#alexia x reader

By the day camp starts, Alexia is feeling a bit better. She can manage to finish a short sentence without too much suffering, though not much more than that. Still, considering how she sounded yesterday, it’s a massive improvement.

She ends up leaving some of her things behind in your apartment. She’ll be getting all her official team gear at camp anyway, and she definitely won't be needing a fancy date dress while training with the national team. You might have stolen a hoodie or two from her packed stuff when she wasn’t looking.

She leaves your apartment earlier than you to avoid raising any suspicion. She’s dressed in another of her designer outfits that cost far too much money for what they are, but that she gets paid to wear.

“These days in Madrid with you were amazing,” she mumbles against your lips, lingering in the entryway as she gets ready to step out.

You lean in to kiss her one last time. “You can come back here anytime, amor. See you in an hour.”

She smiles warmly and presses a quick kiss to your cheek just as her phone buzzes, reminding her that her Uber is pulling up downstairs. She lets out a dramatic groan and heads out the door. You leave soon after, having promised to go pick up Aitana, who had spent the night sleeping over at one of your mutual friends' places.

“So good to see you,” you greet her as she slides into the passenger seat, having just put her suitcase safely in the trunk. You shift the car back into drive and pull onto the street. “Did you have a good time in Madrid with Ana ?”

She beams, buckling her seatbelt. “Yes ! She took me to this new exhibition at the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales.” Aitana, always the lovable nerd. “It had been so long since I'd seen everyone, so it was amazing. Even if a certain someone completely us for her girlfriend.”

“Ditching implies that I agreed to come and then went back on my word,” you counter, rolling your eyes playfully as you navigate the early afternoon traffic. “I always said from the very beginning that I was spending my weekend with Ale.”

“So, how was it ?”

A helpless grin spreads across your face, and you don't even try to hide it. “It was fantastic. Honestly, it was just so nice to have a few days together without football cutting through the middle of them.”

“I suppose Alexia was happy too,” she teases.

You weigh whether or not to tell Aitana, but you realize she’s going to find out the second you pull up to Las Rozas anyway. “Yeah, she was,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “Even if she was a little sulky after losing her voice and getting a killer sore throat.”

Aitana sits up straight in her seat, twisting her body to stare at you with wide eyes. “Wait, she’s sick ? We literally have a game against England in a few days !”

“Great sense of priorities, Aita. No, she’s not sick. I might have just fucked her throat a little too hard.”

Aitana turns a deep shade of crimson in a matter of milliseconds, which makes you burst out laughing. Luckily, you’re stuck in traffic anyway. You totally phrased it that way on purpose, knowing how much she hates when you get too crude.

She lets out a frustrated groan as she finally recovers her composure. “Why do you have to say things like that ? You know I had no need for the mental image !”

“Oh, so your mind immediately went to the visual ? Stop being such a perv.”

She sighs, rubbing her temples. “Why are you like this ?”

“Because I live to annoy you,” you say, a broad grin spreading across your face.

“And to think, almost everyone in the football world thinks you’re this prude.” She shakes head in disbelief.

You shrug, keeping your eyes on the road. “That’s just my mysterious aura.” You both laugh, the easy warmth between you settling in as you spend the rest of the trip catching up on all the little things you missed over text and calls. You sometimes forget how much you miss Aitana when you’re apart for too long.

When you arrive in the hall where the staff is handing out the keys, a few players are lingering around. You try your best not to freeze in your tracks when you spot Jenni Hermoso laughing with Mariona, Misa, and Patri. You greet Misa and Mariona with easy hugs, but the embrace you share with Patri is noticeably stiff. Finally, you stop in front of Jenni, not really knowing what to do with yourself.

“Great to see you back on the team,” you say to her, trying to keep your voice neutral and pleasant.

Confusion flashes across her face, as if she is trying to figure out if there is some hidden insult buried beneath your words. You’re honestly just trying to be nice because she’s one of Alexia’s closest friends, and you don’t want her to think you’re a complete bitch.

“Yeah, great to see you too.” She doesn't particularly try to make it sound earnest.

Misa clears her throat. “Nice to see you healthy, Aitana,” she says with a smile. It does little to defuse the tension in the air. Trying a different angle, Misa turns her attention back to you. “Alexia lost her voice, by the way. You’ll have to captain us for a bit.”

You ignore the way Jenni’s eyes narrow, and force yourself to look genuinely surprised. Aitana, on the other hand, turns a bright red in an instant, her lying skills have always been laughable.

“Wait, really ? What happened ?” you ask, letting a mask of confusion wash over your face.

“Some kind of sudden allergy, apparently. Nothing to worry about.”

You nod, maintaining your best poker face even as vivid memory of Alexia on her knees in your apartment flashes through your mind.

“Let’s go get our key cards, yeah ?” Aitana interrupts, her voice a little too rushed as she desperately tries to escape the conversation. You nod in agreement, throwing a polite “see you later” to the group as you both walk away.

Back in your room, you and Aitana lie across your respective beds, lost in your own books and enjoying the comfortable silence. The quiet is broken when your phone buzzes with a text from Vicky, asking you to come say hi. You excuse yourself to Aitana and head down the hallway to find the room number she sent.

The second the door swings open, Vicky practically launches herself at you. You laugh, wrapping your arms around her to return the enthusiastic hug. From inside the room, Ona shoots you both an amused look. You wonder briefly if the staff doesn't quite count Ona as a Barça player anymore, allowing them to room together, or if there are simply just too many Barcelona players in the squad to avoid it.

Jana is sprawled out on Vicky’s bed, idly scrolling through her phone. She greets you with enthusiasm too. Seeing them all together serves as a sudden, sharp reminder that the last national team camp had plenty of other consequences besides you getting closer to Alexia.

The next hour is spent gossiping about life off the pitch and comparing summer holiday plans. You make sure to steer clear of any mention of Mexico, and Jana gives Ona a crash course on the best spots to check out in London.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. It's a text from Alexia, notifying you that Sonia is calling the two of you in for a quick meeting to start the camp. “Wow, saving her as ‘Alexia Putellas’ is so formal,” Vicky teases, poking her head over your shoulder to spy on your screen. “And here I thought you guys actually became friends during the last camp.”

You internally congratulate yourself for having the foresight to change her name in your contacts this morning while she was showering. “That’s because it is her name, Vicky,” you laugh, smoothly sliding the phone into your pocket and not opening the chat history. “And yeah, we talked a bit last time, but we haven’t gotten particularly close. I haven’t even spoken to her since we broke camp.”

You push yourself off the bed and promise the girls you’ll catch up with them later. When you arrive at Sonia’s office, Alexia is already there, leaning against the wall outside. You greet each other with polite nods, aware that Sonia's door is thin enough to carry sound.

The meeting itself is just as dry as expected. With Alexia’s throat still recovering, you end up doing almost all of the talking, answering Sonia’s questions while your girlfriend simply nods in silent agreement beside you. She tasks you with taking charge of several training responsibilities starting tomorrow, leaving you in control until Alexia's voice finally decides to make a full recovery.

With some time to kill before the squad gathers for dinner, you both head down the corridor. “Come back to my room ?” she whispers in your ear, sending a quiet thrill through you.

You cross paths with a few of your teammates on the way, but they don't spare you a second glance. They must just think their two captains are discussing team business. Still, you both do a quick double-take, ensuring the hallway is clear before slipping inside her room. The lock clicks, and Alexia instantly pins you against the door, her lips finding yours.

“Throat feeling better, then?” you chuckle against her lips, hands sliding up to cup her jaw before you pull her back in for another kiss.

“Honestly, yes. It’s been getting much better today.” Her voice is still a bit raspy, some of her words fall a little too silent, but she no longer looks like she’s in agony with every syllable.

You slide your hands under her shirt and press a soft, teasing kiss to the sensitive spot right under her jaw. She lets out a needy whimper, but the vibration in her throat makes her immediately recoil with a wince. “Ow... okay, definitely still too raw for that.”

You let out a soft groan of frustration, shifting to kiss her cheek instead. “What did the medics say to you?”

“I’m pretty sure they figured it out,” she mumbles, pouting dramatically. “They told me I need to be more careful during my off-pitch physical activities.” It makes her cheeks burn a lovely red, and you can't help but laugh at her expense.

The next half-hour is spent lazily tangled together in her bed. Alexia puts on her favorite telenovela because a brand-new episode just dropped, and she apparently absolutely has to watch it right now before Alba can spoil it for her. You willingly suffer through the dramatic television just because having her warm in your arms makes it entirely worth it. A sharp, loud knock on the door startles both of you.

Alexia untangles herself from your arms. With wide eyes, she frantically points toward her closet, but you just throw her a flat, unimpressed look. She rolls her eyes at your stubbornness, but you don't relent, forcing her to compromise and point to the bathroom instead. You quietly slip inside just as she heads for the door.

From your hiding spot, you listen as the door clicks open. “Ready for dinner ?” Jenni’s distinct voice echoes into the room.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, holding back a laugh. Here you are, twenty-eight years old, at the peak of your career, hiding in a bathroom like a guilty teenager while your girlfriend chats with her ex. You can hear the soft scuff of sneakers crossing the carpet.

“No way, you’re still hooked on this ?” Jenni's amused voice carries easily. “It started airing ages ago. I distinctly remember you telling Alba she had terrible taste, yet you’d sit and watch every episode with me.”

You hold your breath, leaning slightly closer to the door. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alexia replies. Her tone isn't cold or dismissive, it's light and teasing. Something uncomfortable twists deep in your chest at the familiarity.

“Sure, keep pretending. You're ridiculous, you know that ?” There’s a lingering fondness in Jenni’s exasperation. “Wait... why are there two different hoodies on your bed?”

Your heart does a quick flutter, but Alexia handles it like a pro. “Just unpacking the new national team gear,” she croaks out, her damaged voice doing a perfect job of hiding any trace of tension.

Jenni doesn’t seem to think twice about it. “I always forget how untidy you are.”

“I’m organized,” Alexia defends herself, her pout practically audible through the wood.

Fortunately, they head out toward the elevators shortly after. You give it a solid minute to make sure the coast is clear before darting out of the bathroom, snatching up your stray hoodie, and making a break for the elevators.

When you walk into the dining hall, almost the entire squad is already at the tables. You slip into the empty chair next to Aitana, trying to quiet your racing thoughts.

Since the captain is out of commission, you’re tasked with delivering the standard opening words to the squad. Alexia stands tall and imposing next to you, her hands clasped behind her back as she maintains her perfect posture.

Dinner flows easily after that. You've always loved the atmosphere of national team camps because they're the chance to catch up with old teammates. Seeing Olga and Athenea debate about the best tapas spot in Lavapiés is a Proustian memory at this point. Alexia is sitting at a different table, visible in your peripheral vision, but you play it safe and actively avoid locking eyes with her.

The coaching staff grants the squad a free evening, factoring in the exhausting travel some of the girls faced and the fact that you’re all flying out to Mallorca tomorrow afternoon. With only a light training session scheduled for the morning, you choose to stay in your room with Aitana, eager to enjoy a calm evening where the two of you end up talking about everything and nothing at all.

The next day follows the usual footballer routine : a training session followed by travel. Alexia’s voice is almost completely back, though her throat is still tender. Because of that, she lets you take the reins and lead the training session as the acting captain.

Once practice wraps, the team heads in for lunch. The staff gave everyone a bit of downtime before the flight to Mallorca to finish packing up, not that many of the players had unpacked much of anything in the first place.

Having already packed her own bags well in advance, Alexia slips into your room almost immediately after the tables are cleared. You find yourself in her arms, lazily scratching at her forearm while her thumbs trace slow patterns across your stomach.

“Do you both have any idea how weird it is for me to see this ?”

You turn your head toward Aitana, who is staring at the two of you as if you’re some kind of rare, mystical creatures and not two people she has known for a decade.

“You’re acting like this is brand-new information,” you mock. You have, after all, confessed an embarrassing amount of details to her over the past two months.

“There’s a difference between knowing the path and walking the path,” she says.

“Nerd,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“I'm serious ! It’s just so incredibly strange to see you both like this,” she insists, gesturing vaguely at how tightly tangled you are on the bed.

Rolling over in Alexia's embrace, you look up and press your lips to hers. You keep the kiss long but chaste, because you do care about Aitana’s mental well-being. “Seeing us like what ?” you ask innocently, turning back to your best friend.

“I hate you so much,” Aitana deadpans, which only sends you and Alexia into a fit of laughter. Alexia presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder and pulls you right back against her chest.

You spend the flight to Mallorca seated next to Aitana. Try as you might, you can’t stop yourself from stealing frequent glances across the aisle at Alexia, who is currently laughing and deep in conversation with Jenni.

Every single time your eyes wander, you can feel Aitana’s knowing gaze burning into the side of your face. You know she’s smart enough not to broach the subject in a cabin full of teammates, but you fully expect the interrogation later.

Eventually, Aitana taps your arm to force you to stop staring. Blushing, you try your best to focus on anything else, a movie, your phone, the clouds, but it’s no use. You spend the rest of the flight feeling utterly miserable, and you hate yourself because you know it’s entirely self-inflicted.

Once you unpack at the hotel, Aitana tries to get you to open up, but you stay stubbornly moody until she finally rolls her eyes and gives up. A moment later, your phone buzzes with a text from Alexia, inviting you over to her room to spend some downtime together.

Still stung by the flight, you reply that you're busy, using the first excuse that pops into your head : Already promised Vicky I'd hang out. The moment the text delivers, you quickly message Vicky to manifest the plan.

Fortunately, Vicky and the small group of younger players she invites over prove to be the perfect distraction. You end up laughing so much that you genuinely forget why you were even brooding in the first place. Deflecting your own drama was a remarkably good plan.

Around twenty minutes before dinner, Alexia shows up at Vicky’s room, claiming Sonia has a few last-minute adjustments to go over with the captains. When the door closes and you're out in the hall, she breaks into a grin, confessing she just needed an excuse to steal you away.

You willingly let her guide you back down the corridor to her room. She smiles as she locks the door, crashing her lips onto yours. Your hands find their way to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as you melt into the kiss, momentarily forgetting about your lingering pettiness.

“Imagine all the things we could have done this afternoon if you had been available,” she whispers against your ear, dropping a kiss on the sensitive skin just below it.

You pull back just enough to look at her. “Do you happen to remember your throat problems, amor ?”

“It’s basically healed,” she shrugs carelessly, pulling you back in to kiss you again. “But seriously... I can't believe I came second to a bunch of kids.”

“Stop being jealous, Ale.” It’s the pot calling the kettle black. “Who did you spend your afternoon with, then ?” You lean in to kiss her jaw, making her smile soften against your skin.

“The usual crowd. Laia, Irene, Mariona, Misa and Jenni.”

You try your best not to tense up at the last name, but you’re pretty sure you fail miserably judging by the curious look she throws you. “Everything okay, cari ?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, waving a hand dismissively. It’s unconvincing, and you both know it.

Alexia hooks two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze away from the floor and straight back to her. “Talk to me. What is it ?”

It’s incredibly hard to hide the truth when you're staring directly into those intense green eyes. “It’s just... you and Jenni...” You trail off, stuck, having no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a jealous asshole.

Alexia searches your eyes, staying close to you. “What about it ?” she presses on.

You pull her hand away from your chin, taking a step back to put some space between you. Once you lose Alexia’s proximity, you regret even hinting at the subject. “Just forget about it,” you mumble.

Alexia furrows her brows, clearly frustrated. “What do you mean ? Just tell me what’s wrong. I’m no mind reader.”

“As I just said, it’s not important.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively.

She takes a step closer, but you take another step back, a flash of hurt crosses her face. “What did I do with Jenni that pissed you off ?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Could have fooled me”. There’s a visible jump of the muscle as her jaw clenches.

“It’s just…” You fix your gaze on the far corner of her ceiling, unable to bear looking at her face. “You two have been spending a lot of time together since camp started.”

Alexia lets out a frustrated sigh. “I literally asked you to spend the last two hours together and you said no. And you know that Jenni is my friend.”

“I know,” you mutter, your eyes snapping back to hers. She’s staring right through you, trying to decode the exact root of your sudden attitude.

“Then what is your problem ?” Her voice remains controlled. You both know exactly where you are, and this is not a conversation you want overheard through the hotel walls.

“The problem is that you’re all over me behind closed doors, but the second we’re out in public, you only have eyes for her.” You despise how petty you sound right now, fully aware of how irrational the thought is.

You can see her physically forcing herself to calm down. She closes her eyes, taking three slow, measured breaths to ground herself. “Do I seriously need to remind you that we both agreed to keep this under wraps until the summer ?”

“Keeping it a secret doesn’t mean I enjoy watching you flirt with your ex all day,” you snap back. “You have other teammates, you know.”

She lets out a harsh, incredulous laugh, rolling her eyes. “Flirting ? Now you’re just being ridiculous. Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because I'm best friends with my ex ? Something you already knew ?”

“It’s about the fact that Jenni would be the easy choice for you,” you shoot back, the underlying hurt leaking into your tone.

“Oh, for God's sake.” She throws her hands up, pacing a single step away before spinning back to face you. “If you can’t handle her existence in my life, then what are we even doing ? It won’t work.”

Your heart drops, but you don't back down. “You’re acting as if I’m being unreasonable.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. “Because you are being unreasonable. We’ve already talked about Jenni. She’s the past, it was literally years ago.”

You let out a low, dark chuckle, the bitter sound earning a deeply confused look from her. “Wow. Fuck, you’re such a liar.”

That stops Alexia dead in her tracks, her expression hardening. “Excuse me ?”

“Years ago, Alexia ? That's the story we're going with ?”

There’s an unmistakable flash of recognition in her eyes, but she refuses to budge. “Yes. We broke up five years ago.”

“And nothing at all since ?” You lock your arms across your chest, your jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps as you fight to stay under control.

Alexia's throat bobs as she swallows hard. “Just say what you want to say.”

The fact that she can't even look you in the eye and admit it makes the anger burn hotter. “I know you slept with her last summer.”

The color completely drains from her face. “Who told you ?”

A bitter, dry laugh forces its way past your teeth. You can feel your blood pressure spiking, a steady hammering starting up behind your eyes. “Unbelievable. That's your first question ?”

“I said, who told you ?” The sudden flare of defiance in her eyes is the spark that destroys your remaining restraint.

You take a step closer, closing the distance until you are invading her space. “You had multiple opportunities to be honest with me, Alexia, and you hid it from me.” Your voice rises on the last few words, cutting through the quiet room, but neither of you cares about the noise anymore.

“Because I knew you'd blow it entirely out of proportion !” she snaps back, throwing up a hand and gesturing wildly at your face. “Look at yourself. You’re proving me right !”

“Because you’re still in love with your fucking ex, Alexia.” You don't scream the accusation. Instead, your voice cracks wide open, the raw pain cutting through the room. You clench your jaw, fighting back the burning behind your eyes.

Seeing you break seems to instantly extinguish her anger, a cold wave of realization hitting her as she finally notices how badly she has fucked up.

She tentatively places her hands on your arms, her touch gentle as she tries to soothe you, but you violently shake them away.

“Cari...” She stops, desperately searching for the right words. “The reason I didn’t tell you wasn’t because it meant something. It was because it meant absolutely nothing.”

“Alexia, please hear yourself,” you whisper, the betrayal heavy in your chest. “If it really meant nothing, you would have just told me when we talked back in Barcelona.”

Alexia looks completely at a loss for words, her hands hovering awkwardly in the air, not knowing where to put themselves. “Please... just believe me.”

“Believe what ? You haven’t given me a single actual justification.”

“It was just... to see if there was anything left,” she admits, her voice dropping. “We did it, and there was nothing. That’s why it was a one-time thing.”

“Alexia, you seriously needed to fucking sleep with your ex after four years apart just to know there was nothing left between you ?”

“Yes ?” You can't even tell if she's asking you or herself.

Cruel, vivid images flash unbidden through your mind. You picture the two of them together in bed, wrapped up in each other the exact same way you and Alexia had been just days ago. The thought burns, and the tears finally spill over, blurring your vision. “You know what ? I’m out of here. From now on, just act like we don’t even know each other, just like you’ve been doing.”

You turn on your heel to walk away, but she’s faster, stepping directly into your path to block the door. “Cari, please, I’m begging you. Can we just sit down and talk about this calmly ?” Her pleading face only fuels your rage.

“We’re past calm. We could have had calm if you weren't a liar.” She recoils as the words hit home, her shoulders dropping in silent defeat. Part of you wants to keep screaming at her until her ears ring with tinnitus, but the exhaustion is already setting in. “Move.” You try to make your voice sound commanding, but it comes out weak and completely broken. Recognizing the finality in your tone, she slowly steps out of your way.

You throw the door open and slam it violently behind you, the loud bang reverberating down the hotel corridor. You only make it a few paces before you see Jenni walking in your direction, clearly heading straight for the room you just vacated.

“What the hell ?” Jenni asks, her brows knitting together in confusion at the sight of you storming out of Alexia's room.

“Fuck you,” you spit out, your voice dripping with pure venom. As you pass, you deliberately drive your shoulder hard into hers. The unexpected impact catches Jenni off guard, sending her stumbling back a few steps against the wall. Leaving her frozen in utter bafflement, you quicken your pace, practically sprinting down the corridor to get away.

You slam your bedroom door shut, and Aitana snaps her head up from her phone. She’s mid-conversation on FaceTime, but she takes one look at your shattered expression and instantly hangs up with a rushed apology.

“What happened with Vicky ?” she asks, worry etching itself across her face. She takes one look at your trembling lower lip and extends her arms wide, offering a safe harbor.

You don't say a word, sinking heavily into her space and burying your face into the crook of her shoulder. The dam breaks completely, your tears soaking into her shirt while she moves a comforting, rhythmic hand up and down your spine. “I’m such an idiot,” you choke out through the tears.

Aitana just holds you tighter. You know her inside and out. Right now, her tactical, problem-solving brain is probably screaming for details so she can dissect the issue logically, but she forces herself to stay quiet because she knows you just need to bleed out the pain first.

also know she’s not the biggest fan of prolonged physical contact, which makes the fact that she’s letting you cling to her like a lifeline mean that much more. She knows how badly you need it right now.

Slowly, you can feel the sharp ache in your body starting to settle, even if the pain doesn't completely disappear. “We had a fight about Jenni,” you admit, your voice muffled against her.

Aitana’s only response is a low hum of acknowledgment, and you realize she must have already guessed what this was about.

“I told her I knew about them sleeping together,” you continue, the words heavy. “And she just deflected.”

Aitana rests her chin on top of your head, her grip tightening slightly, and you snuggle closer into her warmth. “Deflected how ?”

“Claimed she only hid it because it didn't mean anything. And because she knew I’d blow up just like I did.”

“Dios, what a prick,” Aitana states bluntly, the fierce protectiveness in her tone earning a watery chuckle out of you.

“You’re not jumping to defend your captain ?” you tease weakly.

You know Aitana is rolling her eyes without even needing to see her face. “Alexia is a teammate, you’re my best friend. I would be on your side even if you were acting like the dumbest person in the world. And it doesn’t even matter here, because Alexia is being the asshole.”

You lean into her words, knowing she’s being truthful. Aitana is fiercely loyal, but she has zero filter. If you were the one being completely irrational, she would have called you out on it immediately. “Honestly, my love life would have been a million times easier if you were just into women.”

Aitana bursts out laughing at that. “Oh, please. We would be a complete disaster. We can barely even survive planning a trip together because you live your life at the very last second and your room looks like a tornado hit it.”

“Fair point. Plus, you’re entirely too vanilla for me anyway,” you tease, nudging her.

She gives the back of your head a playful swat, forcing you to look up at her. When you do, you see a soft, amused smile on her face. She's clearly relieved to have successfully pulled you out of your dark mood, even if only a little.

She glances down at her wrist and winces. “Crap. We’re five minutes late for dinner already. Fix your face, try to look like a functioning human being, and let's get downstairs.”

Dinner is tense, to say the least. Alexia sits expressionless, staring blankly at her plate, while Jenni is glaring at you like she wants to burn a hole through your forehead. A few of the other players glance between you all, clearly confused by the heavy atmosphere dropping over the tables.

To make matters worse, there’s a mandatory team-bonding activity for the night : board games. You’re in a foul mood, and you can tell Alexia is right there with you. Vicky and Mapi seem to make it their personal mission to lift everyone's spirits with loud jokes, but their high energy only grates on your nerves. You lock your jaw, deciding that silence is the only thing keeping you from causing a scene.

The squad is divided into small groups, but even after an hour and a half, the tension you feel hasn’t lifted. Just as your table wraps up a game, Jenni cuts through the crowd, stepping right into your space.

“Get up. We're having a talk.” You look around to see if she is talking to anyone else, but she throws you a pointed look. Realizing there's no escaping it, you let out a sigh and stand up to face her.

You follow her into an adjacent corridor, walking far enough away from the lounge that your conversation can’t be overheard by the rest of the team.

“What the hell happened with Alexia ?” Her bluntness doesn’t surprise you much.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you reply flatly. You have zero intention of giving her what she wants, mostly because you owe her less than nothing.

She lets out an irritated breath, her eyes narrowing. “Of course you don't. That's your favorite play, isn't it ? You love pretending you're blind to a problem until someone else cleans up the mess.”

“Then I guess I'll just sit back and wait for this one to resolve itself too.” You give her saccharine smile and take a step back, but Jenni’s fingers clamp around your wrist, stopping you dead.

“Don't play dumb with me,” Jenni snarls, her grip tight. “Alexia ditches us early to go over 'tactics’ with Sonia. Then you come flying out of her room like a hurricane, curse me out for literally no reason, and now Alexia is sitting at a table as if she’s seen a ghost. Talk.”

You forcefully slap her hand away from your wrist. “It’s a captain issue. I have no idea why you think you’re invited to this conversation.”

If looks could kill, Jenni would have flattened you right then and there. “While you only ever care about yourself, some people actually care about the well-being of their teammates, and—”

“Teammates, right.” You cut her off with a bitter laugh.

The sound genuinely startles her for a second, but then a look of smug realization crosses her face as she thinks she’s finally pieced it together. “Oh, right. I forgot how pedantic you are. I would never date another footballer because I’m way too good for them.” She looks you up and down with pure disdain.

You decide to let her run with that delusion. “Yeah. All of these love stories do nothing but create drama and problems for this team.”

“Ale and I are perfectly fine. We aren't the ones causing problems,” Jenni snaps, stepping closer. “Why don’t you look in a mirror ? Nobody in this squad can stand you except Aitana, and you know it. You’re just a toxic person. The younger girls only tolerate you because they haven't been around long enough to see the real you yet. Even Misa is just playing nice because you wear your club armband. Behind your back, she despises you just like the rest of us.”

​You’re seconds away from spitting out that you’re dating Alexia, if only to make her shut the fuck up. Clinging to your fraying self-control, you decide to go straight for the jugular instead. “At least I’m not so pathetic that I’m still stuck on my ex, to the point where I sleep with her as soon as I’m on a break with my girlfriend.”

​“Excuse me ?” Raw fury flares in her eyes, mixed with an underlying flicker of panic over how you of all people managed to get your hands on that piece of information. She steps into your space, backing you flat against the cold wall before slamming her index finger hard into your sternum. “Where the hell did you—”

“Hey !”

The sharp shout cuts through the hallway. You both freeze, looking over to find Irene looking at the two of you like you’ve both grown a third head. Jenni recoils, dropping her hand and taking a ragged breath to pull her composure back together.

“I’m expecting better from both of you,” Irene says sternly. She throws a heavy, pointed look directly at Jenni, and then shifts it over to you. “What exactly is this about ?”

Jenni practically vibrates with everything she wants to say, but she forces her mouth shut, her jaw tight.

“Just a misunderstanding,” you say simply, cutting through the thick silence. It’s an understatement of cosmic proportions, but it’s the quickest way out of this hallway. “Goodnight,” you mutter to them both, not waiting for a response as you walk away straight back to your room, relieved that your key card and phone are already in your pockets.

Once inside, you send a quick text to Aitana letting her know you won't be coming back down. You strip out of your clothes, take a scalding shower to wash off the day, and crawl under the covers of your bed. For a long moment, you stare at your phone, considering sending a message to Alexia to ask if you can talk.

But your chest still aches, and you aren't sure anything good could possibly come out of it tonight. Deciding against it, you lock your phone and try to let exhaustion take over instead. If you cry yourself to sleep, nobody needs to know.

When your alarm jolts you awake the next morning, the few hours of rest do absolutely nothing to quiet the chaotic mess in your mind. As you both get ready, Aitana keeps throwing you anxious glances, as if she’s waiting for you to break down at any given second.

Downstairs, Alexia is noticeably missing from breakfast. She likely ate earlier to avoid a scene. Jenni is nowhere to be found either. Instead, it’s just Irene sitting across the room, her eyes monitoring your every move as if it will tell her something.

Morning practice is an absolute nightmare. The sun is baking the pitch so intensely you feel like you're on the verge of heatstroke, though you take grim comfort in knowing the English squad will suffer twice as much. The session shifts to small-group drills, and the universe delivers a masterclass in irony when the coaches draft you, Alexia, Jenni, and Irene into the same squad.

The drill instantly devolves into a war zone. Alexia flies around the grass like a woman possessed, desperate to outrun her own guilt, while you and Jenni go head-to-head, testing the absolute limit of how rough you can tackle without causing an injury. It gets so bad that Irene and Patri have to drag Jenni away to force a cooling-off period, and Mariona grabs your jersey to do the same with you.

During a break, Alexia looks at you like she desperately wants to say something, likely to defend Jenni. Fortunately, she’s intelligent enough to keep her mouth shut, a skill she has apparently perfected.

Misa drops down on the grass next to you as the coaching staff calls for a water break. “Did you kick her puppy or something? ” she asks, gesturing with a tilt of her chin toward Jenni, who is currently locked in an animated, intense conversation with Irene across the pitch.

Instantly, Jenni’s venomous words from last night echo in your mind : Even Misa is just playing nice because you wear your club armband. Behind your back, she despises you just like the rest of us.

But then you look at Misa, and you remember all the times she has proven the exact opposite. You think of Maëlle Lakrar, who has a bizarre passion for translating French idioms, and that one the team loves because it fits the Real Madrid colors : The toad’s spit does not reach the white dove.

You’re not entirely sure you qualify as a white dove, but the other part surely fits Jenni. Taking a deep breath, you resolve to not let her toxic remarks poison your relationships any more than she already has.

“Jenni is your buddy, go ask her,” you say dismissively, taking a slow sip of water.

The deflection seems to amuse her more than anything. “Oh, I did. She looked me dead in the eye and said yes.”

You let out a heavy sigh, and she playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Seriously, what did you do? Give me something to work with here, I might be able to fix it.”

“It’s fine. We just had a petty argument yesterday, it’s no big deal.”

“Right. And how does Alexia factor into this 'no big deal'?”

Alexia can rot in hell. You don’t think this would go well with Misa, you deflect instead “Do you think I kicked her puppy too ?”

Misa studies your face, searching for the crack in your armor, but you lock it down. “You know what ? Fine. Keep your secrets if you want to. But I know both of them pretty damn well, you know. Probably better than you do.”

You simply nod, closing your eyes for a moment to just feel the intense heat of the sun baking your skin. When you open them again, Misa is still sitting right next to you, her gaze quietly drifted toward the horizon.

The day devolves into a game of cat and mouse. By lunchtime, the entire squad has picked up on the fact that something massive has blown up. You make it obvious when you walk all the way down to the end of the long dining table, deliberately choosing to sit next to María and Fiamma, two players you almost never talk to, instead of taking the empty seat across from Alexia, despite Misa and Aitana sitting nearby.

Because it is one of the kid’s qualities, Vicky is the one who confronts you directly. It happens after the video session, where Alexia sat all the way in the back because the only available place near the front was next to you.

“I honestly thought you two were getting along after the last camp,” Vicky states bluntly, leaning against her desk as you are currently trapped on her bed. She had told you a few players were going to be hanging out here, but you quickly realized you walked right into a setup. It’s just the two of you.

“We just had a disagreement, it’s nothing important,” you say smoothly, idly spinning her Stitch plushie by its ears.

“Bullshit. Neither of you acts this petty over a simple disagreement,” Vicky counters, crossing her arms. “Last time you two had a fight, it was solved almost instantly.” Damn it.

You give a careless shrug, doing your absolute best to seem unbothered. “This one will too.” You make sure it sounds like a fact, even though your stomach is tied in knots.

“So, who holds the blame ?” Vicky asks point-blank. “The fight.”

You groove your thumbs into the plushie, exhaling a long breath. “I’m not discussing this, Vicky.”

“I won’t ask what it was about,” she counters immediately, holding up her hands. When you throw her a deeply unconvinced look, she offers a small, earnest smile. “I promise.”

“It’s hers, mostly.”

“Ale isn’t always the best with people, you know.” You know her slightly awkward side well, and you usually find it rather endearing. “But it’s affecting the whole team, the way you two are behaving right now. You really need to talk it out before things go too far.”

You eye her. “When did you become emotionally mature ?”

She rolls her eyes and gives your shoulder a playful shove. “The team had a whole debate about who should broach the subject with you, and I was voted the best option. They all said you have a soft spot for me.” She beams, clearly proud of that particular detail.

“Oh, so you’re just a parrot for the locker room council ?”

She gives you the finger. “And who exactly is going to go tell Alexia to grow up ?”

Vicky’s smile immediately vanishes into a grimace. “Telling Alexia was the second part of the plan, only if you said no. Trust me, Jana would really like to avoid having to do that.”

You groan, throwing your head back. You hate that she's right, but the locker room anxiety is getting too loud to ignore. This isn't just your mess anymore. “Do I seriously have to go deal with this this now ?” you whine.

Vicky points toward the exit. “Yeah, and do it quickly. I have a high-stakes Mario Kart tournament in Patri’s room in five minutes.” Rolling your eyes, you toss the plushie at her and drag your feet out the door.

You try to keep your emotions in check as you walk toward Alexia’s room. You can feel the anger wanting to surface, and you cannot have that happen before even entering the conversation. You consider turning away to go back to your room a few times, but you know the situation is not sustainable.

You knock on the door, and Alexia opens it after a few moments. She’s dressed in her standard team-issued t-shirt and shorts, her face pale and visibly exhausted. The petty, wounded part of your brain whispers that she entirely deserves to feel this miserable, the rest of you just feels a dull ache at seeing her like this.

She wordlessly steps aside, swinging the door wide. You step inside, only to feel your stomach drop as a spike of jealousy hits you. Jenni is sitting on the mattress, scrolling on her phone like she owns the place. She looks up, eyeing you critically, as if she's waiting for you to detonate a bomb right in the middle of the room.

“Jen, can you leave the two of us alone, please ?” Alexia asks in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

That doesn’t stop Jenni from trying, though. “Why ? I highly doubt she’s here to apologize for anything. Personally, I don’t think she’s even capable of it.”

You violently bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to rise to the blatant bait. Alexia looks exhausted, her shoulders tense. “Jen. I said out.”

The coldness in Alexia's voice catches you off guard, and it visibly stuns Jenni too. “Fine, Ale. I’m going,” she says, throwing her hands up.  An uncomfortable silence fills the room as Jenni slowly gathers her things. She murmurs a quiet “see you later” to Alexia, before throwing you one last venomous look, which you gladly return, just before the door clicks shut behind her.

Alexia sits back on her bed against the headboard, while you pull up the desk chair to face her. She remains quiet, waiting for you to initiate the conversation.

“I’ll give you exactly one chance to explain this calmly,” you say, your voice steady but hard, holding your index finger. “I won’t interrupt you, but you better make my time worth it.”

Alexia nods, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. There’s silence, as she ponders where to start. “My relationship with my ex, Olga, was an absolute mess,” she begins. “She’s not a bad person or anything, but we were just so incompatible. And my breakup with Jenni... it was so hard. Spending so many years together, you know, being my first. It ended up being the kind of relationship that died slowly until it just wasn't working anymore. I was so inexperienced, I never saw it coming.”

She avoids meeting your gaze entirely, appearing suddenly fascinated by the view from the hotel window, where the Mediterranean Sea stretches out. Every muscle in her frame is rigid. She has her fingers locked together in her lap, as if that physical tension is the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.

“I never understood where I fucked up, and it was something that drove me crazy for years, even as I was with Olga,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “I wanted, I needed, to understand the why, and I just couldn't get it. After some time, I just forced myself to believe Jenni and I were fundamentally incompatible. I forced myself to drop it.”

Her eyes flick to yours for a split second, but as if the weight of your gaze is too much to bear, they dart straight back to the safety of the window. “A few months after the breakup, I met Olga through Patri and Mapi. I thought, perfect, someone completely different from Jenni. This is exactly what I need.” Alexia shakes her head slowly, as if chastising the version of herself from back then.

“Olga was... free, in a certain way. In a way I could never be. She felt like a breath of fresh air because I was desperate to get over a devastating breakup. I convinced myself that if my new relationship was going well, then it meant I wasn’t broken, it just meant Jenni and I were the problem.”

She pauses, eyeing you tentatively to see if you're going to interrupt her. You just lift your hand, executing a cold, dismissive wave for her to keep talking. Your expression is a blank slate, locking her out completely, and you can tell the lack of feedback is agonizing for her. Alexia hates playing a high-stakes hand when she can't read her opponent's tells.

“And then, just as I started to genuinely believe our differences were what made us work, she began to drift away. She's addicted to attention, from me, from the internet, from literally anyone who would look. She could never bear the thought of being second to football.”

Alexia works her bottom lip. “At first, I made all the concessions. I missed club events, skipped team bonding nights, didn't show up to the non-mandatory training sessions... but eventually, it started to eat at me. I realized I didn't even want to spend that much time with her anyway, I just felt like it was my obligation as a girlfriend.”

Alexia locks her eyes onto yours, using your gaze to steady her faltering voice. “Do you remember what you told me about staying with Elena just because you were afraid? I... I thought that breaking up with Olga would mean I was the definitive problem in my relationships. That I'm just incapable of making love work.”

“Naturally, it blew up in my face. Olga likes things messy,” Alexia chuckles darkly, a hollow sound in the quiet room. “And the second it was over, everyone started talking about putting myself out there. They kept reminding me that I was thirty-one, famous, and could do way better than a body count of two.”

A soft flush of pink colors her cheeks at the admission, her eyes abandoning yours once again to focus intently on the boring hotel desk. “And I slept with girls, and it was just... bad. It was like they were just pretty, but there was nothing there, and everything felt completely empty.”

Her grip breaks, her hands leaving her thighs only to fidget restlessly with one another as she shifts against the headboard, looking deeply uncomfortable in her own skin. “And then we had the preseason trip to Mexico.” She clears her throat, the sound tight. “And I thought... maybe with Jenni I would finally feel something again. She was on a break with her girlfriend, and she was an absolute mess too because of it, so... we ended up in bed.”

Alexia’s shoulders begin to visibly shake, and you have to fight against every instinct in your body to keep from reaching out to comfort her.

“And I felt absolutely fucking nothing,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “It was just as empty as the rest of them. It completely broke me, you know ? Because she used to make me feel so many things in the past, and instead, there was just this black hole of emptiness. We laughed about it afterward, how it was easily the worst sex we’d ever had together and that we’d never, ever repeat it, but inside, I was just... God.” She sharply wipes her eyes, swallowing down a sob.

Alexia shifts back, pulling her knees flush against her chest and locking her arms around them. Stripped of her usual armor, she looks heartbreakingly small.

“I got back to Barcelona, and I tried to date again,” she whispers, a sob catching in her throat. “But it was still miserable. I started talking to influencers in my DMs and meeting up with them, including during away games. I only did it because they didn’t give a damn about me, they just cared about the money and the fame. And I fucking hated it every single time, hated myself, felt so fucking dirty.” She stops entirely, a broken cry escaping her lips. Your heart shatters at the sight, and you simply can’t take the distance anymore.

Your legs move before your brain can even process the thought. You climb onto the mattress, moving up behind her and pulling her tightly against your chest. The second your arms wrap around her, she breaks.

Alexia begins to shake violently against you, her hands clutching at your arms as you hold her close. You anchor her, threading one arm around her waist and the other across her chest, rocking her rhythmically as you feel her chest tightening, her lungs gasping for air.

It takes a few minutes for her to ground herself, but slowly, she relaxes, her breathing easing away from the edge of a full panic attack.

“You don’t have to push through the rest of this right now,” you murmur, pressing another slow kiss to the side of her head. “It can wait for another time.”

She shakes her head firmly against your chest. “No, no. We’re already here, I might as well just get it all out.”

“We can stop the second you need to, okay ?” you remind her softly.

She nods, acknowledging your words with a tiny shift of her head. “I think my biggest mistake was never talking about it with anyone. Half my friends assumed I was just living my best single life. For the ones who knew me well, I would hide most of the hookups and invent fake dates instead, just to make it look like I was trying to find someone great but kept running into the wrong girls. And then there was…” She cuts herself off sharply, as if terrified of the very words about to tumble out of her mouth.

“Alexia, amor... what is it ?”

She sniffles, and you feel her frame begin to tremble against yours all over again. “I almost left Barça.”

She goes completely still for a second, as if intentionally giving you the space to process it.

“You what ?”

“Barça is exhausting,” she admits. “I’m the face of the biggest club in the world, and this last season it was starting to feel completely suffocating. I just wanted the ground to swallow me whole. After my ACL injury, my only goal was to get back to the top. But then I finally got my form back last season, and I realized that the weight of the badge was becoming too much for what I was mentally capable of giving it.”

She shifts slightly, burying herself deeper into your touch. “But Barça is everything to me. And I need to figure out who I am without football, because I won’t play forever, and that thought is just so terrifying. This past season was a constant war against myself, and I kept losing.” She lets out a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle.

“I think that’s what I was desperately looking for with those girls, a perspective from the outside that made life feel worth it.” She pauses, tensing up. “Fuck, sorry... that sounded way less dark in my head.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” you murmur, tightening your embrace and cuddling her even closer against you. Hearing her speak about herself with such quiet despair hurts you terribly, triggering a protective instinct to absorb all of her pain and throw it as far away from the two of you as possible.

“I just needed a new start, so I actually mapped out my departure from the club,” she confesses, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “Everything was already done, you know ? I even have a whole goodbye video already filmed and ready to be posted.”

A sharp pang of hurt hits you right in the chest at the realization that she had been ready to walk away without ever talking to you about it. You understand that Alexia’s mind has been a chaotic, overwhelming mess for months. Planning to leave Barça without telling you still isn’t something you easily go back from.

“But my pride wouldn't let me exit after a failure,” she mutters, shaking her head. “And then Oslo happened. That stupid, miserable match.”

With that, the floodgates open completely. She breaks down into heavy, ragged sobs, and you just anchor her against you on the mattress, refusal to let go. You aren't even sure which part of the wreckage she’s mourning anymore, and she’s likely too overwhelmed to separate the grief herself, but you bury your face in her hair and hold her together until the trembling stops.

There’s been one massive question burning a hole in your thoughts. You’ve given her the floor to empty her chest, but now that the tears have dried and she's fallen quiet, you pull the trigger.

“Why me ?”

Alexia pauses, the silence stretching between you. “You felt good in a moment where I was completely desperate for something that didn’t feel miserable,” she admits softly. It genuinely shocks you just how skilled Alexia is at hiding her true emotions from the world. Given how she carries herself, you have absolutely no idea how she can be so utterly useless at poker.

“When you were venting about your contract, it gave me a mirror to look at my own situation. It was selfish, I know. But I wasn't in a place where I trusted you with that kind of information yet.”

She shifts restlessly in your embrace. You tighten your grip instinctively, trying to keep her against you, but you let your arms fall away when you realize she needs to break free. She shifts to face you completely, creating a tiny pocket of space between your bodies as she leans back on her hands. Alexia's intense gaze locks directly onto yours.

“People always assume I know what I want, just because I'm a physically affectionate person. But God, I am a total disaster with feelings.” You can visibly see how much this conversation is draining her, but her eyes hold a stubborn determination, she wants to finish this.

“I genuinely thought you were safe. I thought that our... our messy history was going to act like a shield and keep me from getting attached. The first time we slept together, it felt so incredible, in a way nothing had in an eternity. So I just kept letting it happen. You’re addicting,” she says, a small, vulnerable smile ghosting over her lips.

You can't help but reward her with a soft smile of your own.

Her red-rimmed eyes get glassy all over again, but neither of you tries to stop the tears this time, you just let them happen. “We just kept talking, and it just kept getting more serious, and my mind went into overdrive. I stopped resenting you for Las 15 way before I realized it myself.”

“And then you came over to my house after Oslo, and I realized just how desperately I needed you. I asked you to be my girlfriend on a whim, simply because of how much I wanted it. You get it. You slot into a place in my life that nobody else has. You understand the pressure, and you can see how important the world outside of football is in a way that I completely fail to see. I just... I don’t know how to handle,” she gestures helplessly between the two of you, “this.”

“I’m rambling, I know, and I’m probably scaring you to death with how heavy I'm being. I’m not saying I want you to save me or anything. I just want you by my side, to hold me like you always do. And what’s absolutely terrifying to me is that you could just leave if you wanted to. I’m just so scared of people leaving, and…” She chokes on her words, the raw fear locking up her chest.

The room drops into a quiet stillness, and you just take her in. Her eyes are bloodshot and swimming with unshed tears, her cheeks are damp, and her bottom lip is completely ruined from her frantic attempts to hold herself together.

You slide your hand up to cradle her jaw, your thumb smoothing over her cheekbone as a shaky breath escapes her. “I’m not going anywhere, amor,” you whisper. You close the distance, kissing her with all the gentleness you possess. She melts into it, kissing you back as if you’re her lifeline.

Slowly, you shift backwards until your back hits the mattress, her lips following yours seamlessly. When the kiss finally breaks, the sheer vulnerability shining in her eyes makes your heart ache with a physical intensity.

“I’m so sorry about not telling you anything,” she blurts out, the guilt rushing back. “So, so sorry about lying to you. Fuck, I should have told you at least half of this before we started dating so you actually knew what you were getting into. I’m so—”

“God, Ale, stop apologizing.” Your firm tone cuts her off dead. You loop your arm securely around her shoulders, pulling her body flush against yours until her head is resting safely on your shoulder.

“I know the standard procedure here is supposed to be makeup sex... but I don't think I have it in me,” she murmurs into your collarbone.

“Then just sleep, amor.” You press a tender kiss to the crown of her head, holding her as close as you can without making it feel suffocating. There’s no need to mention that your own libido is currently at absolute zero after everything she just unloaded.

You had intended to use her nap to do some serious thinking, but the moment you close your eyes for what feels like a split second, you drift off. The next thing you know, Alexia is gently shaking your arm, making you groan dramatically as you try to block her out and pull the blankets over your head.

“We have to be down for team dinner in fifteen minutes, cari,” she murmurs softly.

You let out a heavy sigh but finally force your eyes open, meeting her gaze. “How long have you been awake ?”

Instead of answering, she just shrugs. She’s already nervously gnawing on her bottom lip again, and you instinctively reach up, brushing your thumb against the skin to get her to release it.

“I wanted to apologize. For earlier,” she says quietly. You immediately open your mouth to interrupt and brush the apology away, but she raises a single finger, silently demanding that you let her finish. You shut your mouth, watching as she diverts her gaze to the mattress. “I dropped some incredibly heavy things on you, and... I don’t want you to stay with me just because you’re afraid of hurting me.”

“Ale—” you try to say faintly, but she cuts you off before the word can fully leave your lips.

“Let me finish, please.” You nod silently, even though she isn’t looking directly at you to see it. “It’s only been two months, and this isn't the kind of baggage or intensity I should be dumping on you so early.” She finally forces herself to meet your eyes again. In response, you slide your hands securely onto her hips, squeezing gently to reassure her that you are staying right here.

“My inner circle has been telling me for an eternity that I need to go to therapy, but I just... I just can’t do it. I know it’s pathetic. But I refuse to become a burden to you. I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me, and I absolutely don’t want you staying with me out of fear of what a breakup would do to me.”

Her eyes are glossy, the green striking and vibrant against the raw rim of red. She finally seems to have run out of words, so you lean up and gently cradle her face in both of your hands.

“Ale, listen to me,” you say softly. “I have feelings for you too, you know. Big ones. It’s still early, and I’m not going to sit here and make you grand promises about the future, but I really, truly like you. As a person, and especially as my girlfriend.”

You sweep your thumb across her cheek, keeping your eyes pinned to hers until she registers the absolute honesty behind your words. “If you unloaded all of that earlier, it’s because it was suffocating you. You don't have to filter your baggage for me. You’re allowed to be heavy.”

You close the remaining distance, sealing your words with a slow, reassuring kiss that tells her louder than any speech that you're dug in right beside her. She lets out a shaky breath and melts completely against you, her defenses dissolving.

The kiss breaks, and she lets her head drop forward, resting her forehead against your shoulder. “While you were sleeping, I was thinking... about Jenni.”

Your entire body tenses up at the name. A sudden, involuntary physical reaction you can’t quite control.

“Would it be better if I just tell her that we’re dating ?” she asks quietly.

You look at Alexia as if she’s completely lost her mind. “You actually want to trust that kind of information with Jenni ?”

“I trust Jen with my life,” Alexia answers softly. A sharp flash of jealousy flares up inside your chest at those words, though you note it’s significantly less painful than it used to be. “I told you, there is absolutely nothing like that between us anymore.”

“Yes, but Jenni, Alexia.”

“What about Jen ?” You can see the amusement in Alexia’s eyes. She knows very well what your problem is with Jenni.

“She hates my guts,” you say, taking a small breath. “And I get why she does. I do not particularly like her either.” Understatement.

Alexia rolls her eyes as if you are being an idiot. “I am planning to tell her in one or two months anyway. And you two were so close to throttling each other this morning that I am getting worried. It has been only two days.”

You feel like it was a completely normal reaction, considering the chat you had with her in the corridor last night. However, you are not sure you want to talk about it with Alexia. Bringing it up will only hurt her more than anything else.

You let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over your face. “Look, if you fully trust her not to breathe a word of it to anyone else... then yeah. I would like you to tell her.”

“I’ll do it after dinner then,” she decides.

You shift your gaze, looking down at her disapprovingly. “Ale, today has already been a lot. It can wait, you know.”

“Let’s just pull off the band-aid. Call it the day of absolute honesty.” She offers a faint, fragile smile, and you roll your eyes at her weak attempt at a joke. Before you can object further, she presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. “I almost forgot... thank you. Thank you for being the one to reach out, especially when I was the one who fucked up.”

“Some of our teammates may have pushed me a little,” you admit.

 “Oh yeah ? Who ? Aitana ?”

“No, the ones who actually know you. Misa and Vicky.”

“Please, you’re taking relationship advice from Vicky ?” she asks, thoroughly amused.

You give a light shrug. “Hey, she gives good advice.” Then, a thought that has been lingering in the back of your mind resurfaces, and you voice it. “If you’re going to tell Jenni, do you think you could tell Misa too? Lying to her face is starting to feel exhausting, and I know she’d take it to the grave.”

“Wow. Shocking that you aren't putting Vicky on the guest list too.”

“I’ll tell Vicky the day I want a press release sent to the media.” The absolute certainty in your voice has both of you breaking into a proper laugh.

“You’d actually be surprised to know that Vicky can keep a secret,” Alexia points out, defending her. “She only gives things away when she thinks they aren't important.”

You give her a deeply skeptical look. “Ale, that literally sounds like the definition of someone who is bad at keeping secrets.”

“I will tell Misa,” Alexia says softly.

“Perfect, amor,” you murmur, moving to plant a sweet kiss on her cheek. Alexia has other ideas, tracking your movement and turning her head at the last second to steal a proper kiss straight from your lips.

-----------

The noise of the dining hall fades into a deafening roar, and the food on her plate might as well be cardboard. Alexia sits completely frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs with the exact same intensity she felt the night before she came out to her mother. As she watches the minutes tick away, a desperate thought flashes through her mind : Is it too late to pack a bag and move to another country right now ?

But she can't run. Not after today. She had committed to this honesty resolution because of the terrifying realization that her lies had almost cost her you. Laying herself bare to you earlier had been painful, stripping away armor she hadn't touched in years, but it had saved her. She owes this relationship the truth.

Throughout the entire dinner, Alexia finds her eyes drifting across the tables to find you. Just looking at you, anchoring herself to your presence, is the only thing comforting her in her decision to finally tell two of her closest friends the truth.

“Well, look at that. The ice age is officially over,” Vicky chirps proudly, startling Alexia out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, we worked it out.” Alexia can't help but notice how Vicky is practically radiating smugness. “She mentioned that you were the one who gave her a reality check. So, thanks.”

Vicky leans in, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “So... telling me exactly why you two were furious with each other seems like a pretty fair thank-you gift, don't you think ?”

Alexia scoffs, throwing her a dry look. “Keep dreaming, Vicky.”

Vicky just shrugs, unfazed because she expected that answer anyway. “Whatever. I’ll figure it out eventually,” she says, completely sure of herself. Alexia just ignores her, her mind racing and far too anxious to humor the younger player’s banter right now.

Even if Alexia would have preferred a world where you had absolutely no issue with her history with Jenni, she can’t exactly say she’s surprised by your reaction. When she originally decided to tell her inner footballer circle this summer, the off-season had felt like a distant, safe horizon.

But now the clock has run out, sooner than planned. She knows how complicated your relationship is with some of her inner circle, and she’s fully aware that not everyone is going to take the news well. Especially Jenni. Particularly Jenni.

As dinner wraps up and everyone begins filtering out of the dining hall, you catch her eye and throw her a reassuring look. Alexia instantly feels a bloom of warmth spread through her chest.

But the cold snaps right back the moment Jenni slides in, dropping an arm over Alexia’s shoulders. “You look like you’re actively plotting a way to run away from the chat we’re supposed to be having.”

“I’m honestly considering it,” Alexia mutters. Jenni lets out a loud laugh, oblivious to the fact that Alexia wasn’t joking at all.

Alexia sits frozen on her desk chair, while Misa and Jenni claim the mattress. Positioned across from them like this, she feels exactly like a defendant about to be judged for a high-profile crime. Looking at the jury, she isn't at all confident she’s going to win the trial.

“Ale, you’re starting to seriously scare me here, you realize that right ?” Jenni says, her voice cutting through the tense silence. “Please just tell me you’re not about to announce you're retiring from the national team.”

A wave of genuine nausea hits Alexia so hard she thinks she might actually pass out right in front of them. Jenni is already vibrating with nervous energy, practically begging her to stop stalling and spit it out. In total contrast, Misa just sits back, perfectly composed, the patience of a goalkeeper.

“No retirement, no,” Alexia reassures quickly, trying to dispel at least one layer of tension in the room. “It’s not about football. Not really.”

They both sit back, waiting in agonizing silence for her to expand. Alexia swallows the lump in her throat. “You see y/n?”

“What did she do?” Jenni snaps instantly, her defensive instincts flaring as she practically readies herself to throw hands. Misa’s calm expression cracks, shifting into a worried frown. She has no desire to get caught in a crossfire between two of her friends.

There aren’t a hundred different ways to spin it, so Alexia just forces the truth out into the open. “We’re dating,” she announces.

The ensuing silence is agonizing, suffocating and heavy, exactly like the breathless beat after striking a penalty and waiting to see if the ball hits the back of the net.

“No, you’re not,” Jenni states flatly. At the same moment, Misa lets out a stunned, “What the fuck ?”

“Look, I know this is a lot to wrap your head around—” Alexia tries to explain.

Jenni cuts her off without a second thought. “Ale, did your favorite kids rope you into some kind of prank ? Is this Jana ? Vicky ? Clara ? All of them ?”

Alexia had prepared herself for a lot of different reactions, but Jenni genuinely refusing to believe her hadn’t even been on the list. “No, Jenni, no. It's not a joke. We are really dating.”

Jenni just shakes her head, her brain rejecting the answer. Misa, who had gone dead silent after her initial shock, finally decides to speak up, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Hold on. Why does this suddenly explain everything?”

Jenni whips her head around to glare at her teammate, looking utterly betrayed. “Don't tell me you’re in on this too ?!”

Misa doesn’t even react to Jenni's glare, still looking a bit too dazed to care. “Dios mío. Y/n has been seeing someone for quite some time now, and she barely told me a single thing about the girl, which was strange for her. And it all started right around the last Spanish camp, where you two were way closer than usual. Then there's Mapi mentioning she heard Ale doing... things during that exact camp.”

Misa starts to talk faster. “Y/n blatantly lied to Vicky about who she finds the hottest on the team. Y/n missed a few days of training with Real Madrid right after the Champions League final and claimed it was to comfort Aitana, which makes absolutely zero sense because Aitana completely shuts down and locks herself away after a loss. Then you, Ale, told us you couldn’t meet up with us in Madrid over the last few days because you had some urgent 'media shit' to deal with. And that massive fight between the two of you yesterday. It was completely destroying you because you’re actually dating. Joder.”

Alexia blinks, having rarely ever heard Misa deliver an entire monologue in a single breath. The goalkeeper looks like she’s about to short-circuit from the volume of realizations hitting her at once.

Jenni stares at Misa, completely dumbfounded. “You knew all of that and still had no idea ?”

“Oh, come on ! You didn’t even believe Alexia when she literally just told you to your face,” Misa shoots back defensively.

“Yeah, because I didn't have a front-row seat to the clues !” Jenni argues.

Misa rolls her eyes, throwing her hands up. “Look, the idea of these two dating is so incredibly far-fetched, it’s not my fault I didn't see it !”

Alexia just sits there, watching the two of them bicker back and forth while she nervously fiddles with her fingers, waiting for them to remember she’s in the room. Unfortunately, Jenni does exactly that just a few moments later, turning back toward the desk chair.

“Okay, no. I need the timeline. I need to know how this physically happened. Genuinely.”

“We spent a lot of time talking at the last camp, and... I don’t know,” Alexia says, her usual composure completely failing her as she shrugs. “We connected. We kept seeing each other on the down-low, and now it’s official. We’re together.”

“I feel like you just skipped about five crucial steps there, Ale,” Jenni accuses, narrowing her eyes. “So you slept together, right ? At the last Spanish camp.”

Alexia instantly feels a hot blush creeping up her neck and flooding her cheeks. She absolutely detests discussing her sex life or anything intimate with anyone other than the person she’s sleeping with. Why couldn't her friends just want to talk about football ? Alexia loves talking about football.

“We did,” she admits quietly, the confession practically dragged out of her.

“Is she really that good in bed?” Jenni asks, looking entirely unconvinced.

“Jen, please,” Alexia whines, burying her burning face in her hands.

Misa thankfully shows some mercy, shifting the interrogation away from the bedroom. “What do you like... about her?”

Alexia can’t help the soft smile that instantly takes over her face. “I just... I feel calmer when she’s here. She gets the game, she gets the massive expectations, but she has this healthy detachment from the noise that I really envy. She’s effortless to talk to, she’s funny without trying to steal the spotlight, and she doesn't demand anything from me.” Realizing she’s completely rambling, she cuts herself off, looking up at her teammates with a sudden wave of self-consciousness.

Misa’s expression has softened into a genuine smile, while Jenni is still sitting there, scowling stubbornly. “She’s been happier,” Misa states gently, looking over at Jenni. “Ever since the two of them have been seeing each other.”

Jenni still looks far from convinced, her expression hardening further. “Are you just going to completely forget how fucked up she acted a few years ago ? She never apologized for it, either. Aside from the fact that she’s been an absolute nightmare to be around since she joined the national team.”

“Jenni, stop,” Alexia tries to cut in, feeling the air in the room shift.

“She fucking got me dropped from the squad. 'Better coexistence' my ass,” Jenni snaps. Her voice starts to rise, and that’s the moment Alexia realizes things are going to get ugly very soon if she doesn't intervene. Because Jenni can get angry, and she can certainly get passionate. But Jenni never yells.

“Don’t pin the federation's bullshit on her,” Alexia counters, trying to hold the line for you.

Jenni pushes herself up from the bed, taking a few heavy steps until she’s looming over Alexia. “Fucking hell, Ale. She is the federation. She gets between your legs and suddenly you've got amnesia ? Great, she’s gorgeous and she handles herself well in bed. Good for you. You're Alexia Putellas, you can find thousands of girls who can do that.”

Alexia winces at the harsh words. I cannot find anyone who makes me feel like she does, resonates in her mind.

“Shut up.”

The words leave her lips before her filter can catch them. It’s a low, quiet hiss, but it cuts through the room with the force of a scream.

Jenni freezes mid-breath, and Alexia is pretty sure Misa has gone rigid on the bed. Alexia herself has no idea how she even found the nerve to say it. But the sudden pushback seems to instantly sober Jenni up. She realizes she needs to dial it back if she wants to get her point across, especially since Alexia has never reacted well to a raised voice.

“Ale, look at me,” Jenni says softly, crouching down right in front of Alexia's chair.

Those familiar, mismatched eyes that Alexia had spent years getting lost in now meet hers straight on. Jenni’s tone is much calmer now, though it borders dangerously on condescending. “Not everyone who shares a locker room with you is actually on your team. You should have learned that by now. She has never been on our team, Ale. Never. She does things because it helps her career, because it benefits her bank account or her follower count. I just don't want to watch her break you.”

“Jen, she won’t.” She says it with absolute certainty, because she trusts you completely. Far too much, if she were being entirely honest with herself. “She’s a good person, I promise you.”

“Ale, someone can treat you nicely because they want something from you and still be a toxic person at their core. She has proven to us a dozen times over that she isn’t a good person.” Jenni pauses, and Alexia watches as her expression hardens once more, a terrible sign. “Oh, and now I finally understand why she was acting so jealous last night. Why the hell did you tell her we hooked up last summer ?”

“You two what ?!” Misa cuts in, apparently just now finding her voice again.

Neither of them even glances at the bed. “She told you that she knew ?” Alexia asks, her mind scrambling in utter confusion.

“Yeah, right when she was having her little jealousy crisis yesterday,” Jenni mocks, her lip curling. “I suppose that’s the reason you’re even telling us right now. She obviously hates how close we are. She wants me to know that you're hers.” She lets out a harsh, bitter laugh, pushing herself up.

Alexia can feel the color draining from her face, knowing her expression is giving away far too much. “It’s not like that, Jen,” Alexia says faintly, her voice lacking its usual strength.

“You need to start using your brain when you pick your partners, Ale. I really thought you learned your lesson after the disaster with Olga.”

She lets the heavy words hang in the suffocating air of the room for a second before turning on her heel and walking out, slamming the door behind her.

The silence stretches heavily between Alexia and Misa, the two of them just looking at each other awkwardly as the echo of the slammed door fades.

Finally, Misa breaks the tension. “For what it’s worth... I think you two go well together. Now that I actually think about it, I can see why it works.”

The words do ease the painful lump forming in Alexia's throat a bit, but the weight in her chest remains. Jenni is still one of her closest friends, and the rift feels cavernous. Misa looks over at her, the worry evident in her eyes.

“Y/n asked me to tell you,” Alexia states quietly, rubbing a tired hand over her face. “She thought you deserved to know before most people.” She lets out a heavy breath. “Everyone is going to take it badly, aren't they ?”

“Who else knows right now ?” Misa questions back, Alexia has her answer.

“My mami, Alba, and my close childhood friends. On her side, I think her family and friends, including Aitana.”

“What are their opinions ?” Misa inquires. She has always been much better at asking the right questions than at answering them.

“Mami and Alba really liked her when they met her. They said she looks like she works great with me,” Alexia explains, a small sense of relief filtering into her voice. “Though, Alba was doubtful when I first told her. Miriam only saw her when she came to comfort me after Oslo, and she told me y/n looked like my safe place. I think it’s crazy... we haven’t even been seeing each other for that long.”

“Lesbians,” Misa deadpans.

Alexia can’t help but laugh along with her, the heavy tension in the room fracturing just a bit.

“Besides, you’ve also been running in the same circles for years,” Misa points out, softening. “You already know each other in a certain way.”

Alexia nods, looking down at her hands. “I really like her, you know,” she admits, her voice dropping to a small whisper, as if saying the words too loud could make them dangerous.

Misa pauses, carefully weighing her next words before speaking. “Then don’t worry too much about Jen, or what your Barça teammates are going to think about it. Everyone who has seen you two together thinks she’s good for you. I do think she can act a bit too unfriendly sometimes, and I get why people will take it badly at first. But they love you enough that they will eventually see it if she’s good for you. Even Jen.”

Alexia leaves some silence to take on the words. “You’re a wonderful friend, I don’t know if you realize that.” She says earnestly.

Misa gives a faint, slightly awkward smile at the compliment, stepping away from the mattress. “You should try telling me sweet shit like that more often.”

Alexia rolls her eyes, letting out a soft laugh as Misa paces the room, seemingly lost in deep thought. “I still can’t believe I didn’t piece it together at all,” the goalkeeper mutters, shaking her head. “It seems so blindingly obvious now.”

Alexia shrugs, trying to play it cool. “We just hide it well.”

“Oh, yeah, so well that Mapi literally heard you.” Alexia can feel herself flushing crimson, which only seems to spur Misa on. A wicked grin spreads across the keeper's face. “So, how is the sex ? It must be pretty great if the you could be heard through the walls.”

The bluntness mortifies Alexia, which was exactly Misa’s goal. She bursts out laughing, pointing a finger at her. “Oh my god, you should see your face right now !”

“Fuck off.”

“Stop acting like a prude. I know y/n is way more open than you about this stuff anyway, so I’ll just go ask her.” Alexia immediately makes a mental note to tell you to keep your mouth shut if asked. Misa softens then, heading for the door. “I’ll leave you to take a breath. Do you want me to go get her for you ?”

Alexia just nods instead of answering, thanking Misa again for everything she’s done tonight. She knows it took a lot of effort for the goalkeeper, who usually avoids giving emotional support like the plague. Still, she’s a good enough friend to step up when Alexia truly needs it.

You come to her room around twenty minutes later. The second the door clicks shut behind you, Alexia throws her arms around you, pulling you close and burying her face deep into the crook of your neck.

As you guide her to the bed, Alexia is instantly reminded of Miriam calling you her safe place. Tucked securely in your arms, her body resting on top of yours to soak in your warmth, she recounts everything that just went down with Jenni and Misa.

The exhaustion of the emotional rollercoaster finally catches up to her, and she falls asleep in your embrace, wrapped in your touch with your chin resting gently on top of her head.

-----------

The next morning brings zero relief. You’re starting to worry that Jenni might physically hurt you, judging by the violent, aggressive way she’s cutting her fruit while staring you straight in the eye across the breakfast lounge. Irene, Alexia, and Misa are tracking the silent standoff like a live grenade, exchanging stressed glances between the two of you over their coffee cups.

The universe decides to throw you another curveball later that morning. As you head down to catch the team bus for the training session, the elevator doors slide open, revealing Jenni standing there alone.

Apparently, life hates you.

The silence in the elevator stretches until you see her mouth open. Absolutely not wanting to hear whatever lecture she has prepared, you beat her to the punch. “Do you still think nobody likes me on the team ?”

Jenni slowly looks you up and down. You have to admire her for managing to look completely unfazed, you highly doubt her mind is as calm as her expression implies. “Ale and you won’t last,” she states, her voice devoid of any hesitation.

You force a chuckle, refusing to let her see how easily she can poke at your insecurities. “And why is that?”

She doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “Because Ale is fun. Ale needs someone who can loosen her up. You’re just a stuck-up bitch who can’t hold her own ground.”

Your blood boils, and you dig your nails into your palms, forcing yourself to focus on the sharp physical pain instead of losing your temper. Jenni winks, deliberately trying to rile you up, before letting her gaze sweep over you one more time. “Always acting like the federation's perfect little good girl.”

The elevator suddenly dings, signaling you’ve finally reached the bottom floor. Instead of stepping back, you close the distance between you, stepping into her space to ensure you won't be overheard. And, honestly, for the sheer dramatic effect.

“We both know Ale is the only good girl between the three of us,” you whisper, your voice dangerously smooth. “I’ll let you guess exactly why and how she lost her voice right before camp started.”

You throw a sharp wink back at her as you turn and exit the elevator. Your attitude is a hell of a lot cheekier than what you’re feeling, your hands are shaking so badly you have to shove them deep into your pockets to hide the tremor. The retort puts some very vivid images into your own head, but it was worth it just for the absolute shock plastered across her face.

On the short drive to the training ground, you slide into the empty seat next to Vicky, who looks ecstatic to have your undivided attention. You desperately need a distraction, so when she pulls out her phone, you agree to do a ranking TikTok with her, letting the kid's energy pull you out of your own head.

Against all odds, training is a success. Mostly because you and Jenni are locked in a unspoken competition to prove who is the more mature adult, which manifests as you two being sickeningly polite to one another.

You want to prove to yourself (and to Alexia) that Jenni is the sole problem here, not you. You want to show everyone that she’s the one being complicated. Unfortunately, she’s running the exact same playbook on you.

The rest of the squad seems to be a collective mix of confused and deeply worried as you and Jenni constantly go out of your way to help each other. You’re extending a hand to pull her up the second she hits the grass, and she’s shouting loud encouragement your way whenever you make a bad play.

Alexia, Aitana, and Misa seem deeply amused by the whole performance. They’re huddled together laughing as Jenni and you double-team newcomer Andrea Medina, over-explaining how to better succeed at a specific drill. The poor kid is stiff as a board the entire time, as if she can physically feel the hatred radiating just beneath the surface of your polite smiles.

After the session, Irene congratulates both of you for getting past your differences. You’re not entirely sure she believes her own words, though, it feels more like an acknowledgment of the performative effort she thinks you’re putting in for the sake of the team, and not as the dick-measuring competition it actually is.

Even Sonia praises your behavior, noting that you're setting a stellar example for the younger players. You hadn't even realized your mutual hostility had been obvious enough to ruin training the previous day, but seeing the coaching staff breathe a sigh of relief makes you realize just how close to the edge you both were.

Lunch brings phase two of the standoff. You’re shoved right next to Jenni, which was almost certainly a coordinated setup by the rest of the squad.  Misa, Laia, and Mariona are sitting across from you, shamelessly enjoying the absolute spectacle of the two of you trading compliments in the most deadpan tones humanly possible.

“Your finishing during the seven-v-seven scrimmage ? Truly brilliant.”

 “I could say the same about how you shut down Claudia’s run.”

“I’m incredibly touched, Jen. Genuinely thrilled to have you back in the squad.”

 “You know, you’re just such a phenomenal captain. A real leader’s mentality.”

Meanwhile, Alexia is trapped at a table on the other side of the room, whipping her head around to check on you both every three seconds. She’s currently hostage at the kids’ table, with Andrea, Vicky, and Clara chatting her ear off, Patri the only adult with her, leaving Alexia helplessly watching the show from afar.

You focus on the story Mariona and Laia are telling about the Arsenal parade,  but your attention is taken by a massive commotion across the room.

Alexia is literally choking on air, coughing into her napkin, while Vicky, Clara, and Patri are laughing so hard they're practically falling off their chairs. Poor Andrea looks like a tomato.

“It was just a question, guys !” she defends herself loudly, her voice squeaking enough to draw the eyes of every single person in the cafeteria. Alexia finally manages to catch her breath, only to immediately dissolve into a helpless fit of laughter all over again.

Realizing they’ve become the center of universe, Clara tries to play cool, her own cheeks turning pink. “It’s fine, it’s nothing,” she mutters down at her plate, trying to coax the room back to their food. It’s a losing battle, considering Alexia, Vicky, and Patri are still actively weeping with laughter.

The mystery hangs in the air until the tail end of lunch, when the cafeteria has mostly cleared out.

Alexia strolls over to your table and slides into the empty chair next to Mariona. She leans forward, looking between Jenni and you with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Behind her, the players from her previous table watch intensely.

Alexia doesn’t often wear a look of mischief, but she has one painted all over her face right now, and it’s starting to worry you. It’s Jenni who finally lances the boil, breaking the silence as she eyes her friend warily. “Ale, I really don’t like that look in your eyes.”

Alexia just shrugs, still clearly deeply amused by whatever is bouncing around in her head. “You won’t believe what Andrea just asked us.”

You and Jenni stay completely silent, bracing yourselves and waiting for the continuation.

“She asked us if you two,” Alexia starts, a wicked grin spreading as she points her fingers back and forth between Jenni and you, “were secretly in a relationship.”

You’re completely speechless. The mental image alone is so violently incorrect that you instantly burst out laughing. Jenni breaks a second later, letting out a loud, genuine laugh of her own. Despite having already heard the punchline, Alexia dissolves right back into a laughing fit with you, entirely delighted by the chaos she just dropped on the table.

It’s wild how quickly the atmosphere shifts. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the suffocating tension vanishes, and you’re struck by how incredibly relaxing it feels to just share a stupid laugh with the team without looking over your shoulder or staying on defense.

Everything isn’t miraculously solved.

You still haven’t fully stomached everything Alexia confessed to you last night, because it was just so much to process. You want to be the steady shoulder she can lean on, but you’re beginning to realize you can’t carry the entire weight of her world on your own. Alexia clearly needs real therapy to unpack it all, but you know that’s a conversation for a later date, one where you’re not in a national team camp with so many teammates.

There is also a lingering worry in the back of your mind, the uncomfortable reality that Alexia had to be backed completely against a wall before she finally chose to be honest with you. You can excuse a lot of the things she kept to herself. After all, the relationship is still fresh. But the fact that she went as far as filming a fucking goodbye video and never breathed a single word about the entire ordeal ? That stings.

You recognize now that this relationship is going to take a lot of serious work from both of you. You’re coming to terms with the reality that you'll have to be the primary driver of communication for a while, dragging her out of her shell even when you shouldn't have to. But as you look at her, you know you’re willing to try, and you’re ready to put in the effort.

Because you know you want to be with Alexia, and for now, that’s enough.

-----------

A/n : Not me thinking that Jenni and r would make great enemies to lovers while writing this.

So tired that I don't even know how I feel about this chapter, especially the Alexia monologue.

The bird feeder had turned out perfectly, of course it had, and you’d been ridiculously pleased to see the birds making full use of it. Alexia, on the other hand, had been considerably less enthusiastic about the increase in bird droppings on the balcony. You considered it a small price to pay.

Another faint ping sounds from your bedside table. Then another.

You blink, your bird-related thoughts drifting back to the present. Maybe that first one had been what woke you after all.

You don’t normally wake up to that many messages unless they’re from Alexia, which you’re fairly certain they aren’t, considering she’s still curled against your back, one arm draped lazily over your waist. It could be Maggie, though she only texts this early if she genuinely has something to bother you with. If it were an emergency, she’d call.

Maybe it’s Maria. She occasionally wakes up with something she absolutely has to share. Usually a meme, or outrage over another environmental scandal caused by some big corporation.

Careful not to disturb Alexia, you shuffle a little closer to the bedside table and reach for your phone. Squinting at the bright screen, you see Maria’s name. A smile tugs at your lips as you unlock it, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s found this time.

Maria: Are you awake?

Maria: Are you with Alexia?

Maria: Have either of you looked at your phones yet?

You blink at the screen, your sleepy smile fading into a frown as your brain slowly catches up. You check the time. Nearly seven o’clock. Pretty early, even by Maria’s standards. Strange. Must be another scandal.

Still… why mention Alexia?

You: Good morning to you too 😘

You: What’s up?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Maria: Are you okay?

The frown deepens.

You: I’m fine. Are you?

Maria: Have you seen anything online?

You stare at the message. What on earth is this about?

You: No, I’ve literally just woken up.

You: What’s going on?

Maria: Okay. You may need to sit down for this.

A quiet huff of laughter escapes you. What the fuck?

You: I’m lying down if that counts.

Maria: Good.

Maria: I need to tell you something.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Maybe this is more serious than you first thought.

You: What is it??

Maria: Okay. I don’t want to scare you.

Maria: But I figured it would be better hearing it from a friend.

A knot forms low in your stomach as you carefully push yourself upright, leaning back against the headboard. Alexia stirs beside you, her arm slipping from around your waist to rest lazily across your thighs, but she doesn’t wake.

Hear what from a friend?

Her messages never start like this.

You: You’re kind of already scaring me.

You: What’s going on???

Maria takes a little longer to reply this time. Just long enough for your imagination to start filling in the blanks.

Maria: There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.

Maria: The internet’s figured it out.

You blink.

You: Figured what out???

Maria: About you and Alexia.

You stare at the screen.

What?

Your stomach twists.

You: Please elaborate Maria, figured what out???

Maria: You and Alexia! They know about you.

You frown. Well… of course people know about you and Alexia. You’ve never exactly hidden your relationship. Fans have seen you together before, out for dinner, walking through Barcelona. Every now and then someone asks Alexia for a photo while you hover nearby.

That’s hardly new. And it’s never been a problem. You just smile politely, and those who notice you smile back.

So… what exactly is Maria talking about?

Unless…

You scroll up a little to see the previous messages.

The internet’s figured it out.

Not people. The internet.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Wait—

Because the internet is a lot bigger than just people. A whole lot bigger.

You: What do you mean the internet???

Maria: There’s pictures of you and Alexia at the final.

Your eyes widen at the screen, your hold tightening about your phone.

Maria: And you know what people are like, they start connecting the dots.

Maria: They’re everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. People are talking.

Your stomach drops.

You don’t have social media, so you have no idea what she’s looking at.

You: Show me.

There’s a pause. Then your phone buzzes.

Maria: *photo*

Maria: This is one of them.

You open the screenshot. It’s a photo of you and Alexia embracing after the game. Your face buried against her shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around you. A perfectly ordinary moment.

Until your eyes drift to the comments beneath it.

‘OMG SHE HAS A GIRLFRIEND!’

‘There’s no way they’re just friends’

‘Have you seen the way she looks at her?’

‘Who is she???’

‘I’ve been saying this for months!’

You stare at the screen. The screenshot only captures a handful of comments, but the number at the top tells you there’s thousands more. Thousands.

On one post.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You should put the phone down. You know that. Alexia would tell you that. Maggie would tell you that. But a small, anxious part of you needs to know. Needs to see how far this has gone. And before you can stop yourself, the panic wins and your intrusive thoughts take over.

You: Show me more.

Maria: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

You: Why? I need to see them.

Maria: It’s just more photos. More people guessing. More people talking.

Maria: I just wanted you to know before someone else told you.

You huff breath.

Of course, you could just lock your phone, roll back over, tuck yourself against Alexia and pretend none of this exists.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Why would it matter?

And yet… the tightness creeping into your chest tells a different story. Your mind is already racing, filling in the gaps with possibilities far worse than the truth. You don’t know why, but you need to know.

You: Please.

You: Show me.

Maria: I really don’t think you should read all of it.

You: Why?

Maria: Because you’re going to keep scrolling looking for the comment that makes you feel better. And instead you’ll find twenty that make you feel worse.

A lump settles in your throat. She’s probably right.

Maria: Trust me. I just wanted you to know.

Maria: It doesn’t matter what they’re saying.

Of course it doesn’t. They’re strangers. People you’ll never meet, whose opinions should have no bearing on your life whatsoever. So why does your chest still feel impossibly tight?

Why does not knowing somehow feel even worse?

Why do you have this sudden impulsive need to see all of it?

You don’t notice Alexia stir beside you. Her fingers flex lazily against your thighs, instinctively reaching for you.

“Bon dia,” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

You don’t answer, your eyes still fixed on the screen, having already made the decision.

You: Send me more.

Maria: Y/n, there are hundreds. I can’t screenshot all of Twitter.

“Amor?”

You frown. Well… how are you supposed to see them? For a split second, you’re tempted to create an account yourself. To go against all of your personal morals just to see what the internet is gossiping about.

Well… apparently you.

“Y/n?”

You’re finally pulled from your thoughts. Alexia is watching you now, propped up on one elbow, a sleepy frown beginning to crease her forehead.

“What’s wrong, amor?”

You hold her gaze for a moment, your thoughts racing. You know you should explain. You know you should tell her what’s happened. But all you can think about is seeing what everyone else is seeing.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

You surprise even yourself with that.

Her frown deepens. “What is it?”

Your eyes drop back to your own phone. At the screenshot.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

You could put your phone down, roll back into Alexia’s arms and pretend none of this exists. The posts would still be there in an hour. This afternoon. Tomorrow.

You could choose not to look.

Your chest tightens as you look back at her.

“Please?” The word comes out quieter than you intended, but the desperation behind it is impossible to hide.

Alexia studies you for a beat before reaching across to her bedside table. She doesn’t press you for answers. She simply unlocks her phone and places it gently into your hand.

You stare down at it. Your thumb hovers over the screen. You don’t want to do this. You know you shouldn’t.

“Amor…” Alexia says softly, sitting up beside you and leaning back against the headboard. “Talk to me.”

You look at her. Really look at her. The concern in her sleepy eyes makes something tighten painfully in your chest. You want to tell her. You want her to wrap her arms around you and tell you everything’s okay.

Instead, the need to know wins.

Your gaze drops back to the phone in your hands as you open Twitter. Nothing immediately jumps out on the home page. For one fleeting second, you wonder if you’ve misunderstood. Then you type Alexia’s name into the search bar.

Your stomach drops.

Hundreds upon hundreds of posts. Photos. Videos. Memes. Thread after thread after thread.

All about Alexia’s ‘girlfriend.’

Your thumb stops on one post. It’s a photo of the two of you after the final.

You’re standing close together, your fingers brushing against the medal hanging around her neck.

You scroll to the next photo.

The two of you smiling at something outside the frame.

You keep scrolling.

Another.

Your hand resting lightly on Alexia’s shoulder as she laughs.

Another.

The two of you talking with Eli and Alba.

Another.

Alexia looking at you.

Another.

You looking back.

Eventually, your thumb stills.

You open the comments.

‘Maybe they’re just friends?’

‘Friends don’t look at each other like that.’

‘They’re definitely together.’

‘The way Alexia looks at her…’

‘Does anyone know who she is?’

‘She could do better.’

Your eyes catch on that last comment.

And for some reason, that one hurts more than the others. You stare at the words, your chest tightening slightly. Out of all the comments, that’s the one that sticks. Not because you believe it. Not completely.

But because, somewhere deep down, it finds the exact doubt you’ve tried not to listen to. The little voice that has been there since the beginning. The one that wonders how someone like Alexia could choose someone like you.

You hate that a stranger’s words can make you question something you know is real. Something Alexia has shown you every single day. But there’s a small, horrible part of you that wonders if maybe they see something you don’t. If maybe they’re looking at you and wondering the same thing you wondered at the start.

What are you doing here? How do you fit into her world?

Your throat tightens.

It’s the kind of comment you knew you’d find. You’d known before you’d even opened Twitter.

Because that’s the thing about insecurities. Sometimes all they need is someone else to say them out loud.

There are probably hundreds more. And yet you’d looked anyway.

“Y/n?”

Alexia’s hand settles gently against your thigh.

“Amor… what’s going on?”

You keep staring at the screen. Your mind feels strangely blank. As though it’s still trying to catch up with what your eyes have already seen. Words lodge somewhere in your throat, refusing to come.

Instead, you simply hand her the phone. She looks at you first, eyes searching your face for any kind of clue. She doesn’t find any. Then she takes it. Her eyes scan the screen for a moment before her thumb begins to move.

One thread. Then another. Then another.

The silence stretches between you.

You search her face for something. Shock. Annoyance. Anger. Anything.

Instead, her expression barely changes.

After a long moment, she lets out a quiet breath. “Oh.”

You lower your gaze to your lap. “Yeah.”

Silence settles between you.

You lift your hands to rub at your tired eyes, as if you can somehow erase the comments, the speculation, the thousands of strangers suddenly having an opinion on your life.

Alexia’s hand comes back to rest gently on your thigh. “Amor?”

The worry in her voice makes your chest tighten.

When you lower your hands, she immediately threads her fingers through yours, her thumb brushing absent-mindedly across your knuckles. She’s still searching your face. Trying to work out what you’re thinking. How you’re feeling.

You manage something that vaguely resembles a smile. “Guess we should’ve expected it.”

She doesn’t smile back. “I’m sorry, amor—”

You shake your head quickly, cutting her off before she can finish.

You know what she’s going to say. That it will be okay. That you don’t need to worry. That she’ll protect you.

And you believe her. You do.

But right now, you don’t want to fall apart.

“You know what? I’m fine.”

The words come out a little too quickly. You nod, more to yourself than to her.

“I’m not going to freak out about it.”

Your own voice sounds unconvinced.

“It’s not like they actually know anything about us. They’re just… guessing, right?”

“Amor—”

“And the pictures hardly show anything, so it’s not like they know—”

“Amor—”

“It’s just gossip. People love to talk.”

“Bebé.”

Her voice cuts gently through the spiral. Soft. Steady. Enough to make you stop.

You look back at her, suddenly aware you’ve barely taken a breath. Your chest feels tight. Your stomach churns.

“Okay…” You let out, a little shakily. “Maybe I’m freaking out a little.”

“That’s okay, bebé. I know this is a lot—”

“A lot?” You shake your head, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Alexia… there are pictures of me all over the internet.”

She shifts so she’s facing you properly now, taking both of your hands in hers.

“I’m sorry, amor,” she says, her thumbs brushing slow circles across your knuckles.

“For what?” you murmur with a shrug. “I mean… it was probably bound to happen eventually.”

You glance down at your joined hands.

“We knew it might. We’ve talked about it before. If anything…” You let out a small breath. “We should probably be grateful we’ve managed this long.”

She sighs quietly.

“That doesn’t make it any easier to find out like this.”

You give a small shrug. “I suppose I’d rather find out here with you than somewhere else.”

You offer her a smile. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Neither does hers.

“How do you feel?” you ask softly.

Alexia looks down for a moment before answering.

“I think…” She exhales. “I’m annoyed.”

You wait as she searches for her words.

“I’m annoyed there are people out there talking about us. Talking about you.”

She squeezes your hands gently.

“But I can’t pretend I’m surprised.”

You nod slightly.

“They’ve always done this,” she continues. “If I smile at someone, stand a little too close, hug a teammate for too long…” She shakes her head with a tired smile. “Apparently I’m dating half the world.”

A small laugh escapes you.

“Well…” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting. “I certainly hope not.”

That earns you a proper smile.

You reach for her phone again, opening one of the photos.

“Honestly,” you mutter, “I’m mostly offended they couldn’t find a flattering picture of me.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, look at this one,” you say, pointing at the screen, “my hair’s all over the place.”

She laughs softly.

“And do you know how hard it was not to kiss you after the game?” You glance up at her. “I was trying to be sensible. If I’d have known people were taking photos anyway…” You shrug. “I’d have just kissed you like I wanted.”

Her laughter comes a little easier this time. It fades into another comfortable silence. One that still feels a little fragile.

She gives your hand another gentle squeeze. “I know you were worried about something like this happening…”

You hesitate before lowering your gaze. It was true. The thought had lingered quietly at the back of your mind for far longer than you’d ever admitted aloud. The inevitable reality that, one day, people would figure it out.

You hand her phone back, your fingers brushing hers as she takes it.

“It’s okay,” you say, more confidently than you feel. “I mean… it’s just photos, right? It’s not like they’re doing any harm.”

“Sí.” She nods, idly scrolling through the posts again. “They don’t really show anything. They’re just…”

Her thumb stills.

The change is almost imperceptible.

Almost.

“Oh.”

You look up.

“What?”

She tears her eyes away from the screen and shakes her head far too quickly.

“Nothing.”

Your stomach drops.

“Alexia.”

“It’s nothing, amor.”

You know that tone. The one she uses when she’s trying to protect you.

She meets your eyes. The concern on her face tells you everything before she says another word.

Your hand reaches out without you even thinking about it.

“Alexia…”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then, with a quiet sigh, she places the phone into your waiting hand.

You scroll back to where she’d stopped. Your eyes catch on the headline.

WHO IS THE WOMAN CELEBRATING WITH ALEXIA PUTELLAS?

If your stomach could sink any further, it would.

As it turns out, though, even stomachs have their limits.

You stare at the screen. A headline. From a gossip website.

Someone has actually taken the time to sit down, write, and publish an article all about Alexia’s ‘mystery woman’.

You tap it open.

Fans have been left convinced the Barcelona captain has a girlfriend after emotional scenes following Saturday’s Champions League final…

Your grip tightens around the phone.

“There’s…” you murmur, the words catching somewhere in your throat. “There’s actually an article. They’ve actually written a whole piece… just because we hugged.”

You scroll further. Photo after photo. Different angles. Different shots.

All from one afternoon. One match. One celebration. One moment where you’d forgotten the cameras existed. One moment that had never felt public until now.

You swallow.

All of this… because you’d wanted to hug your girlfriend after she’d become a European champion.

Alexia reaches for the phone, but you instinctively pull it back, your eyes still scanning the page.

“I can’t believe this,” you whisper. “Why would anyone write this? What is there even to write about? It’s just… pictures.”

You keep reading. Then your eyes catch on another line.

“Sources say the woman is an environmental activist.”

You stop.

“Sources?” Your brows knit together. “What sources?”

You read the sentence again, hoping you’ve misunderstood.

“How do they know that?”

Your heart begins to race.

“If they know that…” Your voice trails off before finding itself again. “What else do they know?”

Alexia gently takes the phone from your hands this time, her expression calm despite the worry in her eyes.

“Amor,” she says softly. “Trust me. These sites turn nothing into something. Half the time they’re guessing.”

“But what if they’re not? I mean, they got my job right.”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

“What if they know my name?” you continue, your thoughts beginning to tumble over one another. “And if they know my name, they can find out where I work. Where I’m from. They could—”

“Amor.” Her voice is gentle, but firm enough to cut through the spiral. She takes both of your hands in hers. “I know,” she murmurs.

You shake your head.

“But… it’s not right.” Your throat tightens. “That moment wasn’t for them.”

You look down at your joined hands.

“It was ours,” you whisper.

Alexia’s face softens.

“I’m sorry, amor.”

You know she’s apologising for something that isn’t really her fault. That doesn’t stop her sounding like she wishes it was.

The silence stretches between you. Eventually, you let out a slow breath.

“It’s okay.”

Alexia studies you carefully, not entirely convinced.

You offer her a small smile. “It is.”

The words feel a little heavier than they should.

You squeeze her hands before letting go.

“I just…” You shake your head. “It’s just weird.”

You force out a quiet laugh.

“I’ll get used to it.”

Whether you’re trying to reassure Alexia or yourself, you’re not entirely sure.

You lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek before climbing out of bed.

“Come on. I’ll make us some breakfast.”

Alexia watches you for a moment longer. “You don’t have to, amor.”

“I know.” You manage another small smile. “But I want to. You have training soon anyway.”

“I don’t have to go in,” she says gently. “I can stay here with you.”

You shake your head.

“Don’t be silly,” you say with a soft smile. “Don’t let this ruin the day. I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes search yours. Like she’s trying to decide whether she believes you. Or whether you believe yourself.

After a long moment, she nods.

“Okay.”

You climb out of bed and pad quietly towards the door. In the doorway, you pause and glance back.

“It’s fine, Alexia.” You offer her another small smile. “Really.”

She smiles back. Just as softly.

Then you disappear down the hallway.

Alexia’s smile slowly fades. She keeps looking at the doorway long after you’ve gone. Finally, once she’s certain you’re out of earshot, she lets out a quiet sigh.

Her eyes fall to the phone lying beside her. Such a small thing.

Yet somehow, it had managed to remind you both that the little world you’d built together wasn’t quite as private as it had felt.

————Alexia———

The feeling has sat heavily in her stomach all day, a familiar knot of worry tangled with guilt, frustration and something she can’t quite put a name to. She thinks it would almost be easier to tell herself she doesn’t know why she can’t settle, but the truth is she knows exactly what it is.

She saw her face. When she looked at the photos. When she read the article. When she handed the phone back and insisted everything was fine.

It wasn’t fine.

Alexia is more certain of that than she’s been of anything else all day. Y/n wasn’t lying to her. She was trying to convince herself just as much as Alexia was trying to convince her, and that somehow hurts even more.

Alexia should have seen it coming.

Not the article itself, that part never surprises her anymore, but the effect it would have on Y/n. She should have realised that one day the outside world would find its way into their relationship, and she should have been ready to help Y/n through it instead of letting her discover it like this.

She’s glad it was Maria who told her. Maria had done exactly the right thing, and Alexia couldn’t fault her for that. Even so, she can’t shake the feeling that it should have been her. She should have been the one to prepare her. She should have done more to explain what this part of her life really looked like before Y/n had to experience it for herself.

For a brief moment, Alexia wonders if she should have stayed home. If she should have ignored training and sat beside Y/n until she knew she was okay. Until the fear had passed.

The thought disappears almost as quickly as it comes.

Because that isn’t what Y/n needs.

Y/n doesn’t need someone to hold her hand every time something becomes difficult. She doesn’t need Alexia to step in and shield her from everything that comes with this life. She’s never needed that.

That’s one of the things Alexia loves most about her. Y/n is strong. She is independent. She has built a life completely separate from Alexia’s, and Alexia would never want to take that away from her.

But she does want Y/n to know that when things become too heavy, she doesn’t have to carry them alone.

Her mind drifts back to one of the first conversations they’d had about it. They’d been sitting together on Alexia’s sofa after their first date at her apartment, and Y/n had admitted, almost shyly, that she wasn’t sure she’d ever fit into her world. She’d told Alexia she was used to small. She wasn’t used to cameras, headlines or the constant feeling that strangers thought they had a right to know things about their life.

Alexia remembers asking if it scared her.

Y/n smiled then, nervous but honest.

She’d told her it did.

But she also said she was willing to accept it because Alexia cared about her.

Even then, when they barely knew each other, Y/n had been willing to step into a world that frightened her simply because Alexia was in it.

Maybe that’s why the guilt sits so heavily now.

They’ve talked about it plenty of times since then. Every so often Y/n would ask a question, and Alexia would answer it as honestly as she could, and every time Alexia reassured her that it would be okay. That the two of them would deal with whatever came together.

But talking about it and living it are two very different things. Alexia has always known that.

Maybe she should have pushed the conversations further. Maybe she should have explained more instead of quietly hoping that, somehow, this part of her life would stay at arm’s length for a little while longer. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep Y/n in the dark, she just wanted her to have a little longer living inside the bubble the two of them had built before reality inevitably caught up with it.

Because she’d be lying if she said this hadn’t worried her from the very beginning.

A small part of her had always been afraid that one day Y/n would see this side of her life for what it really was, and that once she did, she’d realise loving her came with a price she never should have had to pay.

She’d already tried texting, sticking to their usual routine. If anything was wrong, maybe it would be easier to tell through a screen.

Alexia: Miss you, bebé ❤️

Alexia: How’s your day going?

A reply comes a couple of minutes later.

Y/n: It’s okay. Saw a really pretty blue tit on the bird feeder. Think they like the new seeds I bought.

Y/n: How’s training?

Y/n: Miss you too.

Alexia reads back over the messages.

To anyone else, they’d look completely normal. Just two girlfriends checking in with each other during the day.

But she knows Y/n.

Maybe she’s overthinking it. Maybe the morning has simply left her reading into things that aren’t there.

Still, she keeps the conversation going, hoping for something that sounds a little more like Y/n.

Alexia: It’s good.

Alexia: Patri and Mapi are currently arguing over who can do the most one-handed push-ups.

Alexia: They refuse to admit I’d beat them both.

Normally, Alexia wouldn’t have time to lock her phone before another message appeared. Y/n would have replied with another joke, teased her for getting involved, or insisted Mapi would somehow cheat.

Instead…

Y/n: 😂

Alexia stares at the emoji for a moment.

It’s a perfectly normal response. A perfectly adequate response.

She exhales softly, telling herself not to overanalyse a single emoji.

Before she has the chance to spiral any further, another message appears.

Y/n: What do you want for dinner?

Alexia’s brows knit together. That was unusual.

If Y/n was already at Alexia’s apartment, she would usually wait until Alexia got home so they could cook together. It had quietly become one of Alexia’s favourite parts of the day.

She certainly wouldn’t be asking Alexia what she wants for dinner at two thirty in the afternoon.

Maybe she was reading too much into it. Or maybe…

Maybe Y/n was doing what she always did whenever something was weighing on her.

Keeping busy.

Finding little jobs to fill the silence, hoping that if she stayed occupied for long enough, her thoughts might eventually settle on their own.

Part of Alexia wants to tell her not to worry. That they can cook together when she gets home. That dinner can wait. But another part of her knows this isn’t really about dinner.

It’s about giving her mind something to do. Something ordinary to focus on instead of everything else.

So instead, she plays along.

Alexia: How about pasta with that new sauce you wanted to try?

A reply comes almost instantly.

Y/n: 👍

Alexia stares at the message for a moment. She knows she shouldn’t push it.

She wants to ask if she’s really okay. She wants to tell her she doesn’t have to pretend everything’s fine.

But she knows she shouldn’t.

If Y/n needed time to process, she’d give it to her.

With a quiet sigh, she slips her phone back into her bag. Training starts again in a few minutes. Maybe throwing herself into the gym will be enough to quiet her own thoughts.

Somehow, she doubts it.

———— You ———

You stare into the fridge for what is probably the twelve time in the last two hours. What you’re hoping to find, you’re not entirely sure. You’d already made a sandwich, had some snacks, drunk two cups of tea.

You close the fridge with a quiet sigh. You’re not even hungry. Just… restless.

There’s plenty of things you could be doing. There’s a book waiting on the coffee table, some laundry that probably needs folding. The plants on the balcony could do with watering again, even if you’d only done them this morning.

Except, every time you try to do something, your mind drifts straight back to this morning. The photos. The comments. The article. The fact that people are wondering who you are.

You lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded tightly across your chest.

Are they wondering right now?

As you stand here, in the kitchen, are strangers somewhere in the world talking about your life like it’s the most interesting thing they’ve seen today?

You don’t know. You can’t know. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t create an account just to look.

That would be dangerous.

Like stepping into a hole you’d never find your way back out of.

You rub a hand across your forehead, as if that alone might somehow shake the thoughts loose.

Your eyes drift towards your phone on the kitchen counter. Maybe you just need someone to tell you you’re being ridiculous. Someone who knows you well enough to talk you down when your own mind refuses to listen.

You grab your phone and head for the sofa, opening a video call.

It rings six times.

Apparently you’re not important enough to answer immediately.

Finally, Maggie’s face appears on the screen.

“Alright?” she asks, far too casually.

“Hi.”

She studies you for half a second before frowning.

“What?”

You blink.

“What?”

She rolls her eyes.

“I’m guessing you didn’t call just to admire my face.”

You can’t help the smallest smile.

“Can’t I just call because I wanted to talk to you?”

“Not when you look like that?”

“Like what?” you ask.

“Like something is bothering you enough that you’ve decided I’m going to hear all about it.”

You frown.

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Is it? Maggie raises a brow. “Last week you called because you couldn’t decide what dress to wear to a meeting, and apparently Alexia’s opinion wasn’t enough.”

You sigh.

“Yeah, well… this is different.”

The amusement slips from Maggie’s face, replaced by something more familiar, concern and gentleness.

“Okay. Give me a second.”

She gets up from the sofa, disappearing into the kitchen. The door clicks shut behind her before she sits down at the table, away from the noise of the house.

When she looks back at the screen, her expression has softened.

“Y/n.” Her voice is softer now. “What’s wrong?”

You try to find the right words. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure there are any. So instead, you do the only thing you can think of. You tell her everything.

“Maria text me this morning, saying the internet knows about me and Alexia. The internet, Maggie. There’s pictures of us at the champions league final, and they don’t even show anything! We’re literally just hugging, but apparently that’s enough for everyone to decide we’re together. There are comments everywhere, and articles, and now people are trying to work out who Alexia’s mystery woman is. They already know I work in environmental activism, so it’s only a matter of time before they find out my name, and then they’ll know where I work, and then they’ll probably—”

“Y/n.” Maggie’s voice cuts clearly through your spiral.

You stop mid-sentence, suddenly aware you’d barely taken a breath.

She waits until you meet her eyes again.

“Take a breath,” she says gently. “Then tell me again. This time a little slower.”

You exhale deeply, composing yourself.

“The internet knows. About me. There’s pictures everywhere. People are talking. And I don’t— I don’t know what to do.”

You bring your hand to your forehead again, rubbing your eyes.

Maggie’s gaze lifts from the camera, thoughtfully looking out into the garden.

“Well… the first thing to do is not look at anything else. No matter how tempting it is. You won’t find anything you like.”

You nod, knowing she’s right. It does very little to settle your thoughts, though.

“Okay…” Maggie says after a moment. “So what do they actually know?”

“They know I work in environmental activism.”

She nods.

“Right. Do they know your name?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Where you live?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

You shrug.

“I don’t know.”

Silence settles between you for a second. Even now, after answering her questions, you realise you may have jumped ahead a little.

“Maybe they don’t know everything yet,” you admit quietly. “But they will. They’ll find a way. They already know what I do. It only takes one person recognising me, or saying my name.”

“Maybe,” Maggie says. “Or maybe not.”

You sigh.

“Maggie…”

“No, just hear me out.” She leans a little closer to the screen. “I’m not saying it won’t happen. I’m saying you’re treating it like it already has.”

You look away.

“It feels like it has. They’re like vultures. They’re not just going to stop because they’ve found one thing. They’ll keep digging until they get what they want.”

“I know.” She says it so simply that you look back at her. “I really do.”

Her expression softens.

“And honestly? I’d probably be worrying too.”

A small knot in your chest loosens.

“But the fact they haven’t worked everything out already…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “That’s not the worst thing.”

“How?”

“Because you’ve got a bit of time.”

“To do what?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “To let today settle, I suppose. To get used to the idea a little.”

She offers you a small smile.

“It’s better than waking up tomorrow and finding out they already know everything.”

You let out a slow breath. Maybe she has a point.

“Okay…” you say quietly. “But what do I do if they do find out?”

Maggie is quiet for a moment.

“Nothing.”

You blink.

“Nothing?”

“There isn’t really anything you can do, Y/n.” She gives an apologetic smile. “Worrying about it won’t stop it happening.”

You don’t look convinced.

“I know,” she says. “I don’t like that answer much either.”

A reluctant laugh escapes you.

“So… I’m just supposed to ignore it?”

“No.” She smiles. “Because I know you, and there isn’t a chance you’re going to ignore it.”

You huff another laugh.

“But there is one thing you can do.”

“What?”

“Stop reading what strangers think about your life.”

You meet her gaze through the screen.

“If you spend all day doing that, you’re giving people you’ve never met far more power than they deserve.”

You sigh again, looking down, knowing she’s right.

“What did Alexia say?” Maggie asks gently.

You glance up, biting the inside of your cheek. You shrug.

“She tried to make me feel better.”

“And?”

“She said it was just gossip.”

Maggie nods lightly. “And did you tell her how you were feeling?”

You hesitate, guilt already forming a little.

“I told her I was okay.”

Maggie’s eyebrows lift slightly, but there’s no surprise on her face. If anything, she looks like she was expecting that answer.

“… Are you?” she asks softly.

You look away, your gaze drifting towards the open balcony doors. The birds flutter past, moving freely between the rooftops, completely unaware of the world around them.

For a moment, you wish you could feel that free too.

“I… I thought I was.”

The silence stretches.

“But… I’m not so sure anymore.”

Maggie waits.

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Why?”

You shake your head.

“Because I don’t want her thinking this changes how I feel about us.”

You let out a frustrated breath.

“I keep trying to put it into words… and every time I do, it just sounds stupid.”

You hate how small you sound.

Maggie smiles a small knowing smile.

“I’m guessing she didn’t believe you,” she says softly. “When you said you were okay.”

You huff a small laugh.

“Probably not.”

She tilts her head, studying you.

“She’s probably worrying about you just as much as you’re worrying about all of this.”

You watch her through the screen.

The guilt in your chest grows heavier because you know she’s right.

Alexia has spent the entire day trying to reach you, and you’ve been so caught up trying to make sense of your own fear that you hadn’t stopped to think about hers.

“Don’t make her guess.”

You nod quietly.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Maggie smiles softly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I know it’s probably not what you wanted to hear, but… it’s okay to feel like this. It’s a lot.”

You let out a slow breath.

She’s right. She usually is. That’s why you called her. Somehow, she always manages to steady you, even if she can’t fix the problem.

“I should probably go,” you say, glancing towards the balcony. “I’m sure there are more birds waiting to be fed.”

She huffs a laugh.

“I’m sure there are.”

She doesn’t end the call straight away, though. She just watches you for a moment, as if making sure you’re not about to unravel the second the screen goes dark.

“Call me later?” she asks. “If you want.”

You smile.

“I will. Say hi to the kids for me.”

“I always do,” she says with a grin. “Though they’re a little preoccupied at the moment. They’re playing Twister.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been all day.

“That bad?”

“Well…” She shrugs. “It’s brilliant entertainment. Less brilliant when they start arguing over whose hand was actually on the red circle.”

As if on cue, a loud protest echoes from somewhere behind her.

Maggie raises an eyebrow at the camera. “See?”

You laugh again.

“I’d better go restore the peace.”

“Good luck.”

She smiles.

“Love you.”

“Love you too,” you reply.

You smile one last time before the call ends.

You lower your phone onto the sofa beside you and sit there for a moment, staring out through the open balcony doors.

Don’t make her guess.

The words linger, refusing to leave.

You know Maggie’s right.

You close your eyes. If only you knew what to tell her.

———— Alexia ———

By the time Alexia lets herself into the apartment, the smell of herbs drifts down the hallway from the kitchen.

She pauses for a moment, letting it wash over her.

It smells like home.

She slips off her shoes and sweater before making her way down the hallway. As she peers around the corner, she finds Y/n standing at the stove, absentmindedly stirring the sauce.

Even from behind, Alexia can tell. The movements are slower, more deliberate. Like she’s keeping herself occupied rather than actually concentrating on what’s in the pan.

Alexia’s chest tightens.

“Hola, amor.”

Y/n turns at the sound of her voice, shoulders jumping just slightly.

Alexia almost smiles.

Somehow, after all this time, she still hasn’t mastered walking into a room without startling her.

Then Y/n smiles back.

It’s small, but unmistakably genuine. Some of the knot in Alexia’s stomach loosens.

“Hi,” Y/n says. “I’ve almost finished.”

Alexia crosses the kitchen, stopping beside her but leaving just enough space that Y/n doesn’t feel crowded.

“You didn’t have to cook.”

Y/n shrugs, stirring the sauce again.

“It’s okay. You’ve had training. Besides…” A tiny smile tugs at her lips. “I wanted to experiment with the sauce a bit.”

Alexia watches her stir the sauce for another moment.

She knows Y/n well enough to recognise what’s really happening. Whenever something weighed heavily on her mind, she found something to do with her hands. Today, apparently, it was cooking.

Alexia doesn’t call her out on it.

Instead, she smiles. “Well… it smells amazing.”

Y/n glances across at her, a small smile still lingering.

Alexia reaches up, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingertips linger for just a second longer than they need to.

Y/n leans into the touch without thinking.

“I missed you,” Alexia murmurs.

Y/n’s smile softens.

“Missed you too.”

She leans in first this time. Alexia meets her halfway, brushing a gentle kiss against her lips.

It’s brief. Familiar. Comforting.

When they part, Y/n turns back to the stove, giving the sauce another slow stir.

Alexia stays where she is, watching her for a quiet moment. She knows Y/n is trying. She just isn’t convinced she’s okay.

Her gaze drifts across the kitchen. She would normally expect to see a little more chaos. If Y/n is cooking, there’s usually a puddle of something on the counter, a few unopened jars, onion peel she hasn’t quite got round to throwing away. Cooking with Y/n usually meant controlled chaos.

Yet somehow, it always turned out perfectly.

Today though, everything is in its place.

The table has already been set. Glasses and cutlery neatly laid out, a carton of juice already waiting in the middle.

Alexia’s smile fades.

She knows this isn’t really about dinner.

She’s seen this before.

The way Y/n throws herself into something when she doesn’t know what else to do with everything she’s feeling. The way keeping busy gives her somewhere to put all the thoughts she doesn’t know how to say out loud.

And Alexia hates that today, she knows exactly what those thoughts are.

“Can you get the plates out, baby?”

Alexia blinks, pulled from her thoughts, already moving towards the cupboard.

“Of course, amor.”

She places the plates beside the stove as Y/n carefully serves up the pasta. Alexia carries them over to the table while Y/n leaves the saucepan and spoon soaking in the sink. She waits for Y/n to join her before quietly pulling out her chair.

Y/n laughs softly, murmuring a quiet thank you. Alexia treasures the sound.

Then she takes the seat opposite.

A brief silence settles between them as Y/n pours out the juice.

“How was training?” Y/n asks, her gaze still lowered as she picks up a forkful of pasta, blowing gently on it.

“It was good. Nice to be back to normal. Without the pressure of the final anymore.”

Y/n freezes.

Just for a second.

But Alexia notices.

She hates that the mention of the final sends Y/n back to this morning, instead of all the happy memories they should be carrying from it.

Y/n clears her throat before taking a sip of juice.

“I bet,” she says quietly. “Probably nice to just… have some fun.”

“Sí,” Alexia replies, still watching her.

She takes a bite of the pasta, a smile finding its way onto her face.

“This is amazing, bebé. The sauce is perfect.”

A faint blush warms Y/n’s cheeks.

“Good,” she says, smiling. “I spent far too long on it, so I’m glad it’s actually edible.”

Alexia huffs a laugh before taking another bite.

After a moment, she asks the question she’s been debating ever since she got home, already knowing she probably won’t get much of an answer.

“How was your day?”

Y/n nods almost instinctively before looking up.

“Good. That blue tit came back. I’m hoping it’ll bring some friends next time, it really is pretty. I might try making some fat balls. They’re really nutritious for them. Though apparently high-quality suet is better, so I’ll probably have to spend a bit more money, but I don’t mind. It’ll be worth it if they bring some friends back with them.”

Alexia smiles softly.

There it is.

The rambling.

It has always been Y/n’s tell. A little habit she probably doesn’t even realise she has. Whenever she’s nervous, overwhelmed, or trying to avoid something sitting too heavily in her mind, the words just tumble out.

Alexia has adored it from the beginning. She remembers watching Y/n do the exact same thing the night they met, talking about something in depth trying to hide how nervous she was. The memory would usually make her smile. Today, it makes her heart ache a little too.

“We can research the best ones,” Alexia says softly. “See what they like best.”

Y/n smiles, looking back down at her plate.

“I’d like that.”

Dinner carries on in much the same way. They talk about birds. About training. About whether the new sauce needs more garlic next time.

To anyone looking in, it would seem like an ordinary evening.

But Alexia notices everything.

The way Y/n’s gaze keeps drifting towards the balcony. The way she offers more pasta before Alexia is halfway through her plate. The way she smiles, only for it to disappear a second later.

She wants to ask if she’s okay.

But she doesn’t.

Y/n has spent the entire evening keeping herself busy. Alexia has a feeling that if she asks now, Y/n will smile, tell her she’s fine, and carry on eating.

As soon as dinner is over, Y/n is on her feet, stacking the plates before Alexia has barely set down her fork. Alexia almost smiles. She should have expected it. Whether it’s washing up, cooking or tidying, she’s still finding something to do when her thoughts become too much.

Just as Alexia starts to stand and help, her phone rings.

She glances down.

Patri.

Y/n looks over her shoulder.

“Sorry, amor,” Alexia says. “It’ll only be a minute.”

Y/n smiles. “It’s fine. Take your time.”

Then she turns back to the washing up.

Alexia hesitates for a moment before answering the call and stepping out into the hallway. As she disappears around the corner, she glances back one last time.

Y/n is still standing at the sink. Her shoulders seem just a little heavier than they usually do.

Alexia closes her eyes for the briefest moment before answering.

“Hola, Patri.”

———— You ———

It’s kind of funny, you think. The way the birds drift through the air, darting from rooftop to rooftop without a care in the world.

Well… you suppose they do care about things.

Finding food. Building nests. Looking after their chicks.

Still, there’s something about watching them that makes your chest ache.

You’ve always thought that if you could be any animal, you’d be a bird. Well… one that can actually fly. That rules out penguins, ostriches and emus. There are, surprisingly, more flightless birds than most people realise.

A small smile tugs at your lips.

Maybe it isn’t really about being a bird. Maybe it’s about flying. About feeling weightless.

About being able to go wherever you want, whenever you want.

Maybe it’s about knowing that, if everything became too much, you could simply… leave.

The smile fades.

So maybe it isn’t even about flying.

Maybe it’s about escaping.

Escaping what, you’re not entirely sure.

Today, it feels like the whole world suddenly wants to know who you are.

And for the first time in a long time…

It feels like there’s nowhere left to hide.

You lean against the balcony railing, your gaze drifting across the city in the distance.

Life carries on. People walk home from work. Cars crawl through the streets. Somewhere, friends are meeting for dinner. Somewhere else, someone’s scrolling through their phone.

You wonder how many of them have seen those photos. How many of them have read those articles. How many of them are wondering who Alexia Putellas’ mystery woman is.

They don’t know it’s you.

Yet.

Your brow furrows, still not entirely comfortable with the thought. It still feels strangely unbelievable. In a way, though, you know this was always a possibility.

Of course it was.

You can’t date the world’s most famous female footballer without raising a few eyebrows.

You know how lucky you’ve been. You’ve been together for months now. Sometimes it feels much longer. Anyone could have spotted you before now.

Maybe they had. Maybe people had even talked.

Just… never on this scale.

You always knew this came with loving Alexia.

Or at least, you thought you did.

You remember sitting on this very balcony, promising yourself you wouldn’t let it change the way you lived your life. You weren’t going to hide.

At first, stepping out into the world beside Alexia felt strange. You worried people would stare. Make assumptions. Decide they didn’t like you before they knew anything about you.

The first time you went to the park together, though, it was fine. Then again, you hadn’t known who Alexia was back then.

Looking back, the surprised looks people gave her make a lot more sense now.

By the time you went to the museum, you knew people might assume you were together. But you didn’t let it bother you. You trusted that everything would be okay with Alexia by your side.

You refused to let fear ruin something that made you so happy.

And, until today…

It had been okay.

People looked. They asked Alexia for photos. Occasionally they glanced at you, possibly wondering who you were.

But that had become normal. Somewhere along the way, you grew so used to it that you stopped thinking about where it might lead.

Maybe that was naïve.

Or maybe you were simply happy living inside the little bubble the two of you had built together. A bubble that, for the first time…

Doesn’t feel quite so protected anymore.

You hear Alexia’s soft footsteps behind you.

“Amor?”

You glance towards her, a soft smile already finding your face. You’re not even sure if it’s instinct anymore, or something you’re putting on just for her.

“Is Patri okay?” you ask quietly.

She smiles and nods, walking over to lean against the balcony beside you.

“Sí. She just wanted to know if I could pick her up for training tomorrow.”

You nod, your gaze already drifting back towards the city.

You’re almost afraid to look at her for too long. The guilt that’s been sitting quietly in your chest all day feels as though it might only grow.

You know you’re being… different.

She’s been so patient with you all day. So gentle. Trying to make you smile, trying to keep things normal. And you’ve tried to meet her halfway. You’ve answered her questions, talked about birds, rambled whenever the silence felt too loud.

You’ve smiled every time she’s looked at you with that same warmth she always does.

But it isn’t fair. Because every smile has hidden something.

“Maybe we should get you a bird feeder for this balcony too,” you murmur, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Alexia huffs a laugh.

“So I can clean up even more bird poop?”

This time your smile comes a little easier.

“Think of the blue tits.”

She shakes her head, smiling.

“I still can’t believe there are actual birds called that.”

You laugh softly.

“They’re very cute. And very underrated.”

“I’m sure they are.”

Silence settles between you again as the two of you lean against the balcony, watching the city in the distance.

For a moment…

It almost feels normal.

Almost.

Your smile fades as your gaze drifts back towards the skyline.

Beside you, Alexia stays quiet.

You don’t need to look at her to know she’s watching you.

Waiting.

Wondering how much longer you’ll carry this on your own.

The guilt settles heavily in your chest.

“Amor?”

You can’t bring yourself to look at her. The gentleness in her voice is almost enough to undo you.

“Amor…” she says quietly. “Please talk to me.”

You keep your eyes fixed on the skyline, willing yourself to focus on something, anything, as your throat begins to tighten.

“I…” You swallow. “I don’t know how.”

She moves a little closer until her shoulder is almost brushing yours. The warmth of her beside you makes your chest ache. All you want is to lean into her. To let her wrap her arms around you and make everything feel smaller.

Instead, you stay exactly where you are.

“I don’t know what to say, Alexia,” you admit. “I’m so confused by all of this.”

“I know, amor.”

Her voice is impossibly soft.

“And that’s okay. You don’t have to make sense of it yet. Just… tell me what’s in your head. Whatever it is. Please let me help.”

You finally look at her.

“How?”

The question comes out quieter than you expected.

“How are you supposed to help me?”

You let out a shaky breath.

“You’ve lived with this for years. I haven’t.”

Her expression falters. She reaches for your hand instinctively, but the movement is enough to overwhelm you.

You step away first, sitting down on the edge of the lounger instead.

Your elbows rest on your knees as your face disappears into your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I just…”

“It’s okay, amor—”

“Please.”

You lift your head, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Please… just let me think.”

Silence settles between you.

When you finally look up, she’s still there. Still watching you.

Gone is the composed captain who can solve every problem.

She’s just Alexia.

The woman who loves you.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

Her eyes soften.

“Me too.”

You hold her gaze for a second before looking down, your fingers fiddling together.

“This morning I thought I was okay,” you murmur. “I kept telling myself it was just pictures. But then I read that article… and ever since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking.”

Alexia doesn’t interrupt. She simply moves across to the other lounger, sitting opposite you.

“I don’t even think it’s the pictures anymore.”

“Then what is it?” she asks softly.

You hesitate.

“It’s… me.”

You catch the flicker of worry across her face, but she stays quiet, giving you the space to find the words.

“I don’t like that people are trying to work out who I am.”

You swallow.

“Today it’s my job. Tomorrow it might be my name.”

Your brow furrows.

“What if they don’t stop with me?” you ask quietly. “What if they start looking at the people around me? My colleagues, my family… the kids…?”

“Amor,” Alexia says softly. She waits until you meet her eyes.

“No one is going anywhere near the kids.”

Her voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath it.

“And if anyone even thinks about crossing that line, I’ll do everything in my power to stop them. I promise.”

You can’t help the small smile that appears.

“I know.”

You let out a slow breath.

“I just… I don’t know where it ends.”

Your eyes drift back towards the city.

“Or if it ends at all. What if this is just… normal now? What if I’m always worried? Always looking over my shoulder. Wondering whether the people looking at me are trying to work out who I am… or whether they already know.”

Your voice grows quieter.

“When someone takes a picture… are they taking it because you’re there?”

You shake your head.

“Or because I am? Are people talking about me? Deciding who they think I am before they’ve ever met me?”

A humourless laugh escapes you.

“They’ve probably already decided they don’t like me.”

Alexia opens her mouth, but you gently shake your head.

“I know I shouldn’t care. I know it shouldn’t matter what strangers think. But I’m scared that it will.”

Your voice catches.

“I’m scared it’ll change me. That I’ll start second-guessing everything. That I’ll stop doing things because I’m worried someone’s watching.”

You look down at your hands.

“I don’t want fear to change me. Or change what we’ve built.”

Silence hangs between you.

“I think I’ve been naïve,” you admit. “Or maybe I just let myself believe we’d stay in our own little bubble.”

You smile sadly.

“I knew people looked. I knew people took pictures. But somehow… it never felt real. It felt safe. Until today.”

You take another shaky breath.

“Today I realised people have probably been watching us all along. Now they’re watching even more closely. And I can’t do anything about it.”

You finally meet Alexia’s eyes again.

“I hate that they take these little moments… and pull them apart. They write stories about us. They decide what we’re thinking. Those moments were ours.”

Your voice drops almost to a whisper.

“Now it feels like nothing gets to be ours anymore.”

You glance at Alexia, guilt settling back into your chest.

“I’m sorry. For being distant. For not talking to you. I’ve been pretending I’m okay.”

Alexia smiles sadly and nods. “I know.”

“I… I didn’t want you worrying.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t want you thinking I regretted this.”

Alexia’s expression softens immediately. She looks down for a moment, trying to find her words.

“I was worried,” she admits quietly.

You watch her, your brow furrowing.

“About what?”

She lifts her gaze to yours. The softness in her eyes makes the guilt in your chest tighten.

“That today might make you realise this isn’t the life you want.”

The words hit you harder than anything else she’s said.

Your chest tightens.

She really thought that.

She’d spent the entire day carrying that fear around on her own, quietly convincing herself that you might wake up tomorrow and decide loving her wasn’t worth everything that came with it.

That while you’d been terrified of the world outside, she’d been terrified of losing you.

“No,” you reply immediately. “Never.”

Before you can think about it, you stand and cross to the lounger beside her.

Alexia looks up as you sit down, and the smallest breath leaves her, as though some of the weight she’d been carrying all day has finally eased. It breaks your heart that all she’d wanted was for you to be close again.

You reach for her hand, threading your fingers through hers.

“I’m not scared of us, Alexia,” you murmur. “I’m scared of everything around us.”

She holds your gaze.

“I’m scared it’s going to change what we’ve built together.”

You look down at your joined hands, your thumb absent-mindedly brushing across her knuckles.

“Do you remember when I told you I was used to small?”

Recognition softens her expression almost immediately.

“Sí.”

You let out a quiet breath.

“I think today was the first time I realised just how big your world really is.”

You smile sadly.

“I always knew it was there… I just don’t think I’d truly felt it until now.”

You meet her eyes again.

“I think I just need a little time to get used to how big your world is.”

Alexia squeezes your hand.

“It won’t change us, amor,” she says instinctively. “I won’t let it.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips.

“I want to believe you. I really do.”

You glance down at your joined hands.

“But… I don’t think that’s something either of us can promise.”

She follows your gaze before slowly nodding.

“You’re right.” She shifts a little closer, turning to face you properly. “I can’t stop people talking. I can’t stop articles. I can’t stop people trying to find out who you are.”

Her thumb strokes slowly across your knuckles.

“But I can promise you this.”

You look back at her.

“You never have to carry it on your own.”

Her voice is steady, but her eyes shine.

“However hard it gets… however frightening it feels… we’ll face it together.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

She swallows.

“To protect your family. I promise.”

The last word catches in her throat.

You lift your free hand to her cheek, and she leans into your touch immediately, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispers.

Your breath catches, and you rest your forehead gently against hers.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

You smile through the tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A shaky breath escapes her.

“I should have prepared you better,” she murmurs. “I should have helped you understand what came with… all of this.”

You shake your head.

“No. This isn’t on you.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but you continue.

“You told me what your life was like.”

You give a small, watery laugh.

“I just… didn’t really understand it until today. There’s a difference.”

Alexia watches you quietly.

“I think…” You take a breath. “I think I spent all day trying to protect you from how I was feeling.”

You smile sadly.

“I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t even understand it myself.”

You hold her gaze for a moment before speaking again.

“You’ve spent all day thinking I was pulling away from you.”

Alexia doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

The look in her eyes tells you everything.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I was trying to figure out how to let you in.”

Something in Alexia softens. She lifts your joined hands, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

You squeeze her hand.

“This… doesn’t make me love you any less,” you say, your voice catching. “It just scares me.”

Tears finally spill down Alexia’s cheeks.

You brush one away with your thumb.

“And I know I’ll probably have days like this again. But next time… I won’t shut you out.”

You smile through your own tears.

“Because the only person who makes this feel smaller…”

You brush your thumb across her cheek.

“…is you.”

A quiet sob escapes Alexia before she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you against her.

You hold her just as tightly, your face buried against her shoulder.

And for the first time all day…

You don’t feel like you’re carrying it alone.

You stay like that for a long while, holding each other until your breathing finally settles. Eventually Alexia leans back, though not far. Her arms remain around you, like she’s still reluctant to let go.

“Thank you for telling me,” she murmurs.

You smile, giving a small nod.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

She lifts a hand to your cheek, her thumb brushing away the last traces of tears.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for.”

A smile tugs at your lips.

“Well…” you mumble. “If I’d admitted it sooner, we could’ve been hugging hours ago, and you wouldn’t have had to listen to me talk about blue tits.”

She studies you for a moment before a laugh escapes her.

“I love hearing you talk about tits.”

Your smile turns into a gasp.

“Alexia!”

Her grin only widens, as she wipes the last of her tears away.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to make that joke.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself.

“I don’t want to know.”

She smiles, watching you for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward or heavy. Just gentle. Like she’s searching your face for something.

“Are we okay?” she asks quietly.

The question is so small it makes your heart ache.

You squeeze her hand.

“We’re okay,” you murmur, holding her gaze. “I promise.”

She smiles, the last of the tension easing from her shoulders.

Then she leans back against the lounger, gently pulling you with her until you’re tucked comfortably against her side, your legs tangled together. You rest your head against her chest as her arms wrap around you once more.

The city hums quietly beyond the balcony, wrapped in the warm glow of the evening.

Neither of you rushes to fill the silence.

Eventually, you speak.

“I thought saying it all out loud would make it worse.”

Her fingers trace slow circles against your side.

“Did it?”

You think for a moment before lifting your head just enough to meet her eyes.

You shake your head.

“No.”

A soft smile spreads across her face.

You lean in, pressing your lips to hers. The kiss is gentle, unhurried, saying everything the two of you had struggled to find the words for all day.

When you pull back, your foreheads remain together.

“T’estimo,” you whisper.

Her smile brightens, relief softening every line of her face.

“T’estimo,” she whispers back before stealing another slow kiss.

You smile against her lips.

When you settle back against her chest, she presses a lingering kiss into your hair, holding you just a little tighter. You smile to yourself, curling a little closer into her side, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath your cheek.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching the evening settle over the city. A pair of birds drift across the sky, catching the breeze before disappearing beyond the rooftops. Your eyes follow them until they’re nothing more than distant specks.

This morning, all you could think about was escaping. Escaping the questions. The attention. The fear of what might come next.

None of that has disappeared.

There may still be more articles. More photographs. More days where everything feels a little too big.

There will probably be moments when fear gets the better of you again.

But one thing doesn’t feel uncertain anymore.

You and Alexia.

Whatever comes next…

you’ll face it together.

———————————

A/n: This one was quite difficult to write as there were so many thoughts and feelings for both reader and Alexia to explore. We knew something like this would eventually happen. Still, I really hope you enjoyed this one. It’s a different kind of chapter, but hopefully just as interesting.

No one has permission to copy, steal, translate or repost this work.

You and Alexia haven't spoken in two days.

Well that isn't entirely true. You have exchanged good morning texts both days - hers arriving first on Thursday, yours first on Friday. Each message is careful and painfully brief, saying just enough to reassure the other that neither of you has disappeared while saying far too little to acknowledge everything still sitting unresolved between you. You have sent goodnights too, each one lingering unanswered for several minutes before the other responds. The small typing bubble appears and disappears once, sometimes twice, like one of you keeps beginning to write something honest before losing courage and deleting it again.

Good night and nothing else. From either of you.

It is like you have become two people who have run out of words but cannot quite bring themselves to stop reaching for each other, passing the same fragile thread back and forth across the silence simply to make sure neither of you has let go first.

So no, it isn’t complete silence.

It is something worse. It is the particular kind of silence that still contains evidence of how much you care, where every carefully restrained message feels heavier than no message at all because you know exactly what is missing.

She is probably fine.

That is the thought that has been quietly destroying you for forty-eight hours.

Alexia is someone who can feel things with her whole self. You've watched her do it. The way grief or frustration or joy moves through her without apology and then, with the practiced ease of someone who has spent her entire life performing at the highest level regardless of what is happening beneath the surface, she moves forward. Athletes develop that ability the way lawyers develop the ability to argue positions they don't personally hold, through necessity and repetition, until it becomes reflex. 

She probably cried in the car on the way home Wednesday night, or maybe she didn't even do that. Maybe she just turned the music up and drove and let the city blur past the windows until the feeling became manageable. Then she went to training on Thursday and was brilliant, because she is always brilliant, and her teammates made her laugh about something in the dressing room and the sadness of the night before gradually softened into something she could carry without it showing.

She is probably at the stadium right now, or in some team meeting, or laughing at something one of the younger players has said. She is probably exactly as composed and beautiful and infuriatingly fine as she always is.

You, meanwhile, have not left your bed.

Thursday you call in sick. You have never once called in sick in four years of practicing law, not through head colds or migraines or the spectacular food poisoning incident of last March. You have a near-perfect attendance record, a reputation for arriving early and leaving late, and treating personal inconvenience as something that happens to other, less disciplined people.

On Thursday morning you stare at your phone for ten minutes and then call your assistant and tell her you won't be in. When you hang up you put the phone face-down on the nightstand and pull the duvet over your head.

You don't sleep. You just lie in the dark that you've made for yourself and listen to the sounds of the city outside your window for hours. You think about the way she looked when she said what the hell are we even doing. You think about the tears she refused to let fall, the careful steadiness of her voice, the way she'd kissed your cheek at the door like she was trying to leave you with something gentle to hold onto after she was gone.

You wonder whether you should have agreed to the match. You wonder whether she should have understood. You wonder whether Sunday is still happening, whether we’ll talk then means fixing things or ending them, whether the two of you had ever actually been together enough for her to end anything in the first place.

By Friday morning you have had enough of yourself.

You drag yourself upright by sheer force of will, shower, dress, put on enough makeup to cover the puffiness under your eyes and the redness of your nose, and go to work. You have worked too hard and for too long to allow a situation to compromise your professional reputation. It doesn’t matter how devastating it feels at seven in the morning in a bathroom that still has her spare toothbrush in it. You are twenty-eight years old, you are excellent at your job, and you are going to the office.

You make it to lunch before you lock your door.

You don't even particularly mean to. You just finish a phone call, sit back down at your desk, and open the contract you've been reviewing for a client. You read the first page, and then you read it again because none of it has gone in, and then you read it a third time and realize you have still absorbed nothing. Something about the indignity of that - the absolute uselessness of yourself, of a brain that has always been your most reliable asset, sitting there completely empty of everything except her - makes you reach over and press the lock on your office door.

You read the same page eleven more times before five o'clock.

You know it's eleven because you count.

See you tonight! I love you ❤️

The text from Papa arrives right before five and nearly makes you close your eyes and press your forehead directly against the desk. You had forgotten entirely. He'd messaged earlier in the week with the menu from some new restaurant he wanted to try - he does this, sends menus ahead as though reviewing them together is half the pleasure of going. You had said yes without hesitation because you always say yes to your father. But now, after everything that’s happened, the thought of sitting across from anyone and pretending to be a functioning human being sounds exhausting.

You gather your things, fix your makeup for the third time in a bathroom mirror that has started to feel judgy, and go to your parents' house.

------

Your father is on the couch when you let yourself in, the television on, the lamps casting the living room in the cozy glow that has meant home to you since you were small. He hears the door and turns, already rising with the uncomplicated happiness he always shows when you appear. Your arrival is something that genuinely brings him joy regardless of how recently he last saw you, regardless of what you're carrying through the door with you tonight.

"Hey!" He crosses to meet you, wrapping both arms around you in the kind of embrace that has been solving your problems since childhood, before pulling back with a bright expression and gesturing behind him toward the screen. "They're all talking up your girl."

The phrase lands somewhere soft and unprotected.

You make yourself look. You owe yourself that much, at least - the dignity of not flinching.

The television is showing a pre-match press conference, a long table of microphones and cameras and journalists with their hands raised, and in the center of all of it is Alexia. Her hair is down and shining. Her skin has the particular glow of a body in the peak condition during a season that has been going very well. She is leaning slightly toward a microphone with an easy authority, she’s been doing this since before most of the journalists in the room had their press credentials. Even through the screen, even across the two days and the locked office door and the eleven readings of an unabsorbed contract page, you can feel the way the room tilts toward her. The particular gravity of her. The way everyone in the space unconsciously orients in her direction when she speaks.

She laughs at something a reporter has said, her head tilting back slightly. The sound doesn't reach you through the television but you know it anyway. You know exactly what it sounds like and the knowledge of it sits in your chest like a weight.

She looks completely, entirely, insultingly fine.

"Turn that off."

You are already turning toward the kitchen before you've finished speaking.

Your tone must be harsh because Papa begins to scramble behind you. To his credit, he moves with impressive urgency. The sound cuts out and the room goes quiet.

You pull the takeaway bags apart on the counter with more force than the situation technically requires.

The food smells good. Your stomach registers this distantly, the information arrives and then is quickly overtaken by the traffic of everything else currently moving through your head. 

You, who spent yesterday in bed. You, who have visited the bathroom three times today with concealer and setting powder trying to make your face look less blotchy and more presentable. You, whose handbag currently contains enough used tissues to suggest you are recovering from pneumonia. You who spent forty-eight hours analyzing the punctuation in her text messages like a freaking conspiracy theorist.

And there she is. In high definition. Laughing.

Fucking footballers. The thought arrives with a bitterness that you are aware, even in the middle of it, is not entirely fair and also feels extremely satisfying. DMs probably full of replacements waiting patiently for their turn, because of course they are, because she is Alexia and women have been waiting in line since she was nineteen. Women who would happily sit in Camp Nou every weekend wearing her shirt and screaming themselves hoarse instead of turning a simple invitation into an existential crisis.

Fine. It’s totally fine. Good luck to all of them, genuinely. Good fucking luck finding someone better than you. Maybe the next one will be better at communicating, but she certainly won’t be smarter. Or prettier.

You slam containers onto the counter like each one has done something to offend you personally.

You become aware, gradually, that your father is standing in the doorway.

You glance up.

He is watching you with a very careful expression. It's the studied neutrality of a man who has spent decades in high-pressure rooms reading people far better at concealing their emotions than his twenty-eight-year-old daughter, and has therefore had absolutely no difficulty reading her. His eyes are wide like he sees something slightly alarming and he is being very deliberate about not reacting to it.

He comes over without saying anything and begins silently helping you move the containers to the table.

You let him. You don't have the energy to object.

He pulls out your chair, which he has been doing since you were small, and you sit. He collects the plates and lowers himself into his own chair across from you with unhurried patience, having already decided that this meal is going to take as long as it needs to take.

You are grateful, in a way that sits very quietly in your chest alongside everything else, that your mother is out with her friends tonight.

You love your mother. She is warm and perceptive and has been one of the great constants of your life, but she would have known something was wrong before you'd cleared the front door. She would have asked, with complete love and only the best intentions, approximately seventeen billion questions before you'd even sat down. 

Your father knows better. It is one of the ways the two of you are most alike. You two understand that some things cannot be pried loose, they can only be offered when they're ready. He learned it from years of managing men who would not perform until they trusted you, and you learned it from watching him. Neither of you has ever had to explain it to the other because it just exists between you as a shared language.

Papa eats without rushing you, occasionally reaching for one of the containers in the middle of the table while you mechanically move food from your plate into your mouth, chewing without tasting any of it. Every now and then the quiet becomes too heavy so you fill it with something meaningless, asking whether your brother is still fighting with his girlfriend over Christmas plans or whether your aunt ever apologized to your mother for whatever ridiculous argument had apparently consumed the family group chat earlier that week.

He tells you about the latest developments and you nod and make the appropriate sounds while moving food from one side of your plate to the other. You are not listening. He probably knows you are not listening. Neither of you mentions that.

You push some rice around the plate and watch it settle.

"Why did you play football?"

The question leaves your mouth before you've decided to ask it, landing in the middle of the table between you like a grenade. Your father looks up from his plate with an expression of genuine surprise. For a moment he just looks at you, trying to determine whether you've just asked what he thinks you've asked.

"Um." He sets his fork down carefully. "I just loved it, I suppose. And I was good at it."

That answer actually makes sense to you.

You love being a lawyer. And you are really fucking good at it.

The satisfaction of walking into a negotiation better prepared than everyone else in the room, of finding the weakness in an argument before the other side even realizes they have exposed it, of taking something complicated and pulling it apart until every piece finally makes sense - those things make you feel alive in a way you have never quite known how to explain to anyone who doesn’t feel the same way about their work.

You wonder, maybe for the first time, whether football had ever made Papa feel like that.

“Did you always love it?”

"No." The quickness of it catches you. You glance up from your plate.

"I hated it for years when I was younger." He says it with straightforwardness, like he is describing a person he barely remembers being. "I played with the older boys and they always pushed me around. I was smaller than them."

You give him a look of open skepticism. Your father is not a small man. He has never, in any photograph or story or living memory, appeared to be anything other than built like a brick wall.

He rolls his eyes, he has definitely received this reaction before. "I was small at one point," he says, with great emphasis on the words. "But over time I got better, faster and smarter because I couldn’t be stronger. And eventually it started being fun again."

You nod. Push more rice around. Think about that.

"And coaching," you say, after a moment. "Did you love being a manager?"

He watches you from across the table. You have never asked him these questions.

You have asked about his travel schedule when it affected family plans, complained about late matches and missed dinners, rolled your eyes at journalists waiting outside restaurants, and occasionally listened when he told some amusing story about a player you didn’t know. But you have never sat across from him and asked what football felt like to him, because for most of your life you had been far too consumed by what it felt like to be his daughter.

“I mean...definitely less than playing” He leans back slightly in his chair. “But I love the game. And managing was a way to stay close to it. And to the people in it."

You frown at your plate. For some reason, that answer hurts.

Your father watches you for another long moment before leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table.

“Why are you asking me these questions, my love?” The question is gentle. He knows exactly when to wait and exactly when to coax, a skill he has perfected through twenty-eight years of being your father.

You set your fork down.

"Alexia and I got into a fight." The words come out more evenly than you expected, which means very little given that you can already feel the pressure building somewhere behind your sternum. "About football. She has a match tomorrow and she wanted me to come."

Your father nods once, slowly. There is something in his expression that looks, for the briefest moment, like recognition.

"Yes," he says. "Her five hundredth cap." He says it with the particular calmness of someone setting something down carefully. "Really incredible. She even surpassed me."

The fork you've just set down would have clattered if you'd still been holding it.

"What?" The word comes out unsteady. "What do you mean?"

"It's her five hundredth game for Barcelona." He says it simply, watching your face as he does. "I believe only one other woman has ever reached that number. And only a handful of men. The club will certainly be making an event of it, some kind of ceremony or recognition on the pitch." A small pause. "She is very, very important to them."

The room goes very quiet, uncomfortably quiet. The kind of quiet that arrives when a realization is still moving through you, rearranging things as it goes, and you have not yet caught up to where it will leave you when it's done.

It wasn't about the match.

She had said that. She had said it in your apartment on Tuesday night, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes already looking away. It isn't even about the stupid match. She had said it and you had heard it and you had filed it somewhere beneath your own panic and your own grief and the sound of your own history playing so loudly in your chest that you couldn't hear anything else.

“Oh my God.” You put your head in your hands as the first tears spill through your fingers.

"It wasn't about the match." Your voice, muffled against your palms, sounds like something that has been broken and poorly reassembled. "She told me!" A sob catches in your throat, painful and involuntary. "She told me it wasn't about the stupid match and I didn't listen to her."

Your father is beside you before you've finished the sentence. His chair scrapes softly back and then his arms are around you, solid and unhesitating, pulling you into his chest the way he has been doing since you were small enough to disappear into him entirely.

"Carinyo…"

"She just wanted me there." The words collapse as they leave you. "That's all she wanted."

And there it is. The full shape of it, finally, arriving with the brutal clarity that realizations always seem to save for the moments when you are least prepared to receive them.

Alexia hadn't been asking you to suddenly love football. She hadn't been asking you to become someone else, to undo twenty-eight years of history, to walk into that stadium and feel nothing but uncomplicated joy. She hadn't been asking you to stop being who you are.

She had been asking you to sit beside the people who matter most to her while she reached one of the greatest milestones of her life. She had been asking you to be there for her, specifically, on a day that would exist only once. The way that the people you love are supposed to be there for you when something unforgettable is happening.

And you had looked at her request through every wound your father's career had ever opened in you, and you had seen football instead of Alexia. And you had said no.

"I didn't even know." Your voice has given up entirely now, the words arriving wet and broken against the front of your father's shirt. "I didn't know what it was, I didn’t even ask why… I just said no."

He says nothing. He just holds you, one hand moving slowly through your hair the way it has always moved, the rhythm of it unchanged since childhood, since Munich, since Manchester, since every version of this room where you have needed him and he has shown up without condition.

The duality of it tears at something deep inside you.

This man, who strokes your hair in the dark when you're falling apart, who researches restaurants because surprising you with somewhere new brings him genuine happiness, who cried more openly than you did at your law school graduation, is the same man whose absence you measured your childhood against. How does a person contain both of those things. How does love coexist so completely with hurt. How do you spend your whole life adoring someone and resenting them in the same breath, without either feeling canceling out the other.

You don't have an answer. You have never had an answer.

You eventually pull back just enough to look at him, your face almost certainly a mess at this point, and he looks back at you with an expression that has nothing behind it except love - uncomplicated, absolute, the kind that doesn't require you to be anything other than exactly what you are.

You take an unsteady breath.

"You said you loved it." Your voice is still fragile but the words are finding their shape again, slowly. "Playing, managing, all of it. You loved the game and you wanted to stay close to it and the people in it." You swallow against the pressure still sitting in your throat. "And I understand that. Or I'm trying to."

His expression shifts, very slightly, as though he can already sense the weight of what is coming.

"But you loved me too."

"More than anything." The answer arrives without a single moment's hesitation, and the speed of it, the absolute certainty of it, lands somewhere between comfort and devastation.

"Then why did you keep choosing something that took you away from me?"

The question comes out quietly. There isn’t any accusation in it, or at least you don't intend for there to be. It’s just the sound of something that has been sitting at the bottom of you for so long it has become structural, weight-bearing, part of the architecture of who you are. You've been carrying it since you were eleven years old watching Munich appear through a car window, and you've never once said it out loud to the person who needed to hear it.

“I told myself that I was doing it for all of you.”

The answer makes something bitter twist deep inside your chest, sharp enough that you have to look away from him before the emotion reaches your face.

“I know how that sounds,” he adds quickly.

“Do you?”

The question comes out harsher than you intend, but you can’t bring yourself to take it back. Instead, you fold your arms tightly around yourself, like holding your own body together might stop twenty years of resentment from spilling out all at once.

“We already had everything, Papa! We didn’t need more money. We didn’t need another house or another car or another-”

“I know.” His voice breaks on the final word.

Papa lowers his eyes to his hands, turning them slowly against one another as though he has suddenly found something fascinating in the lines of his palms. For a man who has spent most of his adult life answering impossible questions beneath the glare of cameras, who has survived hostile press conferences and furious boardrooms without ever appearing at a loss for words, he looks strangely small sitting across from you now.

“I know that now.”

There is something about the shame in his voice that drains some of the anger from you before it ever fully forms. You had expected him to defend himself, perhaps even wanted him to, because anger would be so much easier if he gave you something solid to push against.

Instead, he looks tired and regretful.

“At the time, it was easy to tell myself that everything was for the family,” he continues after a long moment. “The money, the security, the opportunities.” 

He shakes his head slowly. “And some of it was. I wanted you and your brothers to have every possible choice in life. I wanted your mother never to lie awake worrying about finances. I wanted all of you to have things I didn’t have when I was young.”

His mouth twists into a sad smile.

“But that wasn’t the whole truth.”

You remain silent. Something in his expression tells you not to interrupt. 

Papa draws in a slow breath, his eyes still lowered toward his hands.

“I was ambitious.” The admission is simple, but you can hear the weight behind it. “I wanted to win. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to be the best.”

Your bottom lip begins to quiver before you can stop it, and you press your teeth into it hard enough to hurt, forcing yourself to swallow around the growing lump in your throat.

He finally looks at you.

“And every time I achieved something, there was always something else waiting just beyond it. Another league I hadn’t won. Another club I thought I could build. Another impossible challenge that only I could solve.”

His gaze drifts away again, toward the dark windows overlooking the coast.

“I would tell myself that after this season, I would slow down. After this contract, I would stop moving everyone. After this trophy, I would finally feel like I had done enough and I could come home and just enjoy everything we already had.” A laugh escapes him, but there is absolutely no humor in it. “I was never satisfied.”

The honesty of it settles heavily between you.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

Outside, the Mediterranean continues moving against the rocks below the house, each wave breaking softly into the darkness before retreating again. Somewhere deeper inside, the refrigerator hums steadily, and the ordinary sound feels almost absurd against the enormity of everything your father has just admitted.

You stare down at your own hands.

“I think I blamed football,” you say, your voice barely carrying across the table, “because it was easier than blaming you.”

Your father goes completely still. You keep your eyes lowered, watching your fingers curl slowly against your palms like the rest of the confession might be written there.

“Football was this enormous thing. This thing that everyone loved and worshipped and built their entire lives around, and it just kept taking you away from me.” Your breathing begins to turn uneven again, catching somewhere deep in your chest before releasing in shallow, unsteady bursts. “So I hated it. God, Papa, I hated it so much, for so long.”

You pause, swallowing against the ache climbing steadily into your throat.

“Because I couldn’t hate you.” The words seem to change something in the room. Slowly, you force yourself to look up.

“I just loved you too much.”

“Oh, carinyo.” His voice is so low that it nearly disappears beneath the distant sound of the waves, and the grief in it makes your chest ache all over again.

“And now Alexia loves it.”

You shake your head slightly, the movement small and helpless as the realization you have spent two days circling finally forms into words.

“She loves it the way you do. The way it lives inside her.” Your eyes begin to blur again. “It isn’t just something she does for work, and it isn’t something she can leave at the training ground when she comes home. It’s part of who she is, and I know that. I’ve always known that about her.”

You draw in a trembling breath.

“And I think every time I look at that part of her, I’m waiting for her to become you.”

Papa remains completely still across the table.

“She asked me to come to one match.”

A laugh escapes you, broken and miserable, barely recognizable as the sound it is trying to be.

“One match, Papa. In months of knowing her, she has never once asked me to watch her play. She has never made me look at a table or a highlight or a score. She has never asked me to pretend I care about any of it." 

Your fingers rise to cover your mouth as another sob threatens to surface, but the confession keeps coming anyway.

“And the one time she asked me, the one time it actually mattered to her, I didn’t even stop long enough to wonder why. I just heard football and saw you.”

The realization tears through whatever fragile composure you had managed to rebuild.

“I made her feel like loving something important to her was a reason I couldn’t love her properly.”

The words finish destroying you.

For a long time, your father says nothing at all. You can see him thinking, carefully considering what you actually need to hear rather than just what might comfort you. It is one of the things that has always made him extraordinary at what he did, and it is one of the things that, despite every failure you are finally allowing yourself to name tonight, has always made him extraordinary at being your father too.

Then, very softly, he speaks.

"Alexia is not me."

You close your eyes. "I know."

"No." His hand finds yours on the table, covering it with a steadiness that allows no room for you to retreat. "I don't think you do. Not yet."

You open your eyes and look at him.

"She may make mistakes," he says carefully. "She may hurt you one day, without meaning to, the way people who love each other always manage to do. And you will hurt her." His expression holds nothing but gentleness. "But you cannot punish her for choices I made before she ever knew you existed."

The truth of it leaves no room to argue and nowhere to hide.

You look away. Beyond the windows, the warm glow of the streetlights stretches along the coastal road while the Mediterranean disappears into darkness beyond it. The distant sound of the sea endures as it always has, moving forward with quiet indifference to whatever grief anyone carries to its edge.

“She loves football,” your father continues after a moment, his voice still calm and steady. “That does not mean she will hurt you the way I did.”

Your throat tightens.

“And it does not mean she will love you in the broken the way I did either.”

You turn back toward him. Papa holds your gaze.

“I loved you completely, carinyo. I still made choices that hurt you, because for too many years I believed loving you was enough to excuse the ways I failed you.” His expression tightens with regret, but he does not look away. “Maybe Alexia will make different mistakes. Maybe she will make some of the same ones. I cannot promise you that loving her will never hurt.”

A single tear slips free from your eye. This time, you don’t wipe it away. You let yourself feel its slow path down your cheek, the warmth of it disappearing along your jaw before tracing the side of your neck.

“But if you care for her the way I think you do,” Papa says softly, “then you have to give her the chance to be herself before you decide she will become me.”

Something deep inside your chest gives way at the words. It’s like some part of you that has spent years bracing for the same hurt to find you again has finally grown too exhausted to keep fighting. Papa’s hand tightens gently around yours, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles before he speaks again.

“You need to talk to her, mi amor.” His voice softens even further. “There is still time for the two of you to fix this.”

Your face crumples.

You don’t manage an answer before you are moving toward him again, abandoning your chair and folding yourself into his chest with the same instinctive desperation you had as a child. Papa catches you immediately, his arms closing around you before you have fully reached him. You bury your face against his shirt and nod into the warmth of his chest, once and then again, the movement small and helpless as the tears begin flowing freely.

“I know,” you manage eventually, though the words are muffled against him and fractured by another uneven breath. “I know.”

Papa says nothing more, there is nothing left for him to say. He just holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other moves slowly along your spine. You let yourself cry against the man you have spent so many years loving too much to blame, finally understanding that forgiving him and grieving what his choices cost you were never mutually exclusive things.

For the first time in your life, you allow both truths to exist at once. Your father loved you completely. And he hurt you deeply.

Perhaps loving Alexia would require accepting the same terrifying uncertainty - not that she was destined to repeat his mistakes, but that there was no way to love another person without giving them the power to make mistakes of their own.

You tighten your arms around Papa and let the tears come.

Because for the first time since Alexia walked out of your apartment, you know exactly what you need to do.

------

For the first time in your entire life, you actually need the football nepotism.

And Papa, who has spent twenty-eight years respecting your stubborn, occasionally infuriating refusal to use his name as anything other than a surname, seems almost offensively delighted to provide it.

Within minutes he is on his phone.

You sit silently across the table and watch him become, in real time, the version of himself that the rest of the world has always known better than you have. There is an easy authority in his voice that never once feels demanding. A particular warmth he deploys with such effortless precision that every person on the other end of the line somehow leaves the conversation believing they are the one doing him the favor rather than the other way around. 

He listens more than he speaks. He laughs at exactly the right moments. He makes each call feel like a conversation he has been looking forward to rather than a favor he needs to extract.

He has always been incredible at this. And although you have spent most of your life being too proud to acknowledge it directly, somewhere along the way you borrowed more from him than you ever intended to. More than once you have caught yourself using that same measured confidence across a negotiation table - the careful listening, the warmth offered before the ask, the ability to make complete strangers feel trusted before they have even realized you've done it. You never told him that. You suspect he already knows.

He works through three calls in under fifteen minutes.

By the time he finally lowers the phone onto the table between the remnants of dinner, there are two seats in the president's box with your names attached.

The relief is immediate. But it lasts approximately four seconds before something else rushes in behind it.

You want to call her.

The wanting settles deep in your chest, specific and insistent, the kind that doesn't respond to logic or reasonable argument. You want to hear her voice. You want to tell her that you're coming, that you finally understand now, that you're sorry in a way that deserves more than a text message and that you'll explain everything properly the moment she no longer has the weight of tomorrow on her shoulders. You want to say her name and have her say yours back.

Your hand drifts toward your phone before you think to stop it.

Then you glance at the clock.

Too late.

Alexia has described her pre-match routine in enough detail over enough late evenings that you could probably reconstruct it in order without missing a step. The early dinner, the stretching, the specific way she lays everything out the night before so that the morning requires no decisions at all. The point at which she turns her phone to silent and puts it face-down on the nightstand and lets the world dissolve until morning. 

She would probably answer if you called. You know she would answer - she would see your name and she would answer, because she is Alexia, and because regardless of everything that has passed between you over the last forty-eight hours, she has never once failed to show up for you when you needed her.

Which is exactly why you won't call.

You have already cost her enough this week. You will not be another thing she has to manage tonight, another distraction sitting behind her eyes during warm-up tomorrow morning, another weight she has to find somewhere to put while she is trying to be present for one of the most significant matches of her career. She has given you so much of herself so easily and so often. The least you can give her tonight is an undisturbed night's sleep.

You thank your father. You embrace him longer than usual, which makes him squeeze you a little tighter without saying anything about it. You gather your things and tell him you'll see him first thing tomorrow, and he nods with warmth and pride in his eyes, proud for a reason he doesn’t need to name.

The apartment is too quiet when you get home.

It announces itself the moment you step through the door, a particular absence that belongs specifically to her. No shoes abandoned beside the entrance in the way that used to make you perform mild exasperation. No faint trace of her perfume on the throw blanket she claimed as her own sometime around week three and never relinquished. No sound of her voice carrying from the kitchen while she raids your refrigerator and maintains a running commentary on whatever she finds inside it.

Just the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of the street below. The kind of stillness that makes a person aware of exactly how much space another person has quietly filled without either of them noticing.

You move through your evening almost robotically. You wash your face. You set an alarm for a time that would, under normal Saturday circumstances, represent a personal affront. You change into your pajamas and get into bed and lie on your back in the dark and stare at the ceiling.

Sleep does not come.

Your thoughts drift the way they have been drifting for two days - endlessly, unhelpfully circling back to the same woman no matter how many times you attempt to redirect them toward something less consuming. You think about her pre-match routine, unfolding right now somewhere across the city without you. You wonder if she is nervous. You wonder if she is thinking about you. You wonder if she'll forgive you.

You think about her spending her entire life working toward a milestone that almost nobody ever reaches.

You think about her asking you for one afternoon.

Sleep takes a very long time to arrive. But eventually, somewhere in the early hours, it does.

------

Your father is waiting outside your building by mid-afternoon, leaning casually against the passenger door of his SUV with a coffee in each hand and the unmistakable expression of a man who slept considerably better than you did.

He takes one look at you and offers the larger cup without a word.

You accept it with gratitude, having surrendered your pride somewhere around three in the morning and not yet located it again.

Neither of you says much as he pulls away from the curb. The radio stays off. The city moves past the windows in the comfortable silence that has always existed between the two of you when words would only get in the way. You wrap both hands around the coffee and let the warmth of it do what sleep failed to accomplish.

The drive takes barely twenty minutes, but Barcelona seems determined to remind you exactly where you're going every step of the way. Catalan flags hang from apartment balconies you've passed a hundred times without noticing them. Cafés that normally spill conversation onto the pavement are spilling blaugrana instead, clusters of supporters occupying every available chair and table and square foot of sidewalk. Every few blocks another wave of people joins the slow migration toward Camp Nou, flowing naturally into the larger stream, until it feels less like individual choice and more like the entire city being pulled by a current. The closer you get, the thicker the crowds become, the air buzzing with that particular electricity that only exists around events capable of making an entire city hold its breath in unison.

You keep your eyes on the passing streets and try to breathe through the tightness sitting in the center of your chest.

Beneath your leather jacket, the polyester is driving you absolutely insane.

It had been your father's idea. Of course it had been your father's idea. Most things that require you to do something you would never do on your own trace back eventually to at least one of your parents, which is a pattern you have never properly addressed with them and probably should.

He had mentioned it that morning, casually, like it was a perfectly obvious suggestion.

If you can, buy her shirt. It'll mean a lot to her.

You had grumbled to yourself the entire drive to the club shop. Polyester is not a material you wear. Your wardrobe is built almost exclusively from linen, silk, wool, and fabrics that behave like fabrics rather than elaborate synthetic casing. You have strong opinions about this. You have maintained these opinions consistently for years. They are not opinions you expected to be tested on a Saturday morning at nine forty-five in a Barça merchandise store surrounded by overexcited supporters who all seemed to know exactly what they were looking for.

You had not known what you were looking for. Or rather, you had known, and the knowledge had made you stand in front of the wall of jerseys for so long that one of the sales assistants had begun performing those small, circling approaches that retail staff use when they're trying to determine whether a customer requires help or intervention. You had felt him drifting closer every few minutes, his professional concern growing incrementally, while you stood there staring at a wall of blue and red as though it had personally challenged you.

Eventually you made yourself reach out.

The home shirt. The number eleven. Her name in the lettering you've seen on billboards throughout this city without ever quite allowing yourself to look at it head-on.

The assistant had smiled with entirely uncomplicated warmth as he folded it into a bag, blissfully unaware that he was handing over the first football shirt you had willingly owned since you were nine years old. He probably handled hundreds of transactions exactly like it before lunch. He had no way of knowing that this particular one had required twenty minutes of standing very still in front of a merchandise wall and a significant amount of internal renegotiation.

The last one had belonged to your father.

There are photographs somewhere in your parents' house - buried in the albums your mother maintains with a thoroughness that borders on obsession - of a small, chubby-cheeked girl perched triumphantly on Papa's shoulders in an enormous Barça jersey, arms stretched wide, grinning with the total unselfconsciousness of a child who has not yet developed opinions about synthetic fabrics or professional sport. PAPA printed across the back above his number, your mother's laugh visible in the blur at the edge of the frame. You wore those shirts for a handful of seasons before deciding, with the absolute uncompromising certainty that only a stubborn nine-year-old can possess, that you were finished with football and everything connected to it.

That had been the end of it.

Until this morning, standing in a club store with a bag in your hand and an entirely unreasonable amount of feeling in your chest.

Now, for what your father will later confirm is the fourth time since leaving your apartment, your hand moves instinctively to pull your jacket closed over the number hidden beneath it. The movement is completely unconscious. You don't notice you've done it until you feel the soft resistance of the zipper already halfway to your chin.

Your father notices. He has always noticed everything, which is both one of his greatest qualities and one of his most consistently inconvenient ones.

"You know," he says, the amusement in his voice only partially concealed, "if you're planning to spend the entire afternoon hiding it, you could probably have saved yourself the trip to the shop."

"I'm not hiding it."

He glances at the zipper with the patient expression, this is afterall, a man who has decades of experience not pressing his luck.

"Mhmm."

"It feels strange," you say, which is true, though not entirely in the way you mean it to sound. Strange against your skin, yes, this fabric that belongs to a world you spent half your life trying to keep at a distance. But also strange in the way that things feel when they are the right thing and you are only just catching up to that fact. Strange the way it had felt to stand in the club shop and understand, fully and without hesitation, that you wanted to buy it.

Your father's smile softens.

"I know," he says simply. He lets the silence settle for a moment, the way he always does when he's choosing his words rather than simply reaching for the first ones available. "But I think it's going to mean more to her than you realize."

Your hand drifts instinctively to the embroidered crest beneath your jacket. Your fingertips rest lightly against it through the leather, feeling the slight texture of the stitching, the warmth the fabric has taken on from your skin.

Outside the window, Camp Nou appears above the roofline. Enormous and inevitable.

You take a slow breath and leave your hand where it is.

You can only hope he's right.

-------

The stadium fully appears through the windshield as you round the final corner, and even you - who have spent nearly three decades maintaining principled indifference toward football stadiums - cannot entirely pretend that the scale of it isn’t impressive. It towers over the surrounding streets like a temple to the gods. Streams of pilgrims converge from every direction, drawn toward the stadium as though they are being pulled in by its gravitational force.

Your father follows the signs toward the underground entrance, and little by little the city disappears behind you.

The sea of supporters outside gives way to cool concrete as the tunnel swallows the car whole, the roar of sixty thousand voices fading until it becomes little more than a distant echo reverberating through the structure above.

Several security officers step toward the SUV as it rolls to a stop, but the moment your father lowers the driver’s window their professional expressions soften into easy smiles of recognition. What begins as a routine checkpoint turns effortlessly into conversation. Hands are shaken through the open window, someone asks after your mother, your father in turn asks about a granddaughter who has apparently just started university, and within seconds the interaction has transformed into some sort of warm reunion.

Somewhere farther down the corridor, a radio crackles briefly before the security barrier begins to rise. One of the guards gives your father a cheerful wave, another wishes Barça luck, and with an easy nod in return he guides the SUV deeper into the belly of the stadium.

You remain quietly in the passenger seat, your fingers tightening unconsciously around the now-empty coffee cup resting in your lap. And as the concrete walls close in around you, your pulse begins to pound harder.

Papa leads you from the garage through a series of wide hallways lined with photographs, framed shirts, gleaming trophies, and moments from the club’s history that have been preserved like pieces of religious art. Every few steps another familiar face stares back from the walls, legends frozen in celebration beneath bright lights. Your eyes land on a photograph of Alexia, arms raised high above her head as she lifts another trophy while confetti rains around her.

Your steps falter almost imperceptibly. The sight of her makes you swallow.

The entire hall feels designed to remind visitors exactly where they are and who built this place. To make some people feel as though they have come home while reminding everyone else that they are only passing through.

You aren’t entirely sure which category you belong to.

Club staff greet your father every few minutes with excited expressions that he returns just as naturally. He pauses to shake hands, exchange jokes, or ask after someone’s family before effortlessly picking the conversation back up as the two of you continue deeper into the stadium. Watching him here feels strangely different than watching him anywhere else. This isn’t the legendary manager from television or the father who makes you coffee when you’re sad. This is someone returning to a place that once belonged to him, greeted with affection by people who still seem genuinely happy to see him.

Eventually, the corridors open into the President’s Box.

The balcony hums with easy conversation, full of executives, former players, sponsors, and guests who wear the relaxed confidence of people accustomed to watching football from the best seats in the house. 

Beyond the glass, the view is breathtaking. The pitch stretches beneath you in that impossibly perfect shade of green that seems to exist only in the world’s great stadiums. Music drifts through the speakers, children point excitedly toward the field, and every few moments another swell of applause rolls around the bowl of the stadium as someone recognizes a familiar face on the giant screens.

You feel the atmosphere settle into your chest as a low vibration, almost like a second heartbeat.

You shake hands with everyone you're introduced to. You smile appropriately. You produce the correct responses to the correct questions and stand where you're supposed to stand.

Normally, this is the point where the old feeling would begin to creep in.

The smell of freshly cut grass filtering through the ventilation. The distant voices of commentators warming up. The growing roar of a crowd gathering around something that was never yours. It had always been the same feeling, the same subtle reminder that football was a world capable of captivating the people you loved in ways you could never compete with, leaving you standing just beyond its edges, watching from the outside.

Today, though, that feeling never fully arrives.

It is still there somewhere, lingering beneath the surface out of habit more than conviction, but it no longer consumes everything else.

Instead, your eyes drift down toward the pitch again. You think about a woman who has played on that grass five hundred times. A woman who had asked you, only once, to come and watch.

The teams haven’t emerged yet.

Somewhere below your feet, hidden behind walls and corridors you cannot see through, Alexia is finishing the same pre-match routine she has repeated hundreds of times before, completely unaware that for the first time in your life, you are here because you wanted to be.

“You’re doing it again,” your father murmurs beside you.

You glance over. “Doing what?”

He nods toward your hands.

Only then do you realize your fingers have wandered back to the zipper of your jacket, absentmindedly wiggling the metal between your thumb and forefinger as though keeping it moving might somehow quiet the nervous energy racing through the rest of your body.

You let out a sigh and force your hand to fall back to your side.

Papa watches you for another moment, his expression softening into the small, reassuring smile that has always made you feel a little younger than you actually are.

Then, with a suspiciously casual tone, he says, "I might have one more ace up my sleeve. If you want to use it."

You turn toward him. His face gives away absolutely nothing, which tells you everything.

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your skepticism arriving almost automatically. It is your default setting where your father and his schemes are concerned.

Eventually, your attention drifts away from him and back toward the stadium.

The stands continue filling by the minute, thousands upon thousands of supporters settling into their seats while the atmosphere builds around them, the collective anticipation rising with every new wave of applause and every chant that rolls through the bowl. Your eyes settle instinctively on the players’ tunnel, lingering there a moment longer than anywhere else, as if simply looking at the place she’ll eventually emerge somehow makes you feel a little closer to her.

You wonder if she’s nervous. You wonder if she’s still hurting. More than anything, you wonder what her face will look like when she sees you again.

The thought settles something inside your chest before you even realize a decision has been made.

You look back at your father. Then, quietly, you nod.

He smiles, gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and gestures for you to follow.

You trail after him as he leads you out of the stands and back into the maze beneath the stadium. You descend light after flight of concrete stairs until the polished hospitality suites give way to the practical underbelly that keeps the entire place running. The corridors become narrower here, lined with exposed pipes, thick bundles of electrical cables disappearing into the ceilings, and harsh fluorescent lights that leave nowhere for nerves to hide.

Staff hurry past with the focused urgency of people working against an immovable deadline. A steward pushes a cart stacked high with bottled water. Someone carrying an enormous medical bag disappears around a corner at a near jog. Another person stands with one hand pressed against an earpiece, speaking rapidly into a microphone while simultaneously waving two television technicians in opposite directions.

Your father, meanwhile, strolls through the controlled chaos as though he has never left.

Every few steps another member of staff recognizes him, some smile, others stop to shake his hand. You remain half a step behind, silently watching a version of your father that somehow belongs here just as naturally as the concrete beneath your feet.

Eventually, the hall widens into a large holding area where the steady flow of people suddenly slows. Staff cluster together in last-minute conversations while others move briskly from one room to the next carrying equipment bags, clipboards, and crates of sports drinks, every person seeming to know exactly where they need to be. At the far end of the room sits a pair of heavy double doors bearing the Barça crest.

You know exactly what’s behind them. Or, more specifically, who is behind them.

Your palms instantly begin to sweat.

Papa walks confidently toward an official-looking man sporting an immaculate black turtleneck and perhaps the most aggressively symmetrical coconut haircut you have ever seen. The man spots him immediately, his face breaking into a broad smile before your father has even closed the distance between them.

Their greeting begins with a firm handshake but naturally becomes the brief shoulder clasp shared by people who have known each other for years.

"It's good to see you," Papa says warmly. "I'm looking forward to watching us kick some Madridista ass today."

The other man laughs. "So am I."

They spend the next minute catching up, the conversation drifting effortlessly from retirement to mutual acquaintances before somehow landing on a Champions League quarter-final from nearly a decade ago that they both appear to remember with remarkable emotional clarity. You follow perhaps every third sentence, but judging by the animated gestures and synchronized groans, somebody had missed an absolutely unforgivable chance.

Eventually, your father tilts his head toward the dressing-room doors with deliberate casualness.

"I was wondering..." he begins, deploying the particular charm that has persuaded club presidents, journalists, and millionaire footballers to do what he wanted for decades. "Would it be alright if I popped in for a moment to wish the team good luck?"

He pauses just long enough for the corner of his mouth to lift. "I'm a very big fan."

The manager beams back at him. "Of course," he says, without a moment's hesitation. "Of course! They'll be delighted."

You slowly turn your head to side eye your father. He turns toward you with an expression of complete and total innocence. "What?? Everyone knows I really am a big fan," he says, with great dignity. 

Coconut head chuckles to himself before stepping over to the doors. He slips through the narrow gap, exchanges a few quiet words with someone inside, then reappears a moment later with an easy smile.

"They're ready for you." He steps aside, holding the door open as he gestures for your father to enter.

Papa glances back at you, his smile softening. "You ready, mi amor?"

You know he isn’t asking whether you’re ready to walk into the dressing room. He is asking whether you’re ready to leave the last twenty years outside the door.

For a moment, all you hear is your own heartbeat. You draw one slow, steady breath into your lungs, and give him the smallest nod.

Then, together, you step inside.

------

The room is warm and alive, filled with the overlapping sounds of twenty plus women in various stages of preparation. Music filters through hidden speakers somewhere overhead, conversations overlap in Spanish and Catalan, tape tears sharply from a roll before disappearing beneath the chatter again. The scent of fresh detergent mingles with deodorant and various perfumes. Every corner of the room hums with purpose, the collective energy of people who have spent the better part of a week preparing for these ninety minutes and now find themselves only moments away from finally stepping onto the pitch.

The moment your father crosses the threshold, the nearest players notice him.

Recognition ripples outward like a wave.

One player breaks into a grin before calling his name loud enough for half the room to hear, and suddenly heads begin turning in every direction. Smiles spread from face to face, conversations pause, and your father is swallowed into a cluster of friendly embraces and enthusiastic handshakes. He accepts each one with the easy warmth of someone who genuinely loves these people and, despite everything, still feels completely at home among them.

You linger half a step behind him, suddenly uncertain where to put your hands, your eyes drifting instinctively across the room.

Blue and red everywhere. The same colors resting against your own ribs beneath three hundred euros’ worth of black leather.

You find Alexia instantly. She is on the far side of the room, bent forward over her boots, fingers working methodically through the laces. Her warm-up jacket is folded with characteristic neatness on the bench beside her. The captain's armband sits snugly around her bicep.

Something shifts in your chest at the sight of it.

You've seen her in this context before, technically. You have caught fragments of matches on your parents' television while passing through the living room with somewhere else to be, letting your eyes slide deliberately past the screen. You have stood beneath the enormous billboards she occupies throughout the city, the ones that appear on the sides of buildings and above busy intersections and in the arrivals hall at El Prat, her face ten meters tall and entirely unavoidable. You have passed those posters without looking at them directly because looking directly had always felt like conceding something you weren't prepared to give. 

You told yourself you knew this version of her. The footballer, the captain, the reference.

Standing a few meters away from her now, in the actual room, with the noise and warmth and charged energy of the real thing pressing in from every direction, you understand that you knew nothing of the sort.

There is an authority to the way she occupies the space that you haven’t seen before - or rather, one that you’ve seen in every other context and simply never understood the source of until now. In restaurants and bars and the peaceful domesticity of your shared evenings, her confidence has always been effortless, the kind that belongs to someone who stopped needing external validation long before you met her. 

But this is something different. The captaincy isn’t something she steps into before kickoff or switches off once the final whistle blows. It lives in the easy set of her shoulders, in the unhurried certainty of every movement she makes, in the settled calm that occupies her expression as she finishes with her laces and straightens. Around her, the room organizes itself along lines she doesn't draw and doesn't need to. Her teammates drift toward her almost without appearing to notice they're doing it - a quick question here, a brief exchange there, a glance seeking reassurance or confirmation or simply the steadying weight of her presence. She receives all of it without shifting her posture or interrupting her preparation, absorbing it the way a fixed point absorbs the movement around it.

The armband doesn’t make her their captain. It simply tells everyone else what they have known all along.

It should unsettle you. You are standing a few meters away from the physical embodiment of everything you promised yourself you would never fall in love with. She is football in its purest form, Barça through and through. A woman who has devoted her entire life to the game with a completeness and totality that ought to make every alarm you've ever built go off simultaneously. She is the thing you swore against. She is your rule made flesh.

You had braced for it the moment you walked through the door. The old contraction, the reflex resistance, the sensation of football inserting itself between you and someone you love the way it always has, claiming its share before you've had the chance to object.

Yet the resentment never comes.

Instead, you find yourself just looking at her.

This is a side of Alexia you have never allowed yourself to see before - never permitted yourself to seek out or acknowledge or sit with long enough to understand. And to your complete and genuine surprise, you don't feel what you expected to feel. You feel something closer to the opposite. 

You like the effortless authority she carries without ever announcing it. You like the confidence with which she moves through the room, every action unhurried because she has always known exactly where she belongs. You like the way the captain's armband pulls tight against her bicep as she reaches up to adjust the headband at her hairline, and the way her kit fits across the lines of her body. You study the powerful muscles in her thighs that represent thousands upon thousands of hours of devotion to something she chose with her whole self, long before she was old enough to fully understand what that choice would cost her and long after she understood it perfectly.

And beneath all of it, sitting quietly beneath the admiration and the nerves and the two days of accumulated grief still tender in your chest, is something that feels unexpectedly like understanding.

For the first time, you aren't looking at the sport that took your father away from you.

You are looking at the woman who chose it.

The distinction arrives with a clarity that surprises you with its simplicity. She didn't fall into this life the way your family fell into it - carried along by someone else's passion, relocated without consent, asked to love something you never chose. She walked toward it deliberately, at an age when most children are still deciding what they want for breakfast, and she has walked toward it every single day since with a consistency that isn't compulsion or habit but genuine, abiding love. Football didn't take her from anyone. She gave herself to it, freely and entirely, because it was hers.

Because it is hers.

The distinction feels impossibly important. You think, somewhere in the back of your mind, that your father would probably know exactly what to say about that. You think you might tell him someday, when you find the right words.

The growing commotion near the door finally catches Alexia's attention.

She looks up from her boots toward the cluster that has formed around your father. He has somehow managed to gather half the squad in the thirty seconds since you walked through the door and appears to be thriving. He moves through the room exactly as he always has - hugs and fist bumps, a word for everyone, wishing each player luck with a specific warmth that shows he means it personally rather than collectively. Then, apparently deciding that good wishes alone are insufficient, he launches into entirely unsolicited tactical advice regarding Madrid's left winger and the particular vulnerability of her weaker foot.

Several players nod with such exaggerated seriousness that it borders on performance. One of them salutes him with complete solemnity.

Your father beams. He is, you think with a helpless mixture of exasperation and tenderness, genuinely in his element. This is the man beneath the legacy, the man who truly just loves the game and the people in it and has never once managed to be in a room full of players without wanting to nerd out about football with them.

Alexia smiles at the scene. It is warm and genuine, but only lasts for a heartbeat because her eyes are already moving. They drift past your father and out beyond the cluster of her teammates, searching the room with a desperation you recognize instantly because you have worn it yourself for two days.

She is looking for someone.

When her gaze finds you, she goes completely still.

The dressing room continues humming around you - the overlap of voices, the click of cleats on concrete, music playing from somewhere near the back, a burst of laughter from the cluster surrounding your father - but none of it reaches the small pocket of stillness that has opened between you and the woman sitting on the far side of the room. Her hands rest frozen against her knees. Her eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that makes the distance between you feel both very large and entirely irrelevant.

For a long moment, neither of you moves at all. 

Then Alexia stands.

The movement is so sudden that the bench rocks softly behind her. She doesn't pause to excuse herself from the conversation happening beside her, doesn't acknowledge the curious glances that begin tracking her across the room, doesn't do anything except start moving. 

She weaves between teammates and members of staff with an urgency that makes no attempt whatsoever to disguise itself. Her eyes stay fixed on yours the entire way, like losing sight of you for even a second might undo whatever fragile thing has just been restored.

You don't realize you've started moving too until you're already halfway across the room.

She reaches you first. She closes the last few steps without slowing and wraps both arms around you with a completeness that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s the kind of hold that communicates everything that cannot be compressed into language. She pulls you in like she has been waiting for this specific moment since the door closed behind her on Wednesday night and has been holding herself together around the absence of it ever since.

You hold her just as fiercely.

Your arms find her waist and your face finds the familiar curve where her neck meets her shoulder. You breathe her in, inhaling her warmth, that scent you know better than you know most things. Something inside your chest that has been braced and rigid for two days releases so suddenly and so completely that you feel it physically, like a fist unclenching somewhere deep beneath your sternum.

Neither of you speaks.

There is simply the steady certainty of her heartbeat beneath your cheek, the strength of her arms refusing to loosen around you, and the overwhelming relief of finally touching the person you've spent the last two days convincing yourself you might have already lost.

The room dissolves around the edges. Blue and red kits blur together, someone laughs somewhere behind you, a locker door closes. None of it matters.

You feel her exhale against your shoulder, long and unsteady, pressed into the fabric at your shoulder. The composed captain who has been running training sessions and attending press conferences and laughing for cameras all week slowly coming apart, just slightly, just here, against you.

"I missed you," she murmurs into your hair. The words are soft, barely above a breath. "So much."

The confession finds the place in your chest that has been aching since the sound of your apartment door closing, and presses there with a gentleness that makes your eyes sting.

"I know." Your arms tighten around her. "I'm so sorry, Ale." The apology comes out quieter than you intended, rougher at the edges. "I'm so, so sorry."

She shakes her head against yours, but you need her to hear it properly. You need it to exist somewhere outside the walls of your own head, where it has been circling for two days without anywhere to land.

"I wasn't fair to you." The words come out steadier now, finding their shape. "You tried to tell me what that match meant to you, and I heard every word you said but I still refused to listen. I made it about my fears instead of your feelings, because I was too afraid to look past my own history and see what you were actually asking for." You swallow. "You deserved so much better than that."

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands moving to cup your face with deliberate gentleness. Her thumbs move beneath your eyes, catching traces of tears you hadn't fully registered were falling, sweeping them away with the same patient attentiveness she brings to everything. She studies you with concentration, like she is taking inventory of every version of you at once, seeing not just the composed professional surface but everything living beneath it.

The confident lawyer. The stubborn daughter. The frightened little girl who still believed football would always take away the people she loved.

All of them held in the same gaze, all of them accepted with equal tenderness.

"There is nothing to forgive," she says softly.

"There is."

"Then it's already forgiven." Her smile arrives quietly, impossibly gentle, carrying no trace of performance or effort. One thumb traces the line of your cheekbone before her fingers move to tuck a loose strand of hair back from your face. "It was forgiven the moment I saw you standing in that doorway."

Something in you gives way entirely at that.

You exhale, slow and shaking, the last of the tension you've been carrying finally finding somewhere to go. You lean your forehead briefly against hers, your eyes closing for a moment while the room continues its preparations around you and neither of you makes any move to rejoin it.

"I can't believe you're here." Her voice is barely above a whisper, eyes moving across your face like she's still not entirely convinced you're real. "This is so crazy of you."

"Good crazy?"

A laugh escapes her, bright and completely unrestrained, it transforms her whole face. "The best crazy."

"Good," you say, unable to stop your own smile from growing. "Because if showing up is crazy, then what I did this morning is borderline certifiable."

Curiosity flickers across her expression. You take a small step back and reach for your zipper.

The leather jacket falls open.

You turn slightly, enough for her to read the name across your shoulders, and then look back to watch it land.

Your father was right. The look on her face is worth every second of standing in that club shop at nine forty-five in the morning feeling spectacularly out of place. Her expression moves through several things at once. Surprise arrives first, followed almost quickly by recognition, but neither lasts long before giving way to something infinitely softer, her eyes filling with a reverence that borders on disbelief.

"Who are you?" Her voice catches around the words, caught somewhere between awe and wonder. It’s like she genuinely cannot reconcile the woman standing in front of her with the one who had once sworn she would never willingly set foot in a football stadium again.

You feel yourself smile.

It isn’t the playful smile she learned to read in the first week of knowing you, nor the teasing one she has become so good at drawing out of you. It is quieter than that, steadier, born from finally having nothing left to hide.

You hold her gaze for a long moment, gathering the last little bit of courage you’ve been carrying with you since you walked through the stadium doors.

“Well…” you say softly, your fingers finding hers between you as naturally as they always have. “I figured it was only fitting. It is my girlfriend’s five hundredth cap, after all."

The word lands between you and stays there.

Warm and deliberate and entirely unambiguous, it is offered without hesitation or condition, free of the careful hedging that has defined every conversation the two of you have danced around for months. There are no technicalities this time, no retreating behind friends because neither of you has quite found the courage to say what has long since become obvious, no desperate attempt to soften the truth before it has the chance to exist. And, perhaps most importantly of all, there is no rule held up between the two of you like a shield, because somewhere along the way you had crossed so completely into loving her that there had never really been anything left for it to protect.

Just the word, placed delicately in her hands like something it’s you've been meaning to give her for a very long time.

You watch it reach her.

You watch the precise moment it registers behind her eyes. It moves through her expression like light through water, illuminating everything it touches.

She has looked at you across candlelit restaurant tables and in the calm of Sunday mornings and in a hundred unremarkable moments that somehow became the most important ones. You know all of her expressions with an intimacy that comes from months spent unconsciously committing each one to memory.

But this one is new.

Beneath the recognition, beneath the warmth that has always been there, something else begins to bloom across her face. Relief. It arrives so completely and so without reservation that it transforms her entire expression, softening every line until she is looking at you with a kind of openness you don’t think you’ve ever witnessed before. It is beautiful in a way that almost hurts, because you can see exactly what has disappeared from behind her eyes. The wondering. The waiting. The hopeless fear that perhaps she had loved you more openly than you would ever be willing to love her back.

It is the look of someone who has finally stopped bracing themselves for disappointment, someone who has just been given permission to believe the thing they had wanted for so long that they had almost stopped allowing themselves to hope for it. 

It leaves behind only certainty, and the sight of it is so achingly tender that for a moment you can do nothing but stand there and stare at the woman you love.

She pulls you back into her arms, and this embrace is different from the first.

The desperation of reunion relaxes into something steadier, the urgency slowly melting away until all that remains is the peace of knowing that you are here, that you chose her, and that you aren’t going anywhere. 

Her arms settle around you with a certainty that the last two days had stripped away and that single word has restored completely. Her lips find the side of your neck, she presses a kiss there with a deliberateness that is both entirely subtle and completely unmistakable. It is soft and unhurried, communicating something that has very little to do with the room full of people surrounding you and everything to do with the two of you and the particular shape of this moment.

"I'm so happy." The words are murmured against your skin, simple and full of adoration. "You make me so happy."

You close your eyes.

You press your lips to her temple and hold them there, breathing her in.

The dark bedroom, the locked office door, your father’s kitchen table, the endless stretch of your apartment ceiling at three in the morning - they all loosen their hold on you, dissolving somewhere between her arms and your next unsteady breath.

The feeling that takes its place is almost too large to contain.

You have never thought of yourself as someone who overwhelms easily. You have built your entire professional identity on the ability to remain composed under the harshest conditions. And yet standing here, in a football dressing room of all places, with this woman's arms around you and her name against your shoulders, you find yourself entirely undone by the simple, staggering fact of how much you love her.

You would wear this polyester every single day. You would sit through every match, every season, every trophy celebration, every rainy away game, and every freezing night football could possibly demand of you, if it meant she would always look at you this way. A look of so much love and adoration, like you being hers was the greatest gift anyone had ever given her.

Though, in the interest of honesty, you reserve the right to scroll through your phone whenever she isn’t directly involved in a play, a compromise you consider both fair and remarkably generous.

"You mean everything to me," you whisper against her hairline.

You feel her exhale against you - slow, deep, and relieved. The kind of breath that only comes after finally setting down a weight that has been carried far longer than it ever should have been. Her arms tighten fractionally, drawing you incrementally closer, and she turns her face slightly into your hair.

She begins to respond but doesn’t get a chance.

A throat clears from somewhere behind you with all the subtlety of a fire alarm. The exaggerated sound making it abundantly clear that its owner has been waiting very patiently for an opportunity to interrupt and now has every intention of making the most of it.

"Capitanaaa." The voice is dripping with barely contained amusement. "As much as we are all absolutely loving this - and I want to be clear, we are all absolutely loving this-"

A ripple of laughter spreads through the dressing room. Alexia lets out a long, defeated sigh into your shoulder, sounding every bit like a woman who already knows exactly where this is going.

"We do unfortunately have a Champions League quarterfinal to attend." A brief, cheerful pause. "I don’t know if you remember… It's against Madrid." She glances dramatically at an imaginary watch. "In about forty-five minutes."

"Yes, thank you," Alexia says, somehow managing to sound perfectly composed despite the unmistakable pink creeping into her cheeks.  "I am aware."

"Okay, just checking."

Someone near the back mutters something you don’t quite catch, prompting half the dressing room to double over laughing while Alexia closes her eyes for the briefest moment with the weary acceptance of someone who has captained this team long enough to know they will never let her live this down.

She lets out an exasperated groan. The sort that says she is aware that she is no longer in control of the situation.

You feel her glance down at you before she looks back toward her teammates, and somewhere in the middle of that breath you her expression softens into faint amusement. If they were all determined to turn this into a spectacle, then perhaps she didn’t mind quite as much as she was pretending to.

Her arm stays comfortably around your waist.

“Everyone…” she says, her voice cutting effortlessly through the room without ever needing to be raised. The chatter immediately quiets, years of following their captain’s lead taking over before anyone consciously thinks about it. A smile begins tugging at the corner of her mouth as she looks around at all of them before glancing back down at you. “This is my girlfriend.”

The dressing room erupts. 

The cheer that goes up is the kind that rattles off locker room walls and almost certainly carries much farther than anyone intended. Someone begins applauding with slow, dramatic enthusiasm while another triumphantly shouts, “I told you!” loud enough for the entire room to hear. A chorus of vindicated laughter follows, accompanied by several smug nods from teammates who look far too pleased with themselves. Everywhere you look, you’re met with warm, knowing smiles, the kind worn by people who have apparently known you for weeks through Alexia’s stories and are delighted to discover that the woman standing in front of them is exactly who they had imagined.

You look around at all of them, these women dressed in blaugrana who have celebrated with Alexia, suffered with her, cried with her, and trusted her enough to follow wherever she asked them to go. They are her family in a way you are only just beginning to understand, and yet every one of them smiles at you as though you’ve been expected all along.

You find yourself smiling back. You like them far more quickly than you ever imagined you would.

"I'm really happy to finally meet all of you," you say warmly, straightening ever so slightly into your very best courtroom composure despite the fact that you're still tucked securely against Alexia's side. "And congratulations on surviving five hundred matches with this one."

The room erupts into another chorus of cheers and hellos, several players banging their hands against lockers while someone whistles loudly from the back.

You nod solemnly, as though acknowledging an exceptionally distinguished accomplishment.

"Which reminds me," you continue, your expression remaining impressively sincere. "I assume the afterparty is at Alexia's? She told me you're all invited."

The room falls suspiciously quiet. Beside you, Alexia turns her head with painful slowness until she's looking directly at you.

"Umm..." she says carefully. "I most definitely did not say that."

You furrow your brow like you’re genuinely trying to remember. "Really? I'm almost certain you did."

"I'm absolutely certain I didn't."

"Hm." You tilt your head thoughtfully, pretending to reconsider the evidence. "I suppose it's possible I misheard."

The dressing room explodes again.

"No, I heard it too!!"

"Pretty sure she said open bar!"

"I'll bring dessert!"

"We're coming straight after media!"

Alexia lets her forehead fall dramatically against your shoulder, the long, suffering sigh that escapes her making it abundantly clear she already knows this is completely beyond saving.

"Congratulations," she mutters into your jersey. "You've known them for approximately thirty seconds and somehow they're already taking your side."

“Well I can’t help it if they have excellent taste.”

She lifts her head just enough to give you an entirely unconvinced look. Before she can respond, your father calls across the room, wearing the broad, unmistakably smug smile of a man who has just watched his plan come together exactly as intended.

"Welcome to the family, Alexia!" he announces. "And good luck with my daughter. She's trouble."

Your head snaps toward him so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. "Papa!"

"What?" He spreads his hands with the wounded innocence of a man who has done nothing but offer helpful guidance. "It's important she has realistic expectations going forward."

"Wait daughter??" a voice echoes from somewhere near the middle of the room, sounding like she was doing intense mental gymnastics. You can practically hear the gears turning. Several teammates exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Holy shit," someone blurts out from the back. "La Reina already had enough aura, and now she's dating into football royalty."

Alexia doesn't even glance in that direction. Her attention stays fixed on your father, her expression softening from mild exasperation into something warmer and more genuine.

"Thank you sir," she says as blush covers her cheekbones.  "And thank you for coming down to wish us good luck."

"My pleasure." He beams at her, the kind of unguarded pride you have only ever seen him direct at people he has decided, quietly and completely, to love. "Now go beat Madrid."

"I plan to."

You meanwhile are still staring at your father with a particular look of betrayal reserved exclusively for when your parents embarrass you in front of an audience.

"I am not trouble," you protest, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the smile you are failing spectacularly to suppress.

Your father simply raises an eyebrow. Alexia turns her head slowly toward you, taking her time about it, clearly savoring the moment. Neither of them says a single word.

You look between the two of them - this united front assembling itself against you with alarming speed and even more alarming enthusiasm - and throw your hands up. "I hate both of you."

"You don't," your father says cheerfully.

"I really don't," you admit, which only makes Alexia laugh.

She looks at you then for a long moment, visibly trying to hold onto some semblance of exasperation at you inviting twenty teammates to her house and failing completely. The corners of her mouth refusing to cooperate with whatever stern expression she's attempting to produce. It's difficult to take offense, you suspect, when the person supposedly causing the trouble is standing in front of her wearing a jersey with her own name stitched across the back, having spent an entire afternoon crossing every boundary you'd once agreed to respect just to be here for this.

Some things simply cannot be argued with. She seems to have arrived at that conclusion somewhere in the last five minutes, and abandoned the fight without much resistance.

She leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to make you smile before she finally pulls away. Then, almost imperceptibly, the softness gives way to purpose as she settles back into herself, into the captain who has a quarterfinal to lead and a team waiting to follow her.

You take that as your cue.

You find her hand one final time, lacing your fingers briefly through hers and squeezing once. You hold her gaze for a moment that carries everything neither of you needs to say out loud again today.

"I'll see you after," you tell her softly.

Her smile turns small and private, entirely yours. "After," she echoes.

You let her hand go and turn toward the door, where your father is already waiting with the carefully restrained expression of a man who has just witnessed something that has made him profoundly happy and is doing an admirable job of not making a bigger scene about it than he already has.

You are almost through the doorway when the voice reaches you - young, bright, and completely unfiltered

"She is so awesome." A deliberate pause, clearly for maximum effect. "And she's so much cooler than you, Ale."

The laughter that erupts behind you chases you out into the hallway, layered over the sound of Alexia's response, which is impressively indignant for someone who just introduced you as her girlfriend to a standing ovation two minutes earlier.

The door swings shut behind you, and the noise of the dressing room becomes muffled and distant, leaving you alone with your father in the quiet of the corridor, both of you grinning like fools.

Papa pulls you under his arm, drawing you against his side in the easy, loving way he has done your whole life, and the two of you begin making your way back through the halls toward the ascending noise of the stadium.

"I'm proud of you," he says simply, after a while.

You say nothing. You lean into him slightly, and let that be more than enough.

Somewhere ahead of you the crowd swells and breathes, sixty thousand people finding their seats, the vast collective hum of something enormous building toward itself. The smell of cut grass drifts through the cool tunnel air. The lights, when you emerge, are enormous and golden and entirely unavoidable.

You walk toward them without bracing yourself.

You think about the jersey stretched across your shoulders, about the word girlfriend finally offered without condition, and the look on her face when you said it. You think about your father’s arm around you, the conversation at the kitchen table, and the long, winding road it had taken to arrive at a truth that, perhaps, had been waiting patiently for you all along.

You think about rules. About the safety they promise and the walls they quietly build. About what yours had protected you from, and what, in the end, it had been preventing you from finding.

You never, in any version of your life you might once have imagined, expected to find yourself here. Walking willingly into a football stadium and realizing that the dread you had carried for so many years was gone, replaced entirely by love.

But then again...

Rules were made to be broken.

------

Author's Note: Guys I think that might be a good place to end 😭 I wrote that last line and was like wait a minute 👀

By the time you reached the stadium in Madrid, Olivia was already bouncing with excitement. Whether she understood there was a football match happening was doubtful or did she understood everyone around her was excited absolutely.

She sat happily on your hip in her tiny Spain shirt, the one Alexia had given her the day before, the sleeves a little too long and the hem almost reaching her knees.

"You look very official," you murmured, smoothing down the front.

Alexia had already disappeared amongst the rest of the squad heading out to warm up.

You were settling into your seats between Eli and Alba, with Alexia's aunt and uncle just along the row.

Olivia immediately twisted around on your lap, "Ale?"

"She's down there," Alba said, pointing towards the players warming up, "Can you see her?"

Olivia looked where Alba pointed with intense concentration. Whether she'd actually found Alexia or simply liked the colour red remained unclear.

"There!" Alba gasped dramatically, "There's Ale!"

Olivia squinted, then waved enthusiastically at absolutely nobody in particular.

Eli laughed, "I think she sees every player as Ale."

"I don't blame her," Alba replied. "Half of them have the same haircut."

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it, Olivia sat for a while mesmerised even clapped when Alexia gave her a little wave disappearing down the tunnel.

When the teams walked out for the start of the game, the entire stadium rose to its feet.

The applause rolled around the stands like thunder, Olivia startled for a second at the fireworks let off before looking around in complete fascination.

Then very deliberately she started clapping too, tiny hands smacking together completely out of rhythm.

Everyone around you melted, Olivia babbled happily at the pitch, clapping whenever everyone else clapped, stopping only to point enthusiastically whenever somebody ran past in a red shirt.

She didn't understand football she understood excitement and that was enough.

About twenty minutes into the match, Alba leaned across you, "I've got an idea."

You looked at her suspiciously, "I don't like that face."

"It's a good face."

"It never is."

Alba ignored you completely, she leaned towards Olivia instead, "we shout" She cupped her hands around her mouth, "...ALE!"

Olivia stared.

Alba did it again, "ALE!"

Olivia frowned in deep concentration, Alba pointed excitedly as Alexia received the ball near midfield. "Quick! ALE!"

Olivia opened her mouth.

"So close!" Alba grinned, "ALE!"

Again Olivia just opened her mouth, her finger going into her mouth as she went shy.

"Come on!"

The next time Alexia touched the ball Alba was ready.

"ALE!"

Olivia suddenly threw both hands into the air, "ALE!"

Not particularly loud or clear, but unmistakable, Alba gasped as though she'd just witnessed history, "Yay!"

Alexia couldn't possibly have heard it from the pitch, but somehow almost instinctively she glanced towards your section anyway.

You smiled despite yourself, "There she is," you murmured quietly.

Olivia pointed proudly, "Ale."

"Yes, baby." You kissed the top of her head, "That's your Ale."

By half time, Olivia had made firm decisions about football clapping was excellent, waving was essential, trying to steal Eli's scarf was apparently mandatory.

Alexia's uncle entertained by pretending to lose his programme every time she tried to grab it.

"Oh no."

"Where's it gone?" Olivia squealed, he pulled it out from behind his own back, "There it is!"

He did it again, again, again, she laughed every single time as though it were brand new.

The second half started much the same, Olivia happily watched players sprint back and forth, occasionally joining in with applause several seconds after everyone else had stopped.

She babbled continuously to nobody in particular, then gradually, the excitement began catching up with her.

Her blinks became slower, her head rested against your shoulder for longer, she rubbed one tiny fist across her eyes.

"You getting sleepy?" You asked softly.

She answered with a small yawn, Alba smiled, "I give her five minutes."

"Optimistic." Eli laughed, "Three."

They were both wrong, barely two minutes later, Olivia had curled herself completely into you, her cheek pressed against your chest. One tiny hand clutching at the front of your top.

You gently rubbed slow circles across her back, her breathing steadied almost immediately, within moments she was asleep.

Completely unaware that sixty thousand people around her had erupted after Spain scored. She slept through the roar, through the applause, through Alba celebrating beside you.

You looked down at her sleeping peacefully in your arms then back out towards the pitch where Alexia was already jogging back into position after celebrating with her teammates.

Your heart ached in that strange, complicated way it seemed to do so often these days, but this time the feeling wasn't only grief.

There was warmth there too, the kind that came from looking around at the people surrounding Olivia.

People who loved her not because they had to, but because somewhere along the way she had quietly become part of all of their lives.

🍼

The hotel room was quiet, the match was over.

The celebrations had faded into distant laughter somewhere down the corridor before eventually disappearing altogether.

Olivia slept soundly in the travel cot beside the bed, one arm dangling dramatically through the bars, her stuffed rabbit trapped beneath her cheek.

You and Alexia lay side by side in the dark, your head rested against her shoulder. One of her hands lazily traced patterns up and down your arm.

She never slept after matches you learned, her body was exhausted, her brain refused to follow.

You listened to her breathing for a while before speaking, "Would you say Jenni's your best friend?"

The movement of Alexia's fingers paused for half a second, then continued, "What makes you ask that?" There was amusement in her voice, you recognised it immediately.

You smiled into the darkness, "No reason."

"Mhm."

"Just..." You shrugged against her, "from social media's perspective you spend a lot of time with her at camp."

Alexia hummed softly, "Yeah." Her fingertips continued their slow journey up your arm before back down again, "Me, her and Irene were nicknamed the dinos."

You laughed quietly, "That's funny."

"We're old apparently."

"You are."

"Oi."

"You walked straight into that."

Alexia nudged you gently with her shoulder, "I did."

For a few moments she was quiet, you wondered if she'd leave it there, instead, she surprised you, "We were together for" You felt her thinking, "...seven years, I think."

You looked up at her, she was still staring at the ceiling.

"We drifted apart romantically." She smiled faintly, "There wasn't some huge explosion, no cheating, no shouting, no dramatic story. It just..." She shrugged, "stopped being what it had been, we both knew it, so we ended it."

You stayed quiet, giving her space.

"She went to Mexico, we naturally stopped talking as much, different time zones, different lives." She let out a slow breath, "Then everything happened after the World Cup." You knew exactly what she meant, "The whole situation, she leaned on me through it. I leaned on her too and somewhere in all that we found a friendship."

You nodded slowly, "That's nice."

"It is." There wasn't an ounce of hesitation in her voice, "I care about her, I always will, just no like that anymore."

Silence settled again, Alexia was the first to break it.

"You've been thinking about her." It wasn't really a question.

You sighed, "I have."

She turned her head slightly to look at you, "Because of Instagram?"

You gave a tiny nod, "I know it's ridiculous."

"It isn't."

"It is." You laughed quietly at yourself "But when I saw pictures of you and Jenni..." You searched for the words, "...it felt different." Alexia listened, no interruption, "I don't know her. I don't know what your relationship actually looked like. I just see someone you loved for a lot of years and she knows a version of you that I don't."

Alexia was quiet for a long moment, then she rolled onto her side to face you fully, "You know something she doesn't."

You frowned, "What?"

Alexia smiled, "You know who I am now."

You blinked.

"Jenni knew the woman I was in my twenties. The woman who thought football came before absolutely everything. The woman who was still trying to figure herself out." She brushed her fingers gently across your cheek, "You know the woman who panics about waking you up."

You smiled.

"You know the woman who knows how Olivia likes her toast cut, who calls my mami because she doesn't know how to get tomato sauce out of baby clothes."

A quiet laugh escaped you.

"You know..." Her forehead rested lightly against yours, "...the woman who wants to come home to you and Olivia."

Your throat tightened.

"And yes..." She smiled softly, "I'll probably always love Jenni." You looked at her, Alexia didn't look away, "But not because I want a future with her." She reached for your hand, "I love her because she was a huge part of my life, because we grew up together and she's my friend and i hope an auntie to my kids"

She squeezed your fingers gently.

"But I'm not lying here wishing she was in this bed, I'm lying here hoping you finally believe that I'm exactly where I want to be."

You felt your eyes sting.

"I think" You admitted with a small, embarrassed smile, "I'm still learning how to be with someone who has a past."

Alexia laughed softly, "So am I." You looked at her in confusion, "You've got one too, but this is my first time being with someone who thinks herself into a panic before breakfast."

You groaned, "Oh, don't."

"I'm serious."

She kissed the end of your nose, "I need to learn when you're asking a question and when you're actually asking me to reassure you."

You smiled sheepishly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"So next time don't ask me if Jenni's my best friend."

"What should I ask?"

She answered without hesitation, "'Ale" Her voice softened, "I'm feeling a bit insecure.'" She kissed your forehead, "And then I'll remind you every single time that you're the one I chose and will keep choosing."

From the travel cot came a sleepy little murmur the two of you froze then looked at each other, Alexia grinned.

"I think she agrees with me."

You rolled your eyes affectionately, "You are unbelievable."

"I know but..." She smiled as she pulled you a little closer, "...I'm yours and that's the only answer that matters."

🍼

The hotel room was unusually peaceful, morning light filtered through the curtains, across the bed where you and Olivia were still hiding beneath the duvet together.

Alexia had already disappeared to a recovery session after kissing both of your foreheads goodbye.

Which left you alone with a very important task you wanted to undertake, teaching Olivia the names of the Spanish national team.

The matchday programme lay open between you, its pages already becoming slightly crumpled from enthusiastic little hands.

Olivia lay in the crook of your arm, feet kicking lazily as she stared at the photographs with complete concentration.

You pointed to the first picture, "Who's that?"

Olivia didn't even hesitate, "Ale."

You smiled, "That's right." You kissed the top of her head, "Very clever."

You turned the page to the team photograph.

"What about this one?" Your finger landed on Patri Guijarro.

Olivia leaned closer, "...Atri."

You laughed, "Yeah, good girl. Patri."

"Atri."

"Close enough." You moved your finger along the line, "And who's this?"

You pointed towards Clàudia Pina, Olivia squinted as she thought hard.

"...Eena."

You grinned, "Pina."

"Eena."

"Pina."

"Eena."

You gave up with a laugh, "Alright. Eena it is." She beamed proudly at herself, "You are very pleased with that answer."

Olivia clapped once, then stuck out her tongue.

You gasped which made her giggle, "Pina does that to you doesn't she"

You turned another page.

"What about this one?"

Your finger rested beneath Cata Coll, Olivia tilted her head, "...Cata."

Your eyebrows shot up, "That was actually perfect."

She looked delighted by your reaction, "Cata."

"Yes!" You applauded, "Very clever."

Encouraged by the praise, Olivia sat herself upright to get an even better look.

She jabbed an enthusiastic finger at the middle of the team photograph.

"Ale!"

You looked and sure enough there was Alexia, "There she is."

You smiled, Olivia proudly pointed again, "Ale."

"And who's beside her?" You moved her finger slightly towards Vicky López.

"...icky."

You laughed, "Vicky."

"icky."

"Vicky."

"icky."

"I don't think she's going to mind."

Olivia giggled as you turned the page again, one more photograph, one more face.

Your finger landed on Jenni Hermoso, "Do you know who this is?"

Olivia frowned thoughtfully, she stared at the picture for several long seconds, you whispered, "Jenni"

"...Nini."

You smiled, "Jenni."

"Nini."

"Jenni."

"Nini."

You couldn't help laughing at how cute it was, Olivia looked incredibly pleased with herself.

"Nini."

You closed the programme slightly and tickled her tummy, "You're such a clever baby!"

Olivia squealed, rolling onto her tummy, "Mama no" You froze, your hands stopped tickling her almost instantly.

Olivia looked up at you, completely oblivious to what she'd just said, a grin still spread across her face as she reached for your nose.

Your heart seemed to swell and break all at once, you swallowed hard.

She was looking at you when she said it, reaching for you, wanting you.

Your eyes began to sting, because a part of you, one you almost hated admitting existed, felt something warm spread through your chest.

It was impossible not to, she trusted you, loved you, she looked at you with complete certainty and somehow somewhere in her little mind you had become Mama.

It was an honour so enormous it almost stole your breath, but the warmth only lasted a second before grief crashed into it.

Sofia should have been here, Marta should have been here, they should have been the ones hearing that word for the first time, not you.

You pictured Sofia bursting into tears immediately before dramatically insisting everyone in Barcelona needed to know what Olivia had just said. You pictured Marta pretending to stay composed for all of ten seconds before crying harder than Sofia.

You knew exactly what they would have sounded like, how happy they would have been.

You looked down at the little girl who was happily chewing the corner of the matchday programme now, apparently deciding international football tasted interesting.

You gently rescued it from her mouth, "Not everything goes in there."

You whispered with a watery smile, she simply smiled back, "Mama."

The word hit differently the second time, you closed your eyes for a moment, "I'm not your mama, baby." Your thumb stroked slowly across her soft cheek, "I'm just..." Your voice cracked, "...I'm just very lucky that i get to love you."

A tear escaped before you could stop it, you wiped it away quickly.

"I wish they were here to see you." You admitted to the empty hotel room, "They'd be so proud of you. So proud."

Olivia reached up, clumsy little fingers brushing your face as though trying to understand why your cheeks were wet, then she did something that completely undid you.

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against yours, exactly the way she must of seen that Alexia did.

You let out a shaky laugh through another tear, "You're far too good at fixing broken hearts."

Olivia smiled simply because you had, she had no understanding of grief or death.

She didn't know there were two women missing from her life, she only knew who loved her today, who picked her up when she cried, tucked her into bed, kissed scraped knees and read the fish book five times in a row because she asked.

Your heart twisted painfully, you weren't replacing Sofia and Marta, you never could. They were her mothers and always would be, but children couldn't pause growing because the people who loved them were gone.

They kept learning, laughing, speaking, loving and maybe that wasn't something to feel guilty about.

Maybe the greatest way to honour Sofia and Marta wasn't to stop yourself from becoming important to Olivia.

Maybe it was making sure she never doubted, for a single second of her life that she was loved enough for four mothers.

🍼

By the time you'd both managed to get dressed, Olivia had insisted on wearing her Spain shirt again.

You'd offered her two different outfits, she'd pointed very firmly at the red shirt hanging over the chair.

"Spain again?"

"Ale."

You smiled, "I should've known."

A few minutes later you had her balanced comfortably on your hip as you made your way downstairs towards the hotel dining room.

The room buzzed with conversation, players scattered between tables, you spotted Alexia, Eli and Alba almost immediately.

They were all standing together near the buffet, smiling and laughing with Jenni, you stopped for the briefest moment.

Yesterday that sight would've sent your mind racing, you would've analysed every smile, every glance, every laugh, compared yourself.

Today you just smiled, because lying awake beside Alexia the night before had changed something.

The more you'd thought about everything she'd said, the more you'd realised that even if the two of you didn't work as a couple, you knew, without question, that the two of you would still raise Olivia together.

You'd still choose each other for her, that certainty made any jealousy quietly dissolve.

Alexia looked up as you approached, the second she spotted you her whole face softened, "There are my girls."

Olivia lit up, "Ale!"

Alexia leaned in, kissing your cheek before kissing the top of Olivia's head. "Morning."

"Morning."

She smiled between the two of you before turning slightly, "Y/N... this is Jenni." Jenni stepped forward with the easiest smile you'd ever seen, "And Jenni..." Alexia looked back at you, "this is Y/N."

"It's nice to meet you." You shifted Olivia slightly higher on your hip.

Jenni wrapped you in a warm hug, careful not to squash the little girl between you, "You too." She stepped back smiling, "So this must be Olivia."

The attention made Olivia retreat instantly, you rubbed gently across Olivia's back, you touched her tummy lightly to get her attention, "Can you say hi?"

Olivia gave the tiniest wave imaginable, "Hi."

Jenni's smile somehow became even softer, "Hi, Olivia. I've heard so much about you."

Olivia stared for another second before looking back at you, then she pointed towards Jenni.

You smiled knowing she recognised Jenni from your morning watching highlights on your phone and flicking through the programme.

"Yeah..." You turned slightly so Olivia was facing Jenni again, "What's her name?"

Olivia looked between the two of you, as her entire face brightened with recognition, "Nini!"

You laughed, "Yeah, Jenni."

Jenni laughed.

Olivia suddenly stuck her hand out towards her, "Nini..." She paused dramatically before holding her little palm even higher, "...five."

You couldn't help smiling, and translated as Jenni seemed unsure what she actually wanted "Jenni, highfive"

Jenni looked delighted, she held her own hand up, Olivia slapped it with all the force a one year old could manage.

Olivia looked impossibly pleased with herself.

Jenni gasped theatrically, "Oh! That was a proper one!"

Olivia giggled, "Nini!"

Jenni looked across at Alexia with mock disbelief, "You told me she was shy."

Alexia blinked, "She normally is."

You nodded, "Normally she takes at least half an hour before deciding someone is acceptable."

Jenni looked down at Olivia, who had already offered her another high five, "I feel honoured."

"You should." Alba grinned.

Jenni crouched down slightly so she was closer to Olivia's eye level, "Can I ask..." She smiled, "...am I forever Nini now?"

Olivia nodded immediately, "Nini."

Jenni put a hand dramatically over her heart, "Well. I think that's my favourite nickname I've ever been given."

Alexia watched the exchange with a smile before her eyes drifted back to you. She didn't say anything, she simply reached over, her fingers finding yours for a brief squeeze where nobody else would notice.

You squeezed back it was a tiny gesture, but somehow it said everything.

🍼

The recreation room had become everyone's unofficial meeting place, music played quietly from a speaker in the corner while coffee cups, card games and half finished conversations were scattered around the room.

You sat cross legged on the floor with Olivia between your knees, pr rather she climbed over you like you were an inconveniently shaped piece of playground equipment.

She hauled herself onto your lap, back down again, then attempted to climb over your shoulder. You laughed, catching her before she disappeared entirely.

Around you, Alexia's usual circle had settled wherever they'd found space, Patri and Pina were sprawled on the floor nearby, Vicky occupied one end of a sofa, Irene the other, Cata sat opposite with a coffee balanced on the armrest. Jenni was half listening to Alba's story while absent mindedly peeling an orange.

The conversation drifted between football, travel and who had somehow managed to lose their phone charger already, Olivia, meanwhile, had discovered a miniature foam football.

She shook it enthusiastically in both hands before pushing herself upright, nobody thought much of it, she'd been pulling herself up for months.

She stood there, wobbling happily, waving the ball around like she'd just won a trophy.

Patri noticed first, "Oh..." She smiled brightly, "Look at the big standing girl." Olivia looked straight at her, "Are you bringing me the ball?" Patri held both hands out dramatically, "Come on then."

You smiled until you saw it, one little foot lift and go forward, your breath caught as you froze, "Oh my God."

The entire room went quiet, Pina looked up, "Is that..." Her eyes widened, "...new?"

Olivia swayed, steadied herself then very carefully brought her other foot forward.

Your heart practically stopped, "ALEXIA!" You shouted before you'd even realised you were shouting, no idea where she'd disappeared to, "ALEXIA!"

The room erupted, "She's walking!" "Someone get Ale!" "Quick!"

A few seconds later Alexia appeared in the doorway, still zipping up her Spain jacket, "You yelled?" She looked mildly alarmed.

Then followed everyone's gaze, Olivia was still standing and completely focused, the little ball clutched tightly against her chest.

This time there was no doubt, she took another tiny step, then another, her face lit up, "Ale..." She looked towards the doorway, "...ba."

Alexia's entire expression melted, "Oh..." She immediately crouched down a few feet away, arms opening instinctively, "You've got a ball?" She smiled through eyes that were already beginning to shine, "You bringing it to me?"

Olivia hesitated, one tiny foot shuffled forwards then another, the room had fallen completely silent nobody dared interrupt or even breathe.

Olivia concentrated with every ounce of determination in her little body. her arms lifted slightly for balance.

Alexia stayed perfectly still, "That's it." She whispered, "I'm right here."

Olivia giggled halfway across the room, delighted with herself, "Ale!"

"I'm here, cariño." Alexia's voice cracked just enough for you to hear it, "You've got this, come on!"

One last slightly wobbly step, then Olivia toppled gently forwards into Alexia's waiting arms. The little foam ball bounced across the floor unnoticed, Alexia caught her easily, lifting her into the biggest hug imaginable.

"You did it." She laughed, kissing every inch of Olivia's face she could reach, "You walked. You clever girl."

Olivia squealed happily, wrapping both little arms around Alexia's neck around the room applause finally broke out.

Patri wiped suspiciously at one eye, "I am absolutely not crying."

"You are." Pina replied immediately.

"I'm not."

"You literally are."

"It's allergies."

"Inside?"

"Very aggressive allergies."

Jenni laughed, shaking her head, "Sure."

You hadn't moved, you were still sitting exactly where you'd frozen, watching the two of them.

Alexia looked up over Olivia's shoulder, your eyes met and she just smiled through the tears she'd stopped trying to hide.

You smiled back, "She walked." You whispered, almost to yourself.

Alexia nodded, "Our girl walked."

Neither of you corrected the words, neither of you wanted to, because for that one perfect moment watching Olivia beam proudly between the two people who loved her most it simply felt true.

🍼

Spain were in complete control, thirty minutes gone, the midfield belonged to Alexia.

She'd broken up attacks, dictated the tempo, created three clear chances already and was barking instructions constantly.

When the fourth official stepped towards the touchline with the electronic board, she barely glanced over. Until she saw the number, her number.

Alexia frowned immediately, "What?"

She looked towards the bench, Sonia was already waving her over.

Alexia threw both hands out, "No." She pointed towards herself, "Me?"

Sonia nodded firmly, "Now."

Alexia laughed in disbelief. She looked around the pitch as if somebody else might explain what was happening.

She shook her head, she'd done nothing wrong, she wasn't injured, she wasn't tired. She'd been one of Spain's best players, frustration burned through her as she began walking towards the touchline, slowly very slowly.

Sonia kept motioning for her to hurry, Alexia deliberately didn't. Clara Serrajordi stood ready beside the fourth official, she looked almost apologetic.

Alexia just gave a tiny shrug, not your fault, as she reached the touchline Sonia touched her arm, Alexia instinctively shrugged it away.

A teammate held out a bottle of water, she snatched it without looking and dropped heavily onto the bench her jaw tight.

She unscrewed the bottle with more force than necessary, Sonia spent a few moments shouting fresh instructions onto the pitch before finally turning back towards her.

"Ale—"

"Don't talk to me." Alexia didn't even look up, she took another drink, her pulse was still racing with irritation.

"Ale." Sonia's voice was different now, quieter.

Alexia frowned, still refusing to look, "I said don't—"

"Y/N called."

Everything stopped, Alexia finally looked up, Sonia was no longer wearing the expression of a coach making a tactical decision. She looked worried.

"Olivia's in hospital."

The water bottle slipped slightly in Alexia's hand, "What?"

"You need to go." Sonia nodded towards the tunnel, "Lois is taking you."

Alexia was already on her feet, "What happened?"

"We don't know."

Alexia didn't wait for anything else she turned to leave, the tunnel entrance was on the opposite side of the technical areas.

The fourth official immediately stepped forward, "Alexia!" She motioned, "You can go across the pitch" The official pointed directly over the pitch, "I've held the restart."

Alexia didn't hesitate she sprinted straight across the grass, the referee lifted a hand to her ear, as the fourth official explained.

Players watched Alexia, confused, concerned, the stadium murmured, Seventy thousand people trying to understand why Spain's star player was suddenly sprinting diagonally across the pitch faster than she ever had during a game.

Clara, only just substituted on, looked back towards Patri who frowned, "What happened?"

Clara simply said, "It's Olivia, that's all i know"

Alexia reached the far touchline at full speed, Lois was already waiting by the tunnel they disappeared inside without a word.

Behind them the stadium buzzed with uneasy confusion, nobody knew, not the supporters, not the commentators, not even most of the players. Sonia stood with her arms folded, eyes fixed on the tunnel long after Alexia had vanished.

Alexia barely remembered getting into the car, the engine started, Lois pulled away from the stadium. Traffic parted under the escort arranged by the federation, Alexia's hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"What happened?" She asked again.

Lois glanced at her, "I honestly don't know."

"Y/N just called to speak to Sonia, all I know is Olivia is in hospital."

Alexia stared out of the window, but she wasn't seeing Madrid anymore. All she could see was Olivia, laughing as she took her first steps, sleeping with one little hand wrapped around Alexia's finger. Calling her Ale, the memory hit like a punch to the chest.

She reached for her phone, her hands trembled so badly she dropped it onto her lap, she tried again and called you.

Straight to voicemail, she tried again and it went to voicemail, her breathing became uneven, "Come on..." She whispered, "Please answer."

Nothing, Alexia pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, you were a doctor. You knew what constituted an emergency, if you had called during an international match and had asked Sonia to take her off the pitch, then whatever had happened wasn't small.

For the first time in years Alexia was terrified.

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