”
“Would they be wrong ? Fuck.” She cuts off with a sharp gasp as your thumb presses down with deliberate pressure right against her clit.
“There’s only one girl that I want,” you say, your free hand sliding up to frame her jaw, turning her head to kiss her. You can feel the smile forming against your lips mid-kiss. “And what we have isn’t just some casual hookup.”
“Yeah ?” she breathes, her eyes fluttering open to meet yours.
You nod, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her jaw. “Yeah. She happens to be my incredible girlfriend.”
A giddy chuckle escapes her lips, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you bring your mouth back to hers.
Your right wrist is starting to ache from the awkward angle, and you can feel Alexia’s arms beginning to tremble under her own weight. “Let’s move, yeah ?” you ask, biting her earlobe. “Back against my front.”
She obliges as you slide your fingers out of her, shifting until her back is pressed against your chest. You sweep her hair over one side so you have full access to one bare shoulder, your hands traveling down her body once again. Your left forearm wraps firmly around her waist to anchor her hips in place, while your right hand slides back down between her legs.
The angle is infinitely better. With every forward thrust of your fingers, the heel of your palm grinds against her clit. Alexia tries to squeeze her thighs together in response to the intense friction, but you quickly lock your ankles over hers, holding her legs parted and completely open for you.
Alexia wraps her arm over her face, burying her mouth into the crook of her elbow to keep her moans from carrying. You don’t think other boats would be too surprised to hear people fucking in Mallorca from afar, but you understand why Alexia might be hesitant.
Leaning into her, you whisper praises right into her ear. “You’re taking me so well, amor. You feel so, so good. If I could have you like this forever, I would. God, I love to feel you pulsating around my fingers. You’re perfect, just wide open for me like this.”
Her body hitches, getting closer as you keep your rhythm steady, not altering what brought her here. Feeling her hanging by a single thread, you catch the cartilage of her ear between your teeth, whispering low against her overheating skin “You’re such a good girl for me, you know that, right ?”
That last whisper is the catalyst she needs. Alexia shudders hard, her body convulsing as her muscles grip your fingers in a tight, breathless climax before she goes limp against your chest.
You gently ease your fingers out of her, careful not to overstimulate her, and bring them right up to your lips beside her face.
“You taste incredible, you’re so good for me, Ale,” you mumble against her skin, pressing a soft kiss to her warm shoulder.
A quiet stillness settles over the boat as her heavy breathing gradually evens out. After a long moment, she rolls over, shifting back around until she’s hovering above you once again, her dark eyes glittering with renewed intent.
“Now,” she murmurs, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across her lips, “I want to be the one who tastes you.”
“I’m certainly not going to stop you,” you smile, your hand tangling gently into her hair as she begins her slow descent down your body.
You're lying underneath her, still panting from your orgasm, when she leans in and sucks at your earlobe. “See ? Still not a single person around,” she whispers mockingly against your skin.
“Fuck off,” you manage back, pushing her down so you can cuddle with her. She smells like a mix of sweat and sunscreen, her body warm both from the sun and everything you just did.
After lying together until your heart rate finally settles, you both jump into the cool, turquoise water to refresh yourselves and rinse off the heat of the afternoon. Once you climb back up to start up the engine, Alexia pulls a towel around her shoulders and plants herself right in the passenger seat beside you, keeping you company for the whole journey back to shore.
The rhythmic lap of the waves and the cool sea breeze fill the quiet between you. Alexia rests her hand on your lap, her thumb making small circles over your skin. Whenever the water clears up and you don't need absolute focus on steering, you lean over to steal a quick kiss from her lips or her cheek.
“You told me once that it was your granddad who got you into boating, right ?” Alexia asks lightly, likely just to start up a conversation.
“Both my grandparents, actually,” you tell her, a warm smile creeping up your face at the memory. “They loved it more than anything. The second they retired, they traded Madrid for a house up near Sanxenxo. I spent almost every break I had up at their place, and my friends came along often. The only catch was that if they wanted to come, they had to come help me train on the pitch every morning.”
The two of you laugh at that. “When I went on my first proper vacation with my friends, I was waking up before sunrise to go train,” Alexia says. “They all thought I was a psycho.”
“I mean, were they wrong?” you tease, glancing over at her.
She smacks your leg in fake outrage. “Coming from the one who literally held their friends hostage as personal ballboys ? Please.”
You just shrug, giving her an innocent look that earns you a classic Alexia eye-roll. “Anyway,” she continues, her eyes twinkling with curiosity, “when did you actually learn how to skipper one of these things ?”
“My grandparents actually had their own boat. Wasn’t as luxurious as this one, obviously,” you gesture around the glittering boat rented for the day. “As soon as I turned 14, they let me take the helm. I started working on my licenses during the summers at 16, got the PNB at 17, and then finished the PER a bit later, right after the World Cup in France.”
“Cari,” Alexia says, her tone dripping with affectionate amusement. “You do realize I have absolutely no idea what any of those acronyms mean, right ?”
You wince, feeling a sudden heat in your cheeks. “Right, sorry. Got a little carried away geeking out there.”
She leans over and presses a kiss to your shoulder, her eyes warm as she looks up at you. “Don’t apologize. It’s cute. You don’t get like that about many things.”
You shrug, a faint smile touching your lips. “Yeah. I guess it’s just something I genuinely love doing that also brings back the best memories, you know ?”
Alexia hums in quiet agreement, her thumb still softly tracing patterns against your leg. “I get it. For me, that’s fishing with my granddad. When I was young, he used to take me up near Santa Eulàlia de Ronçana because the Besòs back in Mollet was too polluted to fish in. We’d fish in the Riera de Tenes instead, it was cleaner after the local conservation efforts. Though honestly, it was never really about the fish. Especially when they introduced the pesca sense mort rule, which drove my granddad crazy.”
She chuckles warmly at the memory. “It was just about having the whole day together in nature. It’s stunning out there, I really should take you sometime.”
“Wait, I went to Bigues i Riells years ago with Aitana,” you recall, searching your memory. “Isn’t that right near there ?”
“It’s super close,” Alexia confirms, her curiosity piqued. “What were you two doing all the way out there ? It’s not near where Aitana is from.”
“One of our friends’ parents had a vacation house there. It was just a nice, quiet few days to unwind and hike around. Like you said, it’s a beautiful spot.”
“Are you sure you’re actually going to enjoy Mexico with me ?” Her voice is steady, but when you glance over, you catch a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes.
You furrow your brows. “Where is this coming from, amor ?”
“It’s just...” Alexia lets out a quiet sigh. “You don’t seem like someone who enjoys a vacation where you just lie around doing nothing, and that’s pretty much the whole itinerary for Mexico. Look at Prague, Bigues i Riells, what you told me about your ex and how you travel with your friends. A lazy resort trip isn't really your thing.”
You ease back on the throttle for a moment, wrapping your arm around her to pull her soothingly against your side. She snuggles close, burying her face into the crook of your neck.
“The plan isn’t just lying around,” you tell her softly, kissing the top of her head. “It’s lying around with you. That changes everything”
Alexia chuckles at the cheesiness, her breath warm against your skin. “Be serious, cari.”
“I’m being serious. We’ll tan, we’ll swim, we’ll eat good food, and do whatever the resort throws at us. Is it my ideal way to travel ? No,” you admit. “But I get to have you to myself, so I couldn't care less where we are.”
“We could always go to Mexico City, there are tons of things to visit there if you prefer,” Alexia offers quickly, the words tumbling out of her. “Or somewhere in the central or southern regions, with all the ancient temples and historical sites. We could even head to South America! It’s still a relatively short flight, and—”
You lean over and catch her lips in a deep kiss to cut her off. It works like an absolute charm. Once she releases a small, breathy sigh, you pull back and refocus your eyes on the open sea ahead.
“Ale, take a breath. It’s booked. We’re seeing your friends and family for a couple of days, and then it’s just four days of downtime for the two of us. I promise you, I’m not going to get bored of you in four days.”
You steal a quick glance at her, but her expression is still lingering with a trace of quiet doubt. “Amor, I promise,” you reassure her gently, squeezing her knee. “I already have those kinds of trips planned with my friends for this summer anyway. Plus, we can always plan a bigger vacation together after Brazil next year. Besides, walking around super crowded tourist hubs together right now isn't exactly great for keeping a low profile, is it ? A luxury resort is going to give us way more privacy.”
“I hate that you make sense,” she complains, though a soft smile tugs at her lips. “You’re gonna hate Ibiza too, aren’t you ?”
“Oh, no, absolutely not. I love the idea of going on vacation with your ex, baby,” you reply, not even attempting to hide the thick irony in your voice.
She ignores your sarcasm altogether, her brain already moving a mile a minute. “We’ll just plan things to do. I’m sure we can get a few of the girls from the team to join in on the activities so it’s not just lying around.”
“Ale, take a breath. That’s way off in the future anyway,” you murmur, leaning over to press a tender kiss against her temple. “Let’s just enjoy today, yeah ?”
She groans softly in half-hearted agreement, giving up the argument. Moving fluidly, she rests her head right back in your lap like she did this morning. Her fingers wander aimlessly over whatever skin she can reach, tracing the line of your stomach, running over your bicep, and trailing softly along your collarbone.
“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs. You catch the quiet praise clearly despite the noise of the sea, feeling an involuntary blush warm your cheeks.
“Gracias, amor.”
“We should definitely do boat rides in Mexico and Ibiza,” she murmurs, a fond look in her eyes. “I really love watching you drive.”
You chuckle, guiding the boat smoothly through the swells. “We could do that, yeah. Today has been pretty enjoyable, after all.”
Alexia flashes you a wicked smirk. Her hand travels upward, her fingertips coming to a deliberate halt just beneath the fabric of your bikini top, making it teasingly clear which part of the “enjoyable” day she’s thinking about. You swat her hand away before she can get any ideas, prompting an exaggerated pout and a whine from her.
“You’re no fun,” she complains.
“Us going missing because I had an accident with the boat after you couldn’t keep your hands off me would be pretty stupid.”
“I don’t know, I’d say it’s a pretty great way to die,” she says, flashing you a unrepentant grin. You just shake your head at her, chuckling.
A comfortable silence settles over the boat once again, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the splashing of the waves against the hull. After a while, Alexia breaks it. “Are you spending a few days in Galicia this summer ?”
“No, I’m not,” you admit with a small sigh. “I haven’t been up there in years, actually.”
“Too many memories ?”
“I just don’t have a reason to go anymore.”
“A house and a boat there seems like a pretty good reason, no ?” she argues.
“We don’t have them anymore,” you admit, the words coming out easily enough, though you can’t quite swallow the sudden lump in your throat. It’s still a subject that stings if you dwell on it too long. “My grandparents had five kids, and they don’t exactly all get along. After they passed, there was no way we were going to share the property equitably. Some of them didn't care much about the house, and even less about the boat, and just wanted the money instead. Which was fair enough, honestly.”
“Why didn’t you buy out their shares ?”
“It happened during my second season with Real,” you explain, looking out over the open water. “I had money at the time, obviously, far more than most people my age. But it still would’ve been a pretty reckless financial decision back then. I was only twenty-three, and in sports, you never know how long a career is going to last. I wasn't sitting on millions back then.”
You can feel her saddened gaze lingering on your face. “If it happened right now, would you buy them ?”
You take a moment to think, unconsciously biting at your bottom lip as you weigh the thought. “Back then, it wasn't even on my radar. Now, I’d take a real moment to think about it. But whether I’d actually pull the trigger ? I honestly don’t know,” you admit with a small shrug. “I’m still careful with my money, even though I have plenty of it now. I can’t stop thinking about the what-ifs, you know ? If I suffer a career-ending injury in training tomorrow, I lose everything, the contracts, the sponsors, all of it. I’d be grateful I was always thrifty.”
“Don’t talk about injuries,” she groans softly, pressing her face into your stomach as if to ward off the bad luck.
“Sorry, amor,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss her hair.
The heavy topic fades away as quickly as it came, leaving the rest of the journey completely peaceful. Just the hum of the engine, the salt air, and the quiet comfort of being together.
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A/n : I know this chapter opens a lot of things that don’t get resolved, but I’m hoping to tie the biggest part of the camp plot up in the next chapter (that should be the last one about this camp).
As for when the next chapter is coming out, it's... unclear. Best case scenario, it comes out next Friday. If it doesn't, then it means I couldn't finish it in time before my vacation and it will be delayed by two weeks, so for August 21st.
Also, I don't claim any responsibility for anything inacurate about boats.
